Leaving the crisp morning breeze of a Newcastle winter, the intrepid adventurers set-off in the Falcon panno, cruising down the freeway to Sydney to set sail on the flying Garuda for the shores of that most topical of destinations, Indonesia, in search of summer dreams and those perfect tropical reef breaks that one hears talked about in surfing circles and of course another world of personal and cultural unknowns.
As we lined up at the ticket counter, the sense that we were on our way was palpable, but in true travel-style the waiting had only just begun.
The waiting to get there is the worst, the waiting in queues, waiting to take-off, the waiting to transcend the cabin of the plane and arrive at the destination.
As the bird leaves the urban expanses of the harbour city metropolis and crosses the Great Divide, we settle into the genesis of this journey and soon the vast brown land stretches out for what seems an interminable moment of space and time, then gives way to the Timor Sea in a flourish of blues and greens and possible swell formations, as on a wing and Allah’s prayer we make the final dash for our date with surfings spiritual playground.
Landing in Denpasar, Bali, airports left and rights and any number of other breaks provide a white cap collage to get the wave rider’s juices flowing.
We make our bid to escape the airport only to run headlong into the lines at passport control, but after the formalities of a stamp and the insistence of the “official” porters to carry our bags, we are finally spirited away in the local transport, the aptly named “Beamo” van which pushes and prods and finally screams its way to the hotel in downtown Legian.
Having pushed our way out into a bright steamy Bali day through the throng of locals about their daily routine, I have a sense that seemingly we are being transformed in an instant, at once foreign and yet reconciled with humanity in this heady setting so far removed from the chilly remains of home some 5000+ km’s away.
Away from the madding crowd, our little oasis is the hotel where you can swim to the bar for an ale, take breakfast on the terrace or listen to the house band murder all your favourite songs from the past, but the highlight of the experience is the complimentary wake-up call, the infamous “Legian Rooster”, whose four-thirty expression session is a hit with at least one wary sleeper.
In keeping with slogan of the locals, that this is “surf and paradise”, we set out by beamo in search of some mythical Bali waves, having passed the first night sampling the cuisine and a few bottles of Bintang, the local liquid gold. On a morning such as this, when the skies are blue, the water crystal clear and the landscape mysterious and so refreshingly new, one would be hard pressed to argue that this is indeed some form of paradise and when Padang Padang, on the south-west tip of the island, is offering up four feet of surging water to the intrepid paddler one must whole-heartedly agree that the surf is on.
There is an undeniable peace in waves, even on the face of every ominous wall breaking across the famed reef at Uluwatu. As you paddle out through the cave and are dragged immediately into the treacherous current sweeping along the coastal headland there is that initial sense of urgency tempered by helplessness as you push forward into the sets which stamp the reef with their presence in such relentless fashion. But as the serenity of the scene behind the break is reached, the overwhelming relief builds into anticipation as you contemplate the first precipitous leap onto this break and whether you can tame this unforgiving beast. Certainly, at the mercy of this menacing peak, I feel slightly daunted about my chances of retaining life and limb atop the indomitable “esky-lid”.
Alas, having conceded hours to the pursuit of paddling and taking few of the limited chances to successfully ride this wave I condescend to make my way in only to miss the cave completely and end up momentarily stranded on a rocky outcrop with only the sounds of what might have been.
The first near tragedy of the expedition is a dusk swim at Kuta Beach where two unsuspecting punters from the party are introduced to the treachery of the undertow, which sweeps them from the bank, making the return to shore an effort, but the vigilance of the local life-savers is rewarded as they come to the rescue of the said swimmers, meeting them with a heavy hand on the shoulder and a rescue tube to the head, but all’s well that ends well and everyone agreed that perhaps it’s a good idea to take notice of the signs which warn in BOLD letters of the dangers of the current, some advert for the beach.
Out here on the edge of the surfing world, they massage by kilometres, unlocking the tired bodies of the paddling masses, for more than thirty years surfers have been coming here and the resourceful locals have literally built a cottage tourist industry based on board-shorts, t-shirts, fruit shakes and the ever-present Nasi Goreng with a fried egg on the top. The local mascot “monkey-dog” is always on hand to greet the visitors while others hawk transport and boat tours.
While consuming a few ales that night and contemplating the events of the day and in the spirit of industry, which pervades the island, we hit upon the novel idea of building the Bintang pipeline from Bali to Darwin where great arteries would pump the stuff southward into the hearts and minds of all drinkers, a sort-of green glass amber fluid highway of remembrance for the surfing soul.
On an island adventure you can go any place you choose, but seemingly Nusa Lombangen had chosen us as its newest recruits and obligingly we took the boat from Sanur to what turned out to be another piece of Indo paradise. An afternoon boat ride out to a place called Chiningan throws up small but meaty waves as the tide drops across the reef. This picturesque spot, at the entrance to an inlet, is the meeting place of the cold currents, working their way up from the deep ocean trench which runs the length of Bali’s east coast, and the warm water which laps the island shelf. This was an exhilarating afternoons paddle with the occasional bigger set making for some hairy views of the exposed reef.
Nighttime came with a spectacular beeroclock sunset looking back toward the hazy silhouette of Bali and the pride of the islands maritime fleet.
Pelan, Pelan, Pelan, slowly, slowly, slowly, could be taken as the motto of the people here. On a bike-ride around the island, days seem to slowly drift upon the breeze, kids going to and from school offer a Selamat Pagi (Good Morning) and everyone goes about their business with ease. The big industry here is seaweed and there’s plenty to go around, once the harvest is in they sit and wait for it to dry before shipping it to such far away places as Europe and America where it is used in the cosmetics trade.
We are staying in the home of Ketuk and sons, their warung (small hotel) is a very hands-on affair, we are treated to Balinese–style steamed fish and the sort of hospitality that gets lost in the search for the elusive tourist dollar. While helping down the chilli with a selection of finest Bintang I am drawn to the words inscribed on a plate which read, ‘Fairest of months! Ripe summers queen, Sweet August doth appear’ and I am convinced we are in the midst of some romantic summer dream.
When you try not thinking in paradise the lazy days carry you along in their inimitable way, water gently lapping at the shore, golden sand glowing under bright sunshine, a light breeze to take the edge from the afternoons still heat, all thought is transfigured by the simple beauty of the nature of things, the outside world seems only a concept falling from the pages of some fictitious beat.
Late in the day a paddle is taken at “Shipwrecks”, but as the cloud closes in and the gusting wind begins to chop the waters surface, the lid flounders like hapless drift wood, one feels at the mercy of the mother herself, the serenity dimmed by multiple hands competing for the steep right-handers of the suitably renamed “Shit-fights”.
Were you here to witness the scene as the group made its way back to the mainland by boat, you would have been amused to see astonished faces as we boarded a craft no more than twenty feet long and perhaps three feet wide, carrying eleven people, nine bags and at least eight boards and assorted fishing gear. In our favour were the calm seas, brilliant sunshine and slight ocean breeze, which pushed us steadily toward our goal of reaching Kuta, Lombok that night.
At the end of our boat, beamo, boat, beamo epic journey we reached this sleepy fishing village on the south of the island with our sanity in tact and proceeded to be reacquainted with our little green Bintang friend and to receive the welcome of the legendary “Miffo” at his restaurant.
Unlike its namesake on Bali, this Kuta (meaning by the sea) was a revelation to behold, mostly un-spoilt and free from the graphic concrete and neon reach of the metropolis, you could easily be at home here amongst the palms, rocky headlands and untroubled lives of the villagers for an eternity.
Climbing hands and heels to the top of the nearest headland opened up spectacular views of the coastline and cast me back to another time where subsistence meant living in thatched huts, simple farming and raising of livestock. An old man, the lines of the ages etched across his forehead, came out to greet me as I traversed his fields, a smile beaming from his face in that quizzical way, we exchanged the few pleasantries in my repertoire Selamat Siang (Good Afternoon) and Apa Kabar (How Are You?) and then he waived me off as I walked on across the way.
An early morning scooter ride out to the left hand point break at Maui through rolling hills, which follow the coast to the west, fields of green tobacco and charming little villages by the roadside is an exciting way to commune with the countryside, the locals even come down to exact a small toll for the use of their beach and to sell us fruit and drinks, they look on with bemusement as we wander upon their ancestral lands.
With afternoon comes the chance to catch a traditional stick fighting tournament in the nearest town, this is truly the long hair life, careering along sealed roads by scooter, wrestling with traffic, dust, diesel and in the throes of that joy that becomes the travelers life. At the contest there are few foreigners, little kids make us the centre of their attention and we standby as any number of combatants beat the living shit from one another with thick bamboo sticks, trying haplessly to defend their skulls from collapse with their flimsy shields. Their skills as carriers of what you would suppose are ancient warrior arts attract much fan-fare from the crowd, the spectacle seems at once absurdly barbaric and yet attractively entertaining. We make good our escape for the dash back to Kuta as the sun makes its way into evening (sore), barely holding onto these unfamiliar roads but having earnt another visit to “Miffos”.
The southern swell is coming to Bangko Bangko, the famed desert point barrel, our guides Ang and Lam have assured us, so we set a course, eight people, boards, gear, food and all, in the resilient Kijang, the local transport, which miraculously holds together under some brutal treatment.
Alas, arrival brings disappointment, no swell today, but there are a few small barrels to be had for the wily lid, although at the cost of skin and blood. Wiser for the experience of coming into contact with the coral, I leave the scene feeling like masticated reef and beef.
At home with the villagers on “the point”, a wiry chicken is sacrificed, more for our amusement than culinary pleasure, and a truly comic moment ensues as it makes a bold bid for freedom having had its throat cut, only to be wrestled to the ground by one of the local kids.
A late rainstorm quells our attempts to maintain a fire on the beach while imbibing alternate medicinal shots of Arak and cheap whisky but we live in hope of the imminent arrival of a wopping great swell.
Again we were thwarted by the non-appearance of the swell and so it was to be that I couldn’t dance with the reef once more.
Back to Bali in search of greenroom pastures, a high speed boat ride in bumpy swells, the splintering of the group, and off to Ubud in the central north to catch up with the only active volcano on the island at Kintimani.
A short walk around the town reveals that this is possibly the carving and painting capital of Bali, with traditional dancing and those monkeys in the forest also high on the tourists priority list.
A night spent on cold porcelain breathing in the remnants of my own noxious gases is fair warning that a dose of the infamous “Bali-belly” beast is upon me, still the first rays of sunlight bring relief as I contemplate a climb to the top of the live wire Mount Batur.
After projecting the scooter through the predictably chaotic town traffic, we break out onto the open road, stretching its way to Kintimani, the volcano crater dating back to time immemorial, which contains the very much active Batur rising above villages and a picturesque lake. On the climb, we are followed by the discordant echoes of a dance party in the valley, that seems both out of place in this setting and yet somehow symbolic of the intense throbbing of the mountain above as it searches for a release. The view is spectacular, to the east is seen the highest point on Lombok and down below the trail of destruction that earlier eruptions have carved through the valley. To feel the heat generated by the earth, the steam released as if by some monolithic dragon just biding its time in hibernation, to walk upon a living organism of such magnitude is truly memorable, our position tenuous as at any moment the mountain may decide to launch our charcoal remains into the stratosphere.
But today there will be no eruption, no unadulterated display of the whimsical power of nature, the cloud closes in on Batur as we finish our descent and we make our way back to the insularity of civilization.
Back in the womb of Legian, the streets are still buzzing with the white noise of motion and commerce, endless days pass in the same way, this one stop melting pot of tourism struggling to find positive buoyancy after the devastating effects of the bombing less than twelve months previous.
In spite of the ongoing trauma the locals manage to get on with living, employing the belief that from adversity comes hope for the future.
Night-time brings a swingin’ seaside session down at Jimbarran Bay, the seafood capital of Bali, where huts rub shoulders on the beach as the fishing fleet, in a blaze of lights, is doing much the same out at sea. The spread is sumptuous and all for next to nothing, while the highlight is the wandering troubadours that drift up and down the sand entertaining the punters with some scintillating interpretations from the classic rock canon, our particular favourite player is the “Indo Miles” whose horn sounds less than noteworthy but it is the panache he injects into the band that makes him the standout of the night.
The last foray into the water is at Bingan where huts hang stoically to the cliff and the scenery is just fine.
Out on the reef the beach cover up is underway as the tide falls and having had my fair share of run-ins with the bottom I am determined to ride these waves with more grace and style and provide less points for the coral collecting flesh wounds. This final evening of the journey serves up another memorable beeroclock sunset, my mind as always is filled with the events of the days past and is intent on those precious green bottles and their sparring partner Nasi Goreng.
And then in the blink of sixteen days we are movin’ on out of this island paradise again. The time has been long enough to get a feel for the Indonesian way but not seemingly enough to find a way to touch the ground. On reflection the sensual stimulants, the waves, the faces, the good times all become one moment in a stop and go mission and as we board the plane there is one last chance to gasp the hot, thick air before the refrigerated reality of home bites our lungs once more.
Postscript: the swell came to Deserts after we left – the swell got to Bingan before we arrived – the Legian Rooster is alive and well, and waking unsuspecting tourists daily.
