Stories from Deli

By J.T. Cremer

Medan

Our Medan was once a vast wilderness,
A refuge only for tiger and elephant.
Then came the planters with money in their pockets,
Who cleared the forest and planted tobacco.
They built their houses, and—it wasn’t too refined—
Visited one another in Chinese-style tunics.
But now fashion here demands as much as anywhere,
Now it’s stiff collars and jackets from Sayle.
Ah, how time changes all! (repeat)

These clumsy verses were sung about seven years ago by the comedian of the Gezelligheid theatre troupe in Deli, celebrating the victorious spread of Javanese manners in what was once the simple, unpretentious Deli. But it was of no use—fashion cannot be stopped. Even jackets from Sayle have now been replaced by the even more dignified black wool frock coats from Java and white glacé gloves—triumphs of the civil service class.

Even in Java, just like in Deli, there was a fierce battle for pure, cool, bright white dress. But since the Batavian theatre irrevocably closed its doors to such attire, the warm and dignified—albeit often grubby—black has prevailed throughout the Indies. And with black clothing, many of Java’s stiff social customs have entered Medan, threatening its sociability.

No wonder, for Medan has become a place of refinement. It is now the capital of Deli and of the residency of the East Coast of Sumatra: the seat of the Resident, the commanding officer of the coastal troops, the legal president of the Landraad (district council), the minister, the representatives of the Deli Company, the Deli Railway Company, and the Netherlands Trading Society.

It is now home to numerous civil servants, officers, employees, and traders. It boasts its own newspaper and has become the commercial center of Upper Deli. Shortly after the Deli Company was founded in 1869, its administrator, Mr. J. Nienhuys, chose Medan as his residence because it was well located at the center of the company’s then holdings. It lay along the Deli River, suitable for transporting products to the anchorage about 22 kilometers downstream, and for receiving construction materials coming from the coast.

In earlier times, Medan had been a major stronghold of the local population, who likely defended themselves there against Acehnese incursions. Remnants from that period include a double ring wall, which extends across the river and encloses the peninsula formed by the confluence of the Baboera stream and the Deli River; also numerous burial mounds—some considered sacred and shaded by giant trees—and in the ground, a number of Acehnese gold coins, later brought to light by local farmers.

Across the river lay the Malay village of Medan, but where Mr. Nienhuys planted the foundations of his house, there was still wilderness stretching far inland. A short distance up and downstream were the modest villages of Kesawan and Glugur. Kesawan has since been absorbed by Medan.

Around the same time, the headquarters of the Rotterdam-based Arendsburg Company was established on the Voengal River, west of the Deli; the Deli Batavia Company set up about eight kilometers upstream from Medan along the Deli; and the future Amsterdam-Deli Company (then under Mr. Van der Sluijs) settled by the Baboera River. Across the region, another eight planters established their holdings.

Medan was then connected by a thirty-foot-wide road along the river to Laboean, the Sultan’s seat, and upstream to Deli Tua. Gradually, roads were also built eastward and westward to Serdang and Langkat. Despite the poor maintenance—due to lack of government oversight—especially during the rainy season, the town steadily attracted both civil and military administration.

The Sultan built a few palaces in the vicinity—eventually abandoned and succeeded by a third one. Numerous European, Malay, and especially Chinese shops sprang up, and now Medan is a town of several thousand inhabitants, the center of railway lines running to Laboean-Belawan (the anchorage), Deli Tua, Upper Langkat, and Serdang.

In eighteen years, the lonely settlement of a single planter has grown into one of the most important towns of the Dutch East Indies.

Let us take a look around. But we must do so in proper form, or else risk losing the respect of the public—especially from those who consider themselves the masters of ceremony in this small society. Many places in the Indies have such censors: trumpeters of public approval or disapproval. These are often bachelors, who came young to the Indies, sons of retired butchers or bookkeepers, completely versed in the rules of formality and staunch guardians of etiquette. Even if those customs differ completely from what is usual in Europe—no matter, here, that’s how it’s done.

Thus, newly arrived families must make the first social calls on the local residents. An appointment must be requested, and the visit must take place during the one designated hour for receiving guests: from 7 to 8 p.m. Ten visits mean ten evenings.

You are then received in the front gallery, painted white and flooded with the harsh light of numerous Belgian or German petroleum lamps, each burning as brightly as 30 candles. The more light, the more distinguished—and the hotter.

At every visit, the following rituals apply:

You enter, dressed in a black frock coat, gloved, hat in hand, and greet the host and hostess.
The host says:
“May I take your hat? Please, have a seat.”
Two minutes later:
“Won’t you take off your gloves?”
While you are gratefully doing so, comes the next question:
“Would you like something to drink—ice water or mineral water?”

The expected answer (contrary to custom elsewhere):
“Mineral water with ice, please.”

After this, you’re offered a glass of port, sherry, or Dutch bitters, usually twice. Meanwhile, the conversation remains on light topics—small talk, until suddenly:

BANG!
A terrible cannon shot from the fort in central Medan startles you in your chair. It’s a “courtesy” from the Indies artillery to shy young gentlemen, who, once seated, can’t escape. It serves no other purpose. But it’s prescribed in some official regulation and likely won’t be abolished—at least not until it causes more serious carriage accidents or collapses houses, or even maternity wards.

It’s considered impolite to linger too long when taking your leave. The host returns your hat, thanks you for your visit, escorts your wife to the carriage, and—tomorrow—you must go through it all again.

If you’re lucky, you might attend an evening reception hosted by one of Medan’s dignitaries. You’re welcomed by a sea of light—the front, central, and rear galleries are brightly illuminated. There is no dim corner, so suitable for friendly chat. You can forget about that.

The ladies, about twenty of them, are seated in a half-moon formation around a table, pressed closely together so that no gentleman dares try to slide a chair into their circle. Any newly arriving ladies immediately join the arc.

The young man from the company, already uncomfortable in his stiff collar, long black coat from Holland (which feels twice as long in this climate), and torn gloves, nervously greets the hostess—offering a circular bow to the half-moon. But he does not dare approach its center, and gratefully retreats to the men’s group in the front gallery, where he feels more at ease.

There, he still has to shake hands with the Resident, the commanding officer, the assistant-resident, his boss, and other “important uncles”, but is generously offered a cup of coffee, a liqueur, or a cigar. He joins his fellow young men and manages to pass the evening pleasantly.

New guests keep arriving. One or two local gentlemen might dare to speak with the ladies—some, especially those recently from Europe, find this pleasant; others, more used to the social rhythms of small towns in Java or Borneo, reply briefly and prefer to continue whispering with their female neighbors.

Then comes the host’s assistant—ideally the social ringleader—who knows everyone and asks if Madame would like to play a game: hombre or whist. He notes her response on a list and proceeds to assign people to tables.

There is:

• A serious men’s table (no ladies assigned),
• Tables with random young men (some of whom can’t play and also get no ladies),
• Club tables (groups who always play together and have coaxed the master of ceremony into seating them together),
• And finally, the leftover ladies, who are seated with a leftover gentleman.

The game begins. No cozy couples are found in dark corners—such corners don’t exist in Indies houses, all built in long, straight lines like public works buildings. Even the glorious moonlight fails to lure anyone to the garden. A flirtation under the moonlight—so beloved by their English sisters—is unheard of among our ladies in the Indies.

Meanwhile, a group of young men who aren’t playing (from various nationalities) gather at one table. They are generously supplied with cigars and drinks. The conversation flows quickly, and they enjoy themselves just as much as if they were at the club.

Around midnight, the final games are played, and the guests start heading home.

He who remembers the days when there were no playing cards in Deli households, when gatherings always offered plenty to talk about—even if the word “tobacco” was whispered with caution—must now watch with melancholy how the Javanese-style party, which has become both the aim and means of every social gathering, increasingly dominates and dulls Deli.

To the planters, the writer would call out: let your customs and manners prevail in the land you have built.
And to you, planter’s wives—still fresh from a warm European social setting—he offers this plea:
Set the tone for a refined but relaxed and pleasant society. Take the first step in drawing the many young men in your midst into your circles.

To the Indies government, he advises:
Appoint, in both lower and higher positions, only those civil servants in Deli who, with their families, can truly represent the dignity of European governance in a colony with hundreds of Europeans.
There are many excellent people in Deli and in Medan who can provide cheerful and welcome distraction from the stress of daily work—and it would be unfair to speak only of the shadows without mentioning the light.

In some homes, small gatherings are still lively and pleasant. The Gezelligheid club, now over ten years old, still lives up to its name. It uses the theatre hall of the Witte Sociëteit and aims to provide entertaining evenings for the Deli public, especially to lure those living far away from their solitude.

A variety of performances is always the goal. With everyone contributing their talents, there’s no need to fall into the monotony of amateur theatre night after night. Besides plays, there is music, minstrelsy, tintamarresque theatre, recitations, living puzzles, and in short, everything that eager and talented ex-visitors of café-chantants and other carnival amusements can remember and replicate.
Calico balls and living statues are not forgotten. Gezelligheid still flourishes with youthful vigor.

There is even a gymnastics club, quite useful for the young men of Medan who live a sedentary life.

But the most charming and characteristic pastimes remain the picnics.
As plantations stretch toward the mountains and the roads improve, these outings become increasingly delightful.

Just look at that procession of dogcarts and light American carriages, pulled by swift Batak or sturdy Australian horses, driven by a happy fellow dividing his attention between the potholes in the road and the chatter of the beauty beside him.

Here’s the first rest stop: fresh horses are harnessed, and in a hospitable assistant’s house—decorated tastefully with palm leaves—a morning drink is served.
Farther on, the road becomes steeper: a small river is forded or crossed by pontoon; the horses tire, and the sun begins to assert itself on the fair complexions of the ladies—though their arms are covered with muslin and their faces shaded by wide-brimmed hats.

There’s the hill where they are expected—over there, where flags wave and music plays.

Curious coolies, leaning on their tjangkols (hoes), gape at the ladies whom they’ve never seen in this remote part of the estate. The ladies, quick to disembark, overwhelm the nearby assistants with questions—who are clearly in their element.

Rivulets tumbling over rocks, mountains behind, plains in front, the distant sea, barns and coolie barracks, fields and forests, small plateaus and ravines—all capture attention.

Then Bataks from the vicinity arrive to greet the group, bringing durians—which smell like Limburger cheese but taste like the finest cream. They sit in a circle, the women simply dressed, their upper bodies bare to the waist. After some time, one man performs a war dance, while his companions crow like roosters.

The Klingalee (Tamil) coolies from the estate, who had heard rumors of the picnic, now arrive with music. One, dressed as a tiger, performs graceful, intricate dance moves; two others, with faces painted with ochre and eyes full of mischief or passion, are dressed as women. They mimic the feminine sex—its dances, gestures, flirty glances, and playful smiles—so well that a couple of unknowing young men begin flirting with them in earnest.

Meanwhile, lunch is prepared. The fresh mountain air has whetted appetites. Everyone helps serve, and soon the good food is enjoyed, alongside flowing wine, beer, and eloquence.

If there’s a photographer present, the whole colorful, cheerful group—Europeans and locals—is captured for posterity. Years later, their happy faces on the now-faded photo will remind them of a true Deli day.

We must, however, return to Medan.

Coming back into town via the main road from Laboean, you first cross the railway line to Timbang Langkat, and on your right, you see the bridge over the Deli River. Soon after, you arrive at the emigrant asylum, recently completed, followed by the Deli Company hospital, with doctors’ and supervisors’ residences nearby. This row of buildings looks pleasant, though the medical care in Deli deserves its own separate discussion—we’ll return to that later.

We now find ourselves entirely on the grounds of the Deli Company, and walking further, we reach the plot being prepared for the new residence of the chief administrator. Diagonally opposite live the veterinarians and the land surveyor. A bit farther to the right is the coconut palm-shaded avenue of the Company. This avenue runs through a neatly maintained park with English-style lawns and tropical trees and flowers, where you’ll find seven staff residences and the Company’s main office.

To the left of the main road, in line with this avenue, are four houses for the railway company’s administrator and staff, whose engineers have made some architectural modifications to the standard building style. Beyond these lie a hotel, a lodge, and an ever-growing number of private residences. This road intersects the railway’s main line and continues toward Serdang.

However, the main road takes you past several more houses and eventually reaches the station square, developed by the Deli Company and now open to the public. It’s a large grassy field, ringed with a walking path, promising to become a beautiful promenade. The grass is kept short and even by a sturdy mower drawn by oxen—a gift from a former Arendsburg administrator.

On the east side of the square stands the train station and its yard; opposite lies the modest troop encampment. To the north are a residence, the well-kept and prosperous Witte Sociëteit (club) with about a hundred members, and the post office. To the south stand the Deli Hotel and the Chinese quarter.

In the early evening, this Chinese kampong sends children and adults to the square, where they play and roll in the grass. This is also where the European evening stroll—the “slipper parade”—takes place. The large number of children playing here speaks to the fertility of the land.

A daily highlight is the arrival of the 6 o’clock train from Laboean, full of passengers, eagerly watched by onlookers.

Behind the station area are more railway staff houses, and farther still is the racetrack, well-constructed with a fine grandstand, where crowds from near and far gather a few times a year to watch races featuring horses from both sides of the Strait of Malacca.

Back on the main road, a path leads through the military camp, over the river, to the stone fort—situated between the Deli and Baboera rivers—solidly built for about 60 soldiers. In times of danger, it serves as the military stronghold, while the rest of the troops can be dispatched as needed. Nearby are the modest but tidy wooden homes of the colonel, the major, and several other officers.

Above the square, left of the main road on Company land, lies the Chinese kampong, laid out in a regular grid of wide streets. Here, the coolie of the enterprise finds everything he desires on holidays and rest days: shops with all kinds of treats, medicines and clothing from the Celestial Empire, opium (forbidden back home), pork, strong liquor, opportunities to gamble or pawn his belongings, and women to comfort him. All these pleasures—except for the women, oddly enough—are supplied under the watchful eye of the colonial administration. So far, no clever financier has yet turned the women into a government monopoly.

Some wealthy Chinese have homes on nicely planted plots, like the Chinese lieutenant, whose residence is pictured on page 59.

To the right of the road, on Sultan’s land, stretching to the river where the original Kesawan kampong lay, there is now a mishmash of Chinese, Bengali, Javanese, European, and Malay shops, drinking places, eateries, boarding houses, and bodegas. Narrow lanes and footpaths twist through and around this quarter, lined with homes for all these peoples. Houses spring up here with American speed, and a walk through this modern kampong offers aromas whose source is as difficult to guess as the number of people enjoying them.

This kampong leads into the Soeka Moehia Avenue, which runs from the main road to the river, past about ten government residences and onto the Resident’s estate. This estate, once the pleasure garden of a failed planter, was—unfortunately—purchased at high cost by the government about eight years ago to house the assistant-resident. Instead of placing his home in the lower part of town, where land was free and a continuous European district could have been formed, the estate was placed such that the Chinese kampong now splits the European quarter in two.

This Chinese neighborhood, enclosed by both European districts, can now only expand in one direction: eastward, inland. The assistant-resident was given a temporary house beautifully situated along a sharp bend in the river—but Medan was spoiled by this decision.

And alas, the Department of Public Works ruined even that scenic advantage—don’t talk to them about natural beauty! The old two-story house, with its magnificent front gallery offering views of the mountains and river on three sides, was demolished. The new residence, squat and low to the ground, turns its back on the river and hills, and its wide front gallery now faces ugly government offices and… the prison, built at the estate entrance, apparently to set the visitor in the proper mood.

Let us pass the prison—where beriberi prevails—and which gloomily watches over Soeka Moehia Avenue.

Farther along, across the main road and higher up, many more houses have been built, especially for civil servants—also a police post and a school. The Sultan is building his palace here, and his djaksa (legal aide or fixer) already lives there.

Now we have walked all of Medan.

But if we stroll a bit farther, reflecting on the town’s growth, we reach the European cemetery, where many names stir sorrowful memories. There lie those whose youthful lives brought joy to their small circles, who carried great promise; those who walked with steady resolve toward fortune and success—only to be shipwrecked in life, resurfacing in this “promised land” before sinking for good beneath waves of hardship.

Rest softly, you dead—and let us now see what is being done in Deli for the health of the living.

Eigen haard; geïllustreerd volkstijdschrift, 1889, no. 5, 01-01-1889