Return to Indonesia: Part I. . .

My anticipation before the trip was volcanic.  After furiously busy two weeks of final exams, grading papers, two school graduations, classroom closedown, meetings, packing up my house, and preparing to leave the country, I was exhausted.

It was four o'clock on a West Maui morning, and I had finally moved out all my possessions from my my old friend's compound in Wahikuli.  My 24 journey across the Western Pacific was about to begin.  I was too tired to be fully jazzed, but in the back of my mind I knew that the greatest adventure was calling.  

I had thirty days to vanish into one of the most complex and fascinating countries on earth: A dispersed country, covering countless thousands of islands spanning the Indian Ocean to the Pacific; the world's largest Muslim country, an intricate patchwork of peoples, languages, and landscapes, only recently united into a somewhat arbitrary whole;  a conflicted country, calling forth the most fantastical tourist fantasies, while the some 250 million inhabitants survive mostly in basic poverty.

For myriad reasons, Indonesia pulled at my imagination as long as I can remember.  In my final year at college, I plastered a National Geographic map of the country on the wall of my dorm room (next to a map of Hawaii).  I figured that if I pored over Indonesian cartography long enough, I could will myself across the planet.  My intentions were written on the wall. . .

I made my first sojourn to Indonesia in June 2004, after year teaching English for a year in Taiwan.  Through my youthful green eyes, I was entranced by my first discovery of Bali and East Java.  I remember living clifftop at Pondok Indah in the Bukit Peninsula, immersing myself into the luminescent turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean.  I remember jetting around on my motorbike with my board riding side saddle.  I remember the warmth, intensity, and smiles of the first Indonesians I encountered.  I remember the undulating, verdant rice paddies of the Ubud uplands, and the secret temples emanating from the dense jungle.   I retain some unsavory memories as well, but those have faded with the encroaching light of nostalgia.

Five years passed before I found the time and money to return.  In the intervening years I sought my fortunes elsewhere, on the North Shore of Oahu, on the perimeter of Australia, and in the mountains of Hawai'i Island.  After finally securing the most lucrative employment of my life, I booked a return.  Five years is banyak banyak in one of the tourist epicenters of the planet, and Bali had grown again.  Her charms were still irresistible: the gentle spirituality of her Hindu people; the cool dry season winds and breath-gripping glow of her afternoon sunsets; the chaotic intensity of her potent cauldron of global and Indonesian travelers.  Yet on this trip, after a stint in the magnetic and repellant crush of Kuta, I ventured out to Central and Western Sumbawa.  There, in the rural regions of a much less touristed island, I 

became newly entranced with the people, the landscapes, and yes, the perfectly organized ocean power of an island very different from Bali.  The adventures and memories are too numerous to recount, but among others, I surfed the most entrancing liquid tubes of my life.  The spell was cast again, and I departed in July 2009 with the irrepressible desire to one day continue the exploration.

Life intervened once more.  36 months flew by.  I left one school and moved to another, leaving one island (Hawai'i) for another (the Valley Isle).  The weddings of friends, the births of their children, and the reunions of my family kept me in North America.  Life was sweet, but the longing to continue discovering Indonesia continued.  After two years of steady employment on Maui, the window opened again: Summer 2012.  Given that life is short, death is real, and you've got to make choices, I prevaricated.  In a world with over 200 countries, how many times do you want to return to the same one?  Other destinations beckoned.  The monumental Himalaya called, with its formidable peaks, its arduous treks, and its alpine landscapes.  The fastest-growing country in the world called, with its exploding metropolises, its deep history, and its original culture.  The sub-continent called, with its raw spirituality, its inclusive culture, and its unparalleled variety.  Even the vast, open expanses of Northern Asia called, with its hypnotizing steppe, its stoic people, and its other worldly energy.  So many options: Where to go?

Self-honesty matters.  As much as the great cities, peaks, and cultures of Asia called, no country pulled with such gravitational force as Indonesia. . . .

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A 24 hour flight on Korean Airlines routed through Seoul began the journey.  Incomparable Asian service etiquette immediately set the tone, as perfectly prim Korean stewardesses tirelessly

monitored the aisles to care for their customers.  Despite sitting in an exit aisle next to a beautiful Korean traveler, I spent most of the first leg of the flight in profound slumber.  Incheon International Airport rocked.  Shopping malls, museums, cultural villages, four story food courts, and even a procession of medieval Korean royalty: I could have spent a day in Incheon.  Three hours later came liftoff for the South, and I stared eagerly out the window for the seven hour flight to Bali at everything: the jagged, eroded coastline of the Korean peninsula; the explosive glow of the Manila megalopolis, molded by the surrounding mountains and sea; the dispersed electrical grid of wild and raw Borneo; and finally, the welcoming midnight lights of Bali.  I made it!

Ngurah Rai Airport is named for a Balinese rebel solider who founded the local resistance militia, a point of immense pride for the Balinese.  Hundreds of tourists poured out of many planes through immigration into the midnight aromatic air, flavored with incense wafting on soft breezes.  A ten dollar cab ride carried me to Poppies II, Central Kuta, to the Bali Dwipa, a three story hotel in the heart of the rabbit warren of streets and allies that have sprung up organically and chaotically to form Kuta 2012.  My old schoolmate Chris Baldwin was waiting for me.  Baldwin, also known as Baldo, Bule Baldo, or Homey, is the most committed surf dude you've never met.  His story is too interesting and intricate to do it justice here (check out where's Baldo on jet pilot), but essentially he's built a life around Australian summers and Indonesian winters for six years.  He's scoured half of the swell-exposed coastline of Indonesia on his motorbike, and the other half is just a matter of time.  He's got Indonesian friends wherever he goes, he raps in Bahasa Indonesian comfortably with anyone he meets, and he's got a handful of secrets that he's not going to tell you.  He's an eccentric wild man, and if it's surf adventure you're after, there's no better companion.

As it happened, Baldo was inebriated.  When you're going feral in rural Indonesia for months at a time, and you return to the surf tourist metropolis of Kuta, you feel pretty excited.  Surrounded by the tribe, the Balinese, and the international jet set, you can't resist going out for a drink.  It starts with one.  You can imagine where it ends.  I discovered Baldo in a state; I roused him to talk story, to share my excitement, to take a walk around the block.

Bali: Day 1: Tuesday, June 5: I came to Indonesia with no gear.  Kuta is home to all of the major surf companies on the planet, as well as a slew of Indonesian shops, so my plan was to stock up in Kuta.  The first order of business was to organize transport.  There is really only one option for true freedom: Motorbike.  Here's why:

Bali is a V-shaped island, with the point of the V jutting out into the Indian Ocean in the Bukit Peninsula.  This makes for a totally spectacular natural setting, as the maritime influence of the tourist sector is inescapable.  The ocean is everywhere all the time.  The flip side is that tens of thousands of tourists and locals crammed into the bottom of the island, combined with the bureaucracy and organization of a developing country, mean that traffic is disorganized at best.  You could spend your whole day in a taxi or car, locked into an interminable gridlock.  Conversely, with a motorbike, you can dodge and weave through all obstacles.  The hotel keeper Agung called a guy two blocks away, who delivered a four speed manual motorbike with surf racks within the hour.  Price?  30,000 rupiah per day. At an exchange rate of some 9,300 rupiah to the dollar, that comes to about three bucks a day.  I paid for two weeks, filled up my tank for one dollar, and voila!: Wheels.  

The next task was to put together all the necessary surf gear.  I picked up a 6'2" rounded pintail thruster Firewire secondhand at a shop called The Pit.  I bought a couple leashes, two sets of fins, reef booties, a neoprene top, and I was set.  I had brought my Gath helmet that I picked up in Western Australia five years ago, so despite the misgivings of my friends who claim I wear too much gear, I was prepared for almost any situation.  Finally, I purchased a Bali-made board bag for forty bucks to round out my equipment.  My daylight was almost consumed, but Chris and I found an afternoon window to jump into the surf at Halfway Legian.  We finished the day at Jackie's.  Jackie is a Balinese guy who sets up plastic chairs on Kuta beach next to a cooler of refreshing drinks.  Jackie's regulars are basically built around a core surfing set of guys who have spent some time out at the surf camp of Lakai Peak in Sumbawa, two islands to the East of Bali.  Tonight a guy from Dana Point relaxes with his Balinese girlfriend, and a garrulous Swiss girl tells us all about her day.  After three years of perseverance, she has been hired on as a design consultant for Rip Curl based on Bali.  She's just getting by on a local salary, but she's living her dream with a pet monkey.  She invites herself to dinner with Chris and I at Alley Cats, and the evening plans begin to unfold.

For all its kitsch, development, and humanity, Kuta Beach at sunset is irresistible.  Thousands of people flock to the seashore to swim, play, relax, stroll, surf, and everything else.  Music emanates from hotels and restaurants behind the beach, and a ceaseless line of airplanes approaches Ngurah Rai airport, just adjacent to Kuta Beach.  It's June in Bali, and the world is coming.  .  .

Bali: Day 2: Wednesday, June 6: Fully geared up, there is only one option today: Mission to the Bukit!  The Bukit peninsula is the wave-rich highland that juts out into the Indian Ocean, capturing all the energy the Roaring Forties sends to the North.  It was the original dream destination for surf adventurers in the 1970's, and it has been the focal point of Indonesian surf travel for the last 40 years.  It's a random patchwork of mega-resorts, quaint villages, Universities, dusty roads, warungs, losmens, temples, monkey forests, and more.  We're off to Uluwatu, the most famous wave in Bali that sits at the very end of the peninsula.  

Ten years ago the drive out was smooth and open.  I still remember the way.  Head out of Kuta, turn at Ngurah Rai airport, fly down the narrow isthmus, duck into Jimbaran Bay fishing Village, pass the Four Seasons, climb the ridge, and point to the South.  Today is a bit different.  It's total gridlock!  Chris and I dodge and weave for a solid hour through four lanes of pure chaos.  Random U-turns, swerving drivers, honking horns, rickshaws, dashing pedestrians, one way streets.  This is intense!  The roads open up once we climb up to Dreamland, and the cool breezes and panoramic views remind me of my deep affection for the Bukit.  We pull into the motorcycle crammed Uluwatu parking lot, and I realize: This is not a secret anymore.  Bars, restaurants, hotels, and surf shops all cram into the ravine that leads down to Uluwatu.  The tide is dropping fast on the full moon's influence, and I creep down the stone staircase, out through the famous ocean cave, and into a lineup with. . . 100 other surfers.  It's packed!  The waves are head high and reeling down the line at Racetracks, and there are tubes all around, but I struggle with my new equipment in this intense crowd to find my groove.  I duck into one barrel in a two hour session, claim victory, and then clamber over the razor sharp reef.  Uluwatu is the initiation, and now my trip has truly begun.  

Chris and I jam back to Kuta before sunset, but he loses me on the way (I'm the tortoise; he's the hare).  The sun sets and Kuta rockets to life once more.  We wander through the cobblestone alleys of Kuta, and Chris runs into a crew of his Indonesian friends from Sumbawa: Dede, the father of the Lakai Crew; Haril, a 16 year old Kuta cowboy; and MJ, a charismatic 19 year old from Sumbawa who has thousands of friends on facebook, since he meets half the surfers who pass through this town.  We talk story over a Mexican dinner, and then roll down the street to a secret courtyard called Alley Cats.  Baldo, the Indo veteran, has ten more friends in this place, and the evening unfolds. . .

Bali: Day 3: Thursday, June 7:  48 hours on Bali, and it's time to go already?  Strangely, yes.  It would be so very easy to settle into Bali for an entire trip, and that's exactly what most travelers choose.  The Island of the Gods offers so much magic and mystery that you'd never need to leave.  Chris and I are slightly different to the majority of travelers here though.  We have a deep, guiding, and irrepressible desire to find the most spectacular waves possible, far from the maddening crowds.  That requires leaving Bali, plain and simple.  We talk it over and make the call.  We spend the day sorting out finances, gear, and transport, and then our plan launches into action.  At 11 PM, just as the Kuta madness begins, Chris and I get on the road.  I've got my backpack with all my gear, and my board bag packed with my weapons strapped into my rack.  We're traveling at night because the roads are empty.  We race through the full moon midnight sky toward the east, past the Western enclave of Sanur, to the port at Padang Bai.  I can see the profile of sacred Mt. Agung against the moonlight, and I can't help but smile.  We jam through the cliffside port, and then we're stopped by the police.  They want to see my international driver's license, which I, um, don't have.  I float my Hawai'i license and my U.S. Passport card, and slide a 50,000 rupiah note in between and hope for the best.  Chris cracks jokes in Bahasa at my expense, and then I shake the policeman's hand, who says: "It's good for you, and good for me, yes?".

We drive through the toll gate, and directly onto the Lombok ferry.  The ferry is packed with trucks, cars, travelers, and Indonesians, and it's 2 AM!  Waves crash on either side of the boat.  Chris knows what to do.  We reserve the sleeping cabin, and we're out cold.  This channel happens to be one of the deepest in the islands, and it also corresponds to the Wallace Line, the line that separates the lush jungle of Western Indonesia to the dry scrubland of Eastern Indonesia.  It's not a journey that I'll appreciate, because I'm fast asleep immediately. . .