The Backpacker

by John Harris

  The boat turned into Indonesia’s (and possibly the world’s) first floating brothel, to add to the hundreds already scattered about the town. With Dave having drawn the maximum amount possible on his credit card, we began to live life accordingly. Women were ferried backwards and forwards from the quayside at all hours of the day and night, crates of beer were brought over, food if we couldn’t be bothered to go to town and, on one occasion, a freshly roasted goat was delivered to us by the brothel owner.

  During the course of the week, Rick had a brain-wave and suggested that we change the name of our boat. None of us felt that its current, single word name was really appropriate any more, so, along with the help of some local girls, we racked our brains for a new title.

  Dave suggested typically militaristic words with a sexual twist, like USS Torpedo Lover, or sci-fi names of a similar ilk, such as Starship Lover and Meteor Power. All a bit childish we thought, and told him that if he couldn’t come up with something a little more mature, and a little less comic book, he shouldn’t bother at all.

  It seemed to be very telling of his character and I’ve since used the same ‘name-the-boat’ game to see if it’s a good indicator of other people’s personality, to amazingly accurate results. Even sitting in a pub somewhere, nowhere near the ocean, I still ask people what name they would give a yacht if they had one, sometimes just to test the theory and sometimes as a chat-up line. It yields startling rewards.

  My suggestions tended to combine being at sea with the essence of travel, and were usually names like Free Spirit, The Compass or Joyrider. I suggested calling it Big Balls as a tribute to the infamous Indian deformity but the others thought it was too obscure. The girls who were onboard at the time thought that we should name the boat after themselves, but we all agreed that sailing around in a yacht with the word Titty splashed across the side would make us all look like idiots. Rick pointed out that that’s exactly what we were, but generally agreed that something else would better fit the bill.

  That something else was Rick’s suggestion, and it won the name-the-boat competition hands down. Dave and I went into town, accompanied by his young ‘girlfriend’, Watti, to secure the services of the local sign-writer or, failing that, to purchase paint and brushes to do the job ourselves.

  Watti came in very useful in town when it came to buying anything, not only because she spoke the local language but also because we found that, even though Bangka was far from any tourist destination, we were still being ruthlessly ripped off. Everything we’d bought, from tomatoes to ropes, cost us double what anyone else in town paid for the same item. All we did now was point to something in a shop, out of view of the shop owner, and ask Watti to buy it with our money.

  Within an hour of asking around town we rowed back to the boat accompanied by an eighty-year-old man who said he’d once had the job of repainting the name on the side of the QE II when it had docked in Jakarta once for refuelling. Credentials aside, he had the right equipment: pots of paint, brushes and a two-foot long stick with a rubber ball on the end so we assumed that he knew what to do and let him get on with it. He also had his own floating platform that we towed out, consisting of planks of wood strapped on to three oil drums, which he stood on to do the work, only occasionally falling into the water.

  Every so often, while we lay around on deck drinking beer and sunbathing, the old boy’s head would pop up over the prow of the boat, ‘Beer, beer,’ he’d say through his gummy, one-toothed grin, and one of the girls would top him up. I checked his progress to make sure that he wasn’t too drunk to write, and to make sure he had the piece of paper with the name on the right way round. The last thing we wanted was an upside-down name on the side of the boat.

  When he’d completed the task, we made the mistake of telling him how great it was, each of us thanking him profusely for a job well done. He asked for another beer as a bonus, which we thought fair considering how little we were paying him, and said he’d like to come aboard to drink it. One beer, as ever, led to another, and before long the old man was falling about, apparently pissed out of his brains. He even started to fawn the girls, grabbing their bottoms as they walked past and falling onto the deck with a dull thud as they brushed him off.

  The girls hated it. To them, I suppose, he represented everything they were trying to get away from: poverty, filth and poorly paid manual work, among other things, and they eyed him with barely concealed contempt. The more they pushed him off and tried to appear above his level, the more ironic it seemed. There they were, lounging around in bikinis, trying to convince themselves that they were high-class women who had rich boyfriends, while all along they did a job that was far less noble than the old pervert’s.

  Whenever they shoved him away, one hand clawing feebly at their breasts, he would turn his nose up and say something in Indonesian before moving back in and getting his wizened old hand slapped. I asked the girls what he was saying but they wouldn’t let on, the old man just pointed to the town, tapped the glass face of his wristwatch and laughed. It was pretty obvious that he was reminding them where they worked and that he could go into the bar and buy their affections any time he wanted to. He just laughed at their haughty behaviour, his one tooth going up and down like a baby without a dummy, and they hated him for it.

  Half a dozen bottles of Bintang later we found him crashed out on one of the beds (my bed) and decided, rather than have to carry him off, that we’d let him sleep and leave under his own steam. He slept for six hours, and when he did wake up, all previous payment of his services was a mystery to him, and we had to go through a long, drawn-out argument over the amount of money he’d been paid. Or, rather, Titty did.

  The whole thing ended rather badly, with the two of them nearly coming to blows and the old guy slipping and falling into the water. Dave rescued him and we paid him again, much to the anger of the girls, who thought we should have let him drown.

  Over the course of that week, we had all but forgotten about travel, and the boat became nothing more than a floating hotel. However, the money began to run low and our thoughts eventually turned back to moving on, and our possible next destination before Bali. Considering our penchant for spending money at the most inappropriate times we all thought it best to keep moving, and Rick reminded us that we hadn’t really moved very far from Singapore. ‘This boat may be carrying our name but it belongs to someone else,’ he said, wagging a cautious finger.

  We were fully stocked up with food and water, and, given the constant wind conditions that were forecast, Rick reckoned on making the journey to Bali in just over a week. I had no idea about boat speed and nautical miles, but said that it just looked like a long way. Dave countered by saying that because we were three-handed (well, two and a half), and because he and Rick could both sail, we would effectively be on the move around the clock, only one person sleeping at any one time.

  None of us knew exactly what we were going to do when we got to Bali, but Rick suggested that if we grew bored of the ocean (which was very likely according to him) we could sell the boat. I thought that was a little unlikely seeing as how we didn’t hold any of the necessary proof-of-ownership documents. It was possible that the legitimacy of three foreigners wouldn’t be questioned, especially if the boat was at a rock-bottom price, but Dave and I dismissed the idea, saying that we wanted to sail around the world for ever and a day, and not just a week.

  There was, however, one more pressing problem to consider, and that was the relationship between Dave and Watti.

  FIVE

  During the course of the week we spent in Bangka, Dave and Watti had been in each other’s company twenty-four hours a day. At first he’d paid the owner of the brothel, but after two days Watti had all but left the place and moved on to the boat. She did all our washing and cooking, among other things, and was generally a pleasure to have around. But more importantly for Dave, on top of all the domestic chores she was so good at, she was very young and very beautiful.

 
If Rick or I had to go to town for anything Dave would immediately suggest that Watti come with us, reeling off her attributes as though without her the world, or our boat at least, would fall apart. Similarly, when we had our bedtime smoke and started to talk about places we wanted to travel to, each suggesting our dream location, Dave, one arm around Watti, would always say ‘We’ would like to go to such and such a place, or ‘We’ think so and so would be nice.

  Dave hadn’t brought up the subject, but I knew sooner or later he was going to suggest that Watti would make an invaluable addition to the crew, someone we couldn’t possibly do without while travelling through Indonesia. Either that or we would weigh the anchor and sail off, and two days into the voyage find her stowed down below deck. ‘What’s she doing here?’ I’d say, discovering her beneath the life jackets. Dave would look blankly back and say, matter-of-factly, ‘It’s Watti, my girlfriend, John.’

  So, when, on the night before we planned to leave, Dave asked us if we minded taking a new passenger onboard, Rick and I were unhappy but not altogether surprised.

  Watti had already gone to bed, the other girls had been sent ashore without any hassles and the three of us were smoking on deck beneath a brilliant starry sky. The only sound around us was the ‘ping’ of the rigging against the steel mast, caught by the strengthening wind.

  ‘No,’ Rick replied firmly. He leaned to one side and flicked his ash over the gunwale. ‘Dave, you’re forgetting yourself. We’re going to Bali, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, and she can come along. I–’ He hesitated, tapping his cigarette even though it wasn’t lit. ‘Look, I really like her, man.’

  ‘Then stay here with her. Or go with her to her home in Java. But we’re not going to fook about sailing all the way down to some obscure port in Java, just so she can tell her mum and dad where she is!’

  ‘It’s on the way, guys.’

  Rick slapped his thigh. ‘It’s not on the way, Dave, it’s miles out of the fooking way.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘What’s going to happen, Dave, ask yourself that question. We’ll sail all the way down to wherever it is, you’ll be sick of her by then and we’ll be fooked because we haven’t got the money to move on.’

  ‘We would be fucked,’ I added, and nodded sagely. ‘He’s right, Dave, see sense. You’ve only known her, what, less than a week?’

  Rick quickly chimed in. ‘And you want to throw everything away? Fook it up for yourself if you want but don’t ask us to come with you.’ Rick got up and went down below to fetch another beer, bringing the conversation to a close. I just shrugged.

  The next hour was filled with heavy silences as Dave avoided eye contact with us, picking at the stitching on his shorts. I felt sorry for him. I knew that he was really torn between being with his friends and being with someone he had fallen in love with. He never mentioned the word love, but it was pretty obvious that he had strong feelings for her, ever since their encounter in the bar on our first night in town.

  I didn’t sleep at all well that night, probably because I was used to the double bed and had decided to sleep up on deck instead with Rick. I told him I fancied a night under the stars, but the real reason was to be as far away from Dave’s love-making as possible. I couldn’t bear to listen to what I suspected would be their last night in each other’s arms and Dave’s pathetic attempt to lie about the following day. I knew he wouldn’t have the guts to tell her the truth and would make up some excuse why she had to go into town without him.

  I lay awake, watching the stars move across the sky, accompanied by the sound of gently lapping waves whipped up by the wind, and the sound of the rigging. All of which was very nearly drowned out by Rick’s snoring.

  I must have fallen asleep eventually, because when I awoke at sunrise the dinghy was gone and I hadn’t heard a sound. Rick was still snoring evenly so I made coffee and, after checking the bedroom and finding it empty, waited on deck for something to happen.

  ‘Did you make me one?’ Rick opened an eye, having apparently sucked in the aroma while snoring.

  I pointed to the steaming mug beside his blanket and kept my eyes on the figure that walked along the quayside towards the dinghy. Dave stood on the jetty and looked back up towards the main street for a moment’s reflection, before turning and walking down the steps to the boat, his skin glowing brown-orange in the early morning sun. The T-shirt he was wearing was taken off angrily and thrown into the bottom of the boat as a cushion and he stepped in.

  ‘D’you think we should have let her come?’ I asked, unable to keep my thoughts to myself.

  Rick leaned up on one elbow and followed my gaze over the prow to where the small, white plastic square edged through the water. ‘No. If he really wants to be with her he can stay here, or take her to Singapore, or back home to America. He doesn’t need us to do that.’ He sipped his coffee noisily. ‘Bringing her on this boat with two other single men is the last thing he needs.’

  I nodded unhappily. Rick was right. He could easily have gone overland with her to Java, or anywhere else for that matter, and they could have lived together. As it was he must have had the same doubts as us.

  I watched as Dave drew alongside us, but averted my gaze when he climbed up. ‘OK then,’ he said with contrived enthusiasm, ‘let’s get the sails up before I change my mind.’

  Neither of us replied. I tied up the dinghy that Dave had left free, and Rick started to unfurl the sails. Dave went down below and started to play around with the radio and navigation equipment and, apart from the odd instruction given without emotion, none of us spoke.

  Slowly at first, with just part of the sail up, we drifted out of the harbour past the fishing boats. Women were washing pots and pans in the water, while men took their early morning bath, occasionally waving to us, as we went by.

  We cleared the headland and let out the rest of the sail; the wind filled the flapping canvas and our newly named yacht picked up speed, leaving the town and so many girls as nothing more than a memory.

  Within an hour we were out of sight of land, and out of mind of everything other than the sea and the sky, and the re-named vessel beneath our feet: Wet Dream.

  CHAPTER 9

  MARINE

  ONE

  FAST FORWARD. Two weeks later. Dave and Rick took it in turns to steer the boat, as planned, usually doing a whole day or night on and half a day off. One slept while the other steered, and when they were both awake (usually half a day) one of them operated the radio and navigating equipment. As well as doing most of the cooking, I sort of floated about, helping here and there where possible; rolling joints, that sort of thing.

  The weather for the whole time was perfect for sailing; that is to say a constant force five blowing from the north and a clear sky to navigate by. We had GPS but it was nice to be reassured; none of us felt entirely at home relying upon electronics in an all-natural environment. Horses for courses, you might say.

  One drawback to the clear weather, though, was the constant exposure of our skin to the harsh tropical sun. Despite all of our time spent on beaches, it didn’t prepare our soft, northern bodies for the battering they received, as the salt sea-spray wet us and the sun baked us. Every time I looked at Dave he was grinning as though trying to crack his face, his gleaming white teeth and eyes peering ghoulishly out of a black skull. He looked funny because his hair had lightened while his skin had gone to the other end of the spectrum, turning as black as shoe polish and making him look like a yellow-haired old granny.

  Rick’s hair and moustache had turned almost white too, in contrast to his deep tan. Even his eyebrows had changed colour, making him look like a hippy version of Santa Claus. The constant lashing of salt water, wind and sun, along with no shampooing, had left his hair ridged. Sometimes, when he passed me on his way to the bedroom having just spent ten hours on deck, his hair stood up two feet into the air, as though he’d shoved his fingers into an electric socket. I once woke from a dream to find him roaming through the closet in my room
, after a night at the helm, and thought that the boat had been over-run by aliens. He was like an apparition standing there; his sticking-up hair, back-lit by a ceiling-mounted tilly lamp, looking like a golden halo.

  Apart from lowering the sail and drifting around an island called Bawean in the Java Sea one afternoon, we didn’t anchor until reaching a place called Changu. It was two weeks since we had left Bangka; we were burnt to a crisp and almost out of water but too exhausted to continue that night. We were no more than a day’s sail from Bali by Rick’s reckoning, and as we still had a north wind it should be a cruise.

  A small bay appeared in the distance, and after a minute’s observation we aimed for it, anchoring a mile offshore above a beautiful coral reef. If we could have seen Bali we would have pressed on, but because it was so nice to spot land after the boredom of open sea, we all agreed to stop there for the night, and possibly the next day. We could fish on the reef and generally relax in calm waters before moving on.

  It turned out to be the worst decision of our lives.

  TWO

  The exhaustion of the past weeks, just as Rick had suggested would happen, had given us all the feeling that a life spent sailing around the world in search of paradise wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and that maybe it wasn’t what we were looking for after all.

  Rick was the first to voice a sea change by continually speculating on the selling prices of second-hand yachts, and, as the days wore on, Dave and I found ourselves joining in the discussion with increased fervour. Dave was still missing Watti, and going ashore anywhere, he thought, would help take his mind off her.

  ‘How much do you think, Rick?’ I called, searching around in the clutter of fishing gear that Dave had so neatly dumped on the deck. The two of them sat at the rear of the boat, feet dangling over the end, fishing on the reef.