THE DRAGONFLY'S DEN
Returning back to civilisation after our journey of discovery on the “Coast of Faces”, we landed back in
Bali for two days of unwinding and a grunty feed, consisting of something different than rice and tofu
which we had survived on for weeks. The hustle, bustle and odour of Kuta is somewhat overwhelming after next to no contact with other
humans for the last few weeks. While finding our own hidden jewel had been an experience many search their lifetimes for, it had taken
its toll on us physically, 18 hour days hanging in the tropical heat and most of those out in the lineup waiting for the
one wave that did the business. So these couple of days were filled with
plenty of sleeping and massages. Refueling, before coming up with a battle plan for the rest of our stay.
If scoring waves is on the top of your priority list while on holiday, then some degree of flexibility is important, it’s pointless booking time at a certain location only to arrive and find the swell was the wrong direction, or too big or small for your entire stay. So with this in mind we waited till the last minute, checked, then double checked the charts, made our call then jumped on our motorbikes and headed out to the airport. Well that’s where the drama began and now looking back, it was quite comical. Last minute flights had tripled in price, this got us tight-ass Kiwis in a spin, and the lads were all turning on each other, with the plug pulled on the mission, then back on again in one short conversation. Then came the ‘only in Indo’ experience, after finally paying up for the tickets we learned that luggage was extra, we had pre-paid for one lot of 20 kilos although we had explained over and over we had five people and surfboards. Apparently though we could split that generous 20 amongst the five of us, making it four kilos each. Perfectly fine if we were taking empty bags! As Kiwis we are used to running on the smell of an oily rag and these unexpected costs had Sanga head butting the counter, only subsiding when he realised he was creating permanent brain damage over $9 once the exchange rate had been taken into account. Descending down into somewhere new is always exciting, the land forms you fly over offer a first chance look at the location, however only seconds before touching down on the runway we still couldn’t see the ground through the thick smog, out there somewhere lay the dragonfly’s den, I’m sure glad the pilot knew where he was going. Busting out through the air-conditioned doors of the terminal we met our driver for the next eight hours, he pointed in the direction of the car, somewhere across the carpark hidden by the haze. Then he broke the news to us that he wanted to take the boards in the car 20 kilometres out of the city, as the police don’t allow surfboards on the roof, and it was a 100,000 rupiah fine. We were to catch two taxis costing 300,000 each. Hmmm it was becoming clear to us over the last 24 hours that maths isn’t the strongest point of many Indonesians. Pulling rank we threw the boards on the roof and ordered Bobby Brown to drive and we’d pay the fine, pretty simple really. Two hours later we still hadn’t been pulled up, although we had passed several police, which made old Bobby’s collaboration with his taxi driver mates look like a rather sly scam. After four hours of driving we were still on a six lane highway with cityscape as far as we could see, which soon gave way to the rural outskirts and then onto the mountains with the roads getting progressively skinnier and rougher, that six lane smooth seal gave way to a single lane dirt track and our progress went from belting out 100k to 10. Spread out throughout our car we had a few characters all with their very own war stories that kept a long arduous journey like this entertaining. First we had Maz ‘Optimus’ Quinn with his “Back in my prime” stories. The practical joker Sam ‘Sanga ball banger’ Willis, who after a few drinks actually transforms into a Twilight vampire and runs around biting people. The old man of the sea Clint Reid, who upon hearing your best tube riding exploits or fishing tales will come out with his own, that make you look like you were down at the wharf catching sprats, and then when you begin to think “Yeah whatever” out pops his I-pod with photographic evidence that crushes you. And rounding off the crew our Banjo player in Matty ‘Mataks’ Scorringe, who with his stories makes you take a look at life and cherish everything you have right there and then. Throw these four characters into the mix, with a driver who wanted to go visit relatives all over the island in between nodding off at the wheel and being slapped by the passenger back onto the right side. It was one hell of a day which rolled into night. The mountains we had travelled through soon sloped downward and with our ears popping, the dense jungle gave way to tea plantations, and then on into the expanses of a sandy desert. Several times we had to get out of the car to check the depth of soft sand and mud, and punch on through at speed. Where the hell were we? Just as we asked that question, the vehicles high beam lighting up the track ahead bobbed up and down as we hit bumps, and lit up a breaking wave directly in front of us. We had finally reached the coast and more importantly the swell was up. Every trip has its keen soldier, the guy that beats everyone out of the sac including the roosters and has checked the wind and every break before it’s even light enough to see. Our guy was Clint, who has spent a lot of time around this zone over the years and was keen to get amongst it. By the time he woke us, the frogs were still hopping around on the dew soaked grass, not realising it
was day time yet, and neither did we. We were trying to pry our eyes open with a thick cup of tar like coffee and attempting to perk up and match Clints exuberance. Five K up the road lay a long left that Clint had already checked out, although the swell direction meant it was flopping in big sections. Dotted along this coastline at the edge of the desert were a host of breaks that would all have their time in the spotlight, yet with next to no surf tourists, you could bet a cold Bintang that some world class waves go un-ridden for many months of the year. With an abundance of isolated sandy beaches this area is one of the few zones in Indonesia where sea turtles will come in to lay their eggs in the deep sand. The government has realised this could be a tourism gold mine and is making a push for the protection for these sea creatures, a hatchery has opened and bus loads of people make the arduous eight plus hour drive as we did, to release turtle hatchlings raised in the local hatchery on sunset, all for a fee of course. But with the roads being non existent unless more infrastructure is put in place it wont be long before those tourists will cease to come. However after witnessing locals eating turtles over the weeks gone by at the ‘Coast of Faces’ and a couple of villagers towing a live turtle down the tar sealed road behind their motorbike, at least it is a push in the right direction for the salvation of the species. By the time we surveyed all our options, the heat of the day had set in with the hot desert sands magnifying the temperature. This prompted millions of dragonfly’s to take flight, and just riding along on a motorbike became a safety concern, as one by one each dragonfly came in for a kamikaze attack, flying into our oncoming eyeballs, cheeks and arms. From that point on sunglasses became compulsory for any ride, so we didn’t have to drive along with eyes closed. The closest break to our home-stay was picking up the most swell, []although it reminded us of Raglan back home, with long fat walls. It was nice to at least take off on a wave knowing you could bang it where and how you wanted without fear of getting snapped in half as we had faced for the last few weeks. But somehow Clint managed to find a barrel just to prove the joint does have its odd moments. This was only the start of things to come in terms of Clint rubbing salt into the wounds. That would rear its head later that arvo.