Journey Through Indonesia, Part V: Kids, Diseases, and a Hell Ride to Metropolis

Sumbawa:Wednesday, June 20

Uncle Baldo with his adopted grommet ohana.

A new day dawns; our daily routine continues.  It’s International Surfing Day, a zeitgeist phenomenon that calls on all wave riders across the planet to get in the water, no matter what.  This is not really a challenge as I’m in the midst of a surf journey.  Morning Yo-Yo’s yields the goods again, and by the time the SW trade winds cut the waves to shreds around 9 AM, I already feel strong and ready for the day.

Today I’m lost in Michener’s Hawaii, reliving 400 years of heart-moving history through the eyes of New England missionaries, Chinese and Japanese plantation workers, swashbuckling sea captains, and the five families of Honolulu.  I’m lost for the day.  In fact, I’m so lost in my book that I miss a magic 45 minute window at the best spot in the area, and even though it was crowded and inconsistent, I still feel like I blew it.  Is love like this, a rollercoaster of the highest highs adjacent to missed opportunites?

In the afternoon I lead a mission to Scar Reef in an attempt to re-enact the previous day’s bliss.  I’m so excited that I miss the proper turn, and I lead my friend Bryce on a forty five minute goose chase through unknown villages and wrong turns.  We see many curious faces, and we encounter two naked Indo kids digging through the mud for snakes.  We end up at a sheltered rivermouth far from our destination, and though it’s gorgeous, we are pining to get into the water.  We backtrack to the proper road, and with quickly vanishing sunlight, we swim out to the distant reef.  The waves are smaller and less consistent, and I just can’t repeat yesterday’s dream.  Bryce snags a couple, and he is happy for the experience.  I’m a bit distracted, as Bryce has just told me an old girlfriend of mine will be married in a few weeks.  It’s a clear-cut sign of the passage of time, of the permanence of the past, and of the closing of doors.  I fade into a misty melancholy. . .

We ride home quickly in the dark, and share a delicious meal at our favorite bbq fish restaurant.  The day is complete.

Sumbawa: Thursday, June 21

Surfing Relationships:  Man and Wave.  Man and Himself. (Man and Woman isn’t exactly a surfing relationship, as it can be more like a Man, Wave, and Woman ménage).  But vitally also, friend and friend.  Today I share the magic with my friend Chris.  He has been my fearless, wise, short-tempered, fast-riding, garrulous, laid-back, local-living, budget-keeping, surf-obsessing friend since we were 14 years old.  Today we would share an unforgettable session.

We arrive at Yo-Yo’s a bit late, as the early morning low tide had made the dawn patrol dangerous.  The surf is maxing, twice the size of me, fast and messy.  The wind is gusting early.

Zul hangs with our adopted puppy Jenko.

Today we have brought the local groms (menehune) with us.  They all spent the previous night at the house of the local rasta godfather, Iponk.  Iponk fixes boards for all the local kids, and lets them come around to his one-room bamboo hut whenever they please.  They had all slept at Iponk’s house so they could ride with us early out to Sekongcang.  Kids on a sleepover are happy creatures no matter what, but surf kids on a sleep over going on a motorbike ride with bules (whiteys) to a new spot are the epitome of stoke.

Meet the three groms.  Zul is a wiry, happy, observant 12 year old from the local fishing village.  He’s got four brothers and sisters, and he is poor.  He doesn’t really go to school, he has never owned a sweater or shoes, and he sleeps on the ground at his mosquito-infested bamboo and thatch house.  He has intense, observant eyes, and he follows us around like a loyal puppy.  Yanni is a tall, smiley, and athletic 15 year old who leads the pack.  Henra is a mite-sized 11 year old who speaks a lot of Indonesian to me, and doesn’t seem to care that I don’t understand.  He rides on the back of my bike, and at barely 50 pounds, I can only tell he’s there by the squeaks of happiness I hear from behind me.  Ricky is a portly, smiley kid, who the other kids refer to as rich, because his mother runs the restaurant Warung Sulawesi on the beach.  He has shiny new clothes and a confident smile, and he looks the opposite of wiry Zul. 

Sekongkang Surf Mission with Zul & Bule Baldo

Even though the groms live only 20 minutes away and they all love to surf, this is the first time they have ever traveled to Yo-Yo’s, on the backs of our bikes.  They’ve all brought boards, but it’s far too big for them.  Chris and I look at the wild ocean skeptically, but the groms are jumping up and down.  They want to see a show.  They won’t be denied.

We head out for a two hour battle with the wild sea.  We wipe out, we feel massive waves crash on our head, we fly down the line at full speed just inches away from the full force of the tumbling surf.  We cheer for each other and relish the moment.  It’s an absolute blast, the essence of fun.  The groms are pumped when we come in, bouncing around the sand-dunes, like, well, like kids. 

Nasi Goreng Grind Session out of a Paper Bag on a Surfboard Table

As we ride back through the mountains, Henra and I come across a tribe of monkeys.  “Munet!” he squeals with delight.  We drop the groms back at Iponk’s, fuel up at the beach warungs with some Soto Ayam, then head out to the edge of the bay for a mid-afternoon session.
In the evening the California crew departs for the 12 hour ultra mission back to Bali.  We now have a very sick Aussie friend who is bedridden, exhausted, and woozy.  We enjoy the evening talking with Sharif (we pronounce it Sheriff), the Indonesia hotel manager in his mid-fifties who keeps together this strange lodging of gold-miners, karaoke hostesses, and surf pirates.  We crack jokes in an Indonesian-English patois, and time passes effortlessly.   

Sumbawa: Friday, June 22

I’m ready to go.  The ocean is calming down, we’ve been on the road for a solid two weeks, and I miss the cosmopolitan melting pot of Bali.  I’m also missing Western food.  I spend the morning packing, cleaning, and communicating.  Our mid-day departure starts to slip away, however, when Chris and I make a run for a mid-day session.  Minutes and hours pass, and we soon realize that our Australian buddy can hardly stand up, let alone handle a motorcycle for the journey home.  We push back our departure a day.  Rolling with the punches.

In the evening, we take Zul with us to dinner.  He’s been hanging around our place constantly, and he really likes Uncle Chris, who raps with him in Indonesian.  When we walk into our favorite Nasi Campur  restaurant, which runs about U.S. $3.00 for a fresh fruit smoothie, and seven delicious items with rice, Zul retreats to the corner and looks shy and out of place.  Chris and I guess that he hasn’t eaten properly all day, that he never really eats properly, and that he’s never been out to a restaurant.  We coax him out of his shyness, and he soon piles on the food.  He eats like a kid, avoiding greens and choosing the familiar, but he is happy and full.

After dinner we take him shopping.  He’s all skin and bones, and after most surf sessions he shivers uncontrollably, even though it’s almost always sunny and warm.  We buy him a hooded Indonesian  flag sweatshirt, and he’s beaming as he races around town, calling out to his friends, riding on the back of Chris’ bike.

Chris attempts to return him home, only to discover that Zul lives in a supremely modest neighborhood, in a group of shacks at the end of a dirt road. Zul pleads to stay with us, and Chris obliges.  Back at our place, Zul spreads out on the bed, clicks happily at the TV, and smiles in his new sweatshirt.  We pile up our board bags, and he crawls in like a caterpillar into a cocoon.  He’s grinning from ear to ear as we all fall asleep.

Sumbawa: Saturday, June 23

Today we’re out of here.  Trent spends the day resting and preparing for the big journey with grapes, oranges, and drugs.  I’m keen to leave at mid-day, but the veterans insist that we leave in the evening.  Chris and Trent don’t want to drive in the day because the roads are packed, the heat is intense, and the ferries will be overcrowded.  I defer to the experienced.

We hit the road at 4 PM.  I’ve got all my gear in my REI Expedition Bag, and two boards strapped to the side of my motorcycle.  Let the mission begin.

We race through the roads of West Sumbawa at a full clip.  Three bules driving at top speed, passing anyone in our way, we can’t be missed on the roads.  I’m watching constantly for potholes, animals, swerving cars, pedestrians.  It’s a harrowing ride, but also gorgeous, as the mountain shadows lengthen over the afternoon tropical coastline. 

Trent is so doped up on meds that he forgets what island he’s on and takes a wrong turn.  I follow dutifully, and we’re temporarily lost.  Back on track, we race furiously toward the ferry port, as every minute lost means we might miss the ferry.  In the final stretch we’re maxing our bikes, and both of us catch air on an unseen speed bump at the port entrance.  We missed the ferry!  We pull up our bikes and lounge for an hour, watching the sunset dip below Mt. Anjing on Lombok. 

Entering the ferry is chaos.  A kilometer long line of cargo trucks enters first, as the rest of us swarm into a pack of some fifty aggressive motorcycles.  There is no line or order, and if you’re not pushy, you won’t make the ferry.  I’m pressed in on all sides, bumping other people’s bikes and fighting for my place.  The guards lower their hands and it’s like motocross with everyone flying forward at once.  I bob and weave my way onto the ferry gangplank, and I lock my bike into a corner.

It’s a two hour night ride across the channel, and I read, rest, and recharge for what’s to come.

We roll off the ferry at 9 PM, straight into the Saturday night chaos of Lombok.  It’s all happening.  For 100 nerve-wracking minutes I fly top speed through the humanity-filled darkness.  At times it seems like a vision of hell.  Trash-burning fires soar ten feet into the air.  Street carnivals of thousands bustle and overwhelm the road.  Traffic crosses at every angle.  Animals and people lunge in and out of the darkness.  I squint my eyes and focus on Trent and Chris, who fly around trucks at warp speed.  I feel like I might die at any moment.  Over four million people populate this tiny island, and they’re all out tonight.  Finally we pull into Mataram to our sanctuary: McDonald’s!  We devour two meals each, enjoying a momentary respite before the mission continues. 

Back into the night, we descend the cool highlands down to the Western port.  We race into another chaotic ferry scene, dodging trucks and bikes, flipping 180’s, and flying through the entry gate just in time to board the next ferry.  We made it!

This ferry lasts for four hours, and we want to sleep.  We negotiate with the boat’s crew to sleep in their rooms for about five dollars each.  It sounds odd, but for a price, anything is possible.  I crash before the engine rumbles to life.  Throughout my sleep various Indonesians come in and look shocked to see me, then, shut the door.

Our ship comes into port at 5 AM.  I snap to attention, and mount my bike for the rapid departure off the ship.  We fly into the Balinese morning, and quickly hit top speed on the empty early morning roads.  We’re on the home stretch now, one hour from East Bali to South Bali, and I’m feeling jazzed.  We made it back.  On our final leg of the journey, we dash through the 6 AM streets of Kuta, which are still recovering from the hedonism of Saturday night.  People drift through the streets in all states of consciousness, and shopkeepers clean their stoops and open their doors for the day’s business.  We head straight for Bali Dwipa and collapse.  A 14 hour mission across three islands, two channels, and a handful of cities comes to a close.  Home sweet Bali. . .   

Chris and the grom crew.