So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish…

Travel Story by Chriswan Sungkono

Polewali Mandar, Indonesia

Two most gratifying things I often find during my journeys are the local people and their original dishes. Beautiful places stand out for themselves, for sure, but for those not-so-splendidly-scenic, it is exactly these two things that make a trip there both worthwhile and timelessly haunting.

In the case of my trip to Polewali Mandar, everything else is muted - compared to the fish!

Situated on the left leg of the enchanting island of Sulawesi, with its lower-half shaping a bay facing Makassar Strait, the regency of Polewali Mandar (which is frequently abbreviated to Polman) is generously endowed with fish; all kinds of fish—no one should wonder why the majority of the traditional dishes here consist mainly of fish and other, even more luscious gifts from the sea.

The new provincial government of West Sulawesi, who separated in late 2004 from South Sulawesi, now administers five regencies, one of which is Polman. It is yet to open an airport, perhaps in its capital Mamuju, so until now the province is difficult to reach. From many possible ways to do so by sea or land, my colleagues and I opted for the six-hour road trip from frenetic Makassar, along South Sulawesi’s pristine seaside, with beach wind breezing through the windows.

Being coastal, Polewali Mandar serves as the region’s most prominent harbor, the focal point of the infant province’s maritime trade. It is also home to the notoriously agile lopi sandeq, an all-purpose small boat crafted ingeniously centuries ago by the ancestors of the Mandar people. They coexist here somewhat nonchalantly with the Makassarese, Bugis, and, as a result of the Indonesian government’s decades-running transmigration program, also the Javanese. All of them, who number about four-hundred-thousands, make Polman’s seaports and markets bustle with activity, mainly in the mornings.

In a tiny town like this, it naturally goes dark and silent pretty early on, with the occasional motorbike breaking the road’s hush. Normally I can listen to it clearly enough from my room in the rear section of Hotel Perdana. Don’t expect this to be the kind of hotel you might look for when you’re travelling to big cities to do business or pamper yourself - it’s not. It’s only one storey high, its lawn appears unkempt, its breakfast is boring (sorry!), yet the staff provide a fairly good laundry service and there is a friendly atmosphere. The latter is especially of use when I just want to kill my late-night time by doing what I call ‘stranger-talk’.

One late afternoon, cooling myself off after a full day’s work, I let myself wander around the nearby area. Fortunately, the hotel is located just a few minutes’ walk to the town center, the dust-smothered Pekkabata Market. Not many people seem to be around and the stores are mostly closed. The road is unattractively soggy and messed up with piles of both burnt and fresh garbage. Sometimes a becak driver, riding his empty vehicle with care, looks at me and smiles softly. On a particular instance, several ojek drivers call me to come near and decide to talk to me in a curious manner. Armed with a camera and a daft poise, I am mistaken as a news reporter. They have hoped I am one, for they have a story; and my answer has, to an extent, disappointed them. But no matter what, perhaps because they’re just tired of keeping this to themselves, they recount their case.

“Were you a reporter, we would like to complain about the police,” complains Agung, one of the ojek drivers who later helps arrange my subsequent trip to northern highlands of Mamasa. “They are abusing their power, repeatedly stopping us just to check our licenses and all, and if they can’t find any mistakes, they’ll easily make one up out of thin air. Eventually we are compelled to pay, pay, pay.” They further reveal that there are many high-ranking police officers who are corrupt and use up citizens’ taxes for their negligent purposes; that their livelihoods as drivers are often jeopardized; that some of them want to see Java and even work abroad like their friends; and so on. Were it not for meeting them, my afternoon would have been pathetically bland.  At least I learned something.

Even so, evenings in this idyllic town translates to at least one joyous thing: an extravagant feast. Our friends here, those who work at the local Department of Education (DoE), always come to our rooms at six in the evening, inviting us to dinner. Then they take us to Koto Gadang, a nearby Padang restaurant (it’s just ubiquitous—tell me, where can you not bump into this kind of restaurant in any Indonesian town?) whose owner has been a Polman resident for ten years.

Then, we would be served fish. Imagine a 1- to 2-pound saltwater fish—you may choose from up to seven to eight varieties—grilled or sautéed, garnished with pickle and chili pepper and sweet soy sauce, then served to you – one each! Yes, that’s one big, yummy, fleshy fish for everyone. Honestly, I simply drool at this sight every time, and gladly skip my portion of rice.

I am usually the slowest eater in the room, eventhough I don’t eat as much as Mr Sarbin Arsyad, an officer from the DoE, who loves to tease me whenever he’s got extra energy - especially when we’re dining. Mr Sarbin and I compete in each meal: whoever eats more, wins (actually with nothing at stake—it’s just for fun). This time I lose. Nonetheless, I am proud of being the slowest. The taste of the fish and the extras (veggies, grilled squid, tiger prawn, etc.) which are no less lovely, just consumes my epicurean soul, causing me to be more and more reluctant to stop with each lick of my fingers.

And it happens again and again. Every mealtime, except for breakfast, I imagine myself as a fallen hero in Odin’s Valhalla. But instead of the boar, I have an endless supply of fish to feast on. For day one, there’s this fat grouper. Day two, I savor the milky texture of ikan cepa and another big fish covered with small, sweet, refreshing pieces of mango. On the third day I’ve got sweetlip (ikan kaneke) summoned from the sea and grilled for me. Not to mention the numerous kinds of fish cooked in different styles during official luncheons. The freshness of these fish is totally unbelievable.

Perhaps because of the way I marvel at the fish through reveling in every cuisine that uses it, our hospitable friends from the DoE get all hyped-up. They come up with an idea. “You have to try our most original fish dish, Chris,” Mrs Rahmaniah, who also sells sureq and lipaq saqbe, characteristic silk textiles of the Mandar, voices the idea thus rousing my curiosity. “The wife of Mr Sarbin has a successful catering business,” she continues, winking to the man himself, “I’m sure she won’t mind cooking bau peapi and other traditional menus for you.”

Mr Sarbin takes up the challenge. He goes out of the room to call his wife, and when he comes back he says, “You all are invited to dinner at my place, tonight.” So, on the fourth evening during my stay, I finally get to taste some of the genuine dishes that the Mandar are so proud of.

Bau peapi, a classic Mandar cuisine, takes fish-cooking into a new level of complexity. The fish is cut in pieces and then submerged into a concoction of tamarind, onions, turmeric powder, black and chili pepper, and finally, a pinch of salt. Now this is where the authenticity comes in: the fish with the sauce are cooked using pure minyak Mandar—naturally-extracted palm oil that emits a very pleasant odor.

How does it taste? Weird at first, but as soon as you take to its spiciness, you’ll love it. As an accompaniment, instead of rice you may then start taking up the jepa, or, like Mr Sarbin puts it, “the Mandar equivalent of pizza,” which tastes a little bit ‘webby’. Made by drying and pouncing cassava roots and baking the dough on an earthenware heated by dried woods, jepa is a really tricky food. “Don’t drink too much while you eat it,” cautions Mrs Rahmaniah, “it’ll blow up your stomach.”

When done with both, the Mandar normally resume their much-satisfying meal with loka anjoroi, though I personally wouldn’t recommend it, no matter how tasty. It uses only bananas and coconut milk, but it’s far from being a dessert. The bananas selected for this menu are the very young ones, which explains why I have to chew energetically when I give it a try. I prefer nibbling on some oversweet blend of sticky rice and palm sugar that goes here by the name golla kambu, handed to me as gift by Mrs Asriah, one of the mindful school teachers whom I am honored to have worked with.

The evening before I start hiking up to mighty Mamasa - my last evening in Polman - I am craving to eat something beside fish. So while everybody dines in Asia Jaya, a long-standing Chinese restaurant near the seaside, I decide to try coto (famous beef soup from Makassar) at a stall on the beach. The plump Mr Yusran, a really amusing DoE officer and a very playful fellow as well, wants to come along. As we eat ‘coto - one brilliant bowl to dispel cold’, behind me the angry waves come crashing into a stout wall of stone. This makes me look over my shoulder.

I throw my gaze oceanward and I glimpse nothing but the moonlight reflected by the ripples of the sea. It’s awesome: this grand, bounteous source of multitudes of life. Especially, the fish. I promise to myself, I may well be leaving Polewali Mandar soon, but the friendships I’ve forged with the people and the traits associated with each fish I’ve tasted here will stick forever. And for these two things alone, I shall crave for returning.

Illustration by Bob Veon
(Bob Veon's Website)

Read more about the author of this story:
Chriswan Sungkono

Previous Story | Next Story