Travelling by bicycle, you don’t often get the opportunity to take buses, trains or planes and sometimes you find yourself feeling jealous. I can only dream of travelling hundreds of kilometres in a few hours with zero effort. It is practically teleporting when compared to the slow grind of bike touring. But, as is often the case, the grass is not always greener on the other side.
I always had Bali set in my head as the next flight and, after reaching Singapore, I looked to the island nation of Indonesia and considered my options. I pondered South Sumatra but its vast palm and rubber plantations didn’t seem especially appealing. This was when I heard about a ferry, running every day, between Batam and Jakarta. After a rushed departure from Singapore and its suffocating adherence to rules, sensical or otherwise. I found myself crossing the choppy straight of Singapore, packed with ships, head to the wind, patiently waiting to exchange cargo. Docking in Harbour Bay on the Indonesian island of Batam, my passport was once again checked, scanned and inked.
It was time to start working on the next ferry but I could find little information online. A quick chat with a lanyard told me that it didn’t leave from the port I’d arrived at. Not to worry this was one of many. I checked into a hotel and did some more digging over a big lunch, glad to be back in a country where you could do so for pennies. After a while, all the contrasting information made my head swell. I wanted to get the ferry the next day and, getting nowhere on my own, I decided to check out a travel agent.
Navigating the hectic streets I found the nearest one. My translated query was met with a frank shake of the head. I rephrased and tried again. “Can I book the Batam to Jakarta ferry with you?”. She gestured for the phone. “no running.” This is not what I wanted to hear. I went through the options in my head. None of them sounded fun. I stewed in my room for a while. Despite the woman’s assuredly blunt answer, I was still worried this potentially non-existent ferry would leave the next day and I would be stuck in Batam for another night. Desperately I tried another travel agent. Met by a friendly Chinese girl speaking good English, I was more confident. She knew of the ferry. I’d hooked it, we were on, as my new best friend reeled it in. Snap! “next ferry… 28th”. Seven days away. As if that wasn’t enough, there were no beds available, which, on a ferry that would take thirty-six hours and two nights, was not appealing. Feeling dejected, I left to sleep on it. That night I explored laborious island hopping via Borneo, revisited my original Sumatran route and even thought about talking my way onto a container ship. But they all had their flaws and I returned the next day to book the ferry where I was very relieved to find that beds had become available. I wouldn’t know how lucky I’d been until I boarded.
So, I had a week to waste. I got a very nice hotel for just £7 per night and settled in. I’m not going to pretend that Batam is some hidden gem, far from it. It’s a stinking, loud, bustling place, with the slightly standoffish energy, typically found in border towns. Despite this, I quickly found a relaxed and welcoming cafe and inserted myself into the regular crowd as a place to spend my days writing, planning and catching up on admin.
As if by some law of modern nature, humans have set out to create a dedicated forum for every conceivable topic. Bike touring is no different. Manifesting in a collection of WhatsApp groups, one for each continent and some broken down further. Unlike the forum for ‘seeing Jesus in toast’, these can be a valuable source of knowledge with most groups having five hundred plus members all either on their own tour or locals who can answer the more nuanced questions and lend a hand if needed. I, being the only one in Batam, had been trying to answer questions for anyone who had them. One of them was Baldur. He planned to get the same ferry as me. I didn’t think most tourists would opt for a thirty-six-hour ferry over a flight and was glad knowing I wouldn’t be completely alone on this adventure.
A few days into my wait I was getting a little restless and decided to try and find a bar one evening. Not an easy thing to do in an Islamic country, even in a fairly liberal place like Batam. Coming across a relaxed-looking spot with a beach bar theme I wandered in soon after nine. Silence. Ok, no points for atmosphere, I thought, but what was I expecting? A barman popped up from behind the long bar. He was visibly startled to see me standing there, laptop in hand. Hesitantly, as there wasn’t a single bottle on the shelf behind him I mimed drinking a beer with a closed fist, thumb and little finger outstretched. He laughed and walked around to a staircase concealed in the darkness of the room. Right away, I could see where this was heading, but on a mission for my beer, I ascended. Pushing through the door, I was disappointed, but not at all surprised, to be standing in a small, dark, dingy strip club. Not exactly what I was looking for but I had to laugh. The place was empty but for me and another surprised-looking bartender. I took a seat at the bar and this time my mime was answered with a cold Bintang. The silence was broken by the appearance of three girls who pulled up stools around me. We chatted in broken English as I pretended to work away on my laptop. Realising I couldn’t keep the work facade up for long, I spotted a pool table in the back and proposed a game. The table was horrendous but they were good. Once I’d explained that my needs were purely of the alcoholic variety and that this was going to be a bad night for business they were good fun and we played late into the night.
Finally, departure day came. The ferry wasn’t until 7pm and the day dragged on. Around midday, Baldur, having just got the ferry from Singapore, appeared out of nowhere and we traded stories over coffee. After stocking up on some Indomaret snacks we stopped for one last hearty meal before boarding.
We had a rough idea of where we were going, refined by a helpful security guard. The port was thundering with industry and we weaved our way around trucks on a pitted dirt road. Looking entirely out of place brought back a sense of adventure that I had not only missed in Batam but since entering Thailand months ago. We both felt it and were excited to join the hundreds of people milling around the entrance. At the end of Ramadan, nearly everyone in the country gets two weeks off, many go away to visit family and the mood was exuberant. Being the only two foreigners in sight, we quickly attracted a lot of attention which is something you do get used to travelling in out-of-the-way places but, mixed with the holiday excitement, it was turned up a notch.
Plugging my info into an ancient computer running a long-forgotten version of Windows it spat out a ticket and we began manoeuvring the bikes through the throngs of people. After our tickets were checked we passed through some gates and shuffled passed a band wearing hi-vis jackets as well as a tent offering massages to stressed passengers. We reached the entrance to a vast warehouse where the security danced to the music. Once in, and with no explanation, we were ordered to stand to one side where we waited for five minutes being generally in the way. Eventually, we were told to pay 200,000 Rp (£9) for the bikes and it was on to the scanners. A tedious operation not helped by the jostling of our fellow passengers eager to get on board. Emerging out of the other side of the warehouse into the evening sun we shared a cigarette on the harbour with a border officer. We tried to get him on one of our bikes, always a laugh, but he was far too short. Trying to pick mine up there was a moment I thought this could end in us having to fish both of them out of the water. We ended posing him with such important questions as, “Would you catch us if we canoed from Singapore to Batam” – which to our amusement were taken much too seriously.
We could see the ship now and she was a whopper. One hundred and forty-five metres and a “stated” capacity of two thousand passengers, this small cruise liner would be our home for the next couple of days. Pushing our bikes up the gangplank and into the confines of the ship, the first thing I was struck by was a cold blast of AC as I stepped through the door. That was a big relief. Given little instruction on where to store the bikes we searched for an out-of-the-way spot but the ship was rammed wall to wall with low beds. One of the crew ushered us to an out-of-the-way fire exit and we gathered our valuables. Leaving the bikes we went in search of our beds.
Throughout the ship, the crew was handing out yoga mats to lines of people. We nearly picked one up before realising that this was the economy seating that I would have had if a bed had not miraculously become available the day I booked. Once you had your mat it was on you to find a spot on the already crowded floor. Jostling our way up to the seventh deck I found my berth, tucked in next to the wall, another small blessing. I was surrounded by a large family who had already made themselves at home. We exchanged smiles and I sat on my bed and observed the room that held over seventy beds and far more people.
After acclimatising we needed some air and went in search of the upper decks. Every bit of floor space was carpeted with bodies and you could tell some had got there early to secure the good spots. Tip-toeing up to the 8th deck we emerged onto an open walkway running down the side of the ship. The railings were lined with men smoking and kids running around. More stairs, but just as many smiles and welcomes greeted us. It wasn’t long before we were chatting to a young boy from Sumatra who was keen to practise his English.
We watched the sun set behind Singapore and by 7 pm the ship still showed no sign of departing. I ate a couple of packets of instant noodles and got acquainted with the family I was bunking with. The little girl took particular interest in me, insisting on introducing me to her dad over Facetime. The ship hummed and vibrated as the main engines were fired up. A couple of tugs pulled alongside to guide us out and by 9 pm we were underway, heading east away from the bright lights and into the darkness. With music playing and others talking loudly, the cabin showed no sign of sleeping but I tried to get my head down. With headphones in and my hat over my eyes, shielding me from the sterile white lights, I drifted off.
It wasn’t long before I was woken, not by the noise, but by a small hand pulling at one of my feet. I moved my hat and was met by the little girl waving her phone at me. She was bored, her family were asleep and maybe she knew I didn’t have the vocabulary to send her to bed. She flicked through photos on her phone as my eyes adjusted to the light. Making no effort to keep her voice down she tried hard to hold my attention but mum soon stirred and called her back, giving me a friendly smile. I quickly fell back asleep until I was again woken, this time by the sound of movement and people talking. I looked out of the small window to my right and saw we were in another port. All the activity told me we were taking on passengers. Yoga mats were being handed out to a long queue just over from me. The captain spoke over the PA, far too loud for such an enclosed space at 3 am. Later I would find out he was telling people to be quiet as other passengers were sleeping. At least they were until his announcement.
I’m one of the lucky few, despised by most, who can sleep virtually anywhere. The next thing I knew, it was 8 am, and we were cruising through the open, blue sea. I made my way up on deck, to the open-air cafe set aft of the ship. The decks were covered in still bodies now surrounded by a mix of cigarette buts and other rubbish. The ship was a mess and we were only twelve hours in. A speaker blasted out music to an unenthusiastic audience with sleepers unconscious beside it. No one made any effort to turn it off. The music, lack of sleep and the heat, sticky and close, kicked the day off on a rather rocky note.
I brewed my noodles and took a stool at one of the tables. A man tried to spark up conversation in good English. It was too early. I made myself seem as uninteresting as possible and he soon got bored. I kept an eye on him though. He was live streaming himself or rather everyone around him. A family with two kids had taken up residence beside the doorway to a small shop and every time he thought no one was watching he’d face his camera toward them. He seemed to be quite oblivious to me watching his every move from the other side of the table. I was thinking about what to do when a particularly tough-looking Indonesian took up the stool next to him and the phone was quickly hidden away.
I spent the rest of the morning sleeping or listening to a book in the air-conditioned cabin. Around mid-day, Baldur’s neighbours invited us for a coffee. Reaching the small seating area a girl caught my eye. With her back to me, short hair and wearing a strapped top displaying two sleeves of bold tattoo, she stood out. Still, I didn’t believe she was a foreigner until she turned around and saw me. Smiling, she waved me over. With our other passengers watching on we chatted over coffee. She was Spanish and her English was a little lacking so we took turns rephrasing our replies as rubbish that littered the floor was swept overboard by the crew. She had a chess set and nipped off to get it. After swiftly beating me she began playing some of the locals. Chess is big in Asia and they were good. With no other entertainment a small crowd formed and we watched, smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking strong coffee. Hours passed and by the time the games had petered out the sun had set.
Included with our tickets were two hot meals a day. Until now I hadn’t bothered to try and find them but the Spaniard knew where to go so we headed off to get dinner with low expectations. Descending to the lower decks we joined a queue, snaking through cabins, taking care not to step on anyone who had taken up residence in its path. After nearly a lap of the ship, we got to a small canteen which was dispensing small trays of fried chicken and rice as well as a bottle of water. Returning to our chess table we laughed and ate until we were too tired to do either. Resigning ourselves to bed for the last time meant braving the toilet once more. At some point they had flooded and a pallet had been laid. Moving further you had to tread carefully so as not to splash yourself or others around you. All done, and with eyes streaming from the smell, I settled in for my last night.
I was woken with a shake from my neighbour and looked around to see everyone packing their things. I checked my phone, it was 6 am. We weren’t due in for another couple of hours and a glance out of the window confirmed we were far from docked. Everyone was excited but I dozed as we slowly made our way into Jakarta. We waited for people to disembark before fighting our way through the oncoming traffic in the cramped corridors back to our bikes. Joining the end of the line there was still time for selfies with anyone who asked; we were well practiced by now.
There was lots of pushing as we forced the bikes and ourselves onto the gangplank. Finally, we were back on land. We were disgusting. Two days of sweat, grime and stale smoke clung to our bodies and clothes. I was dying for a shower but it wasn’t over yet. We followed the crowd into a warehouse where all our bags had to be x-rayed again before leaving. It was a 15km ride to my hostel stopping on the way as food was the priority. After a large meal, Baldur and I parted ways, but not for the last time. Reaching my hostel I crashed, it would take a couple of days to catch up on sleep. In the meantime, I set about planning my route across Java.