62 - Ratna’s Place (Danau Toba, Sumatra, Indonesia)
To the realm of Regal Ratna, edify thy soul. She’s a student, she’s a teacher, she’s a part that fit’s the whole. Her father was a king, her husband not so much. Give her half a day, and your heart she’s sure to touch.
by Mr. Nos T. O’maniac
MY EXPLORATION OF SAMOSIR ISLAND CONTINUED. I drove south along Toba’s coast to Sitamiang, a small Batak fishing village. The road narrows until “road” becomes a bit grandiose as a description. More of a concrete path. I felt a little (as in a lot) out of place. Besides the obvious, motorbike traffic seemed inappropriate, though I’m certain it wasn’t. I just happen to be the only motorist on the “highway.” Things get uncomfortable, at least for the uninitiated. The path runs close enough to houses to touch them and the occupants. You can peer inside someone’s home if voyeurism is your thing. It’s almost like literally having a road through your living room. A few expressions cast in my direction did nothing to quell my self-consciousness.
It was hard not to feel like an intruder, but I pressed on, assuming I wasn’t the only foreign asshole to buzz the villagers. Uneasiness didn’t halt my progress; only the fear of night driving did that. I decided to retreat in what amounted to someone’s front yard. This prompted a response. An elderly woman emerged from the home I was about to pass for the second time and halted my progress with a “Please, stop” hand motion. Ruh-roh, I thought, I’ve angered a native. Wrong. Though I understood little of her Indonesian (or was it a Batak Toba dialect?), I heard what she meant. She wanted me to wait for a woman paddling to shore via wooden canoe.
Ratna surprised me with a greeting in superb English. This was her house and her mother who stopped me. The mother assumed any foreigner milling about must be looking for her daughter. I wasn’t, but I should’ve been. I liked Ratna immediately. She had that thing that all warm, approachable folks have. Can’t quite describe or summarize it, but you know you like it. A quiet dignity surrounding a kind, gentle soul. And you want to know more. After a brief conversation, she invited me to visit the next day for a short hike and a seafood dinner—an offer I couldn’t refuse, an excellent opportunity to gain insight into Batak culture.
Upon return, she received me with a smile and a cup of tea. Soon after, we went for a stroll in the hills behind her village. Ratna was one of twelve children; her father a Batak king whose jurisdiction stretched to adjacent villages and up the mountain. He died when she was four (she was forty at the time) and unfortunately, didn’t pass on a king’s ransom. I guess the crown wasn’t what it used to be by his reign (more of a leadership/advisory role, I deduced). Power without glory. Her father married twice, Ratna’s mother being the second, following the death of the first.
Ratna spent most of her adult life away from Toba, living first in Jakarta with her extended family—brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, etc. She worked at a transportation/cargo company based in Jakarta until transferred to Medan in Northern Sumatra. But, as mom advanced in years, she returned home to care for her. Escaping a deadbeat husband was a bonus.
“I don’t think he is a good guy. I don’t want to see him again,” was her matter-of-fact hubby assessment, so matter of fact it was difficult to erase a grin. She lived with him in Medan but grew tired of their relationship on account of idleness (not much of a worker I gathered) and his tendency toward violence and control. She was supporting him, doling out cash for whatever he requested, and catering to his every whim. For her trouble? No friends allowed and harsh punishment for rule violations.
My curiosity was piqued, but I held off on a flurry of questions. I could tell the subject was painful. She couldn’t understand why Jesus (many Bataks people are Christian) would send her such a dipshit (my word, not hers). I tried to console her with an incontrovertible fact: Sumatra hadn’t cornered the market on assholes. Every village has its share. Not quite how I put it, but she got the gist.
Permaculture. That’s Ratna’s jam. An Australian friend was visiting in September to explore the work she’d been doing. It wasn’t uncommon for coverts to this expanding eco-movement to turn up by appointment or unannounced. (This explains her mother’s insistence.) For those unfamiliar with the concept, permaculture is “an agricultural system or method that seeks to integrate human activity with natural surroundings so as to create highly efficient self-sustaining ecosystems.”
Practicing wasn’t enough. She was as passionate about teaching the principles as she was about learning them, dedicated to sharing the creed of conservation with the village youth. She also wanted to teach English and touted a computer program she acquired that translated Indo to Eng. On top of all that, she was slowly building a small library to loan books to anyone curious about permaculture, English, or other topics of interest. Bottom line? A special person doing grand things on a small scale. I have to admit, I admired the hell out of her.
After our walk, we sat down to a succulent meal of rice and fresh fish. And I do mean fresh. From water to table was no more than twenty-five minutes. I watched as she scooped out dinner from an enclosure in the lake and nonchalantly sliced up the catch. There was something strangely erotic about a forty-year-old Batak woman ripping the guts out of Tilapia in preparation for a meal, my meal. No high maintenance princess there. Just a confident Batak woman living her life. All I could do was snap photos and contemplate how useless I’d be in her village. Way to go industrialized world, we’re all a bunch of pussies now. (Or maybe just me?)
While Ratna prepared din-din, I loitered in the yard, camera in hand. There’s no shortage of animals in Batak villages. Chickens, ducks, buffaloes, pigs, cats, and dogs round out the lineup. And they all share the same status—livestock. Yep, ain’t no pets on this farm. They love dogs as much as I do, just not for the same reason. On a spit, in a stew, with a side of rice, etc. Yes, this was a challenge for my western sensibilities, especially with Fido trolling the grounds. But let’s get real, pets are a goddamn luxury, a luxury many developing nations don’t share.
Dog consumption is no stranger to Southeast Asia. Ever been to South Korea? Though dog meat is eschewed by the younger generation, Korean Animal Rights Advocates (KARA) estimate up to a million canines are consumed each year. This is where shit gets sticky. Sadly, it’s hard to see past the deplorable conditions in which the animals are kept. It’s a horror show (see here), but is it so different from many of the factory farming practices in the good ole U.S. of A? Negative. We have our own horror shows, and they’re every bit as disturbing.
However, I deem it rather myopic to criticize whole societies for consuming dogs. Farming practices? Maybe. But not for mere consumption. I’d resolved to try dog stew while stationed in South Korea but relented when discovering they might be tortured before death to enhance flavor. (Adrenaline makes for a great marinade.) Mind? Open… but that was a bridge too far for this ethnocentric asshole.
Still, I reserved cross-cultural condemnations then, and in Ratna’s yard. Dog meat consumption has a long history going back a couple of thousand years at least. And why not? Food is food, and I have to think as livestock goes, dogs are low maintenance, no? If I’d grown up viewing dogs as num-nums, I’d think nothing of it. We’re all creatures of time and culture. Yes, Bataks eat dog, but this was light years from the scourge of factory farming. I can’t speak for the whole region, but the dogs I encountered were free roaming. Also, I sensed doggy was eaten periodically, not as an everyday staple.
And it’s not exactly advertised in the Toba region. I certainly hadn’t a clue. Not until I was informed by a fellow traveler (a gentleman from Britain) who’d gone out for an early morning stroll only to meet two men roasting Fido on a spit with a propane torch did I make the connection. (Ideal for removing fur… gulp.) You could say that caught him off guard. And me as well. Shocking? A tad. There was also the fellow American who met a local woman who refused to leave her dog alone for fear “friends” might turn poochie into Batak BBQ. It’s a jungle out there.
I asked Ratna about this, and she confirmed none of the animals roaming the grounds were pets. (This included the cat.) It seems even kitty is part of the menu, albeit not a common one. She’d eaten feline only once as a child. Perhaps, kitty is far down on the list of menu items, called forth only in times of privation. Curiosity ushered me to probe deeper, but she clearly understood the taboo associated with “pet” consumption in my world, and the risks of misunderstanding and misinterpretation were too great. So, I balked.
I left Ratna’s place brimming with gratitude. For her to invite a stranger into her world, into her home for that matter, spoke volumes about her kind nature and innate curiosity. A teacher. A student. A seeker of insight. I was so damn grateful for our chance meeting. A window into another culture, a window which may have remained closed had I not gone for a wandering motorbike excursion. She did offer to show me around the island but it never came to be. Ratna had a lot of shit in the hopper. Thankfully, I did see her again when she appeared at my hotel to use the WiFi.
