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To visit Sumatra, the second largest of the Indonesian islands, was an impulsive decision driven by the promise of seeing wild orang utans in their natural habitat of tropical rainforest. It was with little preparation, apart from a last minute purchase of a lonely planet guide in Penang, our point of departure and with nervous excitement fuelled by intrepidation of travelling into the unknown and amidst warnings from the locals in Penang that we should be careful with current unrest in Aceh. Like its fellow Indonesian State East Timor, Banda Aceh in the north of Sumatra, is a province fighting for independence from the Indonesian government. Shootings and violence has taken its toll on the tourist industry with the number of visitors rapidly declining throughout the whole of the island. The fact that every visitor is handed a booklet on arrival reassuring them of the safety of the island only goes to highlight further the plight of the declining tourist industry in a country so dependent on visitors for its economy. We passed through customs quickly and were herded onto a bus to Medan, Sumatra\'s capital. The short journey led us to a sprawling city of apparent chaos. It was a far cry from the image I had conjured in my mind of luscious rainforest and ox driven ploughs working the countryside. My immediate reaction was to leave Medan and quickly. A man on the seat in front of me seemed to read my mind and within seconds was offering my friend Jayne and I a ride to the main bus station for a mere ten thousand rupiah, under one British pound. As the rest of the passengers made their way off the bus we swiftly handed the man a note and remained in our seats. After a while of sitting and with constant hand motions from the driver beckoning us off the bus it became apparent that this vehicle was going nowhere. After hurriedly retrieving my money from the man who also seemed to be in a hurry I realised I would have to keep my wits about me. A western face is easy prey for the con man. Eddie, Collin and Jayne at the market Another man escorted us to a small roadside caf? instructing us to wait for the bus that would take us to our first destination, home of the orang utans Bukit Lawang. I was suspicious of this second man after my experience a few minutes earlier and declined to give him any money until I was seated on the bus. I was relieved when our transport pulled up as I was feeling tired from the early start that morning. The bus was old and shabby looking but nonetheless in apparent full working mechanical order. As I handed the driver a note and wearily threw my backpack onto a seat I was surprised to see my friend and I were the only passengers and gladly sprawled myself over a seat. As I reclined and opened up my guidebook it was of little surprise that I noticed the Lonely Planet stated that the actual fare to Bukit Lawang was ten times less than we had paid. This was to be a common occurrence throughout Sumatra as I rapidly learned of the difference between local prices, western tourist prices and most of expensive of all Japanese tourist prices. After an hour of zig zagging through a road system that apparently had no system at all, the view from my window gradually changed. The hustle and bustle of Medan and its suburbs evolved into stretches of the most beautiful countryside. Suddenly I wasn\'t tired anymore. Everything around me was fascinating, from the workers knee deep in the paddy fields to the old man sitting watching the world go by at the side of the road to the woman carrying a fifty kilo bundle on her head seemingly without effort. As we meandered through the roads I relaxed, sat back and marvelled at the stunning scenery. I had no preconceptions about Bukit Lawang. It was hard for me, a lifelong city girl, to imagine what a village in the jungle would be like. The bus arrived late and in the dark and as we pulled into the village three locals jumped in, introduced themselves and bombarded us with questions. What\'s your name? Where you from? Will you stay at my guesthouse tonight? As I stepped off the bus my backpack was whipped away from the seat and carried off by one of the young lads. A group of around twenty circled me and as we walked toward the village I attempted with little success to answer all of the questions being thrown at me. As quickly as they had surrounded me, the group disbanded and I found myself following just one of the group onto a swinging bridge over the river Songai Bohorok. The rapids sounded deafening and it was with precaution I crossed the bridge to the opposite bank where we were shown our room. The lad introduced himself as Calvin, one of the guides working at the guesthouse. It was later discovered that Calvin had actually won Jayne and I over the rest of the group when we had initially arrived at the bus station and for the first night we were treated as his guests. During my stay in Bukit Lawang the system of guides and their guests revealed itself in an almost mafiaesque way. With the number of guides exceeding the number of guests it was a cut throat business persuading the tourist that his trek was the best or that there was no other white water rafting trip like the one he was leading tomorrow. The guides of Bukit Lawang became an integral part of day to day life in the village. They introduced themselves as Dennis, Eddie, Collin and other western style names. Many of them were no older than nineteen or twenty years old and didn\'t know life beyond their hometown. It may be argued that they didn\'t need life outside of the village. After all it is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Rows of colourful bamboo guesthouses, restaurants and shops lining the riverfront, each accessed by its own individual bridge and surrounded by lush rainforest. A community who spend their days bathing and playing in the river and exploring the rainforest and their nights playing guitar and card games with their guests. A simple life, containing none of the complexities of modern day life. An English girl we met had lived in Bukit Lawang for the past six months. She had taken her boyfriend, one of the guides who could neither read nor write nor knew his real age to Medan and watched as he shied away from automatic doors not understanding what they were. Those guides who had been to Medan to pick up tourists told in disgust of their experiences of noise, dirt and overcrowdedness in the city. Suma, the Orangutan Bukit Lawang is however more than a quaint little village. We were treated to a deeper insight into community life. On market day, Eddie and Colin took us down to the colourful stalls where we sampled local produce such as passion fruit and freshly made murtabak (thick pancake filled with peanuts and chocolate). We were then taken to Eddie\'s family home. He explained that although not large, the house accommodated his parents, brothers and sisters and he felt privileged to have a roof over his head. He smiled as he lifted his hands into the air, shrugged his shoulders and proudly stated "it\'s my home". From there we took two taxis, each a motorbike and sidecar to another of the guides, Ellis, home. I once again marvelled at the driving skills of Indonesians as our drivers raced each other the entire way, skirting around potholes on the gravel tracks, haring around bends and once or twice stalling as they hit grassy verges at the side of the road. I clung onto my seat laughing the entire journey partly through excitement, partly through nerves. To my great relief we arrived safely and walked into the home of Ellis to find his mother chopping vegetables in the kitchen. She motioned for us to sit down, laughed and started preparing more vegetables when she learned there
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