Well, after a week or so of orang utan spotting, island bicycle touring, visa hunting and general death bus from hell riding we were both knackered (the buses in Sumatra have bars on the windows so that should a crash occur, not at all unlikely the way they drive here, there would be absolutely no chance of us kicking open a window and surviving). Our tiredness was compounded by the fact that we still hadn't done anything substantial to help us get over our mammoth jungle trek, a day reading by Lake Toba just didn't cut it. So what, in our wisdom did we decide to do about it, how were we planning to recharge our batteries so we could again fully appreciate where we were and get the most out of our random wanderings?

Obvious really, we'd get on another death bus from Hell to Berestagi and climb the local volcano...

Not a very good idea clearly, and actually not what we ended up doing. But the thought was there. Sometimes we're so over focused on doing all there is to do and not missing a thing that we overstretch the limits of our already wracked and tired bodies, something we've been trying to remedy of late, but not today.

Berestagi town is completely unremarkable. Unless of course you were to remark on its dirty main street, its total lack of charm or charisma and its seeming lack of anything to endear it to the common tourist were it not for the close proximity of a nice climbable volcano 'Gunung Sibayak'.

I am too harsh, it does have one endearing feature. Those optimistic or stupid enough to make it to the very bottom of its busy, smelly and dusty main street are rewarded with the towns pride and joy, a giant green cabbage sprouting as if created by Roald Dalh from the centre of the town’s biggest roundabout. I know it speaks volumes, but this was far and away the best thing about Berestagi.

Perhaps not surprisingly we decided to stay in a nice little place on the slopes of the (hopefully not too active) volcano, the Sibayak multinational. It did indeed live up to its name, I counted representatives from England, America and Holland among its patrons before collapsing into bed that night. Up here in the highlands the nights are cold so we made sure to have a nice blanket, an indoor loo and best of all, hot water. This place was serious luxury.

In the morning we found ourselves singularly unable to get out of bed, completely unenthusiastic about climbing volcanos and desperately in need of some rest. So, clinging to our new creed that it's better to have fun and feel good than to see and do everything it is possible to see and do in a country we decided to skip the volcano, have another hour in bed and spend that afternoon in the local hot springs instead.

What a completely wonderful idea that turned out to be. Apart from a family of magically quiet and calm children and their non-stressed looking parents we were the only ones there that day. Our Bemo (local minibus) dropped us off at he door and we wasted no time dunking ourselves into our very own pool of almost too hot, sulfurous, milky spring water. The chemicals I was bathing in immediately turned my ring to a dull black, but my screaming muscles were in utter bliss. We could look up from our repose to a pretty impressive and unrestricted view of Gunung Sibayak, smoking angrily away and wonder where on its steep sides we’d be at this point had we decided to climb the beast. I for one was pretty glad we hadn't taken the opportunity to find out.

The following day was our last in Sumatra. We caught one last death bus from hell back to Medan and stayed a loud and constantly interrupted night right in the centre of town, next to the mosque. I should have remembered the 4am calls to prayer from our trip to the Middle East, I'm pretty sure they had never been quite so glass shatteringly loud as they are in Medan. Our plane was on time and sporting all engines in approximately working condition. With one last peek through the clouds below us we sped away to Java, Jakarta and the rest of Indonesia.

Sumatra had been probably my favourite part of Asia so far, great people, great culture, few tourists, incredible vistas and amazing wildlife... what else can a guy ask for except good food, which they had here by the shovel-full. Hoping that the rest of this crazy country would be even half as good I adjusted Amanda’s shoulder a little and settled into sleep, dreaming of orange hairy volcanoes, steaming gently on the plate, covered in sate sauce.

One orang utan is amazing, but two are better, and if you can wangle a couple of dozen then hey, all the better. We'd come away from Borneo having seen our favourite big banana chewing furballs in the wild and in semi-hand reared sanctuaries. Now it was time to get a glimpse of their distant island cousins in Northern Sumatra.

We got the schpeel from the accomodation and guided trek touts before we even arrived on our death rattler bus. A few of the more enterprising had got on a few stops before and were taking it in turnes to be our new friends and engaging us in conversation one after another. After being asked by the fourth inquisitive local where I was staying I gave up and stared out of the window mindlessly.

Off the bus it got worse, we got onto a motorbike and sidecar type tuk-tuk (great air con), told him where we wanted to go and set off, followed by at least four of our friendly touts. It turned out they'd already had a word with our driver who was told instead to drop us off at the hotel they get the most commission out of. By the time we found out that we were half an hours walk in the dark away from where we intended to stay with no transport available (this was the jungle after all) they hoped we would just give in and get a room in the 'eco lodge'.

A few harsh words and half an hours walking in the dark later we finally arrived at the jungle lodge, a series of wooden cabins set along a steep hill overlooking the river, sanctuary HQ and surrounding forest. Our hosts said you could see orang utans froloking in the trees from our balcony sometimes, though we put that down to optimistic advertising. At dinner we met a group of Indonesian girls from Medan and their English language teacher. Apparantly he takes different groups of students to various places where there are likely to be tourists most weekends so they can all get some genuine conversation practice. We were knackered from travelling on the bus from hell all day, starving hungry and in dire need of a shower but also the only tourists about. We couldn't resist their hopefull little faces and chatted about the price of cheese for a couple of hours before finally collapsing into bed.

For our visit to the orang utan feeding platform the following morning I packed a camera (which was fine) and a couple of mangos and bananas for the walk (which turned out to be a little stupid), it didnt take long to canoe quickly across the river, climb the hill and spot the platform, about fifty metres away through the trees. The ranger who had accompanied us took a bag of fruit to the platform, sat down and waited.

A couple of minutes later a definite rustling sound from behind indicated the arrival of our first fluffy visitors, a baby and its mum. Unfortunately, instead of heading towards the platform the mum came straight for me and my bag, snatched it away, undid the zip and rooted about for the mango and banana I'd brought along (I actually did think about this before we came but concluded that orang utans were so much like us that their sense of smell would be the same too and they wouldn't notice a bit of fruit in a closed bag. I was wrong). The big problem was that she woul;dnt let go of my bag, Amanda made a grab as she started to climb her tree with it and I got a better handhold. Whet followed was a comic tug of war, Amanda and I against a fully grown orang utan, easily capable of pulling our arms out of their sockets.

We were saved by the ranger who came over and gave her a bop on the nose. She went a couple of feet away with her stolen fruit but minus the bag. We'd expected a close encounter but this was something else.

They ate their fill and were replaced by another adult female. She came right up to where we were sitting and made herself comfortable on the fence about three feet away, eyeing us all with intense curiosity. In her hand was the limp and mangy corpse of a tiny squirrel. Apparantly she had recently lost her newborn baby and had found this crature (still alive) as a replacement. Now it had died under her not too gentle care and she didn't understand or want to let it go. Looking into her sad eyes as she tried to shake some life into it broke all our hearts. We gave her an extra banana.

Back at the sanctuary HQ was another mother daughter pair being chased by a group of screaming, giggling naked local kids fresh from a river dip. She didn't seem to mind, more inclined I think to join in than react badly. I got out of its way anyway, just to be on the safe side.

That afternoon was another feeding session where rangers piled a few bananas and skimmed milk on the platform. The local orang utans were happier being close to the tourists today though. One followed me along the path all the way up the hill. Amanda came close behind taking reams of pictures, she kept turning around, unsure of what all the fuss was.

During the end of the day we sat on our balcony and did indeed see glimpses of orange fur swinging through the trees on the opposite side of the river, it was magical.

As quickly as we'd arrived we had to be off again. Indonesian immigration don't give us enough time on the visa to be able to hang around for long anywhere. Early the next morning, heads full of big orang utans and their babies we boarded another bus for our last destination in Sumatra. By this time the following day we hoped to be climbing a volcano in Berestagi in the Northern Highlands. We climbed into our aged, decrepid minibus and said goodbye to Bukit Lawang. It had been short but sweet and we were unlikely to ever see anoother orang utan outside of a zoo, but it had been an experience that will stay with us both for a long time to come.

Tranquility and peace, a hammock, three sixty great views and possibly a pina collada waiting on a nearby table. Sate chicken, late mornings, green rice paddies and lovely, smiling happy people. Lake Toba was like a tonic to our travel weary souls. And our room had a BATH! Something we had been dreaming of for many many months but never really expected to see. Our two days lazing around the lake shores, reading books and getting familiar with Indonesian cuisine not only helped to recharge our batteries and soothe our aching muscles, they also proved a great introduction to Sumatra, it's people, cultures and traditions. We both agreed as soon as we arrived, we were going to like Indonesia.

Paradise regained

On our first morning in the country we stocked up on mangos and bananas from the mainland market and caught the first slow, almost lazy boat over the water to Tuk Tuk, Samosir Islands tidy, tiny tourist village. Finding a room was easy (we splurged a bit on the bathroom and a massive bed because we decided we deserved it) and after that all that was required of us was to sit on the balcony overlooking the still water, read a book and relax. After Borneo this was quite a novel concept, took a few goes to get it right.

No I will not pass you the snorkle

Lake Toba and its surroundings are beautiful, green, mountainous and more importantly a little cooler than the rest of the country because of its relative altitude. On that first days agenda was a slow lunch in a lake side cafe, a meander through the village's English language bookshops, a browse in the wood carving shops and further reading. Food in Indonesia was proving to be MUCH better than Malasian grub, particularly the vegetarian options much to Amandas delight. Culturally speaking Toba is at the heart of the Batak peoples traditional lands, local traditional houses have distinctive boat shaped roofs and the signature Batak carving can be found for sale everywhere.

Anyone for mushrooms?

Half determined to get active and see some of the island, at least for the afternoon we hired bikes on our second day there. We had learned that nearby was a set of stone chairs where local kings and village chiefs would meet, argue over the price of fish and hold trials. Nearby was another set of chairs where the hapless guilty were taken for execution and disposed of.

Who goes there?

The ride was a delight, beautiful views, cool breeze and not too hilly. Amanda stopped every few minutes to take shots with the new camera and seemed pretty pleased with the results. I was happy to just stare off across the lake admiring the view. We stopped by a roadside shack to watch a local guy as he carved out a ceremonial staff as used by the old tribal chiefs like a magic bashing of office. Quickly his mate came along who owned a shop selling them, and much other wonderfull and cheap stuff, he also offered to take us to some lesser known stone chairs at the same time. We had to follow. True to his word he did have lots of great carvings for sale, as did dozens of similar people in similar stalls all around the village. Toba has exprienced a huge decline in tourism over the last couple of years, as had most of the rest of Indonesia. Bombings in Bali, Government terrorism warnings, pricey new visa regulations, floods and tsunami's have all contributed towards dead streets and desperate locals. Everyone was eyeing us like their last hopes for a hot meal were walking away. It was quite disconcerting. True to his word our man took us up a hill to a circular set of carved stone chairs, all facing a central stone table. In one corner of the little walled compound were a few statues representing the village shaman and local gods. It was very quiet, undisturbed and out of the way, an unassuming window into the past. Amanda thought it was the best thing in the world!

Judge Wudjimalooloo presiding over another execution

The main stone chairs were a short walk away through alleyways of local handicraft stalls, each one more desperate to sell you a carving than the last. Surrounded by big, traditional, original Batak houses was a circle of chairs (the one with armrests for the king, the tiny one in the middle for the accused) and a round table. Here the trial took place (we had a local guide tell us all about the history and rituals associated with the place). If the prisoner was found guilty he would be kept in a cage underneath the chiefs house (the one with buffalo horns above the door) for seven days without food or water, then taken to another set of chairs nearby for the sentence to be carried out. A shaman would test for the presence of spirit magic by slicing the condemned with a knife. If he bled heavily he would be beheaded immediately, if he didn't bleed much he was obviously under a protective spell which needed to be broken. For this the kings staff was employed, first as a wand, waved about while spells were recited, then as a cudgell to literally beat the spells out of the prisoner.

One dog and human hotpot coming up!

Battered and bruised the poor bloke was then sliced up again with a knife, this time so his whole body was covered in cuts. Urine and pulped lemons was then rubbed vigourously into his wounds in an effort to shock the spell away. Then the prisoner, presumably in writhing agony, was bludgeoned a few more times by the kings magic staff for good measure and finally deemed to be free from shamanic protection. He was taken to a stone block and beheaded. Not as they would have done in Europe with a swift decapitating blow, oh no, that would be far too nice. Here they would start at the throat and saw their way through the neck slowly. Not a nice way to die.

Blood would be collected in a bowl and given to the King and Queen to drink to gain the power of their victim. Then the still warm heart and liver would be harvested and a section would be eaten, raw by the shaman, king and queen. The rest would be diced, mixed with meat prepared from a jet black dog and eaten by the whole village. The head would be taken and thrown with ceremony into the Lake as an offering to the spirits who live there. No water could be used from nearby for the next week.

The last trial and execution to take place here was less than 100 years ago, I'm glad I wasn't around at the time.

The Snow Queen of Narnia's summer home

Trying not to take the pleas of the local shopkeepers too much to heart we cycled on through some of Samosir Islands back roads under the shadow of its rather imposing hills through rice paddy dotted fields to the main village of Tomok. It was perhaps a bit more busy than we'd imagined, especially after Tuk Tuks laid back atmosphere, but we still had a quick look around, eventually finding the grave of one of the last animist Batak kings. It was actually in the middle of a normal, still used graveyard, though we did have to wear a Batak scarf over our shoulders as a sign of respect before we went in.

Once more we dodged the stall holders trying to extricate ourselves from the area. Amanda made a few small pity purchases before we made it out but aside from that we managed it in one piece. A nice quiet cycle back to Tuk Tuk left us once again chilling out at the water front with a book. A group of local girls had arrived at the hotel next door and were making a bit of noise but that would only bother a stressed person, we packed to leave the following day and dissapeared for some dinner. They were thankfully quieter when we got back.

Evidence of Swiss occupation?

It was a very good job we'd planned to leave the next day. I was woken at 5:30am by the sound of Indonesian schoolgirls fighting for use of a loudspeaker so they could shout to their squealing friends in the water. This went on for hours waking pretty much everyone within 300 metres, I lay in bed and heard one angry tourist after another swing their doors open and yell at them to shut up. By seven there was no point denying the obvious, our idyl had been well and truly invaded. We had our breakfast and caught the mornings first boat back to the mainland.

After that it was only a matter of choosing the least uncomfortable bus (they sit five in a row in Indonesia (three seats... isle... two seats, Asian people have significantly less wide shoulders than me) for the five hours back to Medan, then squeeazing onto the next available cattle transport for Bukit Lawang. Ocasional buskers would fight their way down the aisles to play guitar solo's for their captive crowds but apart from that we just sat in cramped uncomfortable positions and sweated heavily. Indonesians certainly know how to cook which was good, but it seemed getting from A to B without a tripple hernia might prove to be a problem. But we were still new to the country, maybe later trips would prove more comfy. For now we'll give it the benefit of the doubt and put this bus ride down to experience. We were still in happy spirits when we arrived in Bukit Lawang, sore bum notwithstanding. This was where what is left of the Sumatran orang utans come to eat bananas, and hopefully we would be seeing them do it.

Final goodbyes to Toba