Have you ever been travelling and suddenly realised that you've wandered into a place that you really shouldn't be in? The looks you're getting from the locals, the cold shiver that just shot up (or was it down) your spine and the churning that's starting in your stomach ... these are very good signs that you are probably not welcome!

Being an adventurous photographer, I've often experienced this situation, but none quite as scary as Wednesday, 18 November 1992, in the remote Sumatran port of Belawan in Indonesia.

How did I come to be in a port in Sumatra?

My consultancy assignment in Indonesia had taken me to Medan, the capital of the Province of North Sumatra on the island of Sumatra. Medan is a boisterous, sprawling hot, humid, Asian city of around two million people. It's the major trade centre for a large hinterland that grows rubber, tobacco, tea, oil palms, coffee and timber, all exported through the local port of Belawan. The locals are very outgoing and less reserved than other Indonesians. Mainly Batak people, they can be at times both friendly and fierce.

Like most busy cities, Medan has it's own form of traffic chaos and it's own attempted solutions. But nobody takes any notice of traffic police and vehicle drivers in the centre of town completely ignore the vain attempts at control by the totally lifeless statue of a female traffic cop doing point duty!

At the end of my work day in this frenetic city, I did what I normally did in a new place ... went looking for the town's railway station to watch and photograph the local action. Railway stations are a great place to observe local life in all its rich diversity!

Having only a few words of Bahasa Indonesia in my vocabulary, finding out what was happening at Medan Railway station proved quite comical, but I was made welcome and allowed to take photographs of the trains. Medan station was quite a busy place, with freight movements funnelling through the station to the port of Belawan. From what I could make out, the main commodity apart from general freight, was palm oil being conveyed in tanker wagons from southern places like Pematangsiantar (Siantar for short) and Tebinginggi (or TT).

Time soon ran out, so I bade the station staff "selamat malam - good evening" thanked them profusely, "terima kasih banyak", and headed back to my hotel. The following day, Wednesday, I had a bit of spare time in the afternoon after work, so headed back to the station to visit my new "friends". The events of this afternoon, precipitated an adventure that had its sequel 12 months later in the remote Sumatran jungle!

My diary notes indicate that I watched and photographed trains working to and from the nearby port of Belawan. Little passenger trains came and went to Tanjungbalai, TT and a train from the southern town of Rantauprapat even arrived with a "bisnis" coach - and not much else!

At around 16:40, a long train of palm oil tanks hauled by two Henschel diesels (BB30206 and BB30603) arrived in Medan from TT. I took a couple of photos, including one of the driver and his assistant inspecting their train. Click to see photo Story 2 Photo 1.

The driver and his mate began to take an interest in the tall, bearded foreigner with the camera and approached me. The driver introduced himself as Osman. Both he and his assistant were neatly dressed in their railway uniforms complete with name badges. From what I could make out of their Bahasa Indonesia (they spoke only a few words of broken English), they were inviting me to go for a ride with them to the Port of Belawan.

Being a sucker for a ride in a locomotive and unable to say no, I agreed. I hadn't the first clue how long the journey would take or what I might do and see. I knew that Belawan was about 20km away from Medan and faced Malaysia across the Straits of Malacca. But that was it! The uncertainty was all part of the adventure into the unknown.

What an adventure! I found out later, that Belawan was a well-known troublespot and not a very safe place to be wandering around alone.

The journey to Belawan was pretty uneventful. The line passed through the outskirts of Medan and then travelled through pleasant tropical palms and farms. See photo. The train bounced and bucked its way along the narrow gauge (1067mm) track, dodging the endless stream of humanity that used the railway as a shortcut, or for extra space for farm animals, or for a myriad of other non-railway related uses - all restricting the speed that the train could travel.

When we arrived at Belawan station, Osman indicated that this was as far as I could go. He explained to me in universally-understood sign language that I should leave the loco and wait at the station while the train proceeded to the port to deliver its cargo of palm oil. I obviously looked a bit concerned that I was being separated from my lift back to Medan. Osman put his wrists together making a handcuff sign that all too clearly indicated that I would be arrested and jailed if I went any further.

On the basis of this new information, I happily stepped out of the cab of the BB and onto the low level platform of Belawan station. I was immediately introduced to the station master at Belawan who permitted me to take a couple of photos of the train at the station. As the train departed for the port area, I fervently hoped that this would not be the last I would see of my newly-found friend Osman and his mate ... and their train. There were buses from Belawan back to Medan, but it wouldn't have been the same.

The waiting time seemed to drag on and I quickly ran out of things to talk to the station master about. Like the train crew, he spoke no English and my embarrassing attempts at Bahasa Indonesia resulted in blank looks, polite smiles and giggles. When he went for a smoko, I decided to explore the local neighbourhood. I was fascinated by the 3-4m high security fence across the road from the station. It stretched as far as I could see in either direction along the road. From the noise and smells coming from behind the fence, I quickly figured out that it was part of the port.

My mind began daydreaming about taking photographs of Indonesian wooden prahus, a traditional Indonesian boat.

I've always been fascinated by the hive of activity that surrounds a busy port and I decided to find out what was behind the big fence - keeping one ear out for the arrival of my train back to Medan. I figured out that there had to be an entrance along the fence somewhere. My travels had taught me that in Asian countries, local workers always had a short cut to their workplace. After walking a short distance I found a small gate in the wall. I also found an armed man in a uniform guarding his gate. I greeted the guard with my friendliest "selamat siang - good afternoon", but he motioned me away. A polite but firm "bugger off"!

However, I managed to get a glimpse through the gate of a busy port with lots of activity, colour, people and ships.

I was determined to talk my way into the port to get some photos of the boats and the port action. I returned to the station, much to the relief of the station master who was beginning to get anxious. He'd returned from smoko to find that I'd disappeared.

I studied my Indonesian phrase book and rehearsed a couple of friendly greetings to try and persuade the guard to let me have a look around. Convincing myself that the train wouldn't be back for a while, I headed back to the "hole in the wall". As luck would have it, there'd been a changing of the guard and the new bloke was quite friendly. A quick chat using my well-rehearsed lines that included many "terima kasih banyak puks" (thank you very much, sir), lots of hand gestures, blokey laughs and I was in! Wonderful! Now to see if there were any ancient vessels, any wooden prahus!

Realising that the train to Medan might come at any time and that the afternoon light was fading fast, I needed to be quick, but not draw attention to myself by rushing about - just saunter around casually like I was meant to be there. The problem was, I wasn't meant to be here and some of the stares I was receiving were reinforcing this. There was one group of three rough-looking characters giving me the evil eye, so I sauntered over and showed them my camera and through sign language asked to take their picture.

The scowls turned to grins and lots of banter that I hadn't the first clue about. For all I knew, they could have being saying to each other "you grab him, I'll grab his camera and wallet and then we'll chuck him in the sea". Still, taking their photo broke the ice and kept them on side. Take a look at the photo in the People Gallery.

Heading towards the edge of the wharf, I spotted a couple of traditional Indonesian boats, but they were too far out in the bay to photograph. Then I spotted one moored alongside other vessels tied up at the wharf.

As I was framing the photo, something disturbing entered my viewfinder. There were big yellow numbers on that grey ship on my right! I'd seen numbers like that before - in Darwin harbour when either the US or Australian navy was in town. My heart rate suddenly quickened and I uttered a barely-audible expletive. I was photographing either Indonesian patrol boats or the coastguard. See photo Story 2 Photo 2.

The details didn't matter. What mattered was making a tactical but not too hasty exit from the port without getting arrested - or mugged, or worse! I tried to leave as discreetly as I could, making myself as inconspicuous as possible for 192cm, bearded, white Caucasian carrying a camera bag in a Sumatran port!

On my way out, I saw a couple of small boats and risked one last photo - in the viewfinder, the three sailors were still watching me. The timing was right - I hadn't even noticed that it was the last frame in the roll of film.

Back at the gate - the "hole in the wall" - I thanked the very bemused guard profusely for the privilege of entering his port and walked very determinedly back to the station, checking every few metres to see if I was being followed.

In my travels, I've always felt that railway stations offered a safe haven for travellers. I was greatly relieved to arrive safely back at the Belawan station and found a quiet corner, out of sight, to wait for the return of Osman and his train to Medan. With luck, I hadn't been followed.

By the time the train arrived, it was well and truly dark. I gathered from Osman that the journey to offload the palm oil had taken a lot longer than expected: this was a typical railway! I don't think he'd have been too impressed if I had been able to explain to him about my little port-side adventure while he was shunting down at the port. The journey back to Medan was uneventful. There was much handshaking and back-slapping as I thanked my railway hosts and bid them farewell. The reception I got from work colleagues and English-speaking Sumatrans when I told them the next day about my after-work adventure wasn't so friendly. Most just stared in disbelief, others shook their heads before telling me just how dangerous Belawan is and how risky my little adventure had been!

But the story doesn't end here - it continues when I returned to Medan one year later. At the end of my first work day of my second assignment in Medan, I did what I had done the previous year and headed to Medan railway station to watch and photograph the local rail action. In an amazing coincidence, the very first train that pulled into the station was driven by Osman. We greeted each other with great excitement. This time he had learned some English and my Bahasa Indonesia had reached a basic conversational level. The adventure that followed over the next couple of days in 1993, rivalled the trip to Belawan ... but that's another story!

© John Kirk - all rights reserved