Sumatera

I give up on sleep. At 4am I push open the door to the mandi. Its hinges have been replaced by string, the wood is rotten and a piece of it lies on the floor. There is a snapped toothbrush on the ground. The empty plastic wrappers of used soap. Over the rusting drain cigarette butts soak up a cold, brown water. They will stay there until they disintegrate and fall through. In the water and in the cracks of broken tiles and in the mould scaling the walls lies the dirt of a thousand men. Women do not sleep here. In the Sumateran lowlands it is too hot to sleep tonight. I am waiting for the cool that comes an hour or so before dawn.

I scoop cold water from the mandi and pour it over my feet. Over my head and back. A cockroach scurries away from the splashing water; though it is a languid, tired scurry. Not the kind of flight one is moved to to save a life that is beautiful or keenly needed, but the undecided, heavy-footed, side-stepping of death by something that lives in a toilet. I do not know where the idea that cockroaches could survive a nuclear holocaust came from, but I have seen them drown, be torn apart and eaten by ants, have their underbellies slowly crisp in the sun as they lie on their backs, unable to right themselves, and can deduce from this only that the idea must be a myth.

I leave the cockroach. I close the door behind me, it swings open again, and I lie on the thousand-men's-dirt-mattress, and the cool doesn't come. My feet are still damp. A mosquito lands on them. I flick it away. I snatch at it in the air and catch it with my fist. I squeeze as hard as I can to ensure it dies and open my hand to drop it on the floor. It flies away unharmed in a miraculous show of strength or ability in contortion, though it is a recurring miracle and I am losing my sense of wonder.

There is a light bulb outside my window that has been left on all night, and only half a thin curtain to block its yellow glare. The miracle-mosquito teases me with an arrogant whine, but has made itself invisible.

The heat is easing now, but it is too late. It is 4.30. The muezzins are awake! They have connected themselves to microphones and the microphones to megaphones: the pre-dawn call to prayer. Religion is noisy early here.

In this filthy, ply-wood room, made of heat and noise and animals, I am writing sleep further and further away. I am sat here now, thinking, perhaps not what you might expect, I am thinking: I love it here. I love Sumatera.

It is the kind of affection that can so easily endure through sleepless, mosquito ravaged nights. The insomnia-aiding call to prayer I can still find beautiful now - its aching, compelling cry rupturing the silent dark and tumbling through the haze outside my room - though it is easier to do so in the afternoon.

After Thailand, I find myself so much closer to people's live here. After Malaysia, there is a greater sense of community, a greater closeness between people. After Singapore, it is noticeable that I no longer want to kick and scream and run up the glass walls of tower blocks. Or throw rubbish on the floor. Or commit jay-walking offences. Or do anything at all... as long as it's illegal.

It is a shame I cannot sleep. I am exhausted. I am exhausted because of people. And exhilarated because of people. From staying with Ichenk in Perawang, and with David Joe in Pangukalan Kotabaru. From my three days in Solok with Desy, Lina, Yuli, Danus, Randi and their friends and from my time in Sarolangun with Guntur and his family. From the countless invitations, I have accepted on a daily basis, to eat in people's houses, or drink coffee with them, or meet their families, or simply to talk in cafes or at the roadside.

I remember meeting a man from Switzerland in Luangprabang, Laos. I remember him saying: The Sumateran people are the friendliest people in the world. Even if it was possible for me to believe him at the time, I could never have expected my time here to be so overwhelming, to have had such a marked effect upon me, to have left, already, such wonderful lasting memories.