Note 1 – Saturday 11th June – Pulau Batam

Culture shock! It shouldn’t be, given the time we’ve already spent in China, Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, but I guess our four most recent months of travelling, through tourist set-up, expat abundant Thailand, Malaysia and Singapore, where no-one even batted an eyelid at a Western face, it being such an unremarkable event, have spoilt us, in a sense (I say “us”, Paula didn’t mention it on arriving in India, so maybe she was better mentally prepared than I was!). Anyway, I’ve just spent most of the day being stared at! Not in an unfriendly fashion, quite the opposite, and I’ve already been asked where I’m from and where I’m going by smiling and interested faces on countless occasions. But nevertheless, I’d forgotten what it was like.
However, a result, no doubt, of my own travel choices! I assume that ninety-nine percent of travellers enter Indonesia by plane these days (logical, in fairness; to Medan, for instance, my current initial destination, it’d take a couple of hours rather than a couple of days), and I’m lead to believe that only a fraction of these even bother with the island of Sumatra anyway. Bali being far and away the most popular one, with neighbouring Lombok and Java also probably much higher on the list. But I’m hanging on in there, airport dodging – I’m off to Sumatra and I’m going by boat! So I don’t expect to see another Westerner until tomorrow lunchtime at the earliest, in Medan (Sumatra’s biggest city), and possibly not until I get to Bukit Lawang, my first actual stopping point, the day after. Where, incidentally, I’m booked in for four nights to do a bit of jungle trekking and orangutan spotting!

Indonesia’s boat safety record being what it is (albeit greatly improved over the last couple of years, I gather, after a spate of sinkings in 2009), I’m not taking any chances, so I’m journeying on the government owned, floating fortress of a vessel that is a PELNI (Persiaran Nacional Indonesia?) ship. They only pass by here every four days, and occasionally less, but my luck’s in, KL Kelkud departs at 6pm today, getting into Medan tomorrow sometime, which saves me a shorter ferry to a nearer Sumatran port, followed by a three hour bus ride, an overnight stop, and a further twelve hours on a bus the following day. I almost missed the opportunity, having initially been told by the Pulau Batam port information desk that there wasn’t a PELNI departure until Wednesday. But with the first boat out of Singapore this morning being fully booked, resulting in me not arriving in time to make any of the aforementioned shorter crossings, I thought what the heck, I’ve got the whole day to play with anyway, I might as well double check. And lo and behold, I went to PELNI’s own office, and I’d been told wrong.

I don’t think many Westerners venture to the PELNI office! The looks weren’t so much “wow, a Westerner”, but “what on earth are you doing here?”. And there’s nothing like being a good six inches taller than everyone else and carrying a 22.8kg rucksack around (weighed for the first time at baggage check-in this morning!) when you’d like to be a little less conspicuous! They had time to get used to me, though, as the optimistically short looking queue of about thirty people took just under three hours to buy their tickets. Plenty of chat in my direction, not a word of which I understood! I just smiled and shrugged a lot. Initially I was developing the conclusion that the guy in the ticket office hadn’t yet upgraded to a computer, and must be using a typewriter, colouring pens and a pair of scissors to make the tickets, but I think what was actually going on was that the majority of people in the queue were each getting lots of tickets, on behalf of agents. Which would also explain the “what on earth are you doing here?” looks. So I could probably have paid an agent an extra fifty pence to have someone stand in line for me all morning! (Did I say “in line”? – a slip of the tongue; a semblance of a line turned into anything but, as the crush of bodies homed in on the little window, arms stretching through to hand over pieces of paper with the relevant information). But hey, I didn’t have anything else planned for today, so no problem, I’ll treat myself to something nice with that extra fifty pence!

All of which, I should add, has taken place in conjunction with my first hangover in a few weeks, with slight sleep deprivation thrown into the mix. Not self-disciplined enough, it turns out! And before any thoughts of “”ooh, no sympathy for hangovers, self-generated…” materialise, I didn’t have a choice, it was a wedding celebration, I couldn’t escape!

Note 2 – Sunday 12th June – On the boat to Medan

You can take being called “brave” by a local, when travelling, in two ways. One is the immediate, instinctive little feeling of pride at the intended compliment. The other, however, shortly afterwards, is to think “why, am I in some way at risk?”. Both crossed my mind, in that order, after chatting to Sandra, a lovely lady from Pulau Batam, who was waiting near me with her family to get on the same boat. Amongst a thousand other Indonesians and, as I’d earlier predicted, not one other Westerner! Having been away for almost a year now, with nothing really bad having happened, the slight feeling of (perhaps misplaced) invincibility lead the positive sentiment to ultimately prevail in my mind. But still, given the choice, I think I’d prefer it if she just hadn’t said it at all.

The ship set sail (so to speak; naturally it has an engine) a mere three and three quarter hours late, in darkness. And I’m told it’ll take twenty-three hours, instead of the seventeen I’d read somewhere on the internet. I think the explanation may be that the ships are going slower and slower every year, to save fuel and compete, price-wise, with the deluge of cheap flights. Not joking – I actually read that too! A pleasant evening, though. A calm and warm sea breeze, the ship gliding quietly through the water, despite its size, and the view of Singapore as we headed back past it was fantastic; the lights of both the city skyline, and planes taking off and landing every minute slightly beyond.

It’s actually mid-way through the next day as I’m writing this. People who’ve introduced themselves to me so far include Sandra, Tony, Willie and Harris. Have I been teleported to the Caribbean? The boat’s pretty decent, for one from a “developing nation”. The cabins are clean and comfortable, there’s a cinema, a couple of restaurants, a moody, neon-lit bar with club singers strangling cats (Simon Cowell would have a field day), and plenty of nice outdoor areas to sit and relax. However, I’m clearly amongst the privileged passengers in having access to all this. The options I had were first class, A or B (little price difference between the two), at about thirty quid, second class, also with A or B (likewise; the only physical difference I think being with or without window), at about twenty quid, and economy, at about twelve quid. I think these correspond with the Lonely Planet’s description of first, second, third, fourth and economy. So, naively in hindsight, I plumped for second A, thinking it’s smack in the middle, not too elitist, but with some comforts. But I’m alone in this six bed berth, and I’m almost certain there are plenty of empty cabins further along the corridor! My research from the fact that with first and second class, meals are included, and based on dinner places laid, suggests that there are under a hundred of us. Compared with what must be over a thousand people fighting it out in open plan economy, with its non reservable bed spaces. Excellent integration, Jon, sitting alone in the upper five percentile! …but on a comfy bed, in a smoke free room with a window to the ocean, not getting stared at, with all my stuff safe behind a locked door... would I trade, save a fiver (meals have got to be worth at least a quid each, surely), to experience “the real thing”? Honestly, no! Ten months ago, with a fiercer spirit of adventure, Paula with me, perhaps it’d be a different story (although third class open carriage on the Trans-Siberian saved us a couple of hundred quid, not a fiver), but no, right now, I’m happy to be enjoying the experience from a slight distance, with the optional escape of sitting, reading and writing, in my cosy cabin.

I probably am generally getting more lame, thinking about it. I was reading a description of one of Sumatra’s national parks in the Lonely Planet yesterday, and the passage in question went “for serious trekkers and jungle enthusiasts (my eyes opened a bit wider; a slight rush of adrenalin at the prospect), Ketambe offers a much more authentic experience than the trekking near Bukit Lawang (where I’m heading to tomorrow). Be prepared for extreme terrain (like it), hordes of leeches (um, less so suddenly) and swarms of stinging insects (nah, forget it, I’ll pass. Bukit Lawang please driver).

I also read that technically, in the autonomous Aceh region at the northernmost tip of Sumatra, where Sharia law exists, I could earn myself forty lashings if I get caught with a beer! Teetotal, methinks, however unlikely it may be! (Assuming we’re not talking Ambrosia Devon cream custard…). Gays aren’t allowed, neither is gambling, and married people committing adultery can still be sentenced to death by stoning. Harsh.

Earlier this afternoon, a lady gestured to the spare space at the end of a bench she was sitting on, with her daughter and a young man it transpired they’d only just met on the boat. We chatted for a while, although her English was quite limited (not as limited as my Indonesian, of course), but it was nice to be in company for a short while. I even liked the fact she was forward enough to laugh with me at my pointy, Western nose. Less entertaining were her attempts to match me up with her sixteen year old daughter, who I could have sworn was more like thirteen anyway, but it was also done laughingly, and in part, I’m sure, just to humiliate her cringing daughter, so it wasn’t too difficult a topic to navigate. But then, as is so often the case, she veered the subject towards money (no small connection with the matching up attempts, I’m sure). It’s a shame, as my heart always sinks, the cynic in me concluding that this was always the intended path of the encounter, and not just natural friendliness. But I guess it’s an understandable intrigue, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I certainly can’t deny it, a point I’m sure I’ve made previously, given my very being in their country, a five hundred pound flight away from my own (one of her questions, in fact; I explained I’d come by train, but was encouraged to guess anyway). And explaining that lots of people earn what I’ve earned and that, in my country, I’m not relatively rich, but have simply chosen to spend my money on travel instead of an expensive car or mortgage deposit, is pointless. And maybe irrelevant, I suppose. I don’t know, like I said, it’s disappointing, but perhaps it’s right that I get reminded regularly of my good fortune.

Which reminds me, I also passed by a white man on the upper deck today, ambling out of the first class cabin section. A small, skinny, old-ish gentleman. “I thought I was the only one!”, was my immediate response to the encounter. He didn’t appear to understand a word I’d said, nodded and grunted uncomfortably, and shuffled straight off! It wasn’t Western wealth that reminded me, I should add, it was that the lady I sat with had mentioned him. She said she’d also spoken to him too (surely not match-making – that’d be disgraceful!), but that he was Brazilian and she didn’t speak much Spanish. I chose not to comment.

Anyway, we dock in an hour or so, and after hours and hours of not seeing land (I had thought that the strait between Malaysia and Indonesia was so narrow I’d be able to see both countries the whole time!), the coast of Sumatra is now visible to our left, with Indonesian fishing boats dotted randomly in the sea between. So I’m going outside to enjoy the final stretch. Next stop, Medan (although for as short a time as possible, by all accounts!).