Return to Indonesia, Chapter II: Fleeing Far From the Maddening Crowd. . .

Virgin Indian Ocean coastline undulates on my watch

Lombok: Day 4: Friday, June 8: Four hours of sleep?  It's an awkward duration, but the foghorn blows, signaling our ferry's arrival in Western Lombok.  I stumble out of my sleeper cabin onto the top deck into a misty, sun-kissed dawn.  The port is functional, a curved bay with a few fishing boats and some early rising shopkeepers.  I try my best to use the pit toilet on board.  The standard method of purging here is squatting over a poorly maintained hole, and in this case, first wading through a few inches of sloshing water.  It's a healthier style of excretion physiologically, but to a Westerner used to sitting on a sterilized porcelain throne, it's slightly jarring.  We climb down to the lower decks, mount our motorcycles, and blast off. 

                                    We stop quickly to fill up on petrol.  Instead of pulling into a self-service super station, as we do in the West, we approach a roadside stand, where a woman and her two children hawk petroleum.  They relax next to a wooden cart full of one liter glass bottles of petrol.  One bottle costs about a dollar, and that's enough to fuel our bikes for about fifty miles.  Transport is cheap here because our bikes are so small and fuel efficient, and also because Indonesia produces its own oil in Sumatra.  Yet another reason Indonesia can be a budget traveler's dream. . .

                                    Our destination is Bangko Bangko, or Desert Point.  On some counts, this is the most flawless wave on the planet.  It's a fringing reef that receives southerly swell at a western angle, organizing Indian Ocean Power into a lightning speed, spinning tube of liquid water.  It's a challenging wave to surf, as you've got to adjust your speed constantly while racing over razor-sharp coral heads.  It's global fame also means that a talented international crew is normally dialed into its fickle rhythms.  Further, an indigenous scene has now grown up here, and an aggressive local contingent of kids and young men means that you've got to earn every way at Deserts.

                                    The motorcycle ride is spectacular.  We drive for two and a half hours through the coastal towns of Western Lombok.  Unlike her Hindu step-sister, Lombok is a fundamentalist Muslim Island.  In general, it is poorer, more suspicious of outsiders, and more conservative than Bali.  As we rocket over pot-holed roads through lush coastal mountains, we pass many villages and towns.  At every curve there are people, animals, and activity.  Cowbells ring as buffalo herders coax their charges through the hills.  Rice paddies glow in the morning light as farmers thresh and weed the staple crop of Indonesia.  Butterflies dance across the air in couples.  Most touchingly, children pour out of their houses onto the roads in every town.  Often barefoot, they travel alone and together, all walking dutifully to school.  They are vested in beautiful finery, Muslim school uniforms comprising saris, round hats, and ornate cloth.  Each village has a different uniform, with brilliant hues of fluorescent green, deep maroon, luminescent blue and more.  As in so many tropical regions of the world, the people seem to draw inspiration from the sunlight, the trees, the flowers, and the animals around them.  The children laugh and smile, and almost always wave as we rush by.  "Selamat Pagi! ", they cry out.

                                    The pavement ends as we approach the final kilometers of the road to Deserts.  Before this wave was discovered and publicized over thirty years ago, there was virtually nothing out here.  But in a story repeated the world over, as the local people realize they are sitting on a precious resource, they move in and create an infrastructure: losmen  (accommodation), warung (roadside food stands), and bars. 

                                    As we crest the final ridge, the open expanse of Lombok-Bali comes into a view, and the running whitewater edging the reef sends my heart racing.  I've made it to another of surfing's sacred grounds.  We pull into the hodgepodge surf village, basically consisting of a handful of beachfront shacks, a few bamboo structures raised on stilts, and a couple warung restaurants.

                                    A young man named Cheng springs to attention, and he sets Chris and I up in one of the huts on stilts.  The structures are big enough for a queen mattress and not much else, but the mosquito nets are already set up, so that's good enough for me.  We scarf down a breakfast of fresh pineapple, banana, and succulent mango, and then, exhausted by the 10 hour mission out of Bali, I fall into a deep mid-day slumber.

                                    In the afternoon the tide drains out over the world class reef, and surfers start to emerge out of the village.  The locals traipse down to the shoreline, and the other surfers in camp take to the water.  I watch transfixed as flawless waves reel around the point.  I suit up with all my gear, including booties and a helmet.  In retrospect I didn't need the helmet, and I stick out in the crowd of fifty surfers, but my head is well-protected.  The Indos crack a few jokes at my expense, and even stuff me on a good set wave.  There's a code of cool in this sport, and today I didn't pass the test.  I only catch a few rides before the sun melts behind Mt. Agung in Bali, but I can already see why this may be the best wave on the planet.  It lifts, churns, and swings down the point at lightning speed, giving a full speed tubular rush to a wave-rider at the top of his game.  Today, it's not me.  I clamber over the reef happy for the experience, but disappointed with my performance.  There will be another day.

                                    Back on shore Chris talks story with Nick, an old acquaintance from Santa Barbara.  10,000 miles from Southern California, it might seem surprising how often we run into old crew from Southern California, but it happens all the time.  The tribal surf culture gravitates to certain gathering points on the planet, and Indonesia hosts more than a handful.  We'll run into many more familiar faces before this trip is done.

The ultimate surf hunting vehicle

Lombok: Day 5: Saturday, June 9: I awake in a boiler-room in a full sweat.  The night's sleep was intermittent, as animals, neighbors, and unidentified noises fused into a ceaseless symphony.  I stumble out of my house on stilts toward the ocean, which sadly has calmed into a slightly disturbed lake.  I practice my Level 0 Bahasa Indonesian language with Cheng, who follows me around camp like a loyal puppy to help me with whatever I need.  I make a brief visit to the pit toilets, only to discover a fearsome insect nest hovering above the hole in the ground that serves as the toilet.  I dump a few cups of water into the hole (this is the manual flush customary in most of Indonesia), and scamper away as quickly as possible.  Chris and I plan our next move over a vegetable omelette and fresh fruit salad.  After reviewing our options, we decide that we've got to go.  We know that Deserts will remain dormant for a few days, and we've received word that a few boatloads of professionals are heading in, including a Hawaiian journeyman named Mikala Jones and the father of aerial surfing, Christian Fletcher.  With guys like that in the water, Chris and I would be lucky to pick up the scraps.

                                    We pack our bags and light out for the East.  Cheng gives me a a heartfelt hug as I float him the equivalent of a five dollar tip.  It's probably equal to a few days' wages for him, incredibly. 

                                    We burn rubber through the gravelly roads into the pavement, which then hugs the dreamscape coastline for hours.  Chris punctures a tire and rolls into a roadside stand, where some ten Indos squat, smoke cigarettes, and stare up at us curiously and a little suspiciously.  For the equivalent of three dollars, the mechanic burns an oily paste onto the tire tube, and compresses a flame on it for a half hour while it seals. 

                                   

                                    As the guys work, Chris raps with them.  After some 48 months cumulative in Indonesia, Chris is a bona fide Indo veteran.  He speaks Bahasa Indonesian naturally, has a friend in almost every outpost, and haggles like a native.   He holds an aversion to Bali for its plethora of tourism, and in general he tries to get out of tourist areas and into local ones for as long as possible. To support my immersion into Indonesia, he's the perfect companion.

                                    We're back on the road, heading toward the most dense urban area in Nusa Tenggara.  It's a collection of cities orbiting around Mataram, the political, economic, and administrative capital of Lombok and the neighbor islands.  I hold on tight as the dry coastal scrubland rises into cooler rice paddies and then the plateau of Mataram.  We are here for one reason, and one reason only: McDonald's!  We navigate through streets churning with people, shops, mosques, and traffic, heading straight for the glossy mall in the center of town.  McDonald's is an oasis of air-conditioned Western familiarity in the midst of this pulsating island metropolis.  Every McDonald's seems to have its own local variant, and Lombok McDonald's is no different.  I most remember a girl working as a bathroom attendant whose primary job is to keep the counter clean after every customer.  Also, in the restroom, there are picture instructions about how to use a Western toilet.  Namely, you've got to sit down on the seat, not squat over it!  Potty training continues. . . .

                                    Bolstered by greasy fuel, we shoot down the mountains to the Southern Coast tourist beach town of Kuta, Lombok.  Nothing compared to the scale of Kuta, Bali, this Kuta has a dusty, pristine, nascent charm, perfect for travelers hoping to step away from the crush of Bali.  The main drag is a shoreline strip of convenience stores, street hawkers, and courtyard hotels with shady interiors.  The town is totally overwhelmed by the great expanse of the Southern Sea, with densely forested foothills framing well-worked rice paddies.  It's a picture postcard paradise really, with minimal luxury.  We choose a hotel called "The Purple Flower," based on an Australian friend's tip, and we're relieved to finally settle into a place for a few days.  The room is protestant, containing two beds with mosquito nets and a wooden desk, but it's all we need.

                                    We conduct a cursory unpacking, and then strap our boards to our bikes and head east out of town.  These are new roads for both Chris and me, so we try lots of twists and turns, and Chris asks lots of questions.  As the sun slips toward the west, we drive out onto one of the most heavenly beaches I've ever seen.  Miles and miles of unspoiled white sand fall into a massive internal lagoon protected by a barrier reef where messy ocean swells unload their power.  We are scanning for a place to play surfing, but it looks unfamiliar and intimidating.  On a whim, we drive up a ridge and over a point to where a small foothill falls directly into the sea.  Goldmine!  We encounter a few shacks with a group of covered Muslim women hawking pineapples and coconuts; also, we find a bowling, shallow right hand wave that looks ideal for an evening session.  The full moon low tide has exposed the reef, but after a day of travel we're determined to get in the water.  Kuti, a covered twenty year old Muslim girl with a winning smile and friendly eyes, points us to the channel and says:  "Good for surfing here!"   This was the first time I met a traditional Muslim girl who delivered surfing advice. . .  We splash into the sea, and enjoy a gorgeous sunset session.  Mission accomplished!

                                    In the evening, as we snoop around town looking for a restaurant, two Indonesian boys zoom up on a motorcycle and cry out, "Hey mister!  You want to buy this surfboard?".  The kids hand over a damaged 6'3" Simon Anderson and offer it to us for fifty dollars.  It needs some work, but the price is right, so I go for it.  It's a somewhat sketchy sale, as the kids shift nervously in the dark when I hand them the money. Immediately they leap onto their motorcycle, cry out Bagus! (Cool!), and launch into a wheelie.  They claimed they needed the money for school, but judging by the look on their faces the following afternoon, Chris and I suspect it was spent on more devious ends. . .

Where's Waldo?  Walking by buffalo toward treasure in the distance

 Lombok: Day 6: Sunday, June 10: Our first full day in Kuta dawns.  Breakfast is banana pancakes with sugar, but no honey because it's expensive and our hotel prefers to save money where it can.  Bananas, pineapples, and mangos with a side of tea completes our feast.  The plan for the day is to explore the coastline 5-20 kilometers to the west.  We stock our bikes with water, snacks, and sunscreen, and we're off.  The coastal mountain range here is ragged, stark, and majestic, but it makes moving between beaches and bays time-consuming.  We climb and descend a 500 foot ridge, and after passing through a life-filled village, we arrive at another spectacular, deserted beach.  A break in the reef pass a quarter mile out to sea allows lefts and rights to peel into the bay.  The wind is riffling the waves a bit, but we're excited, so we paddle out to this new spot of Air Guling (Suckling Water).  It's just Chris and I in the water for two hours, as we share a fast, exciting, and rippable right reef break.  What else is there to say?  We had a blast. 

                                    After our session, we climb the hill to a a new, Aussie-run resort, with sweeping panoramic views of the village, islands, and coastline.  For five dollars the gallant staff prepare Mahi Mahi with rice and vegetables.  Delicious!  We meet an Australian bodyboarder who talks to us about some possibilities further down the coast.  In the early afternoon we move on, encountering an especially sketchy section of road.  A road crew twenty strong is paving one section, but the next section is a steep, gravelly mess.  We watch a truck almost spin over the ledge, and then we almost slip out ourselves as we climb the hill. 

                                    Always when we are driving there are people on the roads.  As Chris and I come down the hill, a tiny, barefoot boy sticks out his hand for a hi-five.  Chris gives him the hand smack, and approaching close behind, I stick out my hand to do the same.  Suddenly, the little rascal pulls a large stone from behind his back and switches it into his hand.  It's too late for me, and I end up smacking the stone head-on.  Menehune!  I look back over my shoulder as he smiles and laughs at his prank, and I shake off the pain of my throbbing hand.

                                    We take a few wrong turns trying to find the next spot, but finally we make it to the pocket sand beach of Mawi.  This wave is well-know for being offshore in the prevailing Southeasterly trade winds, and today is no exception.  As we pull up, a surf charter from Bali is pulling away from the break.  Every day these ships, stabilized with double outriggers, pull away from Bali stocked with surfers, promising to deliver all the secrets of the neighboring islands.  The problem with these boats is that the food is marginal, interaction with local people is nil, and wherever you go, you show up with a crowd.  These boats just don't appeal if you want to meet the Indonesians and run on your own schedule, but for the time-poor surfer who wants minimal hassles, it's an option.  Needless to say, those of us on land are never too excited to see a boat of 10 to 15 surfers pull up to a break.

                                    We share a hot-dog session with a few English guys learning to surf, and an older Australian duo who had flown up for a week from the Gold Coast.  It's a playful session, but not one for the record books.  We jam home during sunset, and the views of the coastline as we descend from the mountains into Kuta are breathtaking.  What an awesome day. 

The village in Grupuk Bay where we chartered a boat

 Lombok: Day 7: Monday, June 11: Our second day in Kuta.  The new swell is set to arrive in a matter of hours.  This time of year in Indonesia is full of swell activity, which is the reason so many wandering wave-farers come to these coastlines just now.  As the Southern Hemisphere turns into the heart of winter, ferocious storms spin ceaselessly around the bottom of the planet, following an open ocean super-highway only broken up by Tierra Del Fuego in Chile.  Indonesia leans full force into the Indian Ocean, prepared to receive all the energy that the Roaring Forties produces, without copping any of the inclement weather that lashes Southern Africa And Southern Australia.  Like its Hawaiian sister in the Northern Hemisphere, it is uniquely positioned to benefit from all of the swell of these storms and none of the rain, wind, and chill.  That's why we're all here.

                                    Banana pancakes, tea, and fruit salad provide the fuel again, and then it's out to Segar for an invigorating morning session.  Chris isn't impressed with what he calls the B-Grade waves of the area; indeed, one of the curses of living in a surfing paradise for so long is that standards become almost unbelievably high.  On the other hand, I'm happy as a clam to ride these warm, powerful waves with no one out, and I have a blast.  In the afternoon we rest, read, and recharge.  A few hours surfing under this tropical sun is exhausting, and most days after lunch my body cries out for a recharging nap.  Meanwhile, Chris works diligently on repairing surfboards.  We shoot out to Segar to enjoy sunset, where we meet a 15 year old boy named Owen.  Actually, his name isn't Owen.  Just as in China, Indonesians choose English names to give to Westerners they meet.  Owen's favorite surfer is Australian upstart Owen Wright, so that's the name he chose.  I tell him that my middle name is Eoghan too, and he grins.  He jumps on the back of Chris' back, and he gives us a quick sunset tour of a few waves to the East of Kuta. 

                                    It might seem strange from a traditional American perspective for strangers to jump on motorbikes and give a local tour.  In Indonesia it's almost commonplace.  People have a subdued sense of time.  There is plenty of it, tomorrow will be like today, and most importantly, Westerners provide opportunities.  Sometimes Indonesians will join you for hours, days, weeks, or even months, if you cover food and accommodation.  Chris even groomed one protege for months and months, eventually flying him back to Bali.  In this spirit, we invite Owen to join us for two weeks on the next phase of our journey.  He immediately says yes, absolutely, he's never had such a chance before.  Just like that, it's done!  (Unfortunately, his father had to work in the rice paddies and he needed Owen to tend the shop, so he wasn't able to join us.  Chris means to try to pick him up again in the future. . .).

                                    This day is infamous because I spin my bike out twice.  The first time I am driving through grass-covered sand when I hit an unexpected deep patch.  I clutch my front brake, which is the wrong move, especially as my front tire is balding.  I go limp as my bike spins and I fall onto the sand.  I'm wearing shoes and I fall clear of my bike, so no worries this time.  Later in the evening as I drive alone in the dark, I come a cross a two foot deep pothole.  The motorcycle seizes, and this time I fall over my surfboard onto the concrete.  Immediately Indonesians come pouring out of the jungle to help.  I'm flustered and a little shell-shocked, but miraculously my board is fine and so am I.  I drive with more reservation since these incidents. . .

Chris "Bule Baldo," king of the world

Lombok: Day 8: Tuesday, June 12: It's our final day in Kuta, Lombok.  We've scoured a significant part of this coast, and we're looking to meet with some old friends at a magical stretch of coastline tomorrow evening.  Today the swell is running high, and our plan is to shoot out to Grupuk Bay.  Grupuk is the most popular wave in the area, and it is a magnet for surfers of all abilities, but especially for uninitiated learners.  It's not at the top of our list, but we've got to give it a try as we're in the area.  We zoom 10 kilometers to the East to the fishing village in Grupuk.  This Bay is massive, some five kilometers from the ocean to the inlet.  We pay a boatman named Noah nine dollars to give us a three hour surfing tour of the Bay.  Magnetically attracted to the power center, we motor straight out to the open ocean, where there are no learners.  As we pull away from the fishing village, I snap a few pictures of the colorful beachfront buildings, the round dome of a mosque rising behind, and palm trees in the foreground.

                                    Outside Grupuk is empty, powerful, and intimidating.  4-8 foot surf explodes around the point, and with nobody out there to help us, Chris and I leap off the boat and try to figure it out.  We're smashed by a few sets before we find the channel, and the next hour we play dodgeball with mother ocean.  I snaffle a few heart-pounding drops, flying over small mountains of water and holding on with all of my instincts.  Chris is demolished by a major set, and he gives up early.  After a half hour drifting alone at the edge of the open ocean, I paddle back to the boat for the mellower break far inside the bay.

                                    Inside Grupuk is a playground.  It's an A-Frame, clean and groomed by the wind, and only 3-4 ft. on the sets.  I finally find my groove, and do my best surfing of the trip.  My board feels fast, loose, and responsive, and I really start to open up on my turns.  It's a fantastic feeling.  Noah wants us to return to port early, but I wear a watch and Chris and I hold the line on our allotted three hours.  Grupuk rocked.

                                    The rest of our day is dedicated to lunch, afternoon rest, reading, and enjoying the sunset.  We feast on peanut satay for dinner at our favorite restaurant, and we throw around some ideas about how Chris might be able to generate some income while living in this country that he prefers.  The day is complete.  Tomorrow we leave this island to travel ever deeper into the archipelago. . .