Unskunked

by Eva Glas (United States of America)

Making a local connection Indonesia

As a surfer, I knowingly subject myself to many risks: shark attacks, jellyfish stings, skin lacerations, ear infection, eye injuries. Worst by far, though, is the risk of arriving in a world-class surf destination… and discovering the waves, too, are on vacation. Which is exactly what happened when I arrived in Lombok. Lauded as significantly less crowded than its westerly neighbor, Bali, yet more accessible than easterly Sumbawa, “the other Kuta” seemed the perfect Baby Bear experience. Until I got skunked. At first, I contented myself at Gerupuk, the only break that seemed to be working. After following iffy instructions from the surf shop (park your scooter next to the chicken coop at the end of the dirt road just past town, then hail a boat ride from a fisherman), I was delighted by the long, mellow rights... but swarms of surf schools created a messy obstacle course. A challenge, sure–just not the one I’d craved. That evening, I visited Tanjung Aan Beach, hoping to prove the surf report wrong. Considering the mile of flawless white sand, sparkling turquoise water, and beach swings dotting the tideline, I figured the journey would be worthwhile, either way. As the warm sand massaged my feet, a man approached. “What is that? A ukulele?” “Small guitar,” I answered. He stared expectantly at my backpack, a wink in his smile. “Want to see?” A solo traveler, I’d bought this half-sized instrument as a surrogate companion. The man’s eyes widened as he admired the spruce top and rosewood fretboard. “How much was it!? Three million rupiah!?” “Closer to two,” I responded, sheepish that something I’d bought on a lark represented such a tremendous sum to him. “Do you play?” “Ehhhhh–a little,” he demurred, then cranked out a perfect rendition of “Hotel California,” including all the solos. I provided vocal harmonies and lyrical assistance. Still hungry, he invited me to join him and his friends at their table. And the jamming began! We passed the guitar every few songs; even those who insisted they “only play a little” proved beachside virtuosos as they strummed, cigarette tucked coolly between their fingers. Between turns, they sang along or drummed on anything they could reach: a broken chunk of boogie board, an empty Bintang, or even palm wine they’d fermented themselves. The music continued long after sunset. Finally, the one I now knew as Yar sparked the exodus, announcing that if anyone wanted to surf tomorrow, we’d have to do it before 8am. “You can ride with me,” he declared, handing back my guitar. “I will show you.” We agreed to a 5:45am cup of coffee and a 6am departure. It was painfully early, but I knew their local expertise was the only way I’d get a good session. Seven hours later, I was bouncing behind Banana and Yar, down a dirt road I never would’ve known existed without them. We parked our scooters and paddled out. They muttered that the waves were still small, but couldn’t hide their grins. “Just remember, you have to pop up quick here. Or you will go boom!” “Terima kasih, bapak!” I thanked him in Indonesian. I expected him to be impressed. Instead, he scrunched his eyes, hesitated, then asked, “Why do you keep calling me that? Bapak?” A sea turtle exhaled, soft and misty, then ducked below the surface. “It… means ‘you’ or ‘mister’… Doesn’t it?” “Maybe in Malaysia! Here, it’s like calling me Daddy!” Banana flung his chin to the sky and unleashed his distinctive, unmistakable neigh. My tinted zinc sunscreen suddenly assumed a second purpose: concealing my flushed cheeks. But at that moment, the set rolled in, fast and steep, and the only thing left on anyone’s mind was catching the perfect wave. And so we did.