Indonesia: Exploitation, Volcanoes and Death Threats

My first western breakfast for some time was on roof the roof of the building and not really enjoyed to the same degree as its Malaysian counterpart, not my preferred choice. I got a taxi to Swettenham Pier. I managed to book my tickets for the ferry online at home via their website which I was pleased about but luckily an Englishman informed me that I had to go to the office, which was round the corner and down the road, to exchange my printed booking for a boarding pass. The pier was extremely basic but did at least have seats so the majority of people didn't have to sit on the floor. There were plenty of people waiting, mainly Asians, clutching all manner of things from rugs to baskets of food. Eventually, the long concertina gate was opened and carts laden with luggage and boxes were taken through. We then queued up at passport control in the 'Green Foreigner lane' to have our passports stamped and checked. When I got to the immigration counter I handed over my passport, completely forgetting about the stupidly small and easily lost departure card which, on request, I couldn't find. The man in his air conditioned booth started to look rather tense and a policeman started making his way over until I managed to find it, hidden in my file, much to both of our relief. It is a little silly that we have to hold on to those things.

I couldn't quite believe my eyes when I saw the moored ferry. It was miniscule, looking more like a private boat than an international border crossing ferry. I thought it was going to be a large substantial vessel for the 5 hour journey but it was more the size of a large bus or small aeroplane and had no deck and no food, just seats, four either side of an aisle and sat very low in the water. My big bag was checked in and thrown on top of the ferry with some cargo. As I sat assessing the likelihood of us getting to Indonesia, the ferry bobbed away on what looked like fairly calm waters so I wasn't hopeful of a smooth crossing. My negative feeling toward the trip across the Strait of Malacca, one of the most important shipping lanes in the world, which I was previously really looking forward to, was made worse by the fact that, in my tired zombie-like state, I had managed to forget to buy some water and food for the trip so it was going to be dinner time before I could get my gnashes around something to eat. It was going to be a long journey. At least there was a sign for a toilet but whether it worked or not, I wasn't sure, I hoped not to find out.

It was 0930 before we set off; rather late to say we had to be at the port for eight o'clock. There was Asian music blaring out of a speaker above my head so I had to use my iPod to block out the din. We were rather low down too, my bum was about 70cm above the water level. The engine came on, I could feel it grumbling and gurgling then we set off and I could see why the boat wasn't nearly as substantial as I'd expected and why it only ran twice a week, there was hardly anyone on it! The port, whilst it looked fairly full, must have been full of people going to the island of Langkawi. We started heading back to the Malaysian peninsula passing large cargo ships and small fishing boats en route. We weren't going the way that was plotted on the maps as the ferry route which I thought was a little odd but not cause for concern. I could see what I assumed to be Maxwell hill, though it probably wasn't, to my left sticking out from the surrounding lowlands.

In the channel between the mainland and Penang, we stopped and couple of men walked down the boat dishing out three forms, which I couldn't complete as my pen was in my big bag, and a carton of water per head. The ferry turned out to be quite smooth as its long pointed bow sliced through the water with ease but there was substantial lateral movement. An hour into the journey, I was feeling sick, mostly from hunger, but the rocking boat and hot stuffy cabin really didn't help and I was forced to put my laptop away and sprawl across my four seats and attempt to sleep. I noticed that some smokers were filtering through a small curtain for periods of time then returning having satisfied their unhealthy addiction. Smokers or no, I thought that after five hours sat feeling quite rubbish a change was in order so I went to investigate. Through the curtain was a steep corner staircase which lead into the captains room where he stood steering the boat as we swayed. The rest of the crew sat perched around a small worktop playing cards, probably with a bit of illegal gambling too. I was ignored so took that as acceptance and spotted a door which I went through to find what I suppose was part of a deck - the cargo deck. People were squeezed in around a few boxes and bags, I managed to find a spot upwind of the smokers and already felt a lot better. The six hour mark came and went but I was hopeful as I saw an increasing number of boats, small fishing boats, made from wood. Some of them looked to have families on them, washing lines, even dogs and babies. They all looked like they'd seen plenty of action but were painted bright colours which cheered up the murky sea.

Seven unpleasant hours after we set off, we arrived in Belawan. I was pleased to see dry land. We were all told to queue to hand in our forms then had to stand in a metal booth and be sprayed with what was presumably a disinfectant. They were clearly on high alert with regards to swine flu. Slightly moist, I moved on to buy the visa, which was supposed to be bought in US Dollars for some reason, of which I had none, but I was allowed to pay in ringgit. I then had to go back to the ferry to collect my bag before sifting it through the security machine. Finally, I was free to leave the building to a reception of shouting men all wanting me to get in their taxi. One man came up to me, saw the Union Flag on my passport and joked that I must be German, much to the amusement of his peers, then grabbed my arm and tried to drag me to his taxi but I insisted that I take the bus.

I didn't have any need for Indonesian currency until I got to Medan, a large city and capital of Sumatra, as the bus was supposed to be complimentary. I boarded the bus via a small back door which opened onto a mound of bags and suitcases which I had to add to. I sat on the bus with an Australian and a couple of Czechs whilst everyone else looked local. A man who I assumed to be the conductor came down the bus, once we'd set off, trying to charge us thirty thousand rupiah, the local currency of which I still had none. This was only a couple of pounds but it was the principle that we objected to. We had all been told that, on purchase of our tickets, the bus would be included in the price of the ticket and the conductor never actually denied this, he just insisted that he was a local that was trying to make a living by working legally in the country, something we weren't trying to question. He was really stressing that he was a legal worker who lives by the "rules" which only made me think the contrary. He said the locals would have to pay also, which was true, but I watched closely and I saw that they only paid a few hundred. It was clearly a scam to which everyone else accepted and was used to. He wouldn't leave us alone, repeating his well used lines constantly, until the Australian gave in and paid. The Czechs followed suit and after a further ten minutes of debate I too had to admit defeat and pay the man ten ringgit instead of the rupiah. After the ferry journey I didn't have the stamina to continue the fight.

The ferry took an extra two hours than it was supposed to and the bus took several times the half an hour journey as advertised thanks to the mind numbingly congested roads. The Australian and the Czechs found that they were going to the same place and the conductor knew we would be late into central Medan so offered them a hired minibus that would take them all the way there but for a similarly extortionate price, one which the older Australian man was willing to pay in favour of less hassle but the younger, savvy Czech couple were unwilling to pay forty times the price of the local bus. After a small amount of relatively unsuccessful negotiation, the couple relented and agreed to join the Australian. Having lost the people I was going to share a taxi with to the bus station, I was sat, alone, on a bus that was supposed to be taking me to one of the three main bus stations of Medan. The sprawling city seemed not to change and eventually the bus pulled up next to a cheap hotel where a man boarded to offer me accommodation. I was still on high alert after the fiasco with the conductor, who left with the locals at some point, and I adamantly rejected his offers of accommodation. I couldn't get rid of him though, as I was told to get off the bus - it wasn't going to take me to the bus station after all. I collected my bag, which thankfully hadn't been stolen, and went to sit in the open foyer of this man's hotel. He told me that I was about 10km from the bus station I needed to get to and that there would be no point going anyway as the last bus was at 1700 so I had missed it. I only had a few days in Indonesia so wanted to make the most of it and staying in Medan that night then getting the three hour journey to Berastagi in the morning was a last resort. My plans were falling apart, I had no idea where I was and I was alone. All I knew was that I had to get to Berastagi to climb the volcano and that I couldn't trust anyone but myself. I wasn't going to waste half of the next day travelling. If I had to stay in Medan, I would have gone to the hotel I had booked for my final night in Indonesia to stay there instead of the unnamed place I had found myself stranded at - I told this to the man that was talking to me so he knew I was serious. Still sat in the foyer, lost and confused, I reiterated my options with the man from the hotel. I realised that he was genuinely trying to help me, not just sell me his hotel. I told him that I desperately wanted out of Medan so he called around to find me a taxi that would take me to Berastagi. I was apprehensive about getting a long distance taxi out into the sticks on my own as I'd heard many stories of single travellers being attacked and mugged but I was desperate. The price was substantially more than the local bus, being about twenty pounds, but I felt it was worth the extra. It got me out of Medan in a manner that was much more comfortable (no sitting on roofs of buses required), was much safer for my luggage and took an hour less.

I dashed to a local ATM where I was preyed upon by a group of teenage girls who were clearly quite keen on talking with me. I was in a hurry and accepted their direction to the ATM but could not indulge in a drink and an hour of practising English with them that they invited me to. I made myself a millionaire by withdrawing a million rupiah then, to much cheering and whistling from the teenagers, ran back to get in the waiting taxi. It was a large, new vehicle which had refreshing air conditioning and comfortable leather seats. I was feeling better already.

The driver spoke little English but made a concerted effort to try and talk to me which put me at ease. As we escaped the hideousness of Medan, he pointed out buildings of vague interest like the airport and military bases. We left the city and headed for the hills on a steep and bendy road that was edged with dense green foliage. The drive was interesting and surprised me by the almost constant rows of shops and houses, which looked temporary but weren't, next to the road. Even in the night time darkness, people were still outside going about their business. It was the same in Berastagi, when we got there, there were people everywhere, the town was still alive despite it being about ten o'clock. I was certainly pleased I'd taken the taxi. I was dropped off at Wisma Sibayak, a guest house that came highly recommended from the internet, and on exiting the relative chill of the air conditioned vehicle, I realised that there was little difference. Being high up in the Sumatran Mountains the temperature was pleasantly cooler than Medan, especially at night.

The guest house comprised of two main buildings that looked like they had age to them and a few small wooden rooms at the back. I told the lady my plans and she seemed uneasy about my choice to tackle the volcano on my own. I'd spoken to a couple that had told me not to attempt it on my own as the path isn't always obvious and the locals aren't safe to be around on your own. My experience of Indonesia, although short, hadn't been a good one thus far so I relented and booked a guide for eight o'clock the next morning. I thought that Indonesia wasn't a country I wanted to get into any kind of trouble. I was given a tour by the owner and shown a couple of rooms so I could take my pick. I opted for the one with included bathroom which was less of a bathroom and more of a WC as it had a non-flushing toilet and a pipe coming from the wall supplying cold water. I put my technology on charge and returned to reception to see if my chicken curry was ready. It came out steaming, luminous yellow and smelling like a combination of Thai and something else I couldn't put my finger on but was familiar. It was delicious, but after finding that the chicken was red and bleeding inside, I didn't finish it. I was famished seeing as I hadn't eaten since my meagre breakfast of dry muesli at seven o'clock that morning in Penang. Being close to midnight, I was very grateful that they cooked me something, especially something so delicious.

Back in the room that I would occupy for the next two nights, I laid underneath the thin woollen blanket in the large bare room listening to the incessant beeping of the many vehicles that used the two busy roads which flanked the guest house. The temperature dropped, that night, to the single figures, which I would normally find very tolerable but after weeks of getting used to days of high thirties and nights of high twenties, it was cold. Unable to sleep I sat revising parasitology by counting the menacing buffalo gnats on the walls of my pale blue room. On the room door was a sticker emphasising the need to lock all doors, windows and bags at all times, especially at night. I did so adding a padlock to the door too. Malaysia seemed so far away.

I woke up, shivering, seeing the light streaming in from the bared windows between the embroidered curtains and sat up in regret. Looking at my watch confirmed my suspicion that I'd slept through my alarm - it was eight o'clock and I was late! I ran to the bathroom to brush my teeth. A good idea or not, I drank the water in Malaysia and suffered no problem but opted not to risk it in Indonesia. I went to the window to pull open the curtains and didn't get the warm stimulating morning rays of sun I was hoping for. Instead, all I got was the cold light of the tungsten bulb that illuminated my balcony and a black sky beyond the trees in the garden. I rechecked my watch, it was two and a half minutes past three meaning I'd been asleep for about an hour. My bleary eyes had got it wrong, not for the first time. I staggered back to bed to endure another hour of insomnia.

My second attempt at morning was more successful, though with a similar level of exhaustion, as I was slowly coaxed out of deep dream-filled sleep to consciousness by my alarm. I had a quick sneezing fit then got ready for a day I had been very much looking forward to since I booked my ferry tickets back in April. Opening the curtains a second time was far more fruitful. Not only did it release the invigorating rays of sunlight but also a magnificent view of the steaming volcano that looked as if just outside my window - it was certainly a room with a view. My quick, cold shower made a good effort at bringing me back to the land of the living but it wasn't until I'd had breakfast that I felt I could be coherent again. I sat and chatted with an Australian who was working his way up Indonesia and so far loved it, the people included. I couldn't help but wonder whether he'd spent much of his time drunk and talking with other tourists rather than experiencing the local culture, as his experience was certainly not synonymous with my brief encounter.

I felt a tap on my shoulder; it was my guide for the day, Borut. Like many in Southeast Asia, he was wearing an English football shirt. We walked and talked to the bus stop further in town. He stopped on the way to get some lunch which consisted of rice, curry, vegetables, nuts and some marinated chicken, all wrapped into a pyramid shape with a banana leaf, a common site in Malaysia also. I'd been given a packed lunch of fried rice, wrapped in the same way, and a brown banana. We caught the bus, which was actually a Toyota van with the side door removed and two planks put in the back that acted as seats, known as a Bemo in Indonesia, to the office where I had to buy a permit to climb the mountain. All of the Bemos, small and large, were old but spray painted in wacky colours making them look like hippie vans. A lot of them sported stylised British flags, in varying colours, and/or Union Flag stickers inside the vehicle. I found this curious and could not get used to (even for the rest of my trip) seeing our flag used as decoration and for advertising. In every south-eastern country I've been to I have witnessed the, sometimes liberal, use of our flag and nationality on everything from clothes to cars to food. It nicely contradicts the mostly wrong impression I have that foreign countries don't like Great Britain.

The drive was about ten minutes but it only took a couple before we left the houses which were replaced with fields and occasional wooden huts. The bus stopped a few times to let some women on, dressed in long trousers and shirts, and a large woven hat with baskets and instruments similar to hoes in their hands. Screaming naked children played by the roadside chasing dogs and carrying chicks. We arrived at the foot of Mount Sibayak where I paid my fee and recorded my signature. Borut told me that the women on the bus were trying to guess my age and nationality. We then started the ascent along a road where we were passed by workers on bikes and in lorries that Borut told me were employing a drainage system for the road. Halfway along the road, we came across a group of boisterous men and women that were laughing and shouting. They came straight up to me, talking in Indonesian, and Borut thought it best to keep on moving so he told them to leave us alone. I wasn't sure of their intentions but judging by Borut's reaction it seemed good to have a local with me to keep them at bay.

Borut was about thirty years old and could speak good English thanks to the many lessons he had paid for over the years as he was not taught it at school. We laughed how I carried my laptop and camera everywhere with me while he carried his large Oxford English Dictionary everywhere with him. His passion for the language was clearly demonstrated by the love for his dictionary and the way he talked of his lessons and job. He'd taken English for some years with his British English teacher and was always eager to learn more. He looked at his dictionary several times to check words and their meanings which meant he had a good grasp of many words that I expect don't even feature in the vocabulary of many British citizens. He also wanted to know the meanings behind sayings whilst taking particular interest and humour from cockney rhyming slang. Some confusion understandably crept in with respects to British, International and North American English as tourists from different countries would give him different answers to the same question but he said that English tourist were the cream of the crop in terms of learning the language and he said he finds us much easier to understand than, say, an American or Australian. I was also impressed by the fact that he knew I didn't have a particularly strong Yorkshire accent, in fact, he didn't believe I was Yorkshireman until I told him that I study in London.

His dream was to one day visit London which I found quite touching. He wasn't married, didn't have a car or bike and still lived at home because he used all of the spare money he got from his various irregular jobs to improve his English. Tourism was his next love which complimented learning English well and he knew the surrounding area incredibly well. He is a guide for the two local mountains and the jungles having taken trips into the rainforest to sleep and live off the plants. He clearly knew his stuff but had no tourism qualifications so couldn't get a proper job as a tour guide or leader so earned money doing whatever job he could. I noticed that he was, in my eyes, a popular man in the local area as many seemed to know him but he explained that this wasn't the case. He was one of relatively few people in the town that could speak good English which he said lead to much jealousy and even victimisation. Many see English as the international language that one must learn to be able to progress in life and do well for oneself, especially in the developing countries of Southeast Asia, but a lot of people know that they will never be able to learn it which causes bad feeling towards those that can. Many a parents' aim in life is to get their children to learn English. Borut gave me a fascinating insight to a very different culture.

We stopped at various points along the way to see plants that were used as food or medicine including a plant that, when touched, closed its leaves up a bit like a venous fly trap. We climbed the steep road quickly and came to a plateau where I saw the other, slightly taller, nearby volcano, Mount Sinabung, which was wearing a white cap of steam. From there we scrambled up an eroded bank, something I wouldn't have done if on my own, to find the path that leads up to the top of the mountain. We walked under a canopy of palms and tree ferns along a thin track, thanks to the close wall of vegetation on either side, until eventually we'd circled around to another view of Sinabung where the dense vegetation ended and the rocky outcrops and loose pale grey shale and boulders started. We edged around precarious ledges and jumped over streams until, around the final corner, I saw great plumes of white steam escaping the hard rock. It stopped me in my tracks, I needed a moment to stare, to absorb the sight and the fact that I was stood on top of a volcano. Despite the last known eruption being in the late eighteen hundreds, Sibayak was clearly still alive. Just metres beneath my feet was super hot magma which in turn heated underground water that came to the surface as steam or hot springs of bubbling sulphurous water.

I ran to catch up Borut then scrambled up to get a closer look at the steam vent that was bright radioactive yellow with crystalline sulphur. From a few metres away, the rocks around the opening looked soft and furry but up close it was clear that the long fine sulphur crystals pointing at every angle were sharp and not to be touched. The steam escaping its cavernous origin was nicely wafting over my face as I inspected the accumulation of sulphur. The general area did smell of sulphur but it wasn't massively strong and had a more medicinal scent about it, which my senses found refreshing. That was just the first vent we saw but continuing up to the top revealed a crater, the base of which looked around an acre in size. The rocky ridge gave rise to a peak on one side offering views over the lush green jungle opposite the, also steaming, Mount Sinabung. The bank of the crater was mostly small rocks and loose shale but on one side was a collection of big boulders with steam dissipating as it shot through the tight gaps. In the bottom of the crater were words, names of people that had climbed the mountain spelled out in rocks, which, from the crater rim, looked more like modern art than a register of peoples' names.

My faithful camera clicked away as I tried to capture the landscape and atmosphere in still images. We then walked down from the rim into the crater itself where I hopped over miniature streams of bubbling hot and steaming sulphurous water coming from the numerous underground springs. The bright yellow of the crystalline element stood out against the drab grey of the volcanic stone. Borut found a small pool, filled with boiling water, then pulled out some eggs for us to cook! I left the eggs cooking with Borut while I went to explore. I saw a local man, clutching a long pole and bag, over on the boulders half engulfed by the vast quantities of steam that surrounded him. I sat on a nicely warm rock to watch what he was doing. His pole had a scoop attached - he was harvesting the sulphur and putting it in his bag. Borut explained later that he would probably sell it locally as face paint, which is good for the skin and prevents mosquito bites. The pale egg shells were now white, bleached by the sulphuric acid, and the eggs were cooked so Borut picked them out and handed me one to peel. They tasted all the better for being cooked in volcanic water.

A Dutch lady came over and interrupted my piece with questions about my trip then proceeded to tell me that my trip itinerary was all, wrong for several reasons, which she forced me to listen to. She thought I was silly for travelling on my own, a sentiment ignorantly shared by many who have never tried it, and it was "wrong" of me to try and cover such a large distance over only nine weeks - she thought I should spend two weeks in Bangkok alone which made me question if she really had been herself. She also told me that some of my destinations she had been to and did not like, therefore I should not be going or I wasn't going to places I should be. She was quite rude at times and I obviously didn't quite agree with what she was saying, nor did I like her aggrogance, so after humouring her for ten minutes I excused myself to rejoin Borut at the pool. The man that was collecting sulphur was now talking to Borut and told him that the day before some tourists were attacked and mugged in the crater, another reason I was glad to have a guide. He also asked, via sign language as he didn't speak English, if I had taken some sulphur in my bag, which I hadn't. There was a small antenna on the mountain, not for telecommunications but to measure the seismic activity.

It was time to leave the crater and make our way down the mountain but first I climbed to the top of the peak and peer over the edge. There was Sinabung to my right, forest covered hills to my left and the town now out of sight but below was an inaccessible area of more vents and steam. A slippery scramble, over wet rocks and clay, down the mountain was at the opposite side and eventually lead to some heavily eroded steps which made our progress quite precarious. A big orange beetle stuck out like a ripe Satsuma floating in a bowl of gravy but was too quick for my camera and I. My ears popped as we made the steep descent and after a couple of hours I was grateful of a slightly more favourable angle and a thinner layer of mud. The trees, ferns and general exotic shrubbery were completely replaced by the tall slender rods of bamboo which elegantly draped their foliage over the path. Some of the bamboo had been hacked down and bound in bundles ready for transportation to the local village where they dissect and work the bamboo into baskets and other useful items. Borut handed me a squat piece of cut bamboo that would a have made a fantastic tumbler or desk tidy but thought better of trying to smuggle the organic item over the ten international border crossings that I was still to make.

We popped out of the forest and onto a road where, just in front of us, sat a geothermal power station which made good use of the naturally hot thermal springs. Borut then took me to some hot springs where we could relax after a day's mountain climb. The walk over a zig-zag Chinese Style Bridge revealed some pools of water of different temperatures with a magnificent view of the steaming volcano I'd just climbed. I sat and unwrapped my fried rice and, again uncooked, chicken then got changed ready for a dip. I went for the cool pool first, which was still rather hot but I soon acclimatised to it as I bathed under the imposing mountain just behind me. My white skin caused much unsubtle chattering (and some even more unsubtle photos) between the locals in an establishment not frequented by tourists. A group five bold youths plucked up the courage to talk to me asking lots of questions about myself and my thoughts on lots of topics including their country.

The word veterinary always seems to cause confusion whilst abroad so I generally use the term animal doctor which is better understood. Whilst I love interacting with the local people I do feel uncomfortable with peoples' response to me telling them where I'm from; I usually get something like "Ah, England, nice country, rich country!" Put in the context of Southeast Asia, that is true and I am probably relatively well off in comparison to many that I meet, as anyone from the UK would be, but that doesn't mean I have much money. In Indonesia more than anywhere, they saw my nationality as a bank balance and one which they thought they were entitled to a share off. These young adults were no different and employed methods that I expect were tried and tested to get money out of me. This theme was unfortunately reiterated throughout my stay in Indonesia and I could count the number of people that wanted to talk to me without wanting anything else on one hand.

I moved over to the hot pool where the water was initially unbearably hot. I let my legs dip in and out for a few minutes before going for the full plunge. I tentatively slid in to feel the not unpleasant burn of the murky aqua marine water. I didn't stay in the hot pool for long as we had to head back to Berastagi. I got changed and thanked Borut for taking me to the hot springs as there was no way I would have gone in, or even known what it was as the signs were in Indonesian only, if I was on my own.

Just along the road was where we were supposed to catch a bus back but there weren't any available so we had to walk a couple of hours to get to the main road, which I was pleased about. At the bottom of the volcano and between the adjacent hills was a fertile valley where a small rural community grew a huge range of vegetables and fruits including coffee and mangos. It was wonderful to see the picturesque small fields all filled with a different growing food. The produce was consumed by the people and the surplus sold at roadside stalls or taken to market. Part way down the road Borut spotted a large male baboon patrolling the road in a quadrupedal gait then turned and saw us at which point it stood up tall, like a human, to bear its teeth before retreating to its wives in the trees. Just passed where the baboon made his escape, we saw an apple green venomous snake on the road which Borut insisted was sleeping but I knew it was dead. I asked Borut about the possibility of doing the second, much more challenging, volcano, Mount Sinabung. He said that he'd love to take me up but it would be a long day with two hours of travelling and about eight hours of trekking with a lot of free climbing and scrambling, even up some trees! This sounded perfect for me but the timings worried me. I had a booking for a nights stay at the Citi International Sun Yat Sen in Medan for that night and another eight o'clock start at the ferry terminal the day after that. I thought about it for the rest of the walk and decided enough had gone wrong in Indonesia already and I didn't want to risk not being able to get back to Medan that evening as I would likely miss my ferry.

We reached the main road and waited only a few seconds before a bus pulled over to pick us up. Borut jumped straight on but the conductor was indicating that I should but my rucksack on the roof, which I refused to do so we had to wait for another. The second attempt was also a bit of a squeeze but there was a seat for me and I put my bag on my lap while Borut hung from the side door. The fare was 2000 rupiah but all I had was a 5000 note, which I gave to the adolescent conductor. He accepted, I waited for change and he laughed to his friends but I didn't let him run away with it and demanded I got the money I was owed. He then climbed out of the window and walked to the front of the bus along the roof. The seat was broken and uncomfortable and the bus was well over capacity which only reiterated my satisfaction in getting the taxi from Medan.

We walked back to the hostel where I ordered some dinner of beef fried rice. I had the recommendation to try Sumatran coffee on high authority so ordered one of those too. The coffee came out first in a glass mug, thick, dark and almost black, with a bottom layer of about an inch of viscous condensed milk that I stirred in after trying the upper portion first. Not being a coffee drinker, I wasn't expecting to like it but I did, very much so. Fresh milk in Southeast Asia really isn't a staple and it's quite a rare thing to see. Most places used unsweetened tinned condensed milk which is more like cream.

I was planning on going for a walk after dinner but, as I typed up a few bullet points of the day's activities, I started to sneeze, fifteen times in a row. I blew my nose and sat on my bed deciding to get an early night instead of going for a walk. Rein acting the night before, I woke up, seeing the light outside my window and looked at my watch and read nine o'clock so I got up. Again, it wasn't until I had brushed my teeth that I looked at my watch to see the correct time of quarter to twelve. I tried to ignore the noises of traffic as I lay, chilled, in my firm bed.

The morning came with the promise of a new day and a new adventure. I got a cold shower then went to lie back in bed. My head felt like it was in a vice and every time I moved a little more pressure was added. My nose kept streaming after every sneezing fit I had. I felt truly terrible and did nothing all morning except nap, the wet weather wasn't suitable for much else anyway. I laid there motionless trying to rationalise what might be wrong with me. I thought I might be having some reaction to the malaria tablets but after checking the list of side effects I realised that that probably wasn't the case. My mind wandered to swine flu. I didn't think I had swine flu but I was quite concerned that the officials in immigration at the port might see things differently. I tried not to worry about that though as the day's task was to get to Medan which I thought, despite feeling rubbish, was better tackled earlier than later. It was certainly a good thing that I'd decided not to attempt Mount Sinabung. I packed up, had a final blow of my nose and made a deal with myself that I wouldn't sneeze again until the hotel in Medan.

I wasn't sure when, or if, I would be able to get any food for the rest of the day so I ordered a final vegetable (I wasn't going to risk the chicken again) curry from the hostel and another Sumatran coffee, even though I wasn't hungry, then paid up and checked out. The chilli had cleared my nose and I was quite positive, trying not to think about having to return to Medan. I walked to the bus station which, upon arrival, I realised it was more of a small fruit market with an accumulation of local buses. I was hailed to join one of the full-to-bursting Bemos that was already en route but declined opting to travel in a bright green version, sporting my Nation's flag on the rear wing and inside on the sun visors. I pushed my big bag on the roof, sandwiched between some bamboo baskets of food and a motorbike, hoping that the five locks on my bag would be enough to deter any miscreants. Again, I refused to put my camera bag on the roof but they didn't seem to mind too much. The bus filled quickly and we were off before I knew it.

The conductor hung from the door shouting at people that looked like they were waiting for a bus. It was just a few minutes before we left the congestion of the town and were hurtling down the main road to Medan at break neck speed. I managed to look at the speedometer at one point to see a frightening speed of eighty miles an hour! It was incredibly dangerous at times as the bus raced to overtake lorries, cars, bikes and other buses. I don't know whether this was normal but nothing managed to overtake us as we were either going too fast for anything else to overtake or the driver pulled out to prevent it. I lost count of how many times the driver had to brake hard, skidding at times, and pull out of a manoeuvre to rejoin the snaking line of traffic. Twice we weren't able to pull back in which forced the traffic on the opposite side of the road to pull off the road to allow us to pass and back onto the legal side. On this country road there were little or no people to get on the bus so the conductor took his sentry position on the roof shouting a combination of verbal commands to help coordinate the ludicrous overtaking strategy. The driver showed visible annoyance at the necessarily slow progress around the numerous hairpin bends.

An hour in and we had to stop because, not surprisingly, we got a puncture and needed to change. The many tyre shops along the way implied that it wasn't the rare occurrence it is at home. Nevertheless, it wasn't long before we were back to Michael Schumacher style driving. A girl that was sat opposite me wasn't really not enjoying the ride and kept vomiting into a nicely transparent bag. Being a ridiculously travel sick child myself I really did feel for her. It did act as a reminder though, that I was feeling much better. The excitement and adrenaline of the bus journey were a brilliant diversion from whatever it was that was taking advantage of my probably slightly immunosuppressed state. It may have been dangerous but it was certainly the most thrilling bus ride I have ever taken being more reminiscent of a rollercoaster than a form of public transport.

I could feel the heat creeping higher and higher, the greenery getting less and the concrete blocks becoming more frequent. I looked at my watch and realised that we must be nearly in Medan. People started alighting until it was just myself, the girl that was sick, and her mother. Like a monkey, the conductor poked his head down from the roof and spoke to me in Indonesian. I hadn't a clue what he was trying to say so the mother and daughter managed to give me a small amount of translation. We were apparently in Medan, and they wanted to know where I was going. I gave the mother my itinerary to show her the address to which she exclaimed. She tried to relay my itinerary to the driver and conductor but after a brief exchange I was being shouted at by the driver. I didn't understand and the girl told me that I had to get off. I thanked them whilst watching my bag being thrown from the roof. Cars and bikes were beeping and the conductor was shouting so I had to get off. The bus sped off through a red light leaving me next to the road in what could have been Bali for all I knew.

I leant down to pick up my bag and as I looked up there were suddenly about forty men all around me. Encircled and alone I wasn't sure what my next move should be. The only English they seemed to know, or were willing to use, was "Where from?" I told them and, as simply as possible, I asked if I was in Medan to which I got a hesitant "yes". One of the slowly growing numbers of men around me went to get someone that spoke a small amount of English. I then was told that some of them were bentor drivers and wanted my business. A bentor is basically a motorbike and sidecar used as a form of transport like a taxi. I gave him my address to which he laughed. I'd apparently been dumped in the outskirts of Medan, fifteen to twenty kilometres from my hotel which was out of the centre itself. It was a crucial decision I had to make and I tried to maintain my resolve in the mob that surrounded me. They now all knew where I was going but only a few of them knew where the hotel was so some of the crowd dissipated and the rest started shouting prices at me; I smiled in cold rejection. They were trying to charge me ten times the price of my two and a half hour bus ride from Berastagi for the trip to the hotel. Annoyed and insulted I gave them a price I would pay at which point their English came out. They were shouting at me, just centimetres from my face, about England being a rich country so I must be rich and I should pay. I stood firm, I was fed up of being exploited and angry at their greed. The ring leader then started to intimidate me in his native tongue, pushing me several times then with his hand performing a throat cut action. His intimidation worked but I wasn't about let him win and confidently I ploughed through his peers to escape the nonsense and abuse. I told the English speaker what I thought, picked up my bag and started walking. I was defending my principals and I would have stubbornly walked the twenty kilometres rather than give in to his, or anyone else's, bullying. The spectacle was causing much attention, something I really didn't want. Pedestrians stopped to look and green traffic lights were ignored as people starred from their vehicles. I knew I had done nothing wrong but that would have meant nothing in Indonesia had the police got involved.

I ran over the road, ignoring the beeping traffic and the group that were following me. A man stopped his taxi and jumped out to offer me a ride. I gave him my address and asked how much. He said 3000 rupiah which I was about to accept until the riot caught up with me and informed him of their highly inflated offer. He quickly changed his mind so I started walking again, no happier but reassured that I wasn't offering too low a price. I didn't get very far before the English speaker, who seemed like he actually wanted to help, grabbed me and pointed towards a lady on a motorbike. She spoke fluent English and I quickly relayed what I wanted. She agreed that they were not the people to trust and I said I wanted to get a bus. She waited with me for a few minutes while a bus came of the correct number but as I waited she started talking to the man who had just made attempts at death threats. After talking with her, his demeanour changed completely and appeared more than happy to take me to where I wanted to go for the price I was willing to pay. I didn't care, I would have been stupid to jump into a car with him and I could have ended up like he was initially depicting. They were only going to keep following me and in the heat of Medan, with nearly thirty kilograms of kit on my back and front, I couldn't run far - the bus was my only way out.

Luckily it came not longer after so I squeezed into the bus to be charged once for me and then again for my bag. I felt relieved for about five minutes and shocked at what had just happened. 'It's all good experience' I told myself but I realised that I was in another predicament. I didn't know where the bus was taking me or even if it was going in the right direction. I didn't know whether these small local buses went to a central bus station but thought I would endure the ride and see what happened. Twenty minutes passed and I was getting worried, it was getting late. They say body language is 97% of communication and in a bus full of people that only speak Indonesian I had to rely on that statistic. I looked at the lady sat opposite me and she put out her hand to accept my itinerary. It caused a flurry of chattering women who each had a look at the address in turn. They talked away amongst themselves then passed back the paper. I didn't know what they were thinking but they seemed pleased as if some conclusion had been reached. The lady smiled and nodded, which I mirrored, but whatever the solution was I didn't know. Another twenty minutes later and the ladies started getting off the bus and I wasn't sure whether I should follow or not. An older lady who was smartly dressed and wore a pearl necklace came on and asked where I was going. Relieved to hear some English words, I passed her my sheet at which point a girl at the back of the bus, who spoke perfect Queen's English, said:

"Don't worry, I know where you need to go, just get off with me and I'll show you where to go from there." I was hugely grateful even if I did think she might have said that a little earlier. It wasn't too long after that we got off together at what looked like a major shopping centre. From there she put me in a bentor and told the driver where I needed to be. Off we shot into the chaos of the traffic as I bounced along in the sidecar. It was another quarter of an hour before I reached the hotel but I was so overwhelmingly relieved that I managed to finally get there in one piece and with all my things.

The concierge came straight out to meet me and sent a porter to collect my things. I didn't realise when I booked it but the hotel was absolutely superb. After paying and checking in, I got to the fifth floor to find an impeccable room that was ultra modern and very nice indeed. I checked my emails while sipping from the complimentary mango juice that had been sent to my room. This was my salvation for the night, one which I felt I deserved, and I didn't leave it until the next morning.