22nd Mar – Bireuen
Whilst pottering about Bireuen I met a local called Noni, middle-aged with a fantastic smile and moustache. He was a member of the bireuen classics bicycle club whose members cruise around on original classic frames, some up to a hundred years old. He proudly told me the Dutch soldiers used to cycle around on these bikes, only to be ambushed by local Acehnese who’d shoot them.
We visited the local beach with his friends which was destroyed by the Tsunami, bringing the shoreline in by around 200metres. He showed me his fathers shrimp farm, now just a smashed warehouse with huge concrete tanks lying upside down in the sand. Quite hard to imagine the force it takes to tear such huge objects up and displace them.
A section of the coast had been redeveloped, a large sea defence with groynes stretching into the water, but it was only small, and was intended to be built along the whole shoreline. Unfortunately, the money dried up, redirected to other areas. It could be a beautiful beach, but the mangroves have been replaced by mounds of sand and stones, waiting for the unlikely continuation of rebuilding. Some things are just forgotten and lie to ruin.
23rd – Bireuen to Sigli
I’d joined the National highway treading the length of the country, but the road is little more than a wide single carriageway following the flattest parts of the country.
I passed the usual towns and villages: incomplete buildings with bamboo scaffolding, colourful facades with ornate shutters, dreary concrete buildings like empty tombs, advertising banners flapping in the breeze, goats and cats picking through piles of rubbish. There were many timber workshops, men sanding wood presumably logged from local forests.
As you approach towns, mosque domes rise above the buildings and plantations, often glinting under the bright sun. Like churches, they are often beautiful constructions, built to emphasise their power, to dominant the landscape and to make people aware of their presence. You are always in the presence of religion: it pervades life.
I notice a number of projects set up by NGO’s: Save the Children, UNICEF and “the people of Japan” sponsored housing, school and farming schemes. I also experience a few more people (usually just children chancing their arm) asking for money, something I hadn’t experienced before. Is this the unwanted side affect of aid projects, whoever much they’re centred on development?
I spent a night in Sigli, another quiet seaside town en route to Banda. I watched the small fishing boats trawl the waters, weaving amongst the rickety, stilted huts with suspended nets like giant trampolines, sunk at night and pulled up in the day. It’s hard to imagine that such a peaceful scene would suddenly have changed as the huge waves rolled in.
24th Mar – Sigli to Banda
Leaving town, there are more plantations interspersed with paddies. After a day flat cycling, I start to climb again, struggling with the burning sun and uphill. The forest returned and a troupe of angry macaques stood their ground roadside, barking loudly, making mock movements of aggression. I found a stick: I don’t fancy their sharp canines digging at my legs!
Mount Seulawah is 18oom, heavily forested and clad with white cloud. The rest of the sky is blue, dotted with wisps of cirrus high up. I started to feel anxious. Skirting the mountain, I head towards Seulimeum,the town where a couple of weeks earlier police and Al Qaida affiliated terrorists had had a shoot out.
I can see why terrorists come to Aceh to hide within the cloak of the jungle, but the people, as with everywhere else, are either friendly or uninterested. After previous conflicts, and recent relative stability, it seems the terrorists had a lack of support and were isolated by the Acehnese. News coverage of terrorists might prevent people travelling here, but I can truly say the Acehnese are the friendliest people I’ve encountered on my travels, and the terrorism is unrelated.
The road continued north, a large ridge of mountains to my left and Seulawah to my right. The sky darkened and rain spat down on the yellowed fields, farmers harvesting grass and piling it into sacks. The traffic increased, more greetings, and a couple of motorbike stalkers (building the courage to say hello!). Finally, Banda.





