~~'lfF

lOOIE OO&\~J ~[F illH/1E W@~l"By DAGMAR TORMAEHLEN

1'he 1JU1·t of theforlller Dutch East Indies whcre fighting continued1011f/cst is Sumatra. The following article, however. docs not deal withthe 101£1'. Rathel' itt it a C(l101'/ul descriptiol/ of life on Lrd.e Toba frolltthe vi'vid 1>611 0; Dagmar TOI·71laehlcll, lcorld t.ra.ve/c·r and at 1Jresent «­foreign cOI'ruspondent in Shanghai.

The illust'ratiolls are by Walte'r Lehmann. whuse painting 0; CamRanh Bay in the first issue oj this magazine o/(r readers willj·e71lCmbel·.-K. M.

UIF you are going to Sumatra youmust certainly go to the land of the

Bataks. Thirty years ago they stillate their old mothers-in-law with muchfeasting, and to this day the Bataksconsider a nice roast dog the greatestdelicacy." This is what a wise globe­trotter told me between Port Said andColombo. And-uyou must go to LakeToba, to the 'heart of the world,' andcall on the Batak Rajah on Samosir,"said the old tobacco planters in Medan,the modern young city on the eastcoast of Sumatra. Here are to befound the firms dealing in the famousDeli cigar wrappers, as weU as theoffices of the rubber, palm oil, agave,tea, and coffee plantations which coverhundreds of thousands of acres in theinterior.

Wouldn't that be enough to make youwant to see that country? AU I knewabout it were the most horrible talesof cannibalism and wild warriors, andthat sixty years ago it had been openedup by missionaries from the Rhine

with cunning and skill, with endlesspatience and love.

So one tine morning in Medan, notfar from the magnificent palace of theSultan of Deli, we boarded one of theopen, rainbow -colored jungle busses.We sat surrounded by Malay women,Chinese coolies, and dirty, black-hairedchildren, by pineapples and squealingpigs lying like babies in bamboo mats.The first class consisted of the seat be­side the chauffeur. Our brown-skinneddriver wore brilliant-hued pajamas anda bright yellow velvet cap on hisblue-black mop of hair. He workedthe clutch with his bare foot till itroared, and steered with two fingerswhile with the others he calmly rolleda cigarette or did something else.Meanwhile his head was usually turnedround towards a charming little Chinesegirl who coquettishly swung h~r papersunshade and chattered like a parrot.

At breakneck apeed we dashed throughendless tobacco fields and rubber plan­tations. Kampongs (native villages),

264 THE XXth CENTURY

tobacco sheds, and lonely Europeanbungalows slid past us. Ox-carts rum­bled by. In the rubber plantations wesaw coolies going from tree to treeand tapping the milky-white rubbersap. The smell of the oil palms wasoppreRsively sweet and damp. A deepblue sky arched over this green tropicalworld from whose fertile soil everythingseemed to grow into the mouths ofthe people.

The road went higher and higher.The first tea plantations appeared.The brilliant colors of the tea-pickers'sarongs shone through the dark greenbushes. Carabaos, the water buffaloesof the Batak country. wandered pastus in herd~, with naked little boysriding at the front. In the sawahs,the rice fields, stood bending women,carrying their babies in colored clothson their backs. From sunrise to sunsetthey work among the tender green riceshoots. They tilJ the fields, they cook,they weave the lovely !cains worn by menand women alike, and dye them withindigo. The men do hardly any workat all. 'fhey play chess, have longarguments in the village cafes and. atthe very most. go to market to sellfruit and vegetables, chicken, brownBatak sugar, and tobacco in thickround slices. Beautiful Batak womenare an exception; they are soon agedand wasted by hard work.

The sawahs rose in terraces. On thehilltops palms swayed over ancient

Batak graves. It was getting cooler,for we had already climbed 4,000 feet.The road took us in wild curves throughfir forests and six-foot jungle ferns.And then suddenly Lake Toba laybelow us, emerald green, like a huge,mysterious eye. Smooth as a mirrorit lies between rice fields, palm groves,and mountains 1.600 feet high. Itlooks deceptively harmless, for depthsup to five hundred fathoms ha\ e beensounded. The Bataks say that thelake is bottomless, for that is the onlyway they can explain why capsizedboats disappear for ever.

One feels very small, looking downfrom the rocky plateau into this greatestof all craters in the world. Gigantic vol­canoes once stood where the blue basin ofLake Toba now stretches almost 60miles in length and in places nearly20 miles across. The sacred sea of theBataks is twice as large as LakeConstance. In it there is the island ofSamosir, which, according to an oldlegend. contains the birthplace of allBataks. Science, however. says thatthe Bataks came in prehistoric timesfrom the Indo-Chinese peninsula andformed the original population ofSumatra.

Lake Toba was the vacation paradisefor all the tired tropic-dwellers from

... ate their old mothers·in-Iaw

THE HEART OF THE WORLD 265

... at the market stands

Sumatra to Singapore, who fled inrelief from the hothouse-atmosphereto the shores of blue Lake Toba, intoa world of eternal spring. Sixty yearsago no one could see Lake Toba with­out paying with his life for hiscurioRity. The Bataks protected theirland of origin with spear and kris, andwoe to the European who dared approach.He would meet a frightful death andbe eaten with great pomp and cere­mony. They were after the tondi,the mysterious forces which, so theBataks believe, dwell in the humanbrain. Every human feast was agreat festival, for the forces of thevictim were supposed to be transferredin that way to all participants in thefeast.

It was mainly wounded enemies,thieves, adulterers, weaklings, and theaged that were eaten. As soon asanyone could no longer climb up thesteep ladder leading into the Batakhouses, his last hour had struck. Thenhe was eaten, and his head was buriedunder one of the pillars of a newlybuilt house in order to bring luck andstrength to its inhabitants.

It scems grotesque, but the Bataksbelieved us Europeans also to be somekind of head-hunters and feared us assuch. For that was the only waythey could explain the great bridgeswhich were built over the broad riversall over Sumatra. "There are human

heads buried under the bridge ends,"they said, ." whose spirits hold thebridge together."

On the green island of Samosir withthe mountain called ... the Heart of theWorld" by the natives, there are100,000 Bataks living in proud warriorcommunities. They fish and grow rice,and gather up what the palms andbanana trees, the durian and wild fruittrees give them. I n long, narrowdugouts, called solus, they take theproduce of their fields and gardens tothe surrounding markets. These areoften hours away, but market day isnever missed, even if it only means aprofit of a few cents. One can alsosee them marching there overland in'Indian file, all bearing loads on theirheads. And at the market stands thereis always such a bustling throng thatit appears as if the purchases madeshould last all eternity.

Below, in the harbor of Prapat, thevacation peninsula on Lake Toba, oneof the Bolus, made from a magnificentgiant of the jungle, was waiting for

•.• fly across the water

us. Eight brown-skinned fellowsgreeted us with with a loud H Horas,"the ancient cheer and war cry of theBataks. In a solu of this kind thereis room for a crew of fifty men.Every year there are great Bolu raceswith prizes from the NetherlandsGovernment. Then the dugouts with

THE XXth CENTURY266

their richly decorated prows simplyfly across the water.

Our crew also paddled off with theirshort oars in a mighty spurt. Thewaves gurgled rhythmically against theside of the boat. Silver cloud-veilshung over the mountains. Behind themglowed the yellow sulphur vapors ofSibajak and Sinaboeng, the two greatactive volcanoes. Brown as nuts, thebare backs of the rowers glistened inthe sun. With high, bird-like criesthey urged each other on, and soonthey were singing "A Wind Blowsfrom Bangkara...." They sang of thespirits of the wind and of death. Itis to keep these spirits in good humorthat the boats are decked with flowersand wild ferns. Yet these brown fel­lows were good Christians-one wascalled Bismarck, the others Melanchton,Karl, Wilhelm, and Luther, all namesgiven to them by the German mission­aries of the little white church whosebells rung out a joyful welcome to usfrom the island.

Bismarck had taken along a horn onwhich he suddenly tootled mightily sothat the narrow solu trembled to itsvery core. "To tell the driver of yourcar that you are coming," he explained.It did not seem to help much, though,for when we arrived in Ambrita, themission station on Samosir, there wasno car to be seen.

We heard music coming from a lowbamboo hut, so we went in. It wasthe cafe of Ambrita. Chess was beingplayed at every table. Chickens wererunning around between the benches,and under a table lay one of thebristly, squealing black pigs that be­long to every Batak village. A boywas plucking melancholy Malay tuneson the two strings of a small woodeninstrument in the shape of a boat.

Then we went out to look for our car.passing on our way the church, theschool, and the health station. A groupof inquisitively staring children toldus that the garage was to be found atthe Kepalla-negeri's, the village chief's.And just then this dignitary came

towards us dressed in red, green, andyellow striped pajamas and greeted uswith many bows and a flood of un­intelligible words. Eleven men werebusy fitting a water-tank onto our car.The rest of the villagers, togetherwith a lot of men and children fromthe surrounding countryside, weresquatting on the steps and the galleryof the Kepalla-negeri'8 house.

"1 have received a radio today, thefirst radio in Samosir," announced thechief, beaming with pride. "Wouldn'tyou like to listen a little, till the caris fixed?" And then, as if speciallyfor us, the strains of a Viennese waltzdrifted across to us, drawing us like amagnet into the hot bungalow where alarge crowd of Bataks sat reverentlylistening. A Viennese waltz in akampong in which on market days thepeople stand in line for putti filet, itamleg, and minced merah-the three mostcommonly eaten kinds of dog! Putti,white, itam, black, and me?'ah, mouse­like, are the names they give to theirquadruped pets which all end up in thesaucepan and the frying-pan.

The sun was already setting blood­red behind the mountains when ourold-fashioned, heavily loaded car droveoff amid the cries of "Boms!" of thewhole village. Although there was nolonger a scrap of sunshine, our chauf-

... the strains of a Viennese waltz

THE HEART OF THE WORLD 267

feur was wearing a huge pair of bluesun-glasses. He looked very impressive,and we hoped that his driving wouldbe equally impressive, for the roadwas not without danger. It ran alonga slope dropping steeply into LakeToba, which shimmered like a rainbowsea in the colors of the setting sun.

He roared off like one possessed.We quickly fastened the doors withstring so that our equipment shouldnot be thrown out. At first we timidlycalled out "plan-plan! (slowly, slowly!)"But then our dark-skinned driver turnedhis head round to us every time andspat right past our noses. So we pre­ferred to say nothing. Crossing manylittle wooden bridges, we rattled roundone bend after another. Waterfallsthundered down the sides of the moun­tains. Palms swayed gently in thebreeze, and as soon as the sun haddisappeared into Lake Toba, night fell.The sawahs glistened mysteriously.The long ribbons stretched across therice fields looked like carni\ al streamers.They are there to scare off the birdsand are kept in motion by men inlittle straw huts that look like shoot­ing-stands.

We came to a stop in a high bamboothicket. We intended to pay a callanthe Batak Rajah that same evening.Armed with a flashlight and a stickwe started off. One would never havesuspected a village behind the ap­parently impenetrable bamboo. Theyare all like little fortresses, the villages,with their high walls of mud, stone, orbamboo. Barking dogs, squealing pigs,and cackling fowl greeted us with adeafening uproar. All the village in­habitants hurried toward us and staredat us and at the long, pointed beam ofthe flashlight that made everything lookghostly and romantic, just like in ahorror or adventure story.

The Rajah was not there. He hadgone to a tiny village where, for thefirst time in twenty years, a rice-sacri­fice festival was taking place. One ofthe village elders, however, kindlyinvited us to come into the village and

inspect his house. The people soonlost their shyness, and without muchceremony we were allowed to climb upthe perilous ladder that leads througha hole in the floor into all Toba-Batakhouses.

The houses are built on high piles.In this way the inhabitants suffer leastfrom the dampness, are best protectedagainst mosquitoes, and are alwaysassured of good ventilation. Snakesand other animals hesitate to climbup, and all garbage can very easily bedisposed of through the hole in thefloor. In some of the houses there area few extra holes for the really de­voted si1"ih chewers, who take goodaim before squirting the betel juicethrough them in a high arc.

... assurer! of good ventilation

The houses are works of art from theoutside. Not a single nail is used intheir ingenious construction. The roofsare made from the weathered blacksheaths of the sugar palm. Elephantheads, distorted images, sacred masks,and entwined ornaments decorate thegables, while the outer walls arecovered with colored friezes. Just asartistically decorated are the rice sheds,where the rice stores are kept in theloft, and whose open platforms areused for pounding rice. playing chess,and as a meeting place.

268 THE XXth CENTURY

However, as artistic and beautifulas the houses are from the outside, asdirty, dark, and primitive are theyinside. There are no windows, noskylights, no chimneys; only the holethrough which the ladder leads up.At first I could only recognize a knotof humans sitting on the floor aroundfour bubbling iron pots. Everyone waswaiting for the meal of rice that isthe favorite daily dish, the alpha andomega of every Indian menu. Smoky,cobweb-covered beams hung low overour heads. Only one little candle andthe fire from the stove lit up the house­hold. I counted thirty~five people, notreckoning babies and children or thedogs lying in all the corners. The headof the house brought us a new mat tosit on and, on a copper tray, some S'i1"ihfor a "welcome~chew." This was de­manded by the Batak laws of hospitality.

There is no seating or sleepingaccommodation in a Batak house. Atnight they lie down around the fireplaceand sleep on thin bamboo mats. In therafters golden yellow corncobs werehung up to dry next to old, handpaintedplates, carved wooden bowls, and hand­woven cloths. In one corner stoodseven shiny Chinese trunks in a rowwith a small round mirror, the toiletarticles of the Batak women and girls.Very early in the morning one can seethem standing at the rivers and brooks,washing themselves and combing theirhair. They need no lipstick, for theirmouths are blood-red from chewingsi'rih. The mouth shines like a woundover teeth that are filed off accordingto ada,t, the unwritten but deeply rootedcustom. Comb, toothbrush, mirror, soap,and oil-that is all they need. Butornaments are greatly prized. Theywear earrings the size of a hand andwide, heavy bracelets, all decorated withartistic figures of gods and animals.Their anklets, worn only at greatfestivals, are shiny and often coveredwith sparkling stones.

From a richly carved chest the magicwand of the village was brought out.The tassel attached to the demoniacalgrimace was made of human hair.

"That wand is carved from the magictree," says the voice of an old man."For seven years the tree stood in acorner of the kampong, securely pro­tected and fenced in. Then the datucut it down by moonlight and fashioned

... the voice of an old mao

and carved it with the aid of the spirits.And into the handle of the wand heput a piece of the skull of the adultererPendek."

Then he drew an ancient kris fromits sheath and held it over the flickeringfire. The blade shone like blood andgold, and we all sat spellbound. "Withthis we defended our village, with thisand the aid of our wise datu. Thingslooked bad, very bad for us. The enemyhad got as far as the bamboo groveand threatened to overwhelm us.Then the datu ordered us to throw allwe possessed in gold and silver piecesinto the bamboo grove. We did as hetold us. And behold, our foes plungedinto the bamboo thicket as if possessed!It was the lure of gold and silver.They were blind to all else. It was aneasy matter for us to overpower thosegold-crazed men, and we made themprisoners and ate them. Our villagewas free, and through the tondi of ourenemies we became stronger andmightier."

THE HEART OF THE WORLD

The eldest daughter of the housesmilingly brought some long stickswhich turned out to be yard-long love­letters written on bamboo. They werepreserved as valuable talismans of theclan. On that occasion they weresupposed to bring luck to the eldestdaughter, who had been married onlya week. She had been sold to herhusband in exchange for a carabao anda rice field. The bridegroom had paid,and received a reciprocal gift fromthe father-in-law. Divorces are rare,for only very few men can afford tobuy a wife more than once.

The candle had almost burnt outwhen we climbed down the ladder againand went over to one of the tall sugarpalms. The Kepalla-negeri had prom­ised us a dance. The seductive musicof the gamelan began. I t was joinedby the clear note of a gong and thedull thud of drums. The full moon

269

hung between the palms like a lantern.The open space on which, during theday, pigs and dogs dug in filth andgarbage, shone like a white carpet.

Men and women had thrown indigo­blue and red cloths round theirshoulders. With arms outstretched,their hands opened and closed in timewith the music. The rhythm of thegamelan became more furious, and themusicians uttered wild crieB. Theslender brown hands of the dancersshone like writhing snakes in the moon­light. The girls' wrists were so slimthat they seemed almost to breakunder the weight of the heavy bangleswhich had been brought out from theChinese trunks.

The music of the gamelan ceasedas suddenly as it had begun. Therewas nothing to be heard but the dis­tant murmur of Lake Toba and thesong from a fishing boat in the night.