I thought it was time to finish my trip to Indonesia with a visit to Sumatra. This is the Mesjid Raya (Great Mosque) in Medan, the capital of Sumatra. Built in 1906, it is the largest mosque in Northern Sumatra. The three large domes are known as the Brothers and Sisters. -------------------------------------------------- Journal entry - 15 December 1987 If Howard Johnson ever came to Samosir he'd build the Duma Sari Hotel. Ah, but I am getting ahead of my story. One constant in all my travels has been the beggar. Most were faceless unfortunates but a few haunt me to this day. The one-legged old man in Mombasa whom I fed for three days. The dirty, barefoot child wrapped in burlap in Kathmandu. And the little girl and her brother in Medan. I had gone to Jalan Selat Panjang (Long Strait Road) which each evening becomes a night market. You smell the night market long before you get there due to the presence of one of Southeast Asia's favorite foods, the durian. Durian is a curious, spiky skinned melon that emits an extremely pungent odor. The taste can best be described as a cross between sweet melon and motor oil. They say it is an acquired taste. I never felt the need to acquire that taste. After checking out the wall-to-wall food carts that lined both sides of the road, I selected one and settled down to a hearty bowl of noodle soup. As I was eating a small, barefoot boy, perhaps three years old, came up and held out his hand. He mumbled something I probably could not have understood even if I spoke Indonesian. But the outstretched hand was clear. I ignored him and continued eating. Soon his sister, around seven, also barefoot and wearing a dirty yellow dress, joined him, her hand also outstretched. I did not respond. Their faces had the blank stare of the hungry. When I saw them turned away, sometimes harshly, by other Indonesians, I remembered the child in Kathmandu. By then they had disappeared down the street. I quickly finished my soup and began looking for them. Suddenly it had become very important that I find them. I walked the length of the street. Nothing. Back up again. Still no sign of them. Then, halfway through my third pass, I saw her. She was sitting with her brother at an empty table on a side street, clutching a few hundred rupiah some kind soul had given her. Not enough to buy a meal. I walked up to her and gave her 6,000 rupiah, about four dollars American, enough to buy four meals for her and her brother. I figured I could do with four fewer beers during my stay. She thanked me in a shy, quiet voice, "Terima kasih, bapak." Thank you, father. I smiled and said kembali, you are welcome, gently touched her hand and walked away. Some might ask, "So what? A few meals and they will be hungry again. And you're out the money. Besides, they were probably sent out by their parents to pick up some extra money. You probably got took." But you see, those people miss the point. I feed crippled old men and barefoot children wherever I go. By giving up a few dollars I am richer for it because I make a difference, if only for a day. And if it was just a scam? I still win for the gift is in the giving, not in the receiving. Off to Lake Toba tomorrow. Time for bed.