We all wear our masks.
Guided by Storm and Tranquility: My Journey Across Sumatra
In 2008, I found myself traveling the length of Sumatra’s spine—ten days across a land I did not plan to enter, guided by two men I had never met before that journey began.
They were introduced to me by my late friend, Sham—may he rest in peace—and their names still ring like poetry in my ears:
Ribut, meaning storm.
Selamat, meaning safe or tranquil.
What more fitting names could the universe have sent to guide me?
They were my bodyguards, guides, brothers-in-flesh for that winding road across the backbone of Sumatra, and I trusted them completely. Without question, I surrendered all my cash into their hands. No contracts, no plans—only faith. And in return, they offered me a journey no tour could have designed.
We began in Medan, where the pulse of the city faded as we drove deeper into the living green heart of the island. Mountains, villages, stories—each day unfolded like a chapter in a forgotten scripture.
One night, we stayed at Ribut’s house. I still remember it.
A narrow lane barely wide enough for a handshake.
Bright-colored houses staring at each other across a two-yard corridor.
The intimacy of the place, the laughter of children, the scent of food in evening air.
It felt like stepping into the heartbeat of a neighborhood, like entering a painting still warm with life.
I wasn’t a tourist. I wasn’t a foreigner.
I was simply... received.
In that journey—half dream, half dharma—I arrived in Bonjol, the birthplace of Imam Bonjol, the mystic warrior whose name struck a chord so deep I’ve been vibrating with it ever since.
I hadn't planned it.
But maybe he had.
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