beach sibolga

Obtaining passage in Sumatra during Ramadan is almost as rare as glimpsing the local species of tiger. Thanks to the of the Muslim festival drawing to a close, instead of just simply hopping on a bus or boat, as I thought would be able to easily, I now found myself searching the dirty streets of Sibolga, vainly looking for any kind a way out.
To add to insult to my ignorance, like most Indonesian settlements, the town (despite being surrounded by awesome jungle landscape and beautiful beaches), resembled a stinking cross between Baghdad and a rubbish tip. As bad as I’d seen elsewhere during my extended travels in the archipelago, if there was ever a place in contention for Arse End of the World, I mused as I stood among the Fez- and Burka-wearing throngs, this unwelcoming place could be it. I already had the dubious honour of passing through here a month before, when on my way to the surf of nearby Nias Island (and exhausted following a few days on busses, trains and boats) a grifter with bad teeth had fleeced me. I’d paid him fat wad of rupiah, for what I assumed was a private cabin for my travel partner and I, only to end up spending 12 hours on the oily ferry deck, directly above the engine room.
On a meagre budget, we’d passed on the option of flying directly from Bali to Nias, a decision made easier by recent news reports of deadly crashes of the region’s domestic carrier SMAC (as well just as the airline’s name). But now, trudging through the crowded humidity, from one bus ticket vendor’s shabby window to the next, we began to regret our return transit here, as we heard the same sprit-flagging refrain, often followed up by unsympathetic laughter: “Tidak Mao, Mister. Sorry, no transport. Ramadan.”
We then spent a few, angst-ridden, butt-numbing hours on a grotty bench in the street, before an oily-haired local I’d noticed hovering around us earlier, sidled up. He announced with a proud smile that he could sell us bus tickets, but at a hefty price (of which he no doubt was to take a sizeable cut). Conned once already, I initially said no, but he was persistent and I finally relented, if only out of desperation.
Immediately bankrot, we spent the a hungry night on the dusty floor of the bus company’s office, where we got stung by a million mosquitoes and sniggered at by more leering Sibolgans. These included my original conman, the one who needed a dentist. He seemed to know the oily guy, who also appeared from time to time, grinning at our pathetic forms and throwing thumbs-ups. Every time he did, I questioned the authenticity of the tickets I held. Wracked with this doubt, chronically uncomfortable, and with one eye on my boards and our luggage, I barely slept, placating my lady as she quietly sobbed next to me. Thankfully, as the sun filtered into our private hell, we got hassled into a mini bus by an impatient driver (and thus began a gruelling 54-hour road trip to Jakarta, followed by a week of trains and boats to Kuta).
In hindsight, if I ever pass through Sumatra again during Eid, poor crash record or not, I think I’ll fork out the extra cash and risk the flight instead.