Bintan Nahi Hai!

If Bali was Hai! then I'm afraid I must report that Bintan was Nahi Hai! It's a 45 min. ferry ride from Singapore and hallelujah, visa on arrival. A villa to ourselves, beautiful beach, a full moon, alcohol and chocolates. What more does a weekend need? How about a ferry that has provision for outdoor seating or standing for a start? Or if you feel the need to test people's seaworthiness by locking them indoors, why would you be running videos of animal birthings? (although I must admit to everyone else's horror, I was rather riveted by the sight of the first baby shark greedily snacking on it's yet to be mutated siblings with great relish in the womb, but I seemed to be in the minority). Still, Bree and I womanfully withstand the claustrophobia, bloody birth canals and bouncing boat and disembark reeking of alcohol - courtesy a broken wine bottle and nearly step on a child on the gangplank who was clearly less womanful than we were. The visa fees are a steep US$25, and in a display of the best that SE Asia has to offer, states that it's a one time entry only but valid for 30 days. Now ain't that just handy. Why would you want to charge US$10 for a single entry visa valid only for 5 days when you can just reduce the number of pages on someone's passport for US$25 in the 10 feet that it takes to get from the token issuing counter to the visa officer! Our villa at Nirwana Garden Resort or was it Beach Club offers redemption and we debate our dinner choices, settling for the restaurant dabbling in local cuisine. A buggy ride later, we arrive at our destination, and the smiles are contagious as we seat ourselves next to the lapping waves on the beach, salt breeze playing with our hair. The waiter recommends the Nasi Goreng and and we order a collection of local specialities as we wallow in the perfect atmosphere. The Indian chicken curry is the only item that makes us smile, and shockingly, the Nasi Goreng slips past indifferent to wtf.... we decline dessert and head for the beach instead. The moon is big, fat and bright, nearly a perfect circle and illuminates the beach and ocean for miles around, shying away as clouds stray in front of it. Illuminus interruptus. It's breathtakingly beautiful and makes us drawn into ourselves, our own thoughts, shivering as the breeze rustles your clothes. It's a lover's moon, a lover's night, and suddenly your own arms warding off the wind seems inadequate. Archana meanders ankle deep into the water, while Prithi and I head for the loungers. It's ridiculous. Like a postcard. The moon framed by the fronds of the palm trees edging the lounger, the clouds chasing each other sending shadows dipping over you, giving away to the moon's light. It's perfect and you can feel yourself drift into it's magic, letting it lull you to sleep. The spell is broken by the rude fact of having to get the last bus to take us back to our villa. The bus is absconding so we're directed to a buggy with instructions to wait. Naturally, a group of self respecting women will then wrestle each other to see who should drive! Our designated driver shows up, with folded hands and charmingly responds to Prithi's "Shall I drive" with a, "Yes, Yes..". Huh? She goes, "Really?", he says, "Yes, yes, I drive". "Oh, but can I drive?", "Yes, I drive", "No yes, I know that, but shall I?", "We drive, yes", "So, I can drive, yes?", "Yes, yes, I can drive", "No, can I drive?", "Yes, I can drive"..... the scintillating conversation makes my whole life flash before my life and I can no longer hold it in. "Oi! Enough - get into the damn buggy! I can see us spectating this coversation for the rest of the night!!"... "Yeah, I could see us doing this all night to". Needless to say, the giggles assailed us at this utterly ridiculous exchange with yours truly being chief perpetrator, and it was a miracle no bodies slipped out due to excessive mirth on the ride back. Back home, we break out one of the remaining two bottles of wine, to hear Archana's surprised "the water's oily". Huh? Why would the tap water be oily.. except it's not the tap water. It's her hands, the waters just rolling off it like a duck's back. "It smells" she declares as she proffers her appendages for a sniff. Oh boy. Gasoline. Her hands smell of gasoline. We take inventory of her person, and there's this thick black mark on her foot that won't come off when you swipe at it. Tar. That's why it won't come off easily. Uh oh. The beach has tar and gasoline in the water. Not exactly what we'd signed up for! We eventually roll off to bed at 3 am or similar with a strategy to leave for b'fast by 10 past 10. Breakfast is scrumptious and a smorgasbord of Asia hot foods - chicken curry, mee goreng, congee, pancakes with honey, traditional croissants, cereals, eggs and sausages/bacon and fruit amongst others. Our stroll takes us past a 'Beware of tar' sign on the beach and we resign ourselves to the pool for our afternoon agenda. This morning, we're headed for Pasar Oleh Oleh which turns out to be a tourist trap village with shops and more shops. But they do have a spa and two hours of indulgence with hot stones, herbal compress and a wonderful massage leaves us limbless. We manage to drag ourselves to the nearest restaurant for some munchies and big, fat tender coconuts. I haven't had nairal pani in years and it hits the spot. We're struggling to stay upright and decide to tank up on more salted calories to go with the rest of our alcohol and head back (this time, we were careful about picking "dark'' chocolate magnum based on the text and not just the colour of the pack! Although why anyone would put a pale gold ice cream of caramel aspirations in a dark chocolate cover I do not understand!!). Back home, we strip and head for the pool closer to us. The water is tepid, and I abandon my original plan to just wallow poolside and do it in the water instead. Breanna offers her college expertise at mixing drinks so we can drink nonchalantly by the poolside. Several minutes later (and several non flattering theories by Archana and me about thieving lushes from New York), we gather around prawn crackers and very 'strong' combinations of vodka soda, vodka orange and vodka sprite in what once was mineral water bottles. One swig. "Aaaacccaaak! Whoa". Next swig. "Grccccccccckkkkkkk. Fuck!". Final swig. Serious coughing and much back thumping. No shit Sherlock. Strong doesn't cut it. What we've got is virtually 60 proof with all the charm and subtlety of 'ghaslet'. Health and safety dictates we cling the edge of the shallow pool as we take cautious swigs and explore our vocabulary. The orange juice is vile and is abandoned without second thought, but we steadily work our way through the other two and the salties. Having gasoline poured down one's gullet makes one believe a photo shoot on the beach is appropriate so we canter down, flinging towels and inhibition (well, for some of us anyway) to the winds and give Bollywood a run for their money, thrusting tits and ass, flaunting cleavage and well..... what goes on tour, stays on tour! The sun dips, raising goose bumps and we retire to cleanse ourselves but get sidetracked by a potential jacuzzi in the main pool. Sadly, our knicked towels (well, people shouldn't leave their towels unmanned!) were left bereft as the jacuzzi refused to bubble. Still, one cannot steal someone else's towels and not use them, so we headed for the pool bar and found the perfect spot that gave us a Bollywood moon lurking like a coy bride behind a couple of palm trees and the edge of the pool lapping the other that stretched out towards the sea in the most perfect manner. Frozen margaritas were demanded but we were left confused by what was proffered. Still, want not, waste not, so amid much disdain and queries about the composition of the beverage, we did what had to be done. Archana was clearly inspired by our beach photo shoot, promptly did the whole flinging head back with hair flying over her head in the sexiest Silk Smitha manner, and while Bree was left pondering the cultural context, Prithi turned cameraman, and I director and we had our budding star do a myriad of angles and positions to get the perfect hair flinging back, droplets spraying titillatingly as her bosom breaks the water scenes. Bollywood, eat your heart out. We did have a few episodes of nearly drowning each other in our attempt at perfection combined with unmaintained mirth and the moon refused to cooperate with the photo shoot only returning as a fake looking blob on every photo. The stolen towels await us, and we decide the buffet on offer by the poolside is just perfect for our needs. Bree and I find a restroom and return with wadded wet bikinis, and I discover soon enough, that a smaller than usual sarong is not the safest thing to be wearing to a windy dinner and despite my stunning response times on a sudden flap of the sarong, I suspect I might have inadvertently flashed a few unsuspecting dinners. One presumes they were more engrossed in their satay than mine. The satay is outstanding, and we gobble between 6-8 sticks apiece. The Mongolian stir fry combined with the rice and beef is outstanding and we stuff our faces till we feel sick. That still leaves us with dessert to deal with, so we suck it up and head for the fruit and pudding table. I leave the vile green squares to Archana and focus on the familiar chocolate and fruit. The steamed pudding is spectacular and I almost wish I had taken some more. But by now, we're seriously feeling dangerously sick, so we agree to wobble back to the villa. It's been a spectacular day, and the villa fills with laughter as we share the day and our general view of life. New Zealand is our next holiday destination for December and we debate who our fourth will be (Bree's headed back for NYC by June). A glass of wine and we've agreed that we will finalise our plan and book tickets by end of April, but promise Archana that we'll rock up to India in Nov for her birthday, and toss Sri Lanka in the mix just to get the logistics (not to mention the finances) nicely juiced up. Cambodia also features somewhere in the discussion along with hot men, discrimination at work in Singapore, how the single entry visa is a rip off, how turtles survive in these waters, new careers and Prithi's scintillating dialogue with buggy man... one by one, we loose the girls and only Amma is left standing and grimaces through Mission Impossible yet another one before heading up - it's not like I'm going to have to leave the room for my massage. All too soon, we're done with another let's feed the poor breakfast/brunch and we barely have time to empty our last bottle of wine(Singapore will apparently not let you bring it back in, so what if you bought it on their shores!) before it's time to check out and head for the ferry and then a mad dash to grab the first taxi, agree to pay hafta and leave Archana with the bill as I scramble for the check in counter and my less than relaxing week ahead in HK. I can't wait for New Zealand via Sri Lanka! P.S. - Why we've never read anything about the beach being tarred in any review is beyond me!