April 7, 2024
With nothing in the larder, it’s time to hunt down some local markets or supermarkets, which from my cursory investigation on Google maps could be a challenge. Just as much as the enormous, western-style supermarkets are a benchmark of the retail food environment in southern Africa, even in a large urban space such as Medan, it seems as if there are no supermarkets of any sort here, other than the Indomaret chain, which is more of a convenience store than a food retailer.
I expect Jalan Wahid Hasyim to offer more of the upscale eateries along the lines of the establishments I saw around the luxury residence I am staying at yesterday evening, but further north, toward the market I would like to explore is a different matter. Given that I haven’t eaten yet, the small adjacent Padang eatery – they are almost always modest – beckons, the spicy stewed string beans and coconut fish curry exquisite, never mind very inexpensive.
Coffee shops are a big thing in Indonesia nowadays, and Medan is not an exception, a spacious, glass-encased me & Wahid coffee shop occupying one side of the tower I am staying in, then a short walk past Porto and the Bolu Toba snack place I visited yesterday evening is Habitat, a sunny modern enclave with large, wood-mullioned windows, each portion of the cavernous interior dedicated to a different culinary venture, a small sweet bakery in one section, then in the open-air portion, a combination quick eatery and coffee shop. The cinammon bun is unreasonably expensive – for Indonesia, anyway – and not very good, but the coffee is predictably quite good, in the same vein as most of the coffee found here, very strong and intense, with bright floral notes. In the end it’s important to support these small businesses that lend character to the urban environment.
The graciousness of the streetside eateries and residences quickly metamorphoses into far more prosaic, run-down and at most functional retail establishments, the road littered with motorcycles, trishaws, bicycles, with denizens of a much less economically enfranchised demographic. In one establishment, crowds gather to load all manner of rice meal snacks on their trays, some savory, some sweet, some with coconut, some wrapped in strips of banana leaf or other leaf casings, an employee packaging the selection, and the presumable owner ringing in the prices for a customer’s selections. Food is never lacking in this part of the world, at least not in the urban environments, although in small town environments in Indonesia, the food offering can be substantially inferior to what you find here. Here there is money, while in the small towns, there isn’t, and it could also be that ethnic Indonesians don’t have the same culture of going out as the Chinese do.
The market is a far cry from the immediate area of the apartment building I am staying in, the structure and environment utterly decrepit, strewn with mounds of garbage, surrounded by mostly ragged trishaws and improvised bicycle- and motorcyle-based vehicles that have seen far better days. What seems to be the core retail area is on a raised platform accessible by climbing any one of a number of staircases littered with garbage and general filth, although the guts of the market are not quite as reprehensible. Much of what is available here is produce, although nowhere can I find bottled water or juice, which of course I shouldn’t be buying in the first place, but unfortunately rehydration is a big challenge for me here, especially with the amount of the amazing Indonesian coffee I find myself drinking. A bag of perfectly ripe Ataulfo mangoes, a huge pineapple, passion fruit, avocadoes, Roma tomatoes, garlic, some torch ginger … what more could you want!
Straggling back in the direction of my residence, the streetscape looks barren and uninviting. A stop in one of the few establishments that serve cold drinks amid catcalls from emaciated touts, demanding that I buy them drinks as well, then along the ramshackle but colorful bungalows in the side streets overgrown with leafy vegetation, the untended quality of the lots to the advantage of the overall ambience.
I am utterly exhausted, hardly surprising, given the amount I have been walking outside in the heat, never mind having started the day very early and with no food in me, which is always an issue. The one thing I could never countenance is fasting – I can barely survive a few hours without eating! I drag myself from my horizontal position, then realize I should do some research as to what attractions exist here. However little time remains for my edification, I could always come back to Medan prior to continuing to Penang in Malaysia.
It seems quite incredible that I will be visiting Malaysia in the near future, but despite the length of this trip, it will be full of amazing attractions. The idea of going anywhere here is the consummate opposite of traveling in urban areas in Europe, with its awkward, uninviting spaces and endlessly complicated and expensive transit systems. Here, you hop on an ojek, the motorcycles ideal for weaving through traffic, and spend next to nothing for the pleasure.
What would seem to be the main artery bisecting the city along a north-south axis doesn’t have that much girth, although it also seems to be crowded by monstrous towers completely out of synch with the space available to them or the general environment. I could comment on how this level of density would seem inappropriate for a city such as Medan, but then Medan is the third-largest city in Indonesia, which means that a lot of people will be concentrated here. What I question is the purpose of these enormous towers – do they simply represents investment vehicles that sit empty? Condo towers, banks, enormous luxury hotels, the Bank of Indonesia’s headquarters, and nestled in the courtyard of the gargantuan structure, a much smaller, colonial era building with a clock tower.
As heavily trafficked and uninviting as the main road may be, the side roads reveal a different, although still incongruous, world. One road runs into a sort of gated townhouse environment, a continuous series of two, three level structures with at most parking spaces, some demonstrative of some degree of well-being, the bulk however quite weatherworn, although the area is quite private, separated on one side by an enormous colonial or neo-colonial mansion in a sprawling garden, and on the other side, one of the creeks that meanders lazily through Medan. What lends the area charm is the remaining hardwood trees, with their lustrous green canopies and wild flowers oozing out of random corners.
On the lower side of the Bank of Indonesia, a side road leading toward the creek runs past densely situated structures, the street heavily shaded by enormous trees, a colonial-era bridge – or copy of such a bridge – leading across the creek to the kind of gaudy roadside decorative statues that feature large in the Indonesian urban landscape. A few steps further, the Lions Club park with genteel facilities and an area for lawn bowling, unusual, considering that green spaces are not abundant in Indonesian urban environments. I wonder how unsafe locals consider such an environment, particularly at night?
Along a side road to the south, the world changes dramatically, the roads narrow, buildings with sheer, moldering surfaces and little character, but alternating with the classic shophouse architecture you see in the historic Chinese cities in Malaysia. Characteristics of this style of building include minimal or no frontage, a mix of concrete and wood, and tall shutters. In the weed-overgrown courtyard of the ruins of one sprawling colonial structure, presumably a commercial warehouse from the Dutch era in the process of being restored, a group of young locals poses for photos, which presents to myself its own unique photographic opportunities. A spacious coffeehouse lies a few doors down, its interior evoking historic coffeehouses in Malaysian towns, cavernous, open-fronted, dark, with heavy wooden furnishings and a very old school feeling to them, evoking a deep sense of romance from a bygone era.
A passage leads through a now shuttered market area, closed presumably due to the late hour of the afternoon, as are many of the businesses, but then again, it is Sunday, and given that the area would have been historically Chinese, they may have also kept businesses shuttered or with shorter hours on Sundays. I am now in the depths of Medan’s historic quarter, the passages on the south side of the Pasar Hindu with its columns of identical, ramshackle stands weaving in serpentines through the remains of a prelapsarian settlement, small, stone houses, brightly painted, with tiny or non-existent yards, some with crafted embellishments, shallow corrugated awnings, evenly-spaced wooden shutters, decorative trim suspended from the eaves, the cramped space beholden to large, blooming frangipanis, lending the modest settlement an otherworldly charm. A densely packed graveyard next to the mosque, with more frangipanis, the muezzin’s intoxicating voice wailing through the empty passages of this village-like environment.
Back onto the main road, a different world reveals itself from the roadside environment in the area of the Bank of Indonesia, much lower profile, without the enormous towers, small traditional shophouses, and the now retro coffee shops and restaurants that constitute the core of Medan’s historic quarter. Even though most shops are closed, the evocative character and commercial history that hearkens to a different era is palpable. With the onset of darkness, the camera gets packed away, although I can come back here tomorrow. It will be my last day in Medan tomorrow, and yet there is also a possibility of coming back to town for a few days at the end of my stay in Sumatra, prior to continuing to Malaysia.
Further to the south, past the Catholic church and its lively Sunday evening revelry, the area quietens out, bereft of eating establishments, cafes, and the like; one of the last artifacts of the historic centre is the Miramar seafood restaurant, evocative of the Pernakan culture in Malaysia, although the manner in which cultures blend in Indonesia will have taken a different form, and probably also varies by region. The Miramar is almost entirely full of largely older Chinese-Indonesians seated demurely amidst colorful trappings, the unassuming clientele attended to by uniformed ethnic Indonesians, impeccably polite and accommodating. The food is far less expensive than I would have expected, although admittedly also not particularly memorable, the shrimp not particularly fresh, the side of cod dried, the thick sauces rich in garlic and chili, but not much else, a far cry from the flavorful food you find for example in the Padang cuisine.
I need to wade across the busy boulevard to reach the Gojek driver’s motorcycle, and possibly due to that inconvenience, he insists that I don’t pay him when we reach my apartment complex. I won’t pay you 12,000 IDR for the ride (90 cents Canadian)? Seriously? I give him 14,000, he returns the money, repeatedly but laughingly, but there is no way I will leave him without paying.
Despite the visible level of comfort you see among the largely Chinese-Indonesian population in the large urban environment, you see on the fringes and in the shadows the impoverished ethnic Indonesians who are barely surviving. Ojek drivers are on the lowest rung of survival, and should not be short-changed.