And here we are back in Bali, but only long enough to pick up my Rooster nine-two surfboard from its abode these past dozen years or so, marvel at how well it’s been kept over 12 months – waxed, bagged and good to go – order the babi guling (suckling pig) from Café Baru in Cepaka village and escape to Nusa Lembongan across the strait.
It’s been half a dozen years, maybe a bit more, since we last visited this tiny dot of what once was paradise, and the experience has changed in just about every aspect, from the moment you enter the hideously designed new fast boat terminal in Sanur and are pushed and prodded into not-so-orderly queues to make a slow progression onto the wharf. So many boats, so many people!
Our family trip to Bali – three generations, 13 of us from septuagenarians to a two-year-old – is in part a celebration of a special anniversary, for me 50 years of frequent travel to the island of the gods, and as we bump across the deep and windswept channel in a Rocky Fastboat, bags flying every which way in the hold, surfboards smashing against the stern, I can’t help but remember the first time on Lembongan.
It was either the first trip in 1974 or the second the following year. I can’t recall as the surf crew was pretty much the same both seasons. There were no fast crossings. We went on Claude Graves’ yacht, four or five hours across, an afternoon surf at Shippies by ourselves, a paddle into the village to explore what was there, say hello to the locals and investigate the kelp farm next to the cliffs, then back onto the boat for sundowners, a fine dinner and a good sleep on deck on a protected anchorage inside the break now known as Playgrounds.
In those days there was a basic losmen (guesthouse) on the beach and a warung (store and basic café) behind it. We opted to camp on the boat. And on the morning tide we surfed the little A-frame directly in front of us, a soft-looking wave that packed a surprising amount of grunt at head-height, before sailing back to the Bali mainland.
Going anywhere in Bali in those days was an adventure, but the Lembongan trip was something really special, and while it has changed (beyond recognition in some respects) its wild beauty survives, and so, it turns out, does the primitive nature of some of the out-of-town accommodations. Although the second and third generations of the family lived it up this week on the strip we once knew as Aussie Hill, surrounded by designer bars and cafes, thanks to a Booking.com late cancellation in high holiday season, the patriarch and matriarch found themselves short of a digs anywhere near where we wanted to be, and instead up a goat track in a falling-down hotel where nothing worked, especially the staff.
But, hey, we’ve stayed in worse places in Bali over the decades, and learnt to grin and bear it. And with the family around us we just let ourselves be ruled by the fun factor. And boy, did we have some fun! I showed my age surfing with a son-in-law and a couple of grandsons and 100 or so close friends from around the globe. As the tide came in Playgrounds jacked up and playful sets suddenly started to square up. The scramble at the peak was so bad it was no place for old men, and three days before his 73rd birthday, this old salt took off too late, pearled and copped the next three waves on the head. There was a redeeming left before I paddled in, but the grandboys were laughing at me behind their hands.
The next day I followed their lead, and did what they did on a snorkeling trip up the spectacular Nusa Penida coast to swim with the giant manta rays. The dive spots, like Playgrounds were giant clusters of people, but on our third attempt we found a cove with only a couple of other boats, went over the side and down five or six metres in the clearest blue water. And then the mantas came! I was swimming towards one when my daughter grabbed my arm from behind and turned me sideways. We were both staring at a huge manta so close I could have tickled its tonsils. I’ve seen mantas before, but this was a spine-tingling close encounter neither of us will forget.
On our last night on Lembongan we dined at a Thai on the strip above the bay, watching a superb sunset, and it suddenly occurred to me that we were sitting on the Playgrounds tee-off spot. Years ago, when our Noosa mate Chris De Aboitiz had the lease on the Playgrounds Resort, we’d sit in the pool drinking Bintang tallies while Chris smashed golf balls out into the bay between slurps of his beer. If it looked like a hole in one we’d all cheer, and in the morning he’d paddle out there and pick up the balls off the exposed reef.
Lembongan has changed but the memories live on.
