61 - U.F.G - Unidentified Flying Goofball (Lake Toba, Sumatra, Indonesia)

Phantom lost, paradise found. Fistfuls of cash for an American clown. An isthmus? An island? It matters not. Meander and trespass but don’t get caught.

by Mr. Nos T. O’maniac

PARAPAT FOUND. INNOCENCE LOST. (Melodramatic much?) I awoke the morning after my arrival to news of twin suicide bombings at two Jakarta hotels, the Marriott and Ritz Carlton. This was distressing as I’d befriended a Marriott employee (Anton) during my stay in Jakarta. (See earlier post here.) A highlight of my visit was a free buffet dinner in the executive lounge of the Ritz, courtesy of Anton. Though our friendship was strained in the end, I certainly wished him no ill will and was relieved to hear he was off duty at the time. Oh, the fickle hand of fate. Shift a few dates here and there, and I could’ve been enjoying a free buffet brunch in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Had I known of the attack, I might’ve been a little more circumspect about my drive through the overtly and decidedly Islamic area of North Sumatra. (See previous post.) Ignorance is bliss, I suppose. I think it’s safe to say my paranoia level would’ve risen dramatically. A gringo drives through the day of the bombing? Ummmm… suspicious coincidence, no? Maybe not, but then again…

“Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” Sadly, for the Phantom and I, there would be no morrow. Opportunity knocked, I answered. I sold my hog… sniffle. Buh-bysie. “There's a hole in my heart that can only be filled by you. And this hole in my heart can't be filled with the things I do,” I sang, riddled with despair. Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite so bad. Really, this was a huge stroke of luck. My Indonesian days were numbered. I wanted to spend my time wisely. “Wisely” didn’t include a boat from Medan to Jakarta followed by another veritable death march back to Bali. Wasted days. Wasted money. Not so funny.

So, I sold the fucker. I sold it for less than half of what I paid, but this was better than the alternative. I thought for sure I’d be handing the keys to some lucky bastard in Medan with instructions to “Live long and prosper.” Profits be damned. I was willing to take what I could get. While waiting for a ferry from Parapat to Tuk Tuk (Samosir Island), I struck up a conversation with a local man. I mentioned offhand I’d hoped to sell the Phantom before I left Medan. I quoted a price. He disappeared ninja-style. Much to my astonishment, he returned shortly after with the rough equivalent of a thousand dollars (US). He smelled a deal. He smelled right. I suspect he was as excited as I was when I first bought it. He had that “kid in the candy store with a fistful of twenties” twinkle.

We adjourned to a small restaurant near the water to conclude our transaction. Ideal? Not remotely. Counting out what probably amounts to half a year’s salary or more in public falls in the “no bueno” category. As if I didn’t stick out like a raging asshole tumor already, now I was a raging asshole tumor with a buttload of cash. What could I do but collect my windfall and stuff it in my shorts? I wasn’t so worried I’d be jumped on the spot, (maybe I should’ve been, eh?) but I was a marked man. Can’t miss ‘em. Tall, pasty bastard. Shade under four cubits. Long face. Shitty hair. Nasal as fuck. If miscreant underworld types were paying attention, it would’ve been easy to track my movements to Tuk Tuk. Find my guesthouse. Wait for the right moment… and strike! Overstating it? Mayhap, but I was a tad on edge.

Yes, I was happy to recoup a few bucks. Still, something bothered me. Where did the buyer get the money? I hoped he hadn’t sold the farm to buy the bike, so to speak. Also, the Phantom (forgive me) had flaws, flaws I emphasized repeatedly. Water build-up in the carburetor. Worn tires that should soon be replaced. Skyward-pointing headlamp. He couldn’t give a flying shit. He wanted the Phantom. He wanted it bad. I could certainly understand the compulsion. With any luck, he flipped it for a profit, but I doubt it. A man possessed was he.

So, it was “Sayonara, Phantom.” One less thing, but I had a nagging thought. I wasn’t sure if I needed my passport to fly domestically in Indonesia. If you’ve kept up with this blog, you know it was sitting in a safe in Ubud, Bali. (Context? See here.) I had photocopies, but I doubted those would suffice in the face of strict regulations. Looks like I’d find out in Medan. Fingers crossed. Otherwise, it’d be a public transport marathon hellscape all the way back. Not how I wanted bookend my Indo fandango.

Phantom withdrawal mandated motorbike rental. I saddled my mini-hog and set out to explore Samosir Island. (Technically, an isthmus.) The weather was fair, the scenery more so, and the traffic light. Trace and meander. That was my mission. I chose to accept it. I went in search of elevation and panoramas. Can’t beat a good panorama. No pavement? No problem. One road ends, another begins. The “road” I followed to higher ground was nothing more than grass and stones. Later, I realized there was a nearby dirt track leading to the same spot. I took the “scenic” route, I guess. If I was a betting’ man, I’d say few tourists preceded my path.

I explored open pastures and light forest peopled by the indigenous Batak Toba. Quiet, peaceful and serene. I negotiated rocks and trees in my quest for scenic vistas. I saw no one and no one saw me… probably. And there on the edge of a hill, I found an abandoned house with an excellent view of Lake Toba. Abandoned? I couldn’t be sure but the property certainly felt so. No signs of life or habitation. I can’t deny I may have been trespassing but the view was too much to pass up. My intentions were pure, so I hoped my interloping would be forgiven if detected.

I spent the next hour playing Superman. Timing and patience were all that I needed to “fly”. And fly I did. Sometimes you just feel good and want to hold on as long as you can. If anyone had been watching, they might’ve concluded I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Delicious solitude, a Nikon, and plenty of vanity made for a wonderful afternoon. Perfect habitat for a selfie whore. I came in for a smooth landing and moved on. What a truly glorious way to pass the time.

My days continued in that vein. Bereft at the loss of the Phantom, I lowered the tempo. Rise in morning. Swim in lake. Savor breakfast. Drink coffee copiously. Swap travel stories with kindred spirits. Agonize over the day’s itinerary. Take shit. Take nap. Rinse and repeat. Ahhhh…