Chapter 2 – Fleeing Kuta

 

As Bali regulars will know the initial excitement and over indulgence of Kuta is a novelty that wears thin between one minute and five days of arriving. There really is only so long you can tolerate the fumes, bintang shirted Aussie thugs and the Kuta chorus of “transport, transport transport” .The point comes where you enter the bare and barren room that passes as a travel agent and get yourself the fluffy duck out of there.

When I say travel agent i literally mean a room with a desk and a phone. Clint, Stean and I walk in and are greeted by a pretty but vague girl who looks at us with a blank expression, daunted by the task of understanding the strange demands of the western traveller. You explain where the Island of Sumbawa is and she makes a call to the airline (and possibly explains to them the same thing). Her response to whether she can book us accomodation at our desired location “No can” with a shake of the head. Apparently Bali and Sumbawa aren’t on speaking terms. We’ll take our chances we decide and hand over the rupes.

Lakey Peak

Located on The Island of Sumbawa, two islands over from Bali, Lakey peak is a community built purely around surfing. Built from dust to a haphazard collection of bungalows and restaurants, the waves are world class and all blessed with crystal clear water and reliable swells. After a plane ride on a bus with wings there is a three hour ride through hilly terrain. Monkeys scowl from the side of the road and the horses and carts remind you that not all the world has bothered catching up to the 21st century. Goats, chickens, cats, dogs and even the occasional buffalo are scattered along the Lakey beachfront, providing comical obstacles as you stroll between restaurants and waves. Amagati is the most up market hotel with a swimming pool and Internet but If you’re smart you’ll stay in a cheaper place and just use their facilities.

We chose Mona Lisa bungalows for the shade that the others lacked and the fact that Hayles and I had stayed there previously and it had sentimental value. It is run by a small energetic man named Robbie or Mr Robbie to you. “yeah japple with egg, no worries for you bro, no worries…” Robbie replies to our request as we arrive in the hazy, dusty dusk.

Exhausted it is off to bed for three ragged travellers. Nervous and excited to get stuck into some serious surfing I crash out blissfully unaware of the cruel twist of fate that awaits me.

Zen and the art of not surfing

There are two very different ways a person can wake up and greet a new day. You can awake slowly and peacefully. You give yourself a gentle stretch, a scratch of the nads and with eyes half open slide gracefully into the world.

Then there is the type of waking up that is best compared to that of a six year old on Xmas morning.

The first iota of consciousness that creeps in under the veil of sleep is like an electric shock to the system. Your body jerks into action like a puppet. You sit up in bed like a confused mental patient. Desperately craving something but till the dregs of sleep clear and a grasp on reality kicks in you can’t quite able to get a handle on what that something is. Thats right, surfing. Its time to go surfing. I had been sent to sleep by the rhythmic but intoxicating sound of waves crashing on reef and awoke frothing to get in the water. I had my leg rope on my ankle and was paddling out to the waves faster than you can say, “hang on their big guy, have you ever heard of stretching”?

Needless to say I had heard of stretching. I come from a town where yoga is right up their with taking out the garbage, washing the dishes and watering the mull plants as an everyday household activity. So I had really no excuse for what happened next. As my yoga teacher would say I got my Carma (karma?). After catching my first wave, my very first wave at Lakey peak I felt a muscle in my upper thigh give way as I raced down the line. I collapsed in a comical heap in the water and the reality that my surf trip might be over before it even started hit me like a tonne of bricks

 

“FUCK FUCK FUCK”.

 

I was devastated, no matter how hard I tried to dance off the injury like it might be persuaded to reverse itself by shaking and flexing the damage had been done. I thought maybe if I ignored it or bashed it hard enough against the trunk of a palm it might give up and leave me be. An injury however is an injury and the one thing it needed that I was so reluctant to give it was time. I had no time. I was here to surf not mope around like a cripple. It seemed inconceivable that I might survive as a spectator after desiring so fervently the aquatic games I had come to play.

Somehow though I did survive. Hour-to-hour and then day-to-day. I found that little bit of Zen that is in all of us and allowed myself to change gears.

We all lead such hectic lives and rarely do we take the time to watch the wind rustle the leaves of a tree, sand filter through our fingers or the mischief of dogs chasing each other down the beach. Life at Lakey Peak is full of many such simple pleasures and I found myself begin to gradually start ambling along at island pace. Island pace for those not in the know is a bit like being dead but just back it off a little. I was three days out from my 29th birthday and In one of my many moments of reflection I realised that if I can hold off the surfing till then that maybe just maybe the universe might have a plan for me.

Another year bites the Sumbawan dust

As it turns out it did and it does. To my unbridled ecstasy the morning of my birthday was the first morning I could twist my thigh with no discomfort. The absence of the sprain was more welcome to me than a truckload of presents. I stretched and breathed and smiled. After 72 hours of abstinence I got back on the wagon and surfed my way in to my 29th year on the planet.

 

My first back was at Periscopes. A right hander about a twenty minute walk down the beach that offers humps and bumps that would make Fergie blush. The surface of the wave was as smooth as glass and spun a perfect circle for a hundred yards down the line. You thread your way through it and pull the barell over you like a liquid doona cover, sliding and gliding over the reef till you pop out into the channel and hoot the next rider as he dances the same dance. As I strolled back along the beach I had the Beautiful Girls song in my head “just like persicopes up in the sky…” Corny I know, but boy am i a corny guy.

My birthday evolved into a day of Island playtime. Clint, Stein and I invented the inaugural coconut Olympics. Shot put (obviously), golf and lawn bowls. We then were invited for a game of beach soccer with some local hooligans and after an hour of tramping around on the coral speckled sand retired bloody and beaten to our bintangs and dinner. When the birthday cake came out I felt overwhelmed at the thoughtfulness of my new friends and the uniqueness of the birthday that had just passed. So an injury can be a blessing when it is cause for reflection. Although my maturity level barely passes that of the gibbons that flash their pink bums at you as you pass on them on the Lakey road I think that over the last few days I just maybe grew up a little bit. I guess that is the whole point of this travelling thing.

The waves pumped between 4 and 6 feet for the next week and the crowd gradually turned from an annoyance to a group of new friends sharing waves. We were fortunate enough to not coincide our trip with any sponsored pros visiting who are as much fun to surf with as having your lemon juice spiked with tabasco sauce. There were a few Brazillians there however… There was one incident where an Aussie was dropped in on by an especcially nutty Brazil nut and was then berated for a half hour over how it was his fault for catching his wave out of turn. ” Hey Bro, my wave bro, you paddle on the inside, I wait for wave you keep paddling bro, my wave bro” Insert rapidly waving arms and water splashing here. I think I can wait to surf Brazil.

Life is a wave, sometimes we ride it away from those we love…

 

Sitting around one evening with a random table of blokes at the Amagati hotel drinking duty free vodka and sambuca it became clear that I had stumbled upon an interesting reunion. These half a dozen men around me it was gradually revealed had all taken a trip to Lakeys 18 years previous and this was the first time they had been back together in a group since then. From Perth to Melbourne, Noosa to Coffs distance and the trappings of domestic life had kept them apart over the years and I couldn’t help but feel honoured to be sitting at their table. The energy was reflective and electric. Boys again. Away from the supervision of wives and bosses, reliving old memories.” Lipton teabags” Col says from across the table. A chuckle goes round and they tell me of the time they went round to Cols house as kids when tea bags had first come out and Cols mum had refused to use them being afraid it wasn’t “real” tea. They were rugged and fit evidence that no matter what had changed in their lives surfing was still the main axis around which life revolved. Muscular shoulders and tanned skin and perhaps a little more meat around the middle than when they had last all met, these guys were just grommets with guts. “We decided we’d meet on neutral ground,” says Steve a carpenter from Wollongong. Neautral ground. Surfing I realised is not only a love that friends share together but also a mediator and leveller of social status. Among the men are various levels of inequities, some have done a little better than others over the years, some have marriages that didn’t work and careers that didn’t stick. This could of caused some consternation in the group. In the water though, on a surf trip the only currency is what your body can spend and the only wealth to be gained is the rewards of riding a wave. These boys were all equal again just as it was 18 years ago.

10 days after we arrived and it was back to Kuta. Home again for two nights before flying out to London. Home again? Strange how we create surrogate homes as we travel. The sensation of one place being slightly more familiar than another is all you need to feel like you are in a way…home. Do I need to tell you that 5 hours after arriving back at our hotel I was singing karaoke with a hot Austrian girl named Clara and working my through a Mojito. Well I guess I just did. I guess no matter how much I love the serenity of Island life and evading civilisation, it is pretty hard to beat belting out a Bon jovi classic on the mike with a new friend by your side and a long messy night ahead of you….

Next stop London. I’ll see you then.