Arriving
to a new city is strenuous business, not least so in the wee hours
after an overnight bus ride, and not least because of the pushy and
persistent taxi and moto-riksha drivers that swarm you like
mosquitoes as soon as you step out of the convey. That I managed to
get hold of my smartphone in Thailand, and that it's possible to
download maps to the device, has helped a little (where tourists are
involved, the taxi drivers' business is largely based on the fact
that the newcomers don't know where they are or how far it is they're
going to), but in Medan it happened that the road we had to walk
along was dotted with riksha stands, so no matter how far from the
bus station we came, there was no escape from the “Hellooomisteeer!
Where you go?” howls; and as we were already severely struggling
with fatigue – and carrying all our belongings – we chose to do
business with the least aggressive of the drivers we met (and
actually, expecting another lenghty haggling about the price, we were
quite surprised that his first offer was slightly less than
what we had been told the price should be – we must've been
misinformed).
At
the guest house, there was a slight unclarity about when we would be
able to check in to our room, so we unmounted our backpacks on the
porch and sat down to wait. Not a minute passed until an aquarium of
the size of a suitcase, filled with buns, donuts and pastries of all
kinds, appeared in front of us, as if floating by above the fence of
the yard. As it reached the open gate, it turned out to be the top
shelf of a vitrine, mounted on the sidewagon of a bicycle, the pastry
boy pedaling away, ringing his bell. I instantly rushed after him,
but apparently chose the wrong words (“excuse me!”) to gain his
attention, as he just kept on going and it took a few attentive
passers-by to make him notice the eager customer. I ordered
- two buns with some sweet pistacchio-green filling (wasn't made of pistacchios, though)
and
was offered
- a croissant-shaped bun.
The
price he told me was five hundred, so I handed him a thousand rupee
note, but he rejected it, looking perplexed, and repeatedly waiving
five fingers in the air in front of me. What followed was a moment of
mutual confusion, the bystanders providing little help in waiving the
same five fingers. The lady from our guest house was quickly called
in (as she was known to speak some English), but just before she made
it there, I realized the what the problem was: a mix-up between
hundreds and thousands. I handed the pastry boy a 5000 rupee note,
and he smiled, acceptingly. I could not help myself to clarify to
him, painstakingly, the difference between a 'hundred' and a
'thousand'. Whether it was a lesson learned, I have no idea. Of
course I could have, and should have, done the maths myself, too: 500
rupees is about 0,03 Euro, which hardly is enough for three buns,
even in Indonesia...
With
the tasty buns, we had leftovers from our bus ride snacks:
- Minute Maid juice
- chocolate cookies
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