Amid postcard-perfect scenery on the vast Indonesian island of Sumatra, Batak artisans and entrepreneurs have dedicated themselves to sharing their unique inheritance with the world.

Photographs by Martin Westlake

*Left to right*: A village church up the road from Samosir Island’s Ecovillage Silimalombu; young women in Karo Batak dress.

Dawn comes quickly to the Sumatran highlands. Standing at a bald campsite halfway up the grassy slopes of Bukit Holbung, less than three degrees above the equator, photographer Martin Westlake and I watch the rising sun paint the sky in fleeting purples and pinks, their pastel hues reflected in the placid waters of Indonesia’s largest lake. Behind us, a troop of lanky college students, eyes still heavy with sleep, stagger out from tents pitched along the ridgeline.

Birds coo and chirp in the long grass; roosters crow from the villages below us. “See that?” Martin points at the soft orange light creeping down the escarpment behind a just-finished statue of Jesus, arms outstretched like Rio’s Christ the Redeemer.

The serenity of the scene belies this remarkable landscape’s violent origins. Filling an eye-shaped depression stamped into Sumatra’s mountainous spine, Lake Toba fills the remains of an ancient supervolcano that exploded 74,000 years ago, spewing ash as far away as present-day India and disrupting the global climate. The gaping caldera left behind flooded over the eons, while uplift from rising magma created Samosir, the nearly Singapore-size island at Toba’s heart. Samosir and much of the surrounding shores are the realm of the Toba Batak, the most numerous among the indigenous Batak peoples living in this once-isolated region. Martin and I have come here to meet some of the local figures who are championing the culture, heritage, and natural bounty of their ancestral homeland.

“We Batak may speak loudly and bluntly, but we have warm hearts,” Tiopantauli Sihotang laughs as she serves us sweet tea at Homestay Robema, her family’s 120-year-old teak house at the foot of Bukit Holbung. The surrounding community of Hariara Pohan is part of a nationwide grassroots network of desa wisata (“tourist villages”) that immerse visitors in rural Indonesian life. Tiopantauli, for her part, organizes activities such as harvesting coffee berries, bathing water buffalo in a clear mountain stream, and overnighting in a rumah bolon, a Toba Batak stilt house with a pointed saddle-shaped roof.

But what interests me most is a cooking demonstration of the rare local specialty dekke nanisorbukan. On a portable stove, lake-caught tilapia bubble away in a fragrant, turmeric-tinted arsik stew spiced with andaliman, a lemony cousin of Sichuan peppercorn native to these highlands. Removed from the pot, the fish are coated in a sand-like powder of roasted corn flour and spices, a natural preservative that will allow it to last three days without spoiling. Then it’s time to sit cross-legged on a woven mat to eat with Tiopantauli’s family under a faded print of The Last Supper—a reminder that the Toba Batak are largely Christians in Muslim-majority Indonesia. When she discovers I’m not yet married, an elder gleefully claps her hands. “We must find you a Batak wife!”

Overlooking Lake Toba’s western shores from a hilltop viewpoint at Bukit Holbung.

Lying more than 900 meters above sea level in the province of North Sumatra, Lake Toba was once an obligatory stop on the Southeast Asian backpacker circuit, on par with the Thai party island of Koh Phangan. The now-tranquil area has since been earmarked as one of Indonesia’s five “super priority” tourism destinations, with plans afoot to improve access to the outside world. In time, the toll road from the busy provincial capital of Medan and its international airport will reach Parapat, a small gateway town by the lake’s eastern edge. But the effort required to get here has so far shielded it from the worst effects of mass tourism. As we cruise down the two-lane road that encircles Samosir Island, Martin, a longtime resident of Jakarta, remarks on how little Lake Toba has changed in the decades since his previous visit. “The last time I came here was in 1992, when I cycled around Samosir with my brother and some friends. I was expecting a lot more hotels and tourist infrastructure, but it still feels the same.” Carolina Cottage, where Martin stayed all those years ago, remains an affordable choice for retirees and backpackers making the four-hour drive from Medan. Accommodations may be spartan, but the lakefront gardens and breezy restaurant have a charm all their own.

Travelers desiring more comfort and amenities can look to Marianna Resort & Convention. Self-billed as the area’s first fivestar lodgings, the lakeside property opened last November with 122 subdued rooms, suites, and villas. While the food and service may not quite match the standards of Bali, Marianna does have a standout feature: Fivelements Wellness Lake Toba. It’s an offshoot of the Fivelements wellness retreat in Ubud, with a yoga deck, five treatment rooms, and an emphasis on natural ingredients that sees local corn grated into an exfoliating paste for facials. One day, I end up dozing off during the two-hour Marpangir Ritual, which involves a salt aromatherapy bath, a Balinese massage, and a spice-rich body scrub featuring the unte pangir kaffir lime, long used by the Batak to aid relaxation.

Local produce comes into even sharper focus down the shoreline at Ecovillage Silimalombu. Its plainspoken founder Ratnauli Gultom, who introduces herself as Ratna, runs the agrobusiness with her Bavarian husband Thomas Heinle. She opted out of the rat race after a varied 18-year career in Jakarta and Medan, returning home to look after the land passed down from her father, a onetime kapala nagari (district head). “I tell people I’m the richest woman in the world, because I can live without money,” she declares.

There is an element of truth to that audacious claim. Accompanied by a rescued infant macaque named George, we follow Ratna on a walk around her organic terraced gardens as the late morning sunlight filters through stately, centuries-old mango trees. The land is a veritable Eden that yields everything from durian, banana, and cacao to cinnamon, yam, and a plethora of vegetables. Seeds fallen from tall candlenut trees are pressed into oil, while the sap of arenga palms is distilled into tuak, the local moonshine. Ratna stops to pluck ripened bird’s-eye chilies and turkey berries straight off the branch. “We don’t hoe the soil,” she explains. “Our responsibility is to take care of whatever grows here. We harvest what nature gives us.”

Ecovillage Silimalombu may be most famous for the mango wine it has produced for the last decade, but Ratna makes it clear that was not her original intention at all: “How do we manage the gardens to the point of zero waste? We want to show people it’s possible to make tens of products from one thing.” Wine aside, the endemic Toba mango is also transformed into jam, vinegar, and eco-enzymes; the sediment from fermentation goes into making brandy and natural hand sanitizer. Down at the lakefront pavilion, we try shots of a sweet and a dry vintage, then a full-bodied mango port wine. Ratna proudly brings out a bottle of her Kaldera, a mango brandy aged with clove, cinnamon, palm sugar, and ungil wood. It tastes like Christmas.

*Left to right*: A lake-view treatment room at the Fivelements spa at Marianna Resort; Samosir school kids kitted out for their weekly Batak Day events.

An hour south of Parapat, a rocky dirt road cuts through the paddy fields toward Jesral Tambun’s home and workshop on the edge of a forest. The 36-year-old is a specialist in carving ornamental gorga, an indispensable part of the Toba Batak architectural tradition. Puffing on a cigarette as a shy young apprentice sits by his side, he explains, “Gorga are a depiction of the homeowner’s soul. No two are identical.”

Typically hewn from ungil tree bark, gorga are painted in a symbolic color scheme of white, red, and black. Jesral shows me various panels and sculptures salvaged from demolished houses, sometimes hundreds of years old, and decodes the philosophies behind them. A swirling fern-inspired motif alludes to life’s trajectory and the never-ending cycle of regeneration. Sporting a long face with a thinker’s protruding forehead, gorga singa-singa recall a kind of grasshopper known for its unflappable nature. Triangular gorga jorgom-jorgom take their cues from caterpillars that puff up to ward off predators, conveying the character of a king who defends and embraces his people. Then there’s gorga santung-santung, which resemble a diamond-shaped shield. “This one speaks about the heart,” Jesral explains. “Why is it more beautiful than the others? Because it has two different heads along the center. So, the heart of the homeowner must be broad. Even if they are hurt, they don’t have to show it.”

To say Jesral had a difficult life as a young adult would be an understatement. Barely a year after his mother’s untimely passing, fire engulfed the house and the woodcarver escaped with only the clothes on his back. The inadequate state of his temporary shelter added to the trauma. “I was always sick and my mind kept wandering,” he admits. But bit by bit, as he gradually rebuilt his home, Jesral found solace in carving gorga. “Because if I plant it in my mind to work on this, I feel calm and at peace. Sometimes the finished surface of a gorga appears to me in my dreams, and I can carry it out.” His talent has already garnered the attention of buyers from Indonesia’s major cities as well as overseas clients, and Jesral is now working in a new medium. He hops into the passenger seat of our rental car, keen to show us a supersize concrete Batak house taking shape 15 minutes down the road. Its cement walls are almost entirely incised with halffinished gorga patterns.

Jesral Tambun holds up a gorga carving at his workshop; a lunch of pork-belly arsik and buffalo cheese. — *Left to right*: Jesral Tambun holds up a *gorga* carving at his workshop; a lunch of pork-belly *arsik* and buffalo cheese.

Back across the water on Samosir, another age-old craft is spinning threads into the future. Young fashion designer Riski Vanni Simbolon meets us at Kampung Ulos Huta Raja, a lakefront village spruced up over the past few years with government funding. We amble past a new information center and textile gallery and sit on the main square flanked by rumah bolon, their corrugated tin roofs recently swapped out for diamond-shaped ironwood shingles.

“The word ulos means ‘blanket,’ ” Riski says. “In the old days Batak people used them as clothes during the day and blankets by night.” She acquaints me with a few fundamental forms: the hoba-hoba running from the chest to the legs, the scarf-like hande-hande draped over the right shoulder, and the saong head covering. Ulos have a spiritual significance that remains undimmed despite the conversion of the Toba Batak to Protestantism from the late 19th century. It is not unusual for people to say the ancestors spoke through dreams, instructing them to have an ulos made with a specific motif. “Ulos were so sacred that up until 15 or 20 years ago they couldn’t be used for ordinary clothes or everyday items.”

The rise of factory-made ulos ended this prohibition, and Riski established Namarbaju Attire in 2018, during her final year in high school. She soon realized that Batak textiles were hardly known outside Sumatra. “Compared to batik, very few people can translate the motifs found in ulos, so it seems mysterious. I studied fashion education in Yogyakarta, and when I introduced ulos to people there, they were amazed. They had never seen anything like it.” Since returning to Samosir, Riski has launched a ready-to-wear collection under sister brand Cicio, while Namarbaju Attire focuses on modern tailor-made outfits, some of which have been worn at local fashion shows and red-carpet events. Part of Riski’s broader mission is to change mindsets at home. “It’s already proven that other people like it, so why shouldn’t we? I want Batak people to accept that ulos can be more than we think.”

Traditional ulos textiles woven with gold thread; fashion designer Riski Vanni Simbolon outside a Toba Batak stilt house. — *Left to right*: Traditional *ulos* textiles woven with gold thread; fashion designer Riski Vanni Simbolon outside a Toba Batak stilt house.

That afternoon, following a satisfying lunch of pork-belly arsik, buffalo cheese, and grilled tilapia at a roadside eatery, we drive toward the village of Simanindo near Samosir’s northern tip. Tiolina Sinambela is all smiles as she stands outside Ruma Kaca, a colonial-style bungalow built in the early 1950s by her father-in-law, a local aristocrat. The family estate also encompasses the neighboring Museum Huta Bolon Simanindo, which comprises a palm fiber–thatched house filled with heirlooms and a well-preserved village compound that, until the pandemic, regularly hosted cultural performances. “My father-in-law was a visionary in preserving Batak customs and culture,” Tiolina says. “He established this museum in 1968 as the first tourist destination in Samosir. The Tortor dances and Sigalegale puppet shows were popular among foreign tourists.”

Tiolina has been managing Ruma Kaca since 2017, when she moved here from Medan after her husband passed away. It’s been an unprecedented challenge for the mother of three and inveterate performer, who has brought Batak song and dance to overseas audiences since the early ’90s. “I knew nothing about tourism. I started out with a coffee shop, because I thought guests at the museum would need something to drink and a place to rest.” The café she built takes up a rustic open-air pavilion, where the abbreviated menu includes a moreish steamed banana cake and the andaliman-spiced noodle dish mie gomak. Adorned with family portraits, antiques, and knickknacks from Tiolina’s world travels, the main house is now a cozy B&B, with two of the three bedrooms rented out to guests. “I opened Ruma Kaca to bring life back to Museum Huta Bolon and the old Batak village. But our income isn’t enough to cover the performers’ salaries,” she tells me wistfully. “There could be daily traditional dances like before if we had some donations.”

Before we leave, Tiolina sits at her upright piano to perform a soul-stirring rendition of the local song O Tano Batak. It’s as though her boundless motherly love has been poured into every note. Fingers darting across the piano keys, Tiolina’s clear, melodious voice soars with emotion. My eyes fill with tears. We’re later told the song is about a Batak yearning for their homeland, but even without knowing the words, I can picture Samosir’s cloud-kissed hills and the rippled waters of Lake Toba, glinting in the Sumatran sun.

*Left to right*: Lake Toba seen at sunrise from the grounds of Carolina Cottage; Tiolina Sinambela at the front door of Ruma Kaca, her two-bedroom B&B and café in Simanindo.

Toba Trip Essentials

GETTING THERE

Low-cost carrier Citilink flies to Silangit—the closest domestic airport to Lake Toba—from Jakarta and Batam. About four hours away by car, Medan’s Kualanamu International Airport is connected to Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur, and Singapore.

WHERE TO STAY

Marianna Resort & Convention

This modern lakefront property features a rooftop bar, an infinity pool, and a serene spa run by the Bali-based Fivelements wellness brand (from US$115 a night).

Ruma Kaca Simanindo

A two-bedroom B&B inside a 1950s heritage house surrounded by peaceful gardens, near the Simanindo ferry terminal (from US$36 a night).

WHAT TO SEE

Ecovillage Silimalombu

Mango wine tastings and relaxed lunches can be booked in advance at this back-to-nature operation, where products showcase ingredients harvested from the on-site food forest.

This article originally appeared in the October/November 2024 print issue of DestinAsian magazine (“Making Time for Toba”).

Lake Toba’s Enduring Magic