Vidya was almost the last student of the day to come into my room for her speaking test. She’s a bright girl of about eighteen with one of those smiles that makes you feel like she knows something that you ought to know. She wants to be a fashion designer and will go to study in Singapore when her English is good enough. “So where else would you like to visit, Vidya?” I asked, trying to sound interested; I was starting to weary of the same questions and answers.
“Not Thailand.” Was her immediate and defiant reply. I was mildly surprised, I had only ever heard good reports of the place and so I asked her why this should be so. “Too many ghosts.” She answered dimissively as somebody might dimiss Harlesden because there were too many blacks. This was entirely unexpected and put me on the back foot as an unnatural pause nosed its way between us.
“Really? Are there?” I managed.
“Oh yes, they’re everywhere.”
Obviously she had picked up the wrong word somewhere and meant ‘Chinese’ or something; the Indonesians have never had the greatest of relationships with the Chinese. I waved my arms and made Scooby Doo sound effects to clarify that she did indeed mean ghosts of the spectral kind.
“Yes,” she patiently acknowledged as if I were the student taking the speaking test. “All of my friends who’ve been there have seen them.”
“You believe in ghosts them?” I felt it my duty to ask.
“Of course,” she replied, her mouth a big ’O’ of astonishment and I felt ashamed of my question.
“Have you ever seen any ghosts?”
“No, but I have felt them.”
Her five minutes were already up but I couldn’t leave it at that and I asked her to explain. She had once been very sick and her mother went to the temple to get advice from the priest. As far as I can make out there was some kind of exorcism and she felt much better. I wanted more details but people were going to start wondering what I was doing in here with her, I also had a listening test to get through. I dismissed her and made a mental note to make the paranormal a subject for a future lesson. And then I gave her an extra mark for entertainment.
Many people like to throw themselves out of aeroplanes or off bridges for an adrenalin rush, others strap flat strips of wood to their feet and hurtle down mountains for a kick. There are many extreme sports with which to get your blood pumping and I’ve tried a few of them but none really narrow the line between life and that tenth level (or at least a hefty hospital bill) as taking a ride in a becak. These are the motorcycle sidecar combinations that are by far the most popular form of public transport in this city.
Once brightly painted and now invariably faded and peeling, these accidents on wheels careen around Medan in frightening profusion. They probably reached their peak of safety back in the seventies and have since fallen into a state which can only be described as desperate. The drivers of these contraptions, into whose hands you faithfully place your mortal coil have only one aim in mind and that is to bring you as close to death as they possibly can. And then further down the list they have an obligation to get you to your destination as quickly and frighteningly as their ageing death traps will allow. I love them.
For a mere few pence you can step into one of these deadly dust wagons of death and be flung through the heavily traffic strewn city at breakneck speeds towards your destination or Maker. Road lanes here were abolished along with vehicle maintenance and personal safety, and the becak weaves its way like a clockwork rat amongst the rabid herd of traffic; between the rusted old buses, darting in front of the 4x4s, swerving around the pot-holes, over the train-tracks (flashing red-lights and barriers are a challenge to be taken) and swishing through the puddles. I have sat in many a becak which has come hairing around a corner into the path of six “lanes” of oncoming traffic; the driver does not flinch, not even when you’re fighting him for the handlebars and brakes. He ploughs straight ahead and parts the flow in a manner be-fitting Moses; the horn-blares are more admiring than critical or angry.
Every ride in a becak has its own particularly death-defying moment and when I first arrived I was hooked on the thrill. It was a white-knuckle ride with death or maiming as a genuine possibility, I even began to take rides with no particular destination. I would explain to my fellow housemates, who do not have the same enthusiasm for this extreme sport as myself, that I was exploring the city, but my real reason was just that I really liked it.
Sadly the thrill began to fade and become commonplace after a few weeks and several emptied oil-fields; like anything else, if you do it enough it becomes ordinary, the obvious exceptions being drink, sex and “Shaun of the Dead”. And so, desperate to get my fix of adrenalin twice-a-day, to and from work, I have come up with a new way of putting the spark back into my day. I have purchased a moped.
