Stories from Deli

(Written for the Batavia Newspaper 17-06-1893) I.

SCHETSEN UIT DELI. Bataviaasch nieuwsblad 17-06-1893

One may have traveled extensively and may even be rightfully honored with the title of “globetrotter,” but until one has visited the East Coast of Sumatra, even if only for a relatively short time, one cannot claim to have seen everything noteworthy in the world. Who would have guessed that, after the “sugar lords,” a new nobility would arise within the bounds of our East Indies, a nobility that bestowed upon one of its members the grand title of “tobacco king”? And yet, this has indeed occurred; what seemed unattainable has been achieved on the East Coast of Sumatra, and it is for this reason that no other coast can lay a stronger claim on the interest of anyone who takes pleasure in observing the renewed prosperity of our colonies.

As we attempt with our pen to capture what once delighted our eyes, we can only express regret that our stay on the East Coast could not last at least six months longer. For there is so much to see, so much that remains utterly worth seeing even after all the fascinating sights that have been unveiled to us over the past century. The European as well as the local society there differ so markedly from those elsewhere in the East that one, no matter how seasoned, must keep eyes and ears wide open to avoid losing one’s bearings and feeling as though in a land of fantasy.

The boat on which we stand at the bow approaches the coast. Initially appearing as dark lines at the end of the waters, the coast gradually becomes clearer, taking shape, color, and depth; soon it presents itself in the fullness of its impressive beauty. Interrupted only by the mouths of rivers and creeks, a vast forest of overwhelmingly dark green-leaved trees extends along and over the entire expansive coastline.

In the background of the landscape, an equally grand spectacle captivates us. Shrouded in a gray veil, a kind of giant mountain range rises high as if to touch the sky. Sloping quickly toward the east, it disappears there entirely, while toward the west, albeit lower, it merges with another lower ridge running perpendicular to the first. The Si Bajak and its companions have left a deep impression on us as it, amply supplied with rain, stands ready to bestow the necessary moisture upon the land at its feet.

Now we clearly see that Deli is a strip of land between the sea and the Batak Mountains, bordered to the west by a low mountain ridge and open to the east, separated from neighboring lands only by forests, rivers, and swamps. Lost in contemplation, we find that the boat has arrived, and soon we are seated in a carriage of the Deli Railway Company, which rattles deafeningly as it moves, just like its fellow wagons. We pay little attention to that; we don’t wish to talk—we wish to see and see again, for are we really in Deli?

In this remote corner of the archipelago, one finds such an impressive work—a privately built railway! A vast, lengthy iron bridge, arch after arch, successfully spans the Deli River’s mouth, as wide as a sea, connecting what is called Deli’s “firm” shore (though it is not very “firm”) with the small island of Belawan, the railway’s terminus and the boats’ landing place.

(*) The title was bestowed upon Mr. Keuchenius in a session of the 2nd Chamber and graciously accepted by Mr. Cremer as an elevation to high nobility.

It’s a pity to leave behind the beautiful sight over the river bordered by forests, where a lone fishing boat drifts lazily and a bird skims over the water as if in rivalry with the fisherman. One might almost ask the conductor to slow down a bit, to gaze alternately to the left and right across the vast expanse of water, observing how the Deli River concludes its journey, entrusting its waters to Father Neptune. But the train continues, and new marvels await: the bridge has ended, but when do we finally reach something that one could call “land”? Only the railway line is solid; on either side, there is first forest in water, then forest in mud—where does firm land, actually firm, begin? Not until the train stops, and when it does, we are in Laboean-Deli.

The stay here is brief. In former days, this was the landing place, though “harbor” was hardly the right word. After the boat anchored near the guard ship, one transferred into a sampan and rowed up the Deli River, surrounded by dense forests with an occasional sighting of a resting crocodile, playful monkeys, or the sharp call of the long-winged hawk echoing above the trees, until the sampan docked at a jetty, and passengers arrived at the station, delighted after passing a couple of European establishments and a very dirty Chinese district.

From here, one continued along the same line we now prepare to follow to Medan. Sitting in the station here at Laboean-Deli, one came—and still comes—to Medan. The arrival point then and now is the same. Upon stepping outside the station, one immediately sees the beautiful, spacious grassy field with rows of trees, known in imitation of the playing field in Singapore as the “esplanade.” Nowadays, the young trees of that time have grown into sturdy, flowering trees, and while the camp side remains mostly the same except for a few added buildings, the other three sides have changed considerably.

The station, located opposite the camp, has been expanded and beautified. The side of the Medan Hotel, known to locals as the “old eatery,” has been upgraded, especially by the so-called Riegler Store, and the fourth dimension of this gem of Medan now boasts a continually growing post and telegraph office along with a series of charming villas.

This beautiful esplanade cannot fail to make a good impression on visitors to the main city of Sumatra’s East Coast. Additionally, the origins of Laboean’s name (“harbor place”) are here explained by the esplanade, while the explanation of Medan’s name (“plain”) is evident from the view of the esplanade.

Besides the mentioned restaurant there are two more for Europeans, the “new” or Deli hotel, located close to the railway in a pinanglaan, rather hidden, and the Oranje-hotel, which is mostly visited by Dutch people, because it is managed by a Dutchman. This is not so close to the station. To get there, we walk past the “old” hotel and take the 2nd road on the left. That way we find ourselves at the market or the Chinese camp. It’s lively here! A constant stream of carriages flows back and forth; dense crowds of people conducting business block the wide road, flanked by stores and more stores.

Left and right shops and more shops, and in front of those shops, in their front galleries, merchants with portable shops, sellers of everything a native heart could desire. Then that gradually becomes less, the houses are first workshops of wheelwrights, of carpenters, blacksmiths, shoemakers then a few houses of prominent Chinese and European shops, and then the tranquility of European quarters in the Indies, because only now are we at houses where “whites” live.

Soon we see on the right, side by side, a sign with the words “Orange Hotel.” It is here, then, that the brave entrepreneur has opened his rooms to the public, who gave such a beautiful patriotic name to his establishment. Passing through the market we were not at all unaware of the hustle and bustle and entertainment in the numerous streets with their side streets, leading to the market on either side.

Walking through the market, it was immediately apparent to us how much hustle and activity filled the many streets and side streets branching off from the pasar on both sides. At the end of one of these streets, we saw large monsters painted on a wall; upon inquiry, we learned that this was a Chinese temple hidden behind a “mass of walls,” and the street leading there is fittingly called “Teipehkong Street.” From the size of this temple, we concluded in our minds the large number of Chinese inhabitants residing here.

In the Oranje Hotel we learned that there are 3 credit institutions in Medan: Hollandsche Bank (sub.-agency N. H. M.), an English bank (a branch of one based in Penang), and the Savings Bank, recently founded for both Europeans and locals. Only one tobacco company has its offices there: the Deli Maatschappij. Those of the other numerous companies are established at one of their enterprises. There are still three large institutions here, which are known as Planteravereeniging, Immigrantenbureau and Immigranton-asyl. The first aims at the union of the planters, because power is obtained through unity; the second, for the benefit of the planters, takes the work out of the hands of the all too much-violating Straits coolies; the third assures the overseas worker a loving home, if he cannot earn a living because of an incurable disease.

We pass the military camp, where a wide, tree-lined avenue leads through officers’ quarters on the left and soldiers’ accommodations on the right, toward the commandant’s house, located by a long bridge across the river. Continuing onward, we see the “benteng” (fort), and near the Petissah village, we come across another impressive iron suspension bridge. We don’t skip the lodge building or the racecourse. Although the lodge is small (unsurprising, given the relatively small European population), the racecourse seems quite large to us. This is Deli’s festival ground; during the racing season, it’s bustling with energy, and festivities extend into the hotels with balls and gatherings, with partygoers striving to prolong the pleasantly spent day as long as possible, untroubled by the need for a night’s rest. Horse races take place in both the spring and autumn, offering much-needed relaxation for the tired assistants (garden overseers) and giving higher-ranking individuals a welcome chance to compete with one another through their quality racing horses.

The races are not the least appreciated by the European ladies on the coast, who often find life a bit too quiet. There are many shops and various kinds, but mentioning all would be unnecessary. Let’s focus on the two oldest ones—the ones likely to last as long as Deli itself remains—the shop of Huttenbach and that of Kehding. Both are owned by Germans; Dutch shops try to establish themselves but tend to fade quickly. Why?

We turn down an avenue between European residences, gardens, and flowers, leading to a white building with a large gate. This building is the prison! We come upon a square, surrounded by homes and offices. We are in the administrative section of town. In the middle of a park stands a beautiful mansion, the residence of the governor. Everything is close by: the cemetery and the Sultan’s palace of Medan, though we skip them on this visit as we are headed to Bindjei, which we reach after a forty-five-minute train ride from Medan.

Crossing a long, newly built bridge over a river flowing below, we enter this Dutch-clean little town, the capital of Upper Langkat. We find ourselves in the Chinese quarter and come upon the temple of the Sons of Heaven. Passing through the Chinese quarter, we gradually enter the European district, where blooming hedges bordering the roads delight the eye and create a festive mood. While not as extensive as Medan, this town also has lively native neighborhoods on the side of the main road. Our exploration ends at the military camp and the residence of the local controller, who has succeeded the Pope of Langkat, who was transferred to Atjeh III. Grateful for the enjoyable experience, we reluctantly leave this charming town to return to Medan.

Now, we dare to visit the cemetery, less fearful of being overwhelmed by somber thoughts. The various grave monuments bear witness to the love shown by those left behind for the departed. The cemetery is young, the gate on the roadside still new; yet there are already many graves!

Passing by the Sultan’s palace on our way back to the hotel, we note its colossal size. Built in a pseudo-Moorish style, painted in delicate colors, and surrounded by a lovely garden, the palace is separated from the road by an ornate fence. A large grassy field and the railway line in the background allow its ruler an uninterrupted view in all directions. This grand residence, with its spacious court of honor, makes an unmistakable impression of true regal grandeur. Such a residence is befitting for a despot, especially one so appropriately endowed with the dignity of “by the grace of God.”

One of his ancestors, a “pure-blooded” king, once boarded a ship bound for the East Indies. Near Tandjoeng Perling, a cape on the coast of Deli, the ship was wrecked; the castaways gathered on the shore. Rations of rice were cooked and served, each person greedily grabbing their share, handed to them on banana leaves. Only one of them refused until he was served in a golden dish. He then ate, and this display of honor earned him the respect of the others, who hailed him as their lord and master. Soon, he ruled as a revered prince over the land of Deli.