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