Bali Belly, Covid & Injury in Kuta Lombok
I slumped on the grubby bathroom tiles, straining my neck over the toilet bowl, aching, and red-faced with sweat dripping from my brow. The ceramic rim was cool to the touch and I gripped it tightly as I plunged my head further into the bowl before another overwhelming surge of partially digested Nasi Goreng came up through my throat. My legs trailed behind me in a stale shower water and sand puddle. A bare bulb dangled from a wire on the ceiling–casting a bright beam in an otherwise lightless world.
With round after round of heaving, sweating, and aching, a sense of impending doom descended upon me. Having now thrown up everything but my stomach lining, I collapsed onto the floor–flat on my back, stared up at the ceiling. My ribs stuck out of my chest, like a row of fleshy dinner plates and my neck throbbed in pain from the wretching. I lay still–the cool damp tiles the only relief in an otherwise hopeless situation.
I had been in Indonesia for only two weeks and managed to surf all of two times before catching COVID-19, taking a clueless kook to the head and injuring my neck while duck diving, and to top it all off, a severe case of Bali Belly. My credit card balance was also mounting up to the “I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to pay this back” point and so this combination of unfortunate events had already earned this trip the title of “worst ever”–a tall order when you travel as much as I do.
I lay on the floor, wondering why I do this… I could be at home in Cornwall, surfing Porthmeor with all my friends, fit and healthy, with money in my account. But here I am now, lying alone in a dirty Indonesian bathroom, unable to surf, and for the moment, unable to move. Minutes dragged into hours, hours into days, and days into weeks, before I felt normal again.
A few bedridden weeks later, I managed to surf again. It took a few painkillers and an hour-long pre-surf stretch routine, even then it was only until the tablets wore off. It was a great shame because on paper the waves around Kuta Lombok are made for me, there is much variety, consistency and waves of all shapes and sizes. But many of the breaks lack the deep ocean power you might find in the Ments or Sumatra.
One morning, after stretching, nursing a round of banana pancakes and washing my painkillers down with a gritty Bali Coffee, I hit the road. I drove out along the endless twists and turns of the single-lane highway that tentacles out from Kuta. The road twists and turns and rises and falls, cutting between the jungle and affording the occasional glance at the ocean over the palms. The road went on and on and on but eventually, the turn-off led me down a dirt track. The track was the sort you could hardly describe as a track–undulating, with rocks and ribs running through it. Each dip and hip in the track had to be carefully negotiated, to avoid an embarassing tumble into the shrubbery. My butt cheeks ached as I bounced along and the morning sun, already high in the sky, torched my bare shoulders.
Eventually, I arrived at a slither of pristine white sands and sparkling azure waters. The waves’ crests were groomed by a light offshore breeze and the ocean glimmerd unde the morning sun. The water was so clear on the inside, I could see the corals under the waves and watched as twenty or so surfers bobbed in the morning sun. I watched as a set of shoulder-high a-frames spilt perfectly over the reef in front of me and peeled left and right. The rights looked short and fast, but the lefts ran and ran with the chance to whack half a dozen turns off.
I checked the conditions in a patch of shade, in a small clearing where a slue of motorbikes belonging to surfers who’d risen earlier than myself. A local woman swept her shopfront–a tiny shack selling Bintangs and coconuts and Beng-Bengs, catering to the surfer’s staple diet. I took a moment to drink in my surroundings, everything deep green or cerulean, shimmering under the mid-morning light. A delightful scene at the best of times, and especially delightful when you’ve barely been out of doors for weeks.
The landscape in Lombok is different from most other places in Indo, especially if you have travelled east from Bali. There is an imaginary divide between Lombok and Bali, that describes the unique flora and fauna found on either side of the Lombok Straight. On the Balinese side, you find more tropical plants and animals, whereas on the Lombok side, the landscape is more reminiscent of the East Coast of Australia. The line is known as the Wallace Line, after British naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace. (Don’t say you don’t learn anything from my writing).
I waxed up, threw on my leash and edged my way carefully over the reef, which was shallow, and just sharp enough to make you wince as you walked. I paddled about the line-up carefully, picking off a handful of fun left-hand walls, trying to surf how my body allowed.
I felt sore, and I surfed awkwardly, trying not to jerk my neck too violently but just being out in the line-up was wonderful. The offshore breeze groomed each peak as it rolled through, throwing fans of spray into the crowd behind. The lefts peeled nicely down the reef, peeling along for fifty yards or so before fizzling out into a deep channel. The rights, were shorter, but more powerful, running into a closeout in mere inches of water. Perfect air sections. If only I could do them. I surfed for as long as my body allowed, before calling it a day, retreating to the shade of a palm tree and watching on.
The morning drive out to Mawi quickly became my morning mission and as my neck, (albeit very slowly) began to improve and my mobility came back, I could almost surf properly once more. However, conditions began to dwindle and the head-high a-frames I had become accustomed to, became over-crowded waist-high dribble. As the conditions deteriorated, so did my enthusiasm for the drive out to Mawi.
I had surfed little of Kuta Lombok’s plentiful breaks and I pondered on why so many surfers loved to come here. But then again, I hadn’t exactly seen it at its best, I had spent most of the time in bed, unable to surf and despite the waves, everywhere deserves a second chance, but for now, that second chance would have to wait. For now, it was time to get back to Bali and find a fucking physio.
