65 - Kindertehuis (Bukit Lawang, Sumatra, Indonesia)
“…Two problems. First, seven days in the shit might’ve been pushing the envelope on my schedule (i.e. visa expiration). Not much room for error. Second, I failed to find recruits for my expedition. This meant I’d be footing the whole bill. Shit could add up real quick like. No mo’ time. No mo’ friends. No mo’ money… in a manner of speaking…”
by The Nostomanic
THE INDONESIAN DAYS OF MY LIFE were winding down, as were my jungle ambitions. I chided myself for surrendering to inertia, but looking back, it’s precisely what I needed. Go, go, going on the road can lead to hump, hump, humping the wall. My time in Bukit Lawang was, well, nice. I enjoyed not making plans (at least for a while). I enjoyed getting little accomplished… whatever the hell that meant.
In hindsight, I believe it was necessary to build up my reserves for what lay ahead. Still, an extended trek into Gunung Leuser National Park was something I should’ve made happen. The adventure factor had fizzled considerably by tour’s end, but I just didn’t have the gumption to power through.
Efforts, though less than valiant, were made. Local guides willing to rough it for a week were conspicuously absent. I did make inquiries and was directed to “the best guide in Bukit Lawang” by the man’s nephew. A short conversation led me to believe time spent with that eccentric gentleman would’ve been something special. He was the second person I’d met in Indo who implied he could summon a tiger by force of will. I wanted in.
“IN THE END… We only regret the chances we didn’t take, the relationships we were afraid to have, and the decisions we waited too long to make.”
― Lewis Carrol
Two problems. First, seven days in the shit might’ve been pushing the envelope on my schedule (i.e. visa expiration). Not much room for error. Second, I failed to find recruits for my expedition. This meant I’d be footing the whole bill. Shit could add up real quick like. No mo’ time. No mo’ friends. No mo’ money… in a manner of speaking.
Buuuuuuut… it’s far better to regret the things you did do, as opposed to the things you didn’t, eh? When was I ever going to be on the edge of the Sumatran jungle again? It’s unanimous, I was indeed a schmuck for this indiscretion.
I did, however, embark on a quest for the lost Café of Internet. Like my quest to execute a jungle quest, it ended in frustration. For internetting, I had two options—a shop in town or a place on the outskirts, past an upscale hotel. Due to the unstable nature of the electrical grid, I was directed toward the latter. Why, exactly, I can’t recall. Perhaps, my informant intuited generator power at the out-of-town establishment.
The “lost” cafe was allegedly a twenty-minute walk from my guesthouse. Along the way, I encountered a home for disadvantaged children named Kindertehuis (literally “Children’s Home” in Dutch). Run by an Indonesian man (Sugianto) and his Dutch wife (Saskia), the couple sold their house in Holland and set this place up on their own. Sugianto is an ex-guide from Bukit Lawang, Saskia a former school teacher from Alkmaar (Netherlands). The funding is (or at least was) private. Although they accept donations, they aren’t (or weren’t) aggressive in their search for support. “Not overly aggressive” was my experience, but a fellow traveler had a different take. Apparently, availing himself of the Wi-Fi was insufficient for Sugianto. He requested an additional donation. Why the discrepancy? Well, I paid for lunch, so maybe that saved me from the hard sell. This “give or don’t give” philosophy gives them the freedom to run the home without interference.
Back then, there were forty-three kids living on the Kindertehuis ranch. In addition, they also provided support (i.e. funds for schooling, health care, groceries, etc.) to underprivileged children in single-parent homes or with financially challenged relatives.
The calm and well-being strike as soon as you set foot on the grounds. The place pulsates positive energy and happiness. I didn’t need much of a reason to linger, so when I saw there was a restaurant, it was lunchtime. I was greeted by Sugianto, who gave me the lay of the land and the historical details. It was relatively new, having been around for nearly a year. (However, they’d been supporting kids much longer.) He explained how it worked and how the level of support depends upon need. I fingered through a guest book chronicling past visitors and left a short message. (A “Rich was here” sort of thing.)
So, back to the internet. After lunch, I inquired and was ushered south, ten minutes past Kindertehuis. I started to walk, but as I was leaving, noticed a sign at the schoolhouse declared “Wireless Internet” in a small seating area just off the path. I thought this a might queer (as in odd or strange) but continued forward. Was the husband fuckin’ wit me? I should think not. And yet, I soon found myself crossing varying resolutions of farmland/forest, a most unlikely place for internet. Can’t say I minded much, as part of the forest was rubber, as in rubber trees. Where does all that rubber come from? Trees, dammit! When two rubber trees love each other… The trees produce latex which is collected (rubber tapping) and refined into rubber.
A villager noted my puzzled countenance and asked where I was headed. When I said internet, he told me I was going the wrong way. Not sure how I missed the turn, but my ability to become lost, or “misplaced” if you will, knows no boundaries. I backtracked, petitioning another villager for a path to the worldwide web. Again, it was a return from whence I cameth… toward Kindertehuis. This time I was told I could find my white whale at a blue house. Blue house, you say? I hadn’t seen any blue house.
Back to Kindertehuis. I approached the restaurant again and asked the husband and wife how I’d gone astray. As it turns out, the school was ground zero. They had internet for public use. Ummmmm… como? I’d mentioned Wi-Fi at least thrice to Sugianto and was told it was farther on. Clearly, he misunderstood. I can only surmise he thought I said “bat cave.” (There’s such a place nearby. For the record, it’s literally a cave where bats live, not Batman’s summer home.) I get it, we had a little “barrera del idioma” going on, but I’m pretty sure “bat cave” and “internet” sound distinct even from my dysmorphic pie hole. And the blue house? Well, by “blue” I guess the man meant “light green.” Same, same, no? And just to put an exclamation on my exasperation, the connection was kaput. Stupendous. I double-checked in town only to discover the problem affected the whole area. Excellente.
“Ups” to compliment my “downs”. I enjoyed frequent sightings of a red-headed step-clown trio (i.e. orangutans). Once, while they were near the river’s edge, I crossed and came within a few meters of my adopted family. Truly sublime and not an exaggeration to say I was giddy as a school girl on nitrous oxide. It didn’t last. When a park ranger spotted the cabal, I was honored with a disciplinary whistle and forced to abandon the team. A day later, my favorite jungle harlequins showed up again, no doubt hankering for quality time with a fellow clown. Jesus, I could live with those fucking goofballs indefinitely.
My jungle summit with Harry and the Hendersons was bittersweet, simultaneously a gift and a curse. A gift for me. A curse for them. I was able to spend time with them only as a result of a rather dire ecological situation. Their habitat is under constant threat from all sides, so much so I had to question how many authentically “wild” orangutans were left, if any at all. The facts on the ground don’t detract from their natural majesty (if anything, they add to it), but reality infused my encounters with a nagging pathos even my school-girl giddiness couldn’t dispel completely… sigh.
Finally, I surmounted Bukit Lawang's gravitational pull, retreating to Medan with a follow-on to Bali… where it all began. Much to my delight, no passport required for domestic travel. I hadn’t consider this before leaving my passport in a travel agency safe in Ubud. (Why would I do something so preposterous? Good question. See here.)
Upon reclaiming my passport in Ubud, I discovered local immigration officials had carelessly marked all but one of my remaining visa pages with renewal stamps. This is no bueno, as a blank page is required for official visas the world over. No stamps allowed. Result? I’d have to beseech U.S. Embassy staff in Kuala Lumpur (KL) for extra pages. No rest for the wicked.
KL was in my near future, but after that? Well, this required a complex formula replete with confounding variables. In a shade under two months, I had a rendezvous with a friend in Vietnam. So, bye bye, Jenny. They’re sending me to Viet-nam. It’s this whole other country. How to occupy myself for a month and a half? Strategic decisions, decisions. Oh, the places you’ll go…
“Oh the places you'll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. And the magical things you can do with that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all.”
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!
I would’ve stayed in Malaysia and hit Borneo, but according to my astrologer, the alignment of Mercury and Venus didn’t bode well for that option. I never fuck with my astrologer. Borneo was out. I pondered a return to Indo and the Banda Islands, but a blind elf appeared in my dreams and warned me of possible consequences. (Namely, that I’d lose all of my hair and turn hard-on purple.) Indo? Out. The Philippines crossed my radar, but I feared addiction to balut might lead to uncontrollable dry humping. (Some believe it to be an aphrodisiac.) Sorry, Phil. Another day, perhaps.
East Timor, you say? Well, I considered it, but Shakira wrote a protest song about the country, and since she annoys the hell out of me, Timor was out. Myanmar was at the top of my list, but my aspiration to be the first American to swim across the lake to Aung San Suu Kyi’s house was dashed when I found out another asshole beat me to the punch. Darn. So, naturally Mongolia was on deck, right? Wrong. Genghis Khan was born in 1162 B.C.E. 1+1+6+2 = 10. Ten is the number of times I’ve experienced involuntary loss of bowel control in my adult life, so it stood to reason if I went to Mongolia, I’d contract dysentery. As if that weren’t enough, he died in 1227 at age 65. 1+2+2+7+6+5 = 23. Have you ever seen the movie The Number 23 with Jim Carey? Of course not. Nobody has, but it’s still scary, no? Mongolia was out.
I met a guy on the street named Stan who suggested I throw a dart at a map, which eerily fell on Tajikistan. Coincidence? Couldn’t be. But then I realized eight countries have “stan” in their name. (Afghanistan, Hindustan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Pakistan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan.) That’s just unoriginal and lazy. Hindustan? Another name for India. Gimme a fucking break, right? The “stans” were out.
And then it happened. A cab driver referred to me as “Sir”. (Didn’t see that coming.) After you rearrange the “I” and the “R” (Easy, I did it in like four seconds), it spells “Sri”. According to Sanskrit grammar, Sri belongs to the feminine subjunctive gender. Not only is Sanskrit my second favorite language, but it forms the first syllable of the country named Sri Lanka. This was more than enough to decide, but to be safe, I rearranged the “N” and the “K” (two seconds) in Lanka and, et violà, you have Lakna. Plug Lakna into Google and you find some dude named Jeton Lakna on Facebook who just happens to be a visual effects artists. I love art and all effects visual so, obviously, Sri Lanka was the right call. Logic won the day.