A Passage to Indonesia, Part I: Salt Rush
Entry 005 | 4.8.24
Ilham asked us for breakfast the following day, and we agreed despite knowing we were leaving for Lombok early. One of my poorer habits is rarely correcting people, and this need for appeasement hasn’t seemed to shed with youthhood. Many Southeast Asians now know me as Lucky. I never try to fix it. The conversation that proceeds is worth the error anyway. ‘Lucky man, lucky boy’ and a big smile. The rest of Asia knows me as Loki ‘Ahhh, like Thor’s brother’, another smile and a reminder of what Chris Hemsworth has done for Greek Mythology. I prefer that people remain happy in false belief. Correction at certain junctures in conversation can be like kicking someone in the kneecap. It’s better to let them continue on their path as accuracy withers in the shadow of conversational momentum. A few degrees in error might take them to Argentina rather than Australia, but at least they’re in the right hemisphere.
After breakfast, Jarrod said goodbye to Dobbo and Marieke while Memphis and I collected our laundry. We had farewelled Kerby the night before, discovering his private room was far nicer than our fan-conditioned dormitory. It had a larger bed, a larger river stone shower floor, and black tiling on the bathroom walls.
‘This is so nice!’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes’, he agreed in his usual, anaesthetised way, ‘it’s easy to get something on a deal when you’re staying longer.’
‘Yeah, we head out in the morning.’
‘What, you’re going already?’ Here, I first saw him betray any disposition other than fundamentally relaxed. If Kerby and Dobbo had ever met, they might’ve bonded over their shared battle with gravity. If either were any more laid-back, they’d fall to the sand.
‘Yeah, but I think we might be coming back at some point,’ I scrambled, ‘so let’s stay in touch.’ We wouldn’t be back for at least a year, but I didn’t want to let my new friend down. I never let a dream die, even when I cut the artery myself.
Blurry photo of our laundry lady.
Medewi, Bali.
The proprietor of Jungle House had arranged a driver for us, and shortly after nine, our black SUV climbed out of the valley, heading in the opposite direction to Cocoa Bean Crossing. Far from a smooth ride, we bounced between ruts and potholes before reaching the summit. We found ourselves overlooking an immense valley of rice terraces cascading in all directions. We had needlessly confined ourselves to a brief precinct of this town. Surfing can get in the way like that. If comparison is the thief of joy, the prospect of waves will pickpocket contentment. Surfers get a sniff of swell, derail plans and spend thousands. One of the worst cases of crest breath I have witnessed was on a brisk Autumn morning in Raglan.
We sat on the grassy banks of Manu Bay, looking at two to three-foot easy waves rolling over the rocky point — low wind, light crowd, no clouds. We pressed black coffee out of a friend's Land Cruiser and cooked beans and eggs out of my Subaru — a pair of first-class expeditionary vehicles. As we ate, we wondered if it would be better elsewhere. One member of our party was sure we would. He hadn’t looked up from his phone once. He was watching a surf cam. ‘Indies is going off!’ he kept saying, only looking toward the waves at his feet when he felt the need to declare their inferiority. Indicators was only a few kilometres down the road and often heralded a quieter lineup. But here it was good. Why move? We remained indecisive until we ran out of coffee, but by then, the Manu Bay crowd forced our hand. In person, Indicators looked much the same as Manu, only smaller and with the same crowd. Memphis and I drove home dry, deciding to beat the long weekend traffic. Never leave waves for promises.
A brisk morning.
Ngarunui Beach, Raglan.
When I speak of ‘surfers’ in broad, arm’s-length fashion, it’s not because I consider myself superior. Rather, the opposite. I’m not part of the thoroughbred; drop everything for the heaviest lip and hollowest tube, Phar Lap breed. The five-millimetre wetsuit, Catlin’s fanatics or the four-in-the-morning strike missions to Shippies, foot down in your ‘97 Outback strapped four boards high. These are the chargers, and I’m neither skilled nor committed enough to gallop across the plains alongside them. I get out in winter, sure, infrequently and in Auckland. I prefer boardshorts and three-foot peelers to hoodies, booties and eight-foot ice. Diehards are in any hobby or passion that wagers adrenaline against skill and luck. That Indies friend only picked up the pastime a few years ago. He’s probably already better than me and certainly more fearless (pride would not let me omit ‘probably’). He’s also a great guy, no-questions-asked-level, generous and fun to surf with. It’s just interesting to note when someone’s chasing the dragon.
On this year-long escapade, I knew waves would get in the way. The restlessness, the scouting and check-in. The nervous anticipation of a big swell and visions before sleep. The short breathlessness before dawn, look out toward ridgelines rolling into the bay, like moving hills, lifting your boat out of the water and then slamming it back down with the irreverent, divine might of a toddler playing in the bathtub. Salt neurosis can detract from vacation. But considering myself a ‘traveller’ rather than a ‘vacationer’ offers some placebo. Many of Lombok’s breaks are perfect for beginners. Until they’re not. Then, all of a sudden, you're in the bathtub and need friends like Mr. Indies by your side, hooting and hollering. The good thing is you don’t need heroin when you have friends who intravenously inject courage with their presence.
That same rocky bay and grassy banks, but on a warm evening.
Manu Bay, Raglan.
#
Saltwater, cold and raw, burns my nostrils and throat. A coolness sweeps through my body, and the horizon sways like a spinning top. Spewing out the ocean before it has a chance, I gasp for air. I pry apart reluctant eyelids and catch a glimpse of the sun.
Down again. Deeper. There is no way of orientation. A crescendo rages around me. A red torrent against my eyes, but I am not looking at the sun? I reach out. I try to claw myself to survival. The crescendo fades. The sea turns to oil. I have only dug deeper. Only darkness, silence and peace.
A sharp crackle of thunder from below.
Opening my eyes, my hands illuminated.
Moments, each disconnected from the last.
I balance on the needle.
I am at full velocity.
I wobble.
Quiet.
I kick. But into nothing. So, how do I know this is the way? It has to be.
If it’s not, I will never know.
And then the surface.
‘That was a heavy slam, boy!’ he says.
‘I think I might hang off the shoulder for a while, aye’, I croak.
‘How goods this though boy. We’re in Indo!’
#
We touched down on a golden, dry afternoon, and a familiar face greeted us. Jimmy is a twenty-five-year-old father who can take you from A to B via SUV, scooter, dirt bike, or fishing boat. There’s never an advertised rate, only ‘Whatever you think, my friend.’ Since our last visit, he had developed that deep, almost purple tan the boys get on the island when surfing six hours a day and had grown mid-length hair with rusty, sun-bleached streaks to cap off the look.
‘Surfing is life,’ he told us before we’d even made it to the taxi. ‘Look at me now; I’m black.’
‘You’re looking great, Brodie’, Jarrod told him as I nodded in agreement.
‘Like you now, Lucky, ’ he explained, ‘long hair, long life, big banana, happy wife.’ It never takes long for the ratbag to come out.
Memphis looked out the window at roads shaded by tropical plants and dusty villages set alight by the evening embers. Women garbed head-to-toe, operating street stands, shirtless men, hands dipped in oil, smoking cigarettes as they work on scooters and bikes. Our married friend boasts, ‘I have European girlfriend from instructing.’ He raised his cracked smartphone so we three, lined in the back, could see a picture of him standing with a blonde girl about twice his height, holding a board two times her own. He smiles and swipes out of the photo, revealing his baby daughter as a screensaver.
We often hear anecdotal testimonies about how it’s alright for a Lombok man to have a local wife, perhaps even two and as many long-distance European friends as he pleases. It’s a twenty-minute ride from Praya, where the International Airport is, to Kuta, the popular surf town on the South Coast. Brodie informed us that you married young in Lombok and proactively initiated marriage. ‘Bride Kidnapping’ is not uncommon in some parts of the world — namely, Sumba, Indonesia, but I wasn’t sure it was as prevalent here as he was now suggesting. Memphis continued looking out at the blissful face-value surroundings, only slightly absorbing the rapid immersion into Indonesian gender dynamics, which, I should point out, are not endemic to this archipelago.
A golden, dry afternoon in Lombok.
By Federico Repetto.
Postcard #2 To Parents
Links & EXTRAS
Our accommodation: Jungle House, Medewi & Pipes Hostel
Memphis Book Club: Julia Fox - ‘Down the Drain’. A chaotic insight into Fox’s life.
Essential travel purchase(s): Dry bags. You can find them at many roadside merchants around Southeast Asia. They are a must for boat trips and handy for general day-to-day affairs. I managed two bags for around 160K IDR / $16NZD each. On this trip, I have a 5L bag for bits and bobs — mostly zinc, wax, wallet, keys, and cigarettes for the boatman to leave on the surfboat. It can fit my laptop, too. I also have a 20L bag, which we use for laundry, longer days or overnight trips in case we are caught in heavy rain between destinations and need to protect some essential belongings.
Some resources I used:
Indonesia vows to end the practice of bride kidnapping - BBC article concerning the practice in Sumba, an island in Eastern Indonesia. Far more raw and remote than Bali to Lombok.
More info on breaks
A comprehensive informational surf guide
Glossary
Wave size: Typically measured in eyeballed ‘feet’ until six feet. Then some start to refer to the size as ‘head-high’, overhead, overhead and a half, double overhead, triple overhead, then whatever the hell you want to call it if you’re surfing it at that size (usually back to 20 feet, 30 foot up to 100+ for world record big wave surfing). After six feet, some adopt two-foot intervals, eight foot, ten foot, etc. There is contention over what constitutes these measurements. They are not classical, ruler-out types of estimates. ‘Hawaiian’ size is more significant as they supposedly measure the back of the wave, not the front. I have never known anyone disciplined to measure something by envisioning what it looks like from behind. However, this is the lineup’s view once the wave has passed. Also, testosterone-fueled surf masculinity dictates frequent under-measuring for the sake of god knows what. Surfers are a funny bunch. This is why head-high and overhead, etc., are universal and accessible. Remember, the best surfer has the most fun on the slightest wave. Not the reverse.
Crest breath: This is a phrase I made up. At my old job, my boss would advise us not to get ‘commissions breath’ when a client could sense we were trying too hard to close a deal.
Lineup: The area in the water where the surfers wait to get their turn at catching a wave. It usually spreads from the edge of the channel toward the peak/takeoff zone. Traditionally, elders and locals take ‘priority’, sitting closest to the peak and having better access to the wave. From there, people wait their turn and, after catching a wave, go out to the channel and back of the queue. Such etiquette essentially goes out the window in surf tourism locations, particularly when you are paying to be pushed into waves. Lokals rulez brah.
Break: When and where the swell of the water breaks, turning into waves and white water. It could be over sand, reef, rocks and into a bay, across a beach, across a point or out at sea in the case of some big wave surfing.
Point break/point: A point break is a surf break where the shoreline extends to sea, creating a headland. The wave hits the headland or jetty and begins to peel along the extending shoreline, creating a long, well-formed wave that is unlikely to close out or break in front of itself. Point breaks usually have only one take-off point and travel in one direction, which may mean you must get in line and wait your turn to catch a wave—quality over quantity at these particular surf breaks.
Indicators/Indies: An indicator could be a headland, cliff, rock, or break wall further out. You could use either of these to know when the set is coming by noticing when water breaks over or moves one of the indicators. You may notice that this means a set is on its way and will arrive a specific time later. You have a watch while surfing, which can be helpful if you’re trying to dial in the spot. Indicators can also be boats, buoys or wharfs anchored at sea moving up and down. ‘Indicators/Indies’ is one of the famous point break spots along Raglan’s coast, while Manu Bay and Whale Bay are the others. There is also Ngarunui Beach, which is an expansive beach break. Indicators are named as such as it is the further break up the headland and, therefore, can be used to indicate how big the swell is on that day. If Indies is big and clean, it will be one for the books.
Heaviest lip: The lip is the curling part of a wave. When the waves are steep and big, the lip often crashes down with force. ‘Heavy’ is a common piece of slang in surfing and refers to the more dangerous elements of the hobby: a heavy slam, a heavy wipeout, a heavy wave, etc.
Hollowest tube: Tube is a synonym for barrel. The green room. The hollow part of the wave when it is breaking. The Holy Grail of surfing is finding yourself in the tube, mainly if, from the perspective of someone standing on the beach, the lip of the wave has fully covered you. In this case, you are ‘pitted’, ‘covered', ‘tubed’ or ‘barrelled’
Catlins: The Catlins (sometimes referred to as the Catlins Coast) comprise an area in the southeastern corner of the South Island of New Zealand. The area lies between Balclutha and Invercargill, straddling the boundary between the Otago and Southland regions. It includes the South Island's southernmost point, Slope Point. The Catlins are known for cold waters, big, heavy waves, and keen chargers.
Strike missions: Last-minute excursions to take advantage of surf conditions that appear to line up well at a particular location. They could involve a drive up the coast or a flight to Indonesia.
Shipwreck Bay/Shippies: A famous point break in Ahipara township of New Zealand’s Far North. The bay lies at the southernmost point of Ninety Mile Beach. A sandy bottom, rocky, left-handed point break. It even featured on the 1966 surfing classic ‘The Endless Summer’.
Peeling/Peeler: When a wave breaks perfectly along a bay, beach, point, or reef, it has that classic, curling shape, although not necessarily barreling. It is often a long and definitely clean wave with a smooth face for surfers to manoeuvre up and down.
Lines: The swell approaching the shore. As mentioned, swell comes in sets with periods in between them. On a good day, when conditions are right, you can look out to the horizon and watch lines of waves coming in these sets.
Warung: A small traditional restaurant, tiny shop/kiosk, roadside stall, or restaurant. You will be served traditional Indonesian food in an elementary setting and sometimes other Western dishes. All will be delicious and cheap. Some of which may take a while to make if it is busy.
