Bintan – Probably the Worst Island in the World

Beer. The only answer

Well dear readers, when last you left me I had just woken up on an empty ferry in northern Indonesia with no wallet or bank cards. I bet you’ve all been staining your trousers waiting to hear what happens next haven’t you, you little blog-whores?

            First let’s get something straight – Bintan island in northern Indonesia is just awful and if I ever hear you’ve been there for any reason I will personally knee you in the kidneys, ok?

Alicia and I searched the boat thoroughly and, after a brief interlude of high-impact coarse language and unjustified racial slurs, we collected our remaining possessions and climbed onto the dock. We would have to find a ride to the nearest phone and cancel my stolen Visa card. After checking our respective pockets for local currency, we decided to indulge in some breakfast Nasi Goreng.

NG in Indonesia is routinely awesome – spicy and fresh, it always comes with a giant prawn cracker just like I used to get for free at my local Chinese restaurant if I ordered over $20. It cheered me up, but only a little bit.

On the main road behind the dock we found a bemo (a tiny van fitted with wooden bench seats and used as a taxi) and after some animated miming we were bouncing across the island towards an internet café in the main town of Tanjung Pinang. At 8am the joint was full of hunched teens in headsets playing some God-awful game involving either druids or machine guns or possibly both. After buying the minimum 1 hour of internet time, I spent exactly 3 minutes transferring all my money out of my bank account and left. I still had to cancel my card so we caught another bemo to the centre of town.

Even the boats are shit in Bintan

On an ugly street in the middle of an ugly part of town, we found an ugly Chinese-style business hotel complete with concrete fountains full of depressed-looking turtles and asked to use the pay phone.

“No.”

“Is there anywhere in town where I can make international calls?”

“No.”

“Why is that turtle so sad?”

Shrug.

It started to rain.

            After a prolonged squelch through town, I found a shop selling used mobile phones. The guy spoke a bit of English and after some negotiation I purchased a secondhand Nokia and a SIM card for around $15 and succeeded in canceling my card. For the next three months I would be reliant on Alicia’s goodwill to access my cash – I’d have to be nicer to her.

Our hotel that night was too terrible to even talk about so we booked a ferry to Singapore the next morning. We had a couple of days to kill before the next available boat so we decided to find some nicer digs. Down at the port, some guys offered us a couple of motor bike cabs to the east-coast beach resort of Trikora. After some negotiation they agreed to drop us at place called Shady Shack which consisted of a bar/restaurant and four huts built directly on a grey beach. The whole place looked like it had been put together in an afternoon by Bear Grylls – it was sweet.

The cabbies demanded double what we had agreed on and started getting a bit agro but I bravely hid in the bar until they got bored and left.

Due to its proximity to Singapore, Trikora beach has become a popular weekend getaway for Singaporeans and expats. This has pushed prices up and coming straight from Java the $25 room price was a shock. For that we got a mozzie net, cold running water and the South China Sea lapping at the beach directly under our veranda, so I guess it was ok.

            After dumping our bags, we went for a wander up the beach and found a resort obviously catering to wealthy Singaporeans and Chinese. It had bungalows perched on concrete stilts several hundred metres out to sea and the restaurant menu featured shark fin soup and sea turtle. The turtles were on display in overcrowded plastic tanks next to the kitchen. I briefly considered freeing the turtles and punching the owner in the cock but then remembered I’m a massive coward.

            When we strolled back into our hotel bar, there were half a dozen tense-looking backpackers watching the TV in silence. Images of floating cars and shattered buildings filled the screen – a tsunami had hit Japan. The hotel owner translated as we watched the disaster unfold.

North-eastern parts of Indonesia were being evacuated and locals were being told to find high ground. I got my map of Indonesia out. Although we were a long way west of the affected islands, our beach directly faced southern Japan. It was going to be a tense night.

Very pretty, but hardly ideal shelter in a tsunami

We sat with a couple of pommy girls watching the tragic devastation and listening to the waves lap the beach twenty metres from where we sat. Our hosts assured us there was nothing to worry about – we were too far away, apparently – and anyway, there was no transport and no higher ground anywhere close.

            We woke the next morning high and dry with a burning desire to get off Bintan. Unfortunately the only way to do so, we were told by the apologetic owner, was to walk to the main road and hitchhike the twenty-odd kilometres into town. We hiked up to the main road in the heat and waited for a ride. Nearby there was a little shop in the middle of the farms and tropical scrub. By this time I had learned the Indo for ‘can I have a big water’, ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re crazy’. As I approached the counter, the three staff giggled and hid.

            “Um, can I have a big water please?”

            There were more giggles before a small water was produced.

            “No. Can I have a big water please?” I was fast running out of vocab.

            The girl blushed and fumbled as she exchanged the small water for a big one. I had never had such an effect on anyone. It was disconcerting.

            “You’re crazy,” I said as she took my money.

            Well. I have never said a funnier thing. The whole shop burst into hysterics. People were laughing and screaming. I backed off slowly, considering a career in Indonesian standup comedy.

            After half an hour standing beside an empty road, a grey van pulled up.

            “Tanjung Pinang?”

            “Ok.”

            Half an hour later the van delivered us in air-conditioned comfort to the dock. Through our usual mash of Bahasa and English we learned that the driver had not been planning to go that far but had made a special trip. At the dock he wouldn’t accept any money. People are great.

On the ferry to Singapore. Saucy minx

 Going from Indonesia to Singapore is like leaving a nightclub toilet and going to a dinner party at a dentist’s house. The food’s pretty good and if you drink the water you wont die, but after twenty minutes you’ll be bored enough to pierce your own testicle. We spent three days in the ‘pore and it was fine. We met some nice people, ate tasty food and drank reasonably priced beer at the city’s many hawker centres. Oh, and there’s the world’s most fantastic ukulele shop where I spent an hour playing a little banjo-uke so sweet that I wanted badly to marry it and start a little twangy family.

Clearly I was going insane. It was time to go.

The sacred love between an idiot and his instrument

Jakarta to Bintan – Robbery on the High Seas

Leaving Jakarta

There’s probably an old sea shanty warning of the perils of boarding a ship that shares it’s name with a Nigerian prostitute, I thought, as Alicia and I stepped aboard the Lambelu at Jakarta’s Tanjung Priok dock.

Two days up the Sumatran coast, Bintan island was to be our last stop in Indo before we hit Singapore. The Lambelu is one of the Pelni ferries that for years has been happily chugging millions of Indonesians and the odd backpacker around the archipelago. Recently their popularity has decreased due to budget airlines and the fact that Pelni boats sometimes fall over and drown everyone. However this only happens in extreme conditions such as cloudy weather and Tuesdays and their safety record has improved markedly in recent years due to the implementation of advanced safety systems like rudders and maps.

            We caught a crowded bus and spent an hour sitting on the dashboard smiling wanly as we battered trough the smog and congestion of central Jakarta. Jumping a couple of motorbike taxis, we swerved toward the dock, our backpacks neatly removing wing mirrors as my driver chatted cheerfully in Bahasa Indonesian.

Jakartarians, or whatever, tend to have a kind of insane friendliness that reminds me of that drunk guy I get talking to in the bar of every small-town Aussie pub. The guy who buys you seven ouzo shots and insists you come back to his mate’s house to smoke bongs and listen to Twisted Sister and then at 3am starts accusing you of sleeping with his ex-wife or stealing his dartboard before screaming, “Only joking. You’re a good egg, Mark,” and slapping you so hard on the back that his dartboard falls out of your jacket. Or does that only happen to me?

Anyway, our bikes dropped us off and after a medium-length self-guided tour of Jakarta’s biggest cargo port we found our gate and strode up a pleasingly rickety gangway onto the Lambelu.

Home sweet home

Our cheapo ticket entitled us to a vinyl mattress each on an open-plan lower deck we shared with a couple of hundred people. It was 2 hours before scheduled departure and already families sat on their beds slurping instant noodles and slapping bent playing cards down between crossed legs. Men with bad teeth lay smoking with one arm shielding their eyes from exposed fluro lights. Women carrying urns full of hot water stepped over sleeping children.

“Pop-mi, kopi,” they rhymed, trying to sell their noodles and coffee before we sailed.

            Our deck was just above the waterline and tiny portholes let in no natural light. Screaming kids and teens listening to tinny Indo pop on mobile phones vied with TVs  locked to staticy gameshows for title of most annoying noise in the world. With no ventilation, cigarette smoke hung in the air, almost obscuring the ‘no smoking’ signs. It was still better than an Air Asia flight. I loved it. 

The neighbours

It was time to find the helipad.

            Here’s a hot tip. All reasonable sized ferries have helipads. They’re always at the very top of the ship with great views and the crew never lock the gates or check for people up there. I found out by accident once on a ferry to Tasmania and I haven’t looked back. The Lambelu was no exception. We watched the sun dissolve into the Jakarta haze while cranes lazily loaded containers onto huge freighters. By the time the ship smogged its way out of the harbour we were a couple of hours behind schedule and the sky was dark. I found a little platform aft of the starboard mizzen f’c’sle and stood in the breeze pleased with the way my pirate talk was coming along and hoping to God I was on a poopdeck.

            If you don’t like boat travel, you’re an idiot and we can’t be friends anymore. As the sea breeze flushed the Javan smog out of my lungs and navigation buoys twinkled red and green I had a feeling of traveling that you don’t get from buses and planes. It was rad. A couple of hours later, the fishing boats had thinned and Jakarta was a faint gleam on the clouds behind us. I returned to quarters, brushed the cigarette ash and dandruff off my bed and turned in.

Jakarta from the helipad

The next day we made some friends and I tried to eat something’s head.

As the only foreign devils on aboard, we naturally drew some attention. I say we but it was really Alicia. She is so pale that soon after we met I took a flash photo of her and she had to be rushed to hospital with 2^nd degree burns. When the photo was developed, you could clearly see her spleen and parts of her small intestine. Under state and territory law she is banned from walking through long grass on days of total fire ban. People notice her.

We woke up hungry. We had brought snacks and packaged goods with us but I wasn’t sure I could stomach a chocolate and marshmallow breakfast… No wait, I totally could. But the guy at the Pelni office had said that there was food included in the ticket price. The group of people behind us soon came back bearing polystyrene containers of something that smelled eggy and good. On seeing the drool pooling on my chin one of our neighbours gestured for us to follow him. He led us to a little hole-in-the-wall where a queue had formed to collect trays of steamed rice, boiled egg and chili sauce – the breakfast of champions.

            We spent the day using a combination of English, Bahasa, guidebooks, a map of Indo, mime, and a ukulele to chat to our ever-expanding group of friends. At lunch time we were taken up to the counter and each got a tray of rice and about a quarter of some little fish. My quarter was all head. I’m not bad with eating silly food. I’ve had moth in Thailand, fertilized duck egg in Vietnam, chicken feet in Korea and jellied eel in east London – once I even tried Red Rooster – but I just can’t come at fish head. It’s all eyeball juice and face.

It's what's for dinner... and lunch

After lunch the menfolk invited me upstairs for coffee, leaving the girls to knit and chat about their periods or whatever it is that girls do. I was glad of the opportunity to wash the gill-snot and cheek from between my teeth. The deck was full of men playing cards and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. After a couple of cups of coffee, the rest of the guys excused themselves and left me with the bill for 10 coffees and a couple of packs of ciggies. At 4 bucks I wasn’t complaining.

            We were due at Kijang on Bintan island early the next morning but late that night there was a commotion and I gleaned that we were arriving several hours early. I can only assume that, contrary to Pelni company policy, the captain had not gotten lost or crashed into any reefs, thereby ruining the schedule. I stood on deck and watched the boringly competent captain pilot the ship into port.

Waiting on the dock were a couple of dozen guys wearing dirty blue vests. As the ship came within leaping distance the men surged onto the lower deck. Minutes later they were on our deck, puffing and yelling. After a short discussion with a family near us, one of the blue-vests shouldered a huge load of boxes and jogged towards the exit.

Mostly big young guys, they were porters charging a few cents to cart luggage to the dock. They were hugely strong and moved quickly, hoping to make two or three trips. Soon our deck was empty and cleaners had begun stacking mattresses and attacking the toilets with mops.

According to our all-seeing, all-knowing Lonely Planet guide, Kijang was tiny with no accommodation. We had planned to get a taxi or hitch straight to Tanjung Pinang on the other side of the island as it seemed the only place that might offer some food and a bed. While Alicia guarded the bags from overzealous porters, I found a member of the crew – the first I had seen all trip. He spoke a bit of English and told me that the ship wouldn’t depart until the next night so we were welcome to crash on a mattress until dawn. Sweet.

I woke the next morning to find that my wallet had been nicked. Bintan island had taken its first swipe at my sanity.