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(Photo courtesy: HOTLI SIMANJUNTAK/ AFP)
A journey through North Aceh where crab and asparagus soup is as commonplace as machine gun.
Aceh—the word alone fires the imagination. Its history of wars, a tsunami that killed more than 150,000, Islamic law and multi-cultural roots from which blue-eyed, dark skinned beauties have sprung forth make for an extraordinary social mix.
Add to that lot the many years the province was closed to outsiders—as a sort of Indonesian Forbidden City— and the opportunity to visit the region becomes irresistible.
This writer recently had the opportunity and grabbed it with both hands—the only problem was I had not heard about the latest flare up of the Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (GAM) or Free Aceh Movement—machine guns included. I was unwittingly heading into GAM heartland, Lhokseumawe, in North Aceh, about half-way between Medan and Banda Aceh; I also knew nothing about the dodol.
Dodol is a sweet made from jackfruit and is common throughout Indonesia— the Acehnese variety has an unexpected kick from the addition of a special herb not used in the rest of the country. As a Special Region, Aceh has its own laws that reflect its culture and includes a ban on alcohol; however, other products banned in the rest of the country are acceptable here.
| "As teachers all we can do is give our students space to grieve when they must." |
As for the GAM, despite a laying down of arms under the Helsinki Memorandum of Understanding in 2005, tensions are still high. The first night of my stay in the region was heralded by a machine gun attack on a political candidate’s office, just down the road. No one was injured in the attack, but people on the street warned that with the upcoming national elections, emotions will be strained and random violence will escalate.
During the six-hour drive from Medan, our driver, who plies the route to Lhokseumawe regularly, filled us in on the dangers we would face in North Aceh. He didn’t think it necessary to mention that travelling on the roads here is a near death experience; we were sandwiched between a bus and a truck and traveling at a high speed— time literally stopped as our car slipped between the two Goliaths with just a few centimetres between us and the grave.
“We have to get to Lhokseumawe before dark. The roads are way too dangerous at night. Kidnappings might start again. Last week a car in another city was blown up with a grenade,” the driver informed us.
When asked if it was safe to visit small villages, he shook his head and said: “I hope so.”
Residents of these small villages in the former separatist heartland aren’t shy about expressing disappointment in the current system and, given the history of machine gun diplomacy, say that the region grows more dangerous daily. These same villagers are also unfailingly friendly and welcoming.
It was a sort of back-handed comfort when a respected villager, possibly with former GAM associations, pointed out that I was perfectly safe, “because GAM knows you are here and is happy about it”.
This got me thinking about being born in the province. To say it has been a tough ride for the Acehenese is an understatement of massive proportions: For more than three decades the fiercely independent Acehenese fought Dutch colonialism in the 1900s; post 1945 they were on a collision course with Indonesia’s central government.
Fighting for an equitable share of the region’s priceless natural resources and, for some, the formation of a sovereign nation separate from the unitary state of Indonesia erupted in 1976.
During those long and heart breaking years many thousands disappeared, their fates still unknown. “That’s the bridge where the bodies were dumped. Victims from both sides in the conflict,” our driver said two hours outside of Lhokseumawe.
One young teacher, who was a daily witness to the conflict and sorry fate of her pupils, bares her compassion like an open wound. “After the tsunami I was working in West Aceh. I was a new teacher - it was 2005. One day I dropped my pen and the students fled; the sound of a pen dropping was enough to terrify them.
Here in Lhokseumawe I had one boy whose father disappeared during the conflict. He still does not know if his dad is alive or dead,” the teacher, who requested anonymity, said.
Her words echo the abyss of horror suffered by locals and the impossibility of it easing, except with time and tenderness. “As teachers all we can do is give our students space to grieve when they must.”
Like the people of so many other war-torn regions around the world, the people of Lhokseumawe make the best of what they have. Land-mine ridden Mozambique in Africa is famous for its joyous music that blasts from drums and speakers, thumbing its nose at death and disfigurement. Lhokseumawe celebrates life with food—meals in this most dangerous province are well worth risking life and limb to discover.
Come evening the streets of Lhokseumawe bustle with stoves, tables and plastic chairs set up as makeshift restaurants for the night’s feasting. This is street food that would knock many a French chef off his pedestal. We settled on Kota Intan on Jalan Sukaramai, which locals say is one of the best warung (stall) in the small city.
For starters we had the crab and asparagus soup—the crab was so fresh you could break a tooth on fragments of its carapace, delightful evidence that this as crab from the sea, not from a can. Next up was calamari with batter as light and crisp as a wafer. The deep-fried gourami fish shone like gold, its white flesh as moist as a kiss.
To get the oil to a temperature that transmutes this base batter into gold, the street-chef rolled the gas bottle with his foot to bump up the gas-pressure to an almost explosive level.
The oil flashed into life as the battered fish was submerged into this cauldron of burning oil—an exciting and terrifying vision of a master chef at work.
Fresh from the jungle is the main course of Mongolian venison or rusa. At US$3.50 for a meal like no other; the venison slices are as soft as butter and flash jungle scents across the palate as the slight gamey flavors mix with capsicum and greens.
In most countries a meal of venison will set you back a month’s wages, but here in Lhokseumawe its common fare.
A dining companion, at first loathe to nibble on Bambi, is wonder struck at the taste and tosses up the idea of quitting Jakarta and going bush in North Aceh so she can hunt down an inexhaustible supply of the delicacy.
Around the corner, another street chef was cooking up Roti Canai (flatbread) with curry. The Roti Canai here is as good as in Padang on Sumatra’s southwest coast—well known as the best in the country.
Despite elections, GAM and machine gun diplomacy, life goes on here in Aceh, celebrated daily over a fine meal with friends. (By TRISHA SERTORI/ The Jakarta Post/ AsiaNews)
source http://www.mysinchew.com/node/21246?tid=14
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