where to adventure travel in indonesia

As our overcrowded fishing canoe rapidly started to sink a few miles from shore I couldn't help but laugh. On board were seven souls, two Indonesians and five foreign surfers who had been toughing it out in a local village for the chance to surf some of the world's best waves. The situation was serious enough. Neither of the Indonesians, one the 'captain' and the other our 'photographer', could swim. Aside from this immediate danger the dream of our newly appointed photographer of buying new pigs to raise and sell with the modest wage we paid him looked to be sinking along with a few thousand dollars worth of camera gear. Add to this the daily politics of life in the village, which had included threats of violence against the 'captain' for undercutting his rival by 40 cents on the boat ride, and it was hard not to just try and find humor in the situation. In this part of Indonesia the threat of the unexpected is never far away, be that a dodgy boat or the menace of natural disasters that strike with frightening regularity.

The Mentawai islands sit 24 hours by dodgy local ferries off the Sumatran mainland. The area is one of the most remote and disconnected in the world, yet just happens to be a surfing mecca, home to what are the world's best and most consistent waves. Without this attraction the islands would surely be off the radar to all but the most intrepid, or those with an interest in catching a new strain of malaria.

The majority of surfers heading to the area do so by chartered boats ranging from luxury cruisers complete with helipads to shoddy local boats, most visitors having little or no contact with local villagers. In the past few years many have been using local transport to the islands and staying rough to save on the expense of a charter.

It was the second option that I and two mates had decided to take. All on tight budgets, and with pictures of perfect waves in our minds, we arrived in the Mentawai's via a ship dubbed 'Noah's Ark'. Riding the Arc was a 24 hour voyage of faith shared with various animals, the cabins teeming with cockroaches and packed with passengers on a vessel so dodgy we had our surf boards at the ready should she sink, as many had on the same route before her.

We were lucky on our crossing. The ocean like oil and the moon full, with some valuable space to stretch out and enjoy the peace that our distance from civilization afforded. Sitting on my own on the bow of the old wooden ark as night fell, listening to the constant creaks and moans of ship, the smell of captain's clove cigarettes filling the air and his slim figure silhouetted against a dim kerosine light in the cabin, rates as one of the greatest moments of freedom I've experienced. It's a rarer and rarer feeling - this one of disconnection and adventure. For a moment I forgot about recent upheavals in my life and just let go. Travel is not an achievement, for me it's nothing more than the urge to find these moments and savor them when they happen.

Day to day life in the village soon proved to be a challenge. From the outside the beach and ramshackle settlement were nothing short of idyllic, the sort of place you could imagine settling down and living simply, sipping on coconuts while the sun sets on perfect waves. It was a wise 'they' who said paradise is somewhere to visit, rather than live. The same could be said of our temporary home.

Of the few established places to stay in the village, the newest, run by a family of Sumatran outsiders, was the best choice. 10 or so surfers and assorted local family members shared the same simple building, with one bucket shower, a well and squat toilet - all in the same outhouse. The dishes were usually washed on the floor next to the toilet and food cooked in a kitchen that doubled as a sauna in the tropical heat. Whatever the bugs were that we all caught certainly found ample refuge around the place, everybody going down at some stage with fevers and muscle aches, something a little scary in an area riddled with malaria.

Politics and something of a local mafia influence soon crept into play as well. The enterprising family who had set up the home stay were the target of resentment from many of the local Mentawaians. The previous year tensions were so high that armed officers from the local police force kept an almost constant watch at the hotel (for a backhanded fee). Into the second year things had calmed down, but our hosts still chose to stay away from the center of the village for fear of reprisals for their modest success, something which cast an unfortunate air of menace about the place. This petty local politics would soon be replaced with much larger problems for the community, hundreds of lives changed in an instant by forces out of their control.

The biggest obstacle to enjoying the reason we had come, to go surfing, was the distance of the waves from the village itself. The beach spread out in a large arc from home, with the waves a solid 30 minutes walk and 20 minutes paddle away. While it doesn't sound much on paper, the tropical heat and malaria risk at dusk made for a genuine problem. Two of these trips in a day left you at serious risk of heat stroke from the equatorial sun. The other option was to get a local boat, one of a few small leaky fishing canoes, out to the waves.

This was not as easy as it might seem, as on many occasions we couldn't give money away for people to take us. There were only two outboard motors in the village, and often it was either too hot, or arguments would break out as to who was allowed to take us. One local family called the shots, threatening violence against anybody thinking about taking us out for a lower price, or declaring on certain days a free market system - usually after hours of negotiation on the beach. The relatively small amounts on offer for the boat ride were still more than a week's fishing wages for 20 minutes work. Some friends had tried to charter a boat to some distant islands, waited a week, bought supplies, finally loaded the boat and were then told the price they had paid in advance was half what was owed, the captain going fishing instead without ever looking back. I guess it's refreshing to see a place where the bumper sticker mantra 'a good day's fishing beats a good day's work' is so ardently adhered to. Some short work taking us surfing bought a week chilling out under a tree chain smoking 32mg clove cigarettes. We could only laugh, cry or walk.

A Californian surfer, one of the first to stay in the area, had the previous year befriended a local guy with an interest in photography and making some extra cash. His story was a sad one. Divorced from his wife, and largely ostracized in the village, he had for years lived a solitary existence on the edge of the cove. His hut was without power and he had just a few fishing poles to keep him busy. The good-hearted Chris had taught him the basics of his DSLR setup and our man soon came out on the small boats to take photos of the days surfing - something which ego-driven surfers are always keen to pay for. His dream was to buy a litter of piglets, raise and tend to them full time at his hut and sell them off for a large profit. With more cash came increased status and hopefully a new wife, a new life.

On one morning's outing on a fishing boat that took two hours to organize we had set out for what looked like the best waves of the season. The break here is nothing short of the mythical perfection that has surfers quitting their jobs for, or spending a years savings for a few weeks on a charter. Our excitement soon turned to something close to horror, as a small leak underneath me turned to a gush. I don't know boats, but I knew enough to see we were in trouble; 'guys we have a leak!' 'what else is new!' came the reply, until the boat started to sink. Our frantic attempts bailing water with our hands to get to shore paid off, with the last 100 meters on our boards propping up the boat and camera gear held above our heads. Saving the Indonesians was something akin to an episode of 'Bondi Rescue', a reality TV show where landlocked tourists arrive at Sydney's Bondi beach and find themselves with a new found urge to drown on national television. Instructions to stay still on our boards were ignored in place of flailing limbs amidst the special panic reserved for non swimmers lost in the open ocean. We all made it to shore safely, the leak was patched and an afternoon's surfing the reward. Some of the wave shots in this article are from that afternoon, with credit to our very professional cameraman, thankful for his life and the profits. The waves that day will always stick out as a life experience, it was as good as surfing gets in a setting difficult to describe with just words or pictures.

As time in the village drew to an end due to visa and cabin fever considerations, our photographer finally had his sum, around one million rupiah (100USD). Chris had left for California, our man crying, weeping, as he received the last of the money he needed to buy his litter. His emotion genuine, he seemed to be letting it all go after a few years of a very tough solitary existence. He was soon to have the pigs he was so certain would bring a new lease on life and was eternally grateful for the opportunity for a second chance. It was a touching moment between grown men, some escaping their complex lives at home, one simply trying to start over.

The next day we were on our way through the main town on the island for supplies, your standard items like melted chocolate and warm cans of beer. Passing by a local clothing store, a very sheepish figure shuffled out onto the road dressed in new stone wash jeans and bright white 'nik' sneakers. It was our photographer, perhaps keen for some instant retail therapy, the cost of which meant no pigs till next season. He made us promise not to tell Chris, and that next year he would not be so silly with his money. Despite his rash spending he positively beamed in his new clothes, the emperor for a day in new and impractical vinyl sneakers.

Three weeks after leaving the island a tsunami swept through the area at 2am, causing over 500 deaths and wiping out many local villages. Mother nature has blessed parts of Indonesia with natural beauty beyond comparison, but it's a canvas wiped clean by earthquakes and tsunamis more regularly than anywhere else in the world. Our home stay and village were largely spared, but we have still yet to hear the whereabouts of our photographer, his modest hut sitting right on the edge of a cove that bore the brunt of the killer waves. Life is so short, and in the end makes no more sense here than anywhere else. I hope he is OK. If he is gone I like to picture that he spent few happier days strutting around town in his new clothes, with dreams of next year's million rupiah pigs blocking the doubts and fears we all try to escape in our own ways.

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