a cure for BEing a wanker
Small, turquoise waves break close to shore. Sun-kissed bodies sprawl across plastic lounges as palm trees sway to a rhythmic breeze. The scorching hot sand is a fine, white powder that squeaks and burns my feet with every step I take.
It feels like I’m walking through the set of a 1980s tourism commercial, with the addition of a handful of bloated English tourists wearing replica Chelsea football jerseys and paying for local women to drink with them and laugh at their jokes. Northern Indonesia has more postcard-perfect beaches than a Bondi-based coke dealer has mobile phones. I can’t help but want more.
Beach holidays are usually an unwanted item on my travel itinerary. To me, fly-and-flop tropical holidays are about as welcome as a fresh cold-sore making an appearance ahead of a date with a long-term crush. ‘No, it’s not facial herpes. Although it does come from the same viral family…’
Thankfully, while the island of Bintan is a haven for sun-seeking layabouts and a short ferry ride from Singapore, there is more to the destination than just shaking the sand out of your bum-crack at the end of the day. Over the past few days, I had almost killed myself riding quadbike over uneven terrain, snorkelled with a plastic bag I mistook for a deadly jellyfish and ate a lovely meal, that was either softshell crab or heavily marinated spider. I still do not know.
The receptionist at the resort I have been staying in wears a sinister, permanent sneer that leads me to assume the wind changed while he was strangling a kitten.
Kitten Strangler tells me, ‘Your car is arriving soon. You have some time before the ferry leaves, so you could stop for a meal on the way.’
Kitten Strangler gestures for me to follow him to a desk where I check-out. I walk behind him through a cloud of cheap aftershave. He begins to alternate between English and Bahasa, which I don’t understand. From what I pick-up from Kitten Strangler, I’ll either be sharing the car with an elderly couple from Canada or lunch-service finishes at 2pm.
A black, polished Toyota arrives shortly after and a portly taxi driver greets me with a toothy grin.
‘Where do you want to go boss?’ Toothy Grin asks as we pull away from the resort.
‘If we have time before the ferry leaves, I’d love to see Panglong Village,’ I reply.
‘OK. OK. We can do.’
Our taxi turns off a coastal road and cutting through the heart of the island. We drive east and the road is flanked by thick jungle. Shadows play across the path in front of us.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to play some golf?’ Asks Toothy Grin. ‘I know a course that has very pretty girls. Very pretty caddies and when you hit the ball off the course, into the jungle, they will follow you in. Help you find it.’
‘You will have a VERY good time looking for your ball with these girls. Trust me,’ Toothy Grin laughs, making an obscene gesture with his hand.
‘Nah, I’m good thanks mate. Golf just isn’t my thing,’ I say, looking down at my phone but trying not to be rude.
The taxi slows. A child runs across the road, clutching a rubber ball in his arms. His father protests and gives chase. The sun breaks through a bank of clouds and illuminates tinned rooftops as Panglong Village comes into view.
Known as the village of the Sea People, or ‘Orang Suku Laut’, Panglong is home to Bintan’s historic nomadic fisherman and their families. The village was developed with the government to provide the fisherman a more stable existence, rather than permanently moving. Always living at sea.
Inside the village a deeply tanned local crouches over a fishing net, pulling at a hole he has just fixed. Testing its strength. I spend time walking slowly along a walkway over-hanging the water. I look out over houses that stand atop of wooden stilts, which look like one strong wind would blow away.
A skinny wooden boat makes its way out to sea, the men inside it waving to another small vessel coming into shore. There is a calming, rhythmic feel to the village, like every day is much the same. The strong smell of dried fish is everywhere, yet no one (besides me) seems to care, or even notice.
Toothy Grin is suddenly behind me, pulling on my shirt. He says that we must go, ‘No. No. No. I thought you were on the later ferry. We have a long way back; we need to leave now.’
‘Hurry, hurry. We don’t want to be late!’
Rain hits worn bitumen. Dust turns to mud. Our Toyota cuts rapidly through the heavy tropical air. A lonely traffic light at a deserted intersection shows red, but we drive on, trying to make up time. The landscape of Bintan is a blur, one patch of green foliage by the roadside unrecognisable form the next.
At the ferry terminal, I try and remain calm at the slow pace of people moving along the dock. The sun is out in full force, causing me to heavily perspire. I suddenly become aware that my back-sweat’s migratory path has come to its unpleasant, but unsurprising, final resting place in my underpants.
The ferry pushes away from Bintan Island. As the boat drifts away from the tree covered landmass, I feel my mobile phone vibrate in my pocket. Before I can answer it, we move out of range of reception. I move to the back of the boat and try to recapture a signal. I try holding my arm in the air, but nothing works.
I approach a small on-board kiosk to ask for the wi-fi password. An old lady sits behind a wooden counter selling bottles of cold Pepsi and dried fruit in small plastic bags. She doesn’t answer me, just waves her hand to make me move out of the way and stop blocking her paying customers.
I walk away from the kiosk in frustration. The lack of wi-fi shouldn’t bother me. But it does.
Our boat moves across lumpy blanket of slowly moving water. Small, rocky outcrops cast elegant shadows in the late of the day. I slump into a cracked-leather seat as the boat rolls peacefully over a coming wave. I realise at this exact moment, in the middle of what could be close to some kind of tropical paradise, that…
I may, (unfortunately) be an actual, first-world wanker.
But maybe I always was.
