Custodians of the Point

The Surfer's Dream

The dream state is where we go to meet the future, rehabilitate the past and apparently where we make sense of our waking state, but what if that waking state is the moment when rider, board and wave melt into that singular, seamless experience of universality? How do we then convert the results of this sublime activity performed in real time when the self dissolves momentarily thus allowing a glimpse of other peoples’ struggle for existence to arise into an altruistic force supporting positive change?

Surfing at best remains a hedonistic pursuit that represents one of the most self-gratifying of all activities, yet on a daily basis it continues to offer us up endless opportunities to release ourselves into the innermost essence of the vast expanse and thereby the chance to make a difference. Trying to remember dreams is not easy, trying to spin yourself a great one is challenging. Ruminate therefore on Larry Yates’ zen like articulation of his Santosha dream: “its not just a place, more like a state of mind…a forgotten state of mind”.
The so called ‘Surfer’s Dream’ was essentially created in the Indonesian archipelago, it has been massively oversold in the international arena and the maintenance of a ‘business as usual’ attitude towards the promotion of ‘The Dream’ presumably cannot continue at its current exponential and unsustainable rate.

Some of the surfing related companies that comodified ‘The Dream’ via saturated advertising (flogged in decades-long campaigns like ‘The Search’ and ‘The Crossing’) transformed their businesses on the back of such promotion into large international corporations. Many of them now appear to be crumbling, but ‘The Dream’ seems to live on endlessly in the minds of the masses.

We’ve had close to 40 years of grassroots surf travel through the Indonesian archipelago and the results are clear to be seen by all that are interested in surf ecology. We now have festering surf slums that ulcerate the archipelago in most of the original centres of surfer traveller settlement. Admittedly we didn’t know then what we know now, therefore I feel in Indonesia particularly, that we are now at a critical juncture, and we need to start changing our group modus operandi, pronto.

Surfers are predominantly self obsessed and largely ignorant of the impact that they have on fragile communities and the physical environments within those communities. However, that isn’t to say that as a group we can’t become more aware of others’ needs, and by making subtle changes to our own behaviour begin to transform the scene around us wherever we pitch our tents or laydown our backpacks.

In terms of ‘sustainable tourism’ it seems the current rhetoric is framed within the phrase “acceptable limits of change”. Obviously no one could see that coming when John Geisel and I showed up at Lagundri 37 years ago. But that same quandary is still occurring all over the archipelago and the limits of acceptable change will be severely challenged in the communities of all of these semi-remote locations in the near future.

Recurring patterns of behavior become apparent when one researches the history of the archipelago. We find a litany of conflicts and dispossession. The colonial attitude towards the locals was “gives us your spice, or we’ll blow you out of the water”. Latterly it became: “I ignorantly wish to keep you trapped in a poverty cycle because I want to sample your excellent waves on my smell-of-an-oil-rag travel budget”. Basically it’s a classic case of mutually dependent stakeholders clashing heads as one party’s needs are met at the expense of the other.

The thing is that a local family living at subsistence level in semi remote Indonesia, in a location that has valuable, sustainable, economic assets like quality waves, is not going to be able to extricate themselves from the poverty cycle unless greater economic opportunity occurs. For so long it has all been about us getting our waves. The primary focus in the past has unequivocally been on travelling surfers having their needs met with everything else coming a distant second. Maybe now is the time to tread a little lighter, consider the whole as opposed to just one’s own ‘needs’, and perhaps attempt to contribute something from the knowledge-base that the travelling surfer is coming from – something that will lead to a better long-term outcome for not only the environment that the wave is located in, but also the disadvantaged community that those waves support.
Lets face it, surf travel these days is a numbers game, and I feel it has reached a tipping point where innovation and forward thinking need to be actively pursued in order for ‘The Dream’ to stay alive.

John and I had the great good fortune of sharing the delights of “The Point’ with Peter Troy in June, 1975. The doyen of traveller/surfers adds some much needed clarity to the dilemma of the ever-changing dreamscape; “It really is hard to realize that our paradises just can’t be kept. I expect that’s the way life is, and what for me is important is to know it and not be disturbed by what the progress of time does, for somebody already knew it for something else before oneself experienced it.”

Custodians of the Point

As I looked down at the newsstand and saw the April cover of Surfer magazine in 1974, little did I realize that this was then to become a significant moment in my journey. In fact, I didn’t even know I was involved in a journey. The images captured on the cover entitled ‘The Forgotten Island of Santosha’ set my heart and mind racing. The overwhelming sense of adventure. The allure of the unknown. The ecstasy of riding perfect, uncrowded waves: these feelings were to crystallize in the proceeding months into a thought, which became the nucleus of our dream. The Surfer’s Dream.

Recurring images of pristine tropical environments, swaying palm trees and perfect surf seemed to fill my every waking moment from the time I read this article. The author, Larry Yates, however, drew a red herring across the trail to the site of his experience by describing “Santosha” as not really a place, but a state of mind. Actually a forgotten state of mind.”

What a curious quote. Was the Surfer’s Dream just a state of mind? Was there no physical basis for its existence? My friend John Geisel and I were determined to prove that Santosha was a hoax and that somewhere out there The Dream burned brightly and we were a part of it.

This was the Cyclone season of ’74. John and I lived in Gladstone in central Queensland, Australia. We would make the weekend migration to the idyllic Agnes Waters, a location with a coastal environment similar to Noosa. There we camped out with friends, explored mind and body and occasionally surfed. The frustration of constantly putting ourselves through a punishing road trip only to be denied good waves, reached a climax which resembled something akin to the blinding flash on the road to Damascus. A major blowout of a tire on my Holden station wagon after careening along on an empty, unpaved, pot-holed, dirt road caused a major rearrangement of our immediate priorties. We resolved at this point to throw it all in and search for our dream – but where? Then came the lightning flash. We agreed almost simultaneously it had to be Indonesia. A whole archipelago of approximately 13,000 islands stretched out to the north of Australia. Morning of the Earth had firmly established Bali as the major Indonesian surf destination. Reports in Tracks, the Australian surfer’s bible, confirmed what we suspected, that the so-called “Island of the Gods” was getting crowded. But what did we know? We had my school atlas and a dream, fueled by a naive sense of adventure. But what was obvious to us was that if Bali was blessed with so many great waves, then the possibilities that existed in Sumatra must be endless. Sumatra then became our focus. It conjured up all the images of dense tropical jungles, white sand beaches, wild animals and an indigenous population to match. All the ingredients of a Tarzan movie. The only question was, who was going to play the role of Cheetah?

I bought a Super 8 camera with interchangeable lenses. John bought a two-man tent.

We left Gladstone with no guidebooks and little fanfare. Along the way we bought a map of Southeast Asia. We were to discover that journeys are rarely in straight lines, and that digressions occur for the most sublime reasons. That fresh-faced feeling of travelling for the first time, experiencing life moment by moment, the realization of being a part of a bigger whole, never leaves you.

We arrived in Kuala Lumpur on March 23, 1975, with three surfboards and two backpacks, 1,000 miles from the nearest known surf. It seemed an unusual call in hindsight, since we had no idea of which season provided the best opportunities for swell, prevailing wind conditions or visa applications. Ours was to become a voyage of discovery in the deepest sense of the word.

By the time we reached Penang, we had assumed the full novelty value of being travelling surfers in a land that had no surf.

The boards always became a focus of other people’s attention. The more we spoke about seeking out and exploring for waves in Sumatra, the more we convinced ourselves that we were actually on a mission. We lucked out in a coffee shop in Penang, coming in contact with an Australian surfer who had actually spent time in Sumatra travelling down the east coast of the island of Nias by boat. While he did not have a board, he had seen the backs of breaking waves around the southeast corner of the island and suggested we try there. Somehow, we felt we were being lured in a particular direction, but it was difficult to say where that was taking us. This was Penang in 1975. Georgetown, Batu Feringi, Teluk Bahang. The island was a major way-station along the overland hippie trail from Bali to Kathmandu. Freaks, travelers and a colorful array of local people created an eclectic consommé of humanity. The Chinese operated opium dens that flourished with police immunity. Haunched skeletal figures tended to their clients who sought comfort through a heated-up clay bowl on the end of a carved ivory pipe while reclining on a wooden pillow. Colourful identities like Jimmy the Buddha, Mr 0 and Mr High added a new dimension to our quest. In fact, the quest was starting to turn into something more like the Magical Mystery Tour. Boundaries were beginning to be pushed outward in every direction as we exercised our consciousness for what seemed like the first time ever. I guess there was a point at Mrs. Lee’s bungalows at Teluk Bahang, while spending another day marvelling at cloud formations, that we concluded we were in danger of losing the plot and needed to re-focus on The Dream. But the travel fever had hit, every day was a new adventure. We had heard tales of Luang Prabang, the mystical Royal Palace in Northern Laos. The Pathet Lao were slowly closing off as Laos was becoming embroiled in a civil war. Vietnam of course was in its death-throes. Angkor Wat had been overrun by the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. History was occurring daily. We felt swept up in the crucible of change that was engulfing Southeast Asia. We figured that June would be a good time to hit Sumatra, which meant that we had enough time to head for Vientiane in Laos, the French colonial city on the banks of the Mekong River. All we had to do was survive the journey through Thailand, and in particular, Bangkok.

Leaving the boards in storage, we pushed on into the Kingdom of Siam arriving in the capital after a bone-jarring 27-hour rail journey aboard the Butterworth Express to Bangkok, the overnight excursion turning into a nightmarish scene of sleep and sensory deprivation – complete with the occasional bouts of out-of-body experience. Only the road-weaned warriors and those on restricted budgets (which seemed like everyone), travelled third-class with the chickens, ducks and pigs. Shoulder-to-shoulder, we slouched on upright wooden benches, the putrid odors filling our breathing space.

The Hotel Malaysia came with a high recommendation. In later years, when I saw that bar scene in Star Wars, I immediately flashed on “the Malaysia”. There was a lot of violence in the air. The city was teeming with GIs on R&R from ‘Nam. The interaction with the local heavies seemed to create a feeling that was the antithesis to what you believed would exist in the Kingdom of the Buddha. We pushed north through Undon Thani crossing the Mekong at Nong Kai and entering Vientiane on the day before the start of the Water Festival. The placid nature of the Lao people immediately became apparent. The Water Festival was held at the end of the dry season, and was meant to herald the arrival of steady, soaking rains. It amazed us to witness this genuine outpouring of joy by the people in the various festivities while seemingly oblivious to the fighting between the government troops and the Pathet Lao raging just 15kms outside of town. Tucked away in “The Bungalows” in the seedy old French quarter, we could hear cannon fire at night. The Water Festival worked on the precept that because you are coming out of a drought and water is still scarce, you should really throw it around because you know that the “wet” is imminent. It was hilarious. You would be walking down a street heading for breakfast when a child would race up and completely surprise you by dousing you with a bucket of water. So, of course, you get in on the act and retaliate. The daylight hours were just one long water fight. Vientiane was a charming. vibrant, colonial city with the largest market in Southeast Asia, selling everything from grass to grandmothers.

It was also on the verge of shutting itself off from the West for approximately 18 years. This was April, 1975. The CIA and the Soviets were involved in their useless charades using human pawns to achieve myopic supremacy as they watched Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam bleed to death. On the 25th we arrived back at the Malaysia. We heard that the last chopper had left the U.S. Embassy. The war was effectively over. One epoch was in its denouement – a new one was just beginning.

Exiting Thailand, our focus now shifted back onto The Dream. Lake Toba in north Sumatra was our next destination. Nestled in the highlands, the ancient caldera once formed the base of the largest volcano on the planet. Samosir Island was a jewel, which sparkled in the blue-green water of the lake, which in some parts they had yet to find bottom. Samosir was also home to several Batak tribes, and unbeknownst to us, it was to provide a crucial piece of information. Maungaloi was a tall man with broad shoulders. He was the chief of Tomok, the Batak village on Lake Samosir. He carried the authority of a leader with assuredness. Showing us into the restaurant under his traditional house overlooking the lake, we were transfixed by what we saw on the wall. There before us was a roughly hand-drawn map of Nias. In the Southwest corner of the map we could see a long bay called Lagundri that had surf potential written all over it. We suddenly had a destination, the focus tightened. We were pumped.

Toba was another big transit room, being a focal point on the overland trail from Bali to Bangkok. The invigorating climate, the stunning scenery and great food made it a very attractive watering hole. We had not had our boards in the water for 21/2 months so the idea of organizing a ferry-boat to try some skurfing on the lake was appealing. It was outrageous to say the least. This big old boat belched out diesel smoke while John skipped across the stern wake from one side to the other. Passengers cheered from the top deck as John entertained them while being dragged around the picturesque lake.

When we packed up and headed for Sibolga it was as if we were on a date with destiny. We felt that Lagundri would produce the wave we were searching for. Overnight in Sibolga was a little hazardous, as it was a military town and they always seemed to have a way of doing things differently.

The boat left for Teluk Dalam on the evening tide. We got down to the dock to be greeted by two other people, a tall, rangy man with a well-travelled face and an equally tall woman who introduced themselves as Peter and Wendy. Peter was very interested in John’s two boards. They quickly fell into an expansive conversation as we pulled away from the dock and headed for Nias. While I spoke to Wendy, I couldn’t help but overhear what Peter was saying. Some of the details of his travels sounded fascinating. During a break in conversation I pulled John aside and asked him who this guy was. John had been surfing for a lot longer and was much more experienced than I. He had a good grip on surfing history and knew of the exploits of our distinguished fellow traveller, the legendary Peter Troy.

Well this was going to be a real expedition. We made good time under the cool star-filled evening sky and our anticipation was building. However, sometime during the middle of the night, the motor stopped and we drifted away from Nias. It was one of those boats on one of those trips. We kept breaking down, but managed to limp into Teluk Dalam harbour at approximately 3pm, Saturday the 7th of June 1975.

We had entered the bay just after a rainstorm. The sun was filtering through and I had never seen so many shades of green. It was a breathtaking vision – all so lush and tropical. Just the stuff of dreams. The swell was pumping. Over to our left was a silver cylinder spinning off in the distance, breaking about 8’. To our right was a righthander going off in the 5’ range. It was too good to be true. First impressions always linger longest. We quickly located the only losmen, grabbed our boards and hit the beach. We were immediately engulfed by large numbers of kids of all sizes following us along the sand around to the silver cylinder. It was a big bay and a very long walk, but we immediately learned something invaluable from Peter. He told us not to walk in the wet tidal surge on the sand, as your feet could get nicked by chunks of coral and rock, thus causing little cuts and scrapes and eventually, if unattended, sea ulcers. These would keep you out of the water reducing your surf time. It was a great tip that we adhered to. The Silver cylinder turned out to be a righthander breaking on dry reef. John was tired, so he paddled in while Peter talked me into paddling across the bay to the other wave we saw. This was about 1/2 km paddle, which was exhausting considering I hadn’t been in the water for nearly three months. We surfed a couple of waves each, which was similar to a Kirra-style righthander. It had a gnarly end section onto bare reef, so as the sunset was already starting to fade, we turned for home, which was now an unbelievable 4-5km paddle away. If Peter hadn’t been there counting out the strokes I don’t know what I would have done to overcome my exhaustion. Here we were, bobbing up and down in the middle of a huge bay in complete darkness, paddling towards a little red light on the end of Teluk Dalam’s jetty. It’s amazing what you can pack into a few hours. Peter and I finally hauled ourselves up the wharf like a couple of bedraggled water rats.

Sunday and Monday were spent exploring. John and I headed out with our boards and canteens full of water to find what we had come for. We headed back overland to the southeast head of the bay where Peter and I had surfed the right. It had a very sharp rock and coral-strewn beach attached to the headland, which was difficult to traverse. Getting out there was relatively easy. Heading back, we tried to create a shortcut. There were no paths over terrain that featured 8’ high alang alang grass and tropical rainforest. We made a decision to paddle across a bright green colored stream that was barely moving, full of debris and overhung with vines. I half expected Tarzan to come swinging across overhead with a deep throated yodel and hoped that crocodiles didnt exist in this part of Nias. Needless to say, it was a very quick paddle. John had a wonderful sense of direction, even standing in the overhead grass he knew the right way to go. But how do you move through a razor-sharp alang alang grass field without a machete?

Since he was leading, John would take a running leap and dive out onto his board flattening a section of grass, ahead. I tramped along behind. This was great, as school days spent dreaming of adventure finally took on a reality.

We crossed the southeast side of Teluk Dalam bay off the list, and on Monday spent the day heading to a bay on the southwest side. Peter was in holiday mode with his girlfriend so we headed out walking, carrying our boards alone. This didn’t last too long as we attracted a tribe of kids who were very amusing. Heading towards the beach through a large coconut plantation, we started the chant “surfboard, surfboard”. By this stage we had off-loaded our boards for the kids to carry on their heads. It was a wonderful scene to be caught up in, this procession of chanting, laughing, happy kids. We slipped easily into our newfound celebrity status.
Another bay and another unsurfable wave. We paddled out, but both of us ended up being caught on bare reef screaming for our mothers. During the trudge back to the losmen, it started to dawn on us just how fickle it was to find a surfable wave and what a unique combination of conditions it took to create one. We had looked at all of the possibilities, but still hadn’t found what we were looking for. Back on the verandah of Menanti, we put our feet up and tried to figure out what was going wrong with the search. We took out the map and it was obvious everything pointed to Lagundri. Asking around, everyone said Lagundri “ombak besar” but they also had said that about Teluk Dalam. The swell was still running on the outside reefs. We decided that Tuesday we would head for Lagundri but it was supposedly 15km away with no direct transport bus or bemo available. We organized two pushbikes, leaving our boards behind. With our canteens full and a supply of Ibu’s little roti kelapa (coconut bread rolls), we headed out to reconnoiter Lagundri Bay.

The rutted bitumen road ran out after about 6 or 7 kms. We then headed off on a rock-pitted track towards Lagundri. Travel was slow as we had to push our bikes for the most part in the steamy conditions. The track was bordered by forest so that it was difficult to see what lay beyond and where exactly we were heading. About 2pm we finally came through a clearing and saw a magnificent gold sandy beach with huge coconut trees fringing a spectacular looking bay. We made our way to the beach and stood in the middle of the large horseshoe bay, dumbstruck at the sight. The shorebreak was pounding and to our left was a set-up churning out spitting barrels.This spot eventually became known as “The Machine”.

Our gaze stretched further out towards the southwest part of the bay and there we saw it. The most amazing sight of a set of waves peeling around the palm-tree covered headland. The waves were large because we were at least 4km away and the sets just seemed to produce a continuous line of almond eye barrels as they marched around the point and into the bay. Across on the opposite headland was a giant lefthander that seemed a little out of control, but an equally majestic sight.

We fell back onto the sand laughing our heads off before grabbing the bikes and heading off around the bay to the point.

As we got back on the path, we entered a small fishing village where we were greeted by lots of startled locals. At this stage we had been travelling just inland off the beach, but the bay was still clearly visible. However, we were persuaded by the crowd forming around us to leave the bikes and follow them up a large steep hill. By now we had a crowd of about 100 people all around us. The mood was friendly, but we were staggered by the scene that confronted us upon reaching the top of the hill. We climbed a flight of large stone stairs, and then before us was a large stone paved courtyard that extended some 200 meters by 30 meters lined with wooden houses on stilts linked together in the shape of an old boat. This was the Stone Age. This was Botohilitano Village.

As we strode down the middle of the courtyard, people and kids raced out from the houses forming an aisleway to walk through. We stole a glance at the over-sized stone chairs and tables. Situated in the middle of the village there were stone carved crocodiles and a 2-meter high jumping stone. It felt very wild. The looks on some of the faces of the people around us confirmed this: wild-eyed stares with the betel nut dribble, tobacco-stained teeth, set in chiseled features, tough looking bodies and that was just the women. I turned to John and said, “It feels like we’re Livingstone and Stanley”. We could see into the houses through the slatted stern section overlooking the courtyard. If you caught someone staring they would quickly turn away. We also caught sight of some amazing looking spears and lots of traditional swords.
The chief village leader came out, and we exchanged pleasantries. We had only been in Indonesia for two weeks, and could barely stumble through some simple phrases. At this stage we had to ask, “But where are the waves?” “Di mana ombak?”

This was one phrase we could get out. The procession then moved out of the western end of the courtyard down a narrow path. We were desperate to get to the beach and confirm what we had seen from the middle of the bay. The path wound down through thick jungle until we finally came onto flat land in a magnificent coconut plantation. We could see the reef. The sound of the pumping waves was deafening.

Impossible looking waves with truly smoking sections, broke just 75 metres out in front of us. For a few moments, confusion reigned supreme. Had we come all this way here to ride the wave that later would become known as Indicator? The swell was big. Further around to the west, 10’ plus waves were cornering off the reef. It was then we finally realized we had come down from the village on the western side of the point. Walking back then towards the point, we could see a stupendous sight – 6-8’ waves of almost perfect shape, funnelling around the point. It was late afternoon and the rich equatorial lines in the sky cast an ethereal appearance over the bay. We stood on the point marveling at both the magnificence of the wave, and also the incredible beauty of the backdrop which featured lush green covered hills with a golden sandy beach, fringed by incredibly tall coconut trees, front-lit by the sunset hues. Continuous sets kept marching in and while the waves appeared demanding they also looked perfect. The search was over. We burnt offerings to Buddha to celebrate the joy of life.

The Dream was for real

Time was getting away from us. We now had to get back to our pushbikes and Teluk Dalam to load up for our return the following day. The adrenaline surge from our discovery made us as high as kites. The 15km return journey in the dark was a mere formality.

Getting back at about 8.30pm we excitedly told Peter. Pumped up at the prospect of perfect surf, he went out to organize transport while we ate. We planned a crack of dawn departure, but sleeping wasn’t easy. I spent a restless night wondering whether I had what it would take to surf the point. Riding a kneeboard, I was conscious of the Greenough factor. Peter had spent time with George and had related stories about their shared surfing experiences. I wanted to surf well for a number of reasons. John and I had scored a week of great surf at Kirra in March before our departure. I had replayed one particular tube ride constantly in my mind since then, and, of course, it was what I referred to now. We were on our way early. Peter had scored an old Toyota Land Cruiser with no roof, but a frame to carry the boards on. The scene had surfing written all over it. We piled in with our backpacks, as John and I were planning to stay. I plugged Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” into my mind, the staccato cries of his wailing guitar causing my anticipation to build.
We finally arrived in Lagundri village about 8.30am on Wednesday, June 11th, and then made the journey along the beach out to the point. There had been light showers falling and the point was shrouded in mist. We were all spellbound at the natural beauty of the environment. At the time, John and I were jointly reading Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. It was his book, but he kindly shared it with me by reading a chapter then tearing it out for me to eagerly absorb. Peter reminded me of “Strider” the guardian, a character in the book. It was the way he carried himself, the experience he drew upon from his travels. He looked as though he had stepped straight out of the book. It’s an image I’ve always kept of him.

The swell was very consistent, pumping at 6-8’ foot. Not a breath of wind. The mist just hung like a cloudy apparition over the crashing waves. We once again burnt an offering to Buddha and paddled out into the most significant session of our lives.

I had picked off a smaller one on the inside and was paddling back out, when I saw John drop into a 6-7’ wall that just stood up and pitched straight over him. Not a drop of water out of place. The moment crystallized. I was spellbound. It was all happening in slow motion. As he cruised by I stared in amazement at the ecstatic look on his face – water droplets hanging in his beard, totally immersed in the experience. Peter borrowed John’s 7’4” yellow pintail, single fin, while John rode his 6’6” swallow-tail with the drawing of the Buddha embedded in the glass on the deck. He called it his favorite board, his “Buddha stick”. Peter took a bigger one from out on the peak, and with a classic laid over bottom turn, projected further out onto the wall to stand proud in the mouth of a gaping barrel. The quality of the waves was mind-blowing. We were in a trance. The sets were continuous. I paddled into perfection with four easy strokes, slid over the ledge and leaned forward during the freefall to connect halfway down the face. Looking up, I felt the adrenaline surge as a feeling of calmness enveloped me. The dark green cylindrical womb kept extending out in front. I could see Peter up ahead on the face, preparing to duck dive. Thinking I was going to hit him as he pushed through. However, it seemed to take ages for me to go past him. Choosing the high line through the bowl, sunlight came streaming in and a flash of the trees across the bay. Upon making my exit, the red steeple of the church atop the bay came into view. One of the amazing aspects of the surfing experience is the view of life looking out from inside a breaking wave. These unique, intense, timeless moments help shape consciousness and are carried with you forever. We came in, saturated by the experience. After something to eat and rest, we surfed again. The sets were relentless. The wave shape was of the highest quality, with every wave tubing in its entirety.

Peter paddled up to check out Indicator, which was pumping its heart out. He noted the keyhole crack in the reef, which offered a perfect entry into the water by padding around the back of the breaking waves on the point. Later in the afternoon, we returned to the village and Peter’s helped organize a house for us to stay in with a local family. He also left me with a phrase book on Bahasa, which was most helpful. We said our goodbyes to our friends and they wished us well before driving off, leaving us all alone.

Our living quarters were cramped to say the least, but we were on an incredible high from surfing. The house was really just a hut with rough slabs of timber for walls and a thatched roof. It had a couple of rooms, but we were allowed to place our sleeping bags up in a loft, which was situated above the kitchen. Little did we know that next morning the old ibu (mother) would smoke us out with her fire, for as we discovered, the hut had no chimney. The following days were spent out on the point in two or three sessions a day. The swell stayed in the 6-8’ range. It just seemed endless. We were having trouble organizing meals. It seemed that while we were novelties in Lagundri, we were also untouchables. Prices offered for meals were exorbitant; the smoky loft was giving us black faces and the bananas and coconuts were starting to lose their appeal.

John was turning 23 the next day, so we decided we’d walk into Teluk Dalam to celebrate by fuelling up with a good meal at Sabar Menanu, and bring back a supply of lbu’s famous roti kelapas. We sat on the beach soaking up the sunset and vowed to hang in and live The Dream for as long as possible. A quick check on finances, however, revealed a small amount of cash and a $50 traveler’s check between us. We eventually stretched it out for 61/2 weeks, and still managed to have enough left for transport back to Toba.

Our final decision was to move out onto the point and pitch John’s tent in the little thatched roof shelter we had seen on that first day. This was going to send out a strong message to the locals that we were very committed to what we had come to do – surf! The owner of the hut was a young man named Taninjin. He said it was okay to stay there, and seemed proud that we had chosen this spot, in front of the thundering Indicator.

It was a wonderful setting; paradise with an ocean view. The two-man tent fit snugly under the thatched roof. We took our sleeping bag covers and collected some thick shell grit and covered the ground surrounding the campsite; we were styling.

Not having to make the long walk to and from Lagundri each day saved energy. The food situation still hadn’t improved, and this was already about a week after our arrival. Something was obviously in the air, but we didn’t know what.
Our celebrity status had grown to the stage where people were traveling from Gunung Sitoli in the north, a nightmarish eight-hour bus ride away, to come out to see us. Everyday we had inquiring faces appearing out of the jungle and from behind coconut trees to watch our every move. We were starting to feel like goldfish. On occasion, some very heavy looking characters visited and hung out with us. Men that looked like they were from another world. We communicated in sign language, explaining we were surfers with few possessions and little money. The food issue finally came to a head. We needed to resupply. We took Taninjin with us and headed up to Botihli. The elders assembled in Taninjin’s father’s house, the oldest standing structure in the village, over 200 years old.

It was a magnificent example of traditional architecture incorporating large teak slabs and beams polished by continuous human contact over the years. The women were herded out and it was left to the men to decide our fate. Buddha’s offering was passed around the gathering with the elders inhaling deeply. Within moments, the tension of the past ten days dissolved into fits of laughter as huge grins broke out over these Stone Age faces. Laughter filled the house as we were finally accepted for who we were. Magically, the women then filed back in carrying trays of food for an impromptu celebration. It wasn’t a roast turkey dinner but was one of the best meals of my life.

Following this incident, we organized a late afternoon meal in Lagundri village at the home of Pringitan and his wife Norhyat. These people we grew to love. We would walk in around sunset time and return in the dark carrying our canteens full of tea and water with some fruit for the next day. The one meal a day regimen fit into our budget. At night we read by torchlight, however, during the lead up to and immediately after the full moon, we could easily read outside as the moonlight flooded the coconut grove with light.
We were stunned one evening upon arriving at Norhyat’s for tea to find letters and a package waiting for us. We had organized for mail to be collected from Poste Restante in Sibolga and be hand carried over to Teluk Dalam. We had not expected it to happen but here it was, news from home, which seemed like a world away. The big surprise was that my mother had sent me one of her traditional fruitcakes (my favorite) to celebrate my 21st birthday on the 30th of June. It had arrived a week early; we laughed until it hurt. The nightly ritual of a slice of fruitcake with a cup of tea and a fresh installment of Lord of the Rings just made The Dream seem all the more vivid.

From our first sight of the point, the waves continued for two weeks in a constant range of 6-8’. On Saturday the 21st we walked into Teluk Dalam for Ibu’s roti kelapas and a change of cooking. On the journey back, we saw the full moon rising, which heralded the summer equinox. A new swell had kicked in during our absence and on Sunday the bay was flooded with swell on the high tide with 10ft sets marching in. It must have been 20ft plus on the big left out the back. Just before my birthday, a guy walked around the point and into our camp. John was stunned to immediately recognize him as Steve, a friend of his from the Gold Coast. Steve had been in Toba recovering from a bout of malaria and had met up with Peter Troy who had explained about our set-up and that one guy had two boards. Steve thought he would come and check out the surf. He stayed and surfed for over a week before returning to Sibolga and continuing his journey. What a detour.

The swell started to become inconsistent as July began. It was at this stage we hurriedly realized that we should start using the camera equipment that we had lugged around. The weather patterns changed. The wind came up. We ventured around to the west looking for other possibilities, but to no avail. The $50 had finally dwindled after 61/2 weeks, forcing our departure. In retrospect, it was the best $50 I’ve ever spent in my life. John and I scratched our initials into the tree – JG, KL, 1975. We lit a fire in the campsite and bade farewell to Ma-ur and his stepson Sifarma, our neighbors on the point. It was an emotional farewell from Lagundri.

After approximately one month in Toba, we found ourselves sleeping on a boat in Padang, the capital of West Sumatra. We had booked a passage out to the Mentawai group of islands believing that what we had experienced at Lagundri was just the tip of the iceberg. However, during the morning of the first day of the trip, we both found ourselves overcome by the most intense illness either of us had ever experienced. We had wrapped ourselves up in everything we would find and laid under a tarp on the deck in the bow of the copra trader, our jaws chattering uncontrollably. Fortunately we managed to get the captain to change direction and head south to Bengkulu, a couple of days away. We didn’t realize it, but we were both in death’s grip. I was to have a running battle with malaria over the next year and a half. For John, it was to kill him within nine months. By the time we departed Sumatra, we had spent 31/2 months journeying along the road less travelled.

We were greeted with great, consistent surf on our arrival back in Bali in September. Kuta Reef with two guys out most days. Our first venture out to Uluwatu one Saturday morning saw us witness some inspirational surfing by Gerry Lopez and Roy Mesker. Out alone and carving up 8ft long walls from way out beyond the peak, down through the inside, kicking out in front of the big rock. The first and only time I’ve ever seen that done.

John was coming down with more attacks. I tried to talk him into returning to Australia with me, however he had money sent to him in Bangkok. His goal was to head overland to Europe. At the significant moment of our parting I had just met a girl who was to become my wife. As it transpired, one major role player in my life was exiting as a new one appeared. I never saw John again.

I returned to Australia and made my way around to Perth to meet up with Jan. It was then, in February ’76, that I received a letter from my mother. Upon opening it, a tiny newspaper clipping fell out of the envelope and onto the ground. I picked it up with utter amazement and welling emotion, trying to comprehend the enormity of what I was reading. It was John’s death notice. I sat down and cried. I had recently received a letter from him in Tehran, Iran where he was holed up because of a severe winter storm. He had bought a kombi in Kathmandu and traveled with friends across the top of India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and into Iran to be halted by blizzards and freezing temperatures. He had been ill with malaria in Kathmandu at Christmas, so it was obviously still in his system. He was in a weakened state. In Tehran, the temperatures dropped to below -20°. He succumbed to double pneumonia, but it was the malaria that killed him. I suddenly found myself cast adrift. We had shared so many remarkable experiences together that it seemed incomprehensible that he was gone, and that I had no one to recount and reminisce with.

Jan was one of triplets, and, together with her sister Judy and brother Bugs, we made the journey back to Lagundri, arriving almost exactly a year after John and I had walked in. I felt that I had to share the experience with someone who was living. Upon arriving, I couldn’t believe it, there was another guy staying in the village.

It was obviously going to be different this time around. We immediately moved around to Taninjin’s hut and set up camp with three tents. The locals greeted us with glee. The news of John’s death, however, shocked them. We were intent on being self-sufficient. Jan and Judy shared a very similar appearance, blonde haired, they charmed the locals in every way. They together with Bugs, the eldest by ten minutes, were very astute at camping. We carried water from Ma-ur’s well, who greeted us as distant relatives. The girls would walk up to Botohilitano and buy vegetables and fruit on a daily basis. I remember we bought a bunch of 300 bananas for 300 rupiah and ate them as they opened. We organized the fish man to come by with his catch and carried in rice from Teluk Dalam.

The surf pumped. Bugs was in his element. The other surfer left and we had it to ourselves. Days were spent keeping the camp running smoothly and maintaining harmony. Self-sufficiency is a wonderful expression, but it requires a lot of hard work. The weather pattern seemed different to the year before. There was more wind in mid-June and darkening skies threatened rain, which came with a vengeance.
Seven days and nights of torrential downpours with wind gusts that drove the rain at an angle parallel to the land.
Huddled in our tents at night under the thatched hut, it seemed like everything could go at any time. The noise of coconuts falling were like small bombs going off. The trees themselves were bent over at seemingly impossible angles by the ferocity of the wind. At various times during the day, we would scout about for semi-dry kindling for the fire. I walked into town one day when it had partially cleared up to buy some antibiotics for a leg infection that Jan had. Coming home, I was held up in Lagundri as night fell by another raging storm. I finally made it around the point expecting everyone to be tucked in, but there to my surprise was Bugs huddled over the campfire, semi-protected by his makeshift shelter. He cried out “The nasi goreng’s ready, come and get it”. In the middle of this gale, he had achieved the impossible. We were ecstatic at the simplicity of the moment. But the deluge had come at a price. Up on Botohilitano, the pig troughs had overflowed into the wells causing an outbreak of cholera. Eleven people died in the week following the rain. For us it was malaria. I obviously was in a weakened state, and became quickly engulfed yet again by the disease. It felt like it had a mortgage on my life. Jan and Bugs also came down with it, only Judy was spared. This now really started to worry me as it is one thing to put up with hardship and sickness to live your own dream, but it’s another thing to have that impact on others. Jan and I had the same symptoms, while Bugs’ attacks came on a different time frame. He would usually kick off with a fever around 5p.m. and then be horizontal for three or four days. Jan and I shared a tent. The heat from our rising temperature would cause condensation to form on the roof of the tent and drip back down on top of us. After four or five days, you would be feeling like death warmed over. We now started to relate to the lethargy that also overwhelmed the locals. For my companions, the dream burned as brightly as ever, but for me it was somehow starting to fade. In the weeks following the storms, we were greeted by consistent swells and picture perfect conditions. Bugs and I shared a memorable 10’ day with the swell peaking on low tide with the afternoon glass off. It was a watershed in his surfing experience; just as it had been for me the year before. Bugs recently recounted his feelings, “The whole Nias experience changed my life, in some ways forever. It is impossible to explain to people who have never shared an experience like that. To live on the edge of civilization with a dream to find perfect uncrowded surf and to forgo the daily comforts for not just a day or two, but for three months. However, in that abstinence, finding harmony and clarity that borders on the spiritual cannot be translated easily, nor should it be. It is for the individual to keep in a place inside himself and to savor the memory.”
We caught sight of two Westerners one day approaching our camp. As it turned out, it was a guy I had met in Perth and had briefly mentioned that I was returning to Nias. He decided to join us with his girlfriend, who was of Indian descent born in Perth. This upset the harmony of our camp, much to our annoyance, but being peace-loving hippies, we let them stay.

Within a short time, Stuart had flipped out and had assumed the persona of a modern day Rambo. Ingrid, his girlfriend, was suffering from neglect. They had attracted a lot of strange looking locals to the camp. As time wore on, we gave them the adopted names “stupid and ignorant,” because when you are out there on the edge just existing, you can’t hide anything. All is revealed. Stuart became more one-dimensional and eventually left the camp and left Ingrid behind. She had by now also become very ill with incredible stabbing pains in her kidneys. We looked after her, however, it was difficult to know what she was suffering from as she displayed no chills or fever. We had been there ten weeks when Jan and I had our third attack. It lasted approximately five days. Bugs enticed me out for a surf in prime conditions, but I felt like I was on another planet. From out in the line-up, we watched one of the girls walk down to the point. Halfway along the beach she collapsed, and it looked as though she was lying down. What had happened in reality was that Jan had fainted. We immediately came in.

Upon learning of Jan’s fainting spells, I packed a small bag and decided to evacuate her to Teluk Dalam. There had been more rain and the conditions were wearing to say the least.
Ingrid’s condition had also worsened. However, there were these local guys, her “friends” paying a lot of attention to her. We also thought she had to go, as well. Jan and I struggled out and onto a copra truck heading into Teluk Dalam. By great fortune there was a travelling medical orderly staying at Sabar Menanti who gave Jan heart stabilizers to stop her heart from fibrillating (beating too fast). Her fainting spells had signified that she had entered into a very vulnerable phase of the disease. After taking the medication, she immediately began showing improvement. I returned to camp the next day to pack the remainder of our belongings and to check in with Judy and Bugs. The heavy overnight rain and high tide meant the river in Lagundri was flooded. It was a hair-raising crossing. I relayed the news of Jan to a relieved brother and sister, then we set about packing up the camp. I left late in the afternoon, while Judy and Bugs would follow in a couple of days.

Returning to the rivermouth, I noticed a great commotion occurring as Ingrid was in the throes of being evacuated to a hospital at a German mission up in the highlands. Here were the same guys that used to hang around her and go for walks with her, now crowded around lifting her into an old rusted utility vehicle, which had been brought down onto the beach. I also noticed Pringuan, the Lagundri Village headman and lots of locals standing by and looking very agitated. The whole scene had a very strange vibe. I threw our packs into the back and climbed on board. The sunset colors were starting to fade as the truck headed out to Teluk Dalam. I stole a glance over my shoulder at the bay and the point, and sighed. The dream, as far as I was concerned, had turned into a nightmare. I felt overwhelming feelings of death and sickness. I never wanted to see the place again. And I didn’t for twenty years. John and I had made a pact that neither of us would expose the place unless we were both in agreement. With his death, I had lost interest.

Time is a great healer. I had answered a letter in Tracks for information regarding the two surfers who accompanied Peter Troy to Lagundri in ’75. As it transpired, the woman had written a synopsis for a documentary for broadcast on SBS, the multicultural television channel in Australia. They planned to shoot the documentary during the WQS event in June ’96.
The minivan deposited me at the back of the point in the middle of the night. It seemed like somewhere in the back of beyond. It was in fact, almost twenty years to the day that John and I had stumbled into the bay. If I was disorientated in the dark, I was downright lost when daylight revealed my complete surroundings. Yes, the other side of the bay was still there, untouched in its pristine glory, however, the point had been raped beyond belief. The coconut grove had been decimated to create stumps to sit the little stilt houses on. The resulting feeling was “funky jungle” without the jungle.
Why build right on the high tide mark? It’s coral reef. The only constant with a fringing reef is that it is constantly changing. Where was the beach? Where was The Point? It was apparent that a good 25-30 metres had actually disappeared during the building program. After a quick surf, I realized that some things don’t change. A couple of 4-5ft waves were fun with the promise of more to come. If I had planned a return to Lagundri, I would not have chosen it to coincide with a WQS event. I thought ‘great, how many more surfers will there be in the water?’ Sure enough, the swell did not build until the day before the event, which was already a week after my arrival. I surfed that morning in a pack of about 25 of the contestants. It was a furious battle for the sets. I was content to watch and try for the crumbs. Halfway through the session, some 6ft-plus sets started appearing. Joel Fitzgerald paddled up to Indicator and provided me with a sight I had never seen before. Taking off on a bomb from way over, he rode it all the way through the perilous inside section. It was a majestic sight, looking up from the line-up on the point I had watched countless, perfectly formed waves break at Indicator and never before seen one ridden.
Perhaps Lagundri was going to share some more secrets with me. The following day I was to be impressed yet again. While taking an early morning stroll on the beach past the hotel, I caught sight of a group of pros with their boards tearing up the beach ahead of me. I pondered as they watched the lumbering righthander funnel around to the west, open its jaws and spit out a big plume of spray. With growing disbelief, I sat and watched them paddle out to this wave which must have been breaking in the 8-10ft range, and take it apart. Of course, the spoils were shared evenly at the end of the session, as shredded skin and broken boards were tallied against outrageous barrels and adrenaline-charged rides. Later in the afternoon, Lee Winkler and Koby Abberton took on the “Indicator” in a hell session. I wondered why it all looked so different. It was, of course, because I was about 10-12ft up above the ground on a verandah, viewing the action from on high. The curvature of the reef was so apparent. This was truly a magnificent set up, with outside Indicator wrapping into Indicator, the gap at the key-hole and then the wrap around The Point into Kiddieland.

What kind of forces had conspired to construct this unique wave-riding location? After taking into account the hazardous physical conditions involved in surfing those other breaks, The Point itself in comparison rated five stars in terms of safety! I was privileged to witness some outstanding surfing during the three-day event. Mick Lowe and Beau Emerton charged in their semis, pulling big floaters and riding the pocket when they couldn’t find the tube. I would’ve given Tony Ray a “12” for effort in a memorable display. He scored a 10, but lost in his heat. Margo, however, impressed in every heat, his fluid, radical, bold, hard driving maneuvers, blending beautifully with Lagundri’s long, languid walls. He was a very popular winner and accepted the kudos of his peers in his typically understated manner.

After two days cooped up in my little box overlooking the point, I had moved west to greener pastures. Almost on the border of the hotel, I found Losmen Simson. It was very relaxing. The palm trees in front and the roar of Indicator out front soothed me to sleep at night. In an emotional meeting with Taninjin, we walked over to our original campsite. It was in fact now a rubbish dump. The coconut tree John and I had scrawled our initials in had blown over the year before. The path up to Botohili Village had disappeared. Familiar faces who recognized me started filing out of the woodwork to come and chat. There were some touching scenes as I met 30-year old men who were mere 10-year-olds, little boys who helped carry Jan and Judy’s shopping down from the village. They told me how lucky they felt meeting us, the girls having given them their first rice meal. I really started to settle in. Walking past the hotel about 800m around to the west from the point, I was confronted by the fact that the beach was deserted and that development had not encroached beyond the hotel’s boundary. The dense foliage on the edge of the beach reminded me of what the point was really like. Why then couldn’t the point be re-landscaped if there was a coastal management plan in place, and if the locals were committed to improving and protecting their environment? Perhaps the point could recover a little of its natural beauty. It was food for thought…

The day after the contest finished, the point was like a ghost town. The place just emptied out in record time. The swell hit at 2am the next morning. The sunrise session revealed some eight-footers coming through, but the force of the running tide and a light church wind was messing it up. At Lagundri you still measure quality in degrees of perfection. The low tide, late afternoon session was going to be my date with destiny. I had spent 21/2 weeks hanging out for real surf. I was becoming desperate to confirm the memories I had been carrying for the last twenty years. Were the waves really as good as I had experienced and remembered? Or was it all something that I had dreamed up during a malarial nightmare? Conditions were glassy when I joined the pack of ten guys out the back. Ani Devine and Koby Abberton were charging the sets, which had become very consistent. This was thrilling, this was how it always was. Pick your wave, three or four strokes into a smooth-as-silk take-off, over the ledge, adjust your line on the free fall and lean forward as an impossibly long section in front of you goes vertical and cylindrical all around you. There was always lots of room in the 8ft wombs. The recurring image is always of the feeling of timelessness spent inside the Lagundri vortex. Time travel still occurs on The Point in more ways than one. It was an emotional session, the adrenaline releasing a lot of tension that I had been carrying. I could now leave a happy man, having tapped back into the fabled portal of power.

It’s amazing what you can learn over a kopi-susu and a couple of roti kelapas first thing in the morning. I had met with Sifarma just after my arrival nearly three weeks previously. Whenever I cruised past his losmen cafe called Hatu Gala, he would always call out. When he knew I was preparing to depart, he said make sure I come to see him because he had something to tell me. He also wanted to show me Ma-ur’s grave, his uncle, who along with his wife and Sifarma were the only locals living on the point and surrounding areas back in ’75-’76. They became our friends.
The morning before my departure, I strolled down to Hatu Gala and Sifarma proceeded to shock me to my core! Sifarma, at 45, is salt of the earth, and not prone to flights of fancy. He is also a direct descendant of the original inhabitant of the point the legendary Sar San Gaila. He proceeded to relate exactly what had happened around us during our ’75-’76 trips. It all centered on a man, a shaman by the name of Nadea who was also known as the Pemburung (Hornbill Man). Sifarma, who was approximately 25 at the time when John and I showed up, had been up in Hilismantano in the market when he heard the gossip that the Pemburung from Sosro Gamung was on a mission to cast out the bules (Westerners) who were living on the point at Jamburae (Lagundri). He also received some backyard information concerning the fact that the Pemburung was searching for a skull to place in the foundation of the bridge at Sorso Gamung, 7kms from Hilismantano. The bridge, built by the Japanese during the war, had fallen into disrepair and was being given an overhaul. The 75m suspension bridge spanned the I Dano Ho River and Nadea had to consecrate the spirits in the area by burying a skull in the foundation. By the time Sifarma had made it back to the point, everyone walking the track leading into and out of Lagundri and Botohili were warned to look out for the headhunters. Everyone that is except John and myself. Sifarma told me that when he first caught sight of Nadea, he almost crapped his pants. Sifarma was drawing water from the well about 25m into the jungle off The Point. Nadea had appeared on the beach from out of nowhere with an accomplice. Sifarma hid behind a tree shaking and watched as the two men walked up to our camp. Sifarma quickly told Ma-ur, and together they crept through the coconut plantation until they got right up behind our tent under the little thatched hut. There they hid and looked and listened to what transpired. Nadea had agreed that John and I were perfect specimens. They then proceeded to sit, talk and interact with us for over two hours. During this time, we must have burned more Buddha offerings because somehow we disarmed their initial intentions.

As they checked out our boards, we tried to explain what surfing was all about in a game of Stone Age charades. Somehow the “natural persuader” had yet again saved the day and more importantly our heads. Sifarma could read their lips. There was something mentioned about them actually needing a woman. In our blissfully ignorant state we waved them on their way and returned to the hobbits in Lord of the Rings. Sifarma and Ma-ur, however, had run back to their huts on the point and intercepted the two men on the beach. Nadea put the fear of god into Sifarma. The shaman was described as being approximately 40, medium height, of stocky build with longish hair. His eyes were blood red, which signified that he was a practitioner of red magic. He was a major evil force. His form of magic had originated in the Aceh of north Sumatra. He roamed the whole of southern Nias on hunting raids for various ceremonies or whenever he received a calling. It was understood that a shaman with his powers could kill by using his thoughts, or just by touching a certain area of a person’s body. They used sickness as a conduit to transmit their evil intentions. He could communicate telepathically and more than likely possessed the ability to fly. After all he was called the Pemburung, the Birdman.
Ma-ur asked why did they want us. We spent all of our time in the ocean riding those boards. The two men joked and said they were really after a woman, but they still didn’t want Westerners living on the point. With that they disappeared.
Three weeks after we left, they returned. All the local people were very frightened. They quizzed Ma-ur and Sifarma about our disappearance. They were very upset. They desperately wanted our heads. They returned every 2-3 weeks for the next year until I returned in June ’76 with Jan, Judy and Bugs. Within five days, Nadea showed up, this time with three others who were not Niasan, but more likely from the Aceh. They were also described as looking like they had just crawled out of the jungle. It was explained to me that the constant appearance of Nadea in the Lagundri and Botohili area had completely freaked out the locals. The locals apparently directed an overwhelming feeling of compassion towards us in our predicament. Yet no one could tell us what was happening.

I asked this question several times. Sifarma said they were just getting to know us and didn’t want to chase us away. They were intrigued by our presence and wanted to learn from us through our surfing experience. Sifarma anchored himself behind a coconut tree and shouted out to Nadea and his henchmen. What did the shaman want. Nadea’s reply was, “I really need them”. He was ready to take one, two, three or all four of us. It was obvious to Sifarma that Nadea was now fully committed to his task and he exuded a feeling of gross intensity. Sifarma was filled with a sense of dread. The locals had received news of John‘s death with blank faces of disbelief. I had returned with another male, but more importantly, two attractive blonde females.

Sifarma and Ma-ur yet again took up their listening posts behind the tents and watched the proceedings. It was obvious Nadea was in the grip of blood lust. Nadea asked me why had I returned. He still had a problem understanding the surfing experience. He was completely enraptured with the appearance of the two girls. The head-hunting party then began discussing the strategy of killing each of us and making a successful get away. Bugs and I were tall and solidly built, we would put up a struggle. But it was the escape route that created the most concern. Also, on this particular day five Botohili villagers were working in the plantation, up trees collecting coconuts. They had a very good vantage point to watch what was happening to us. All of these men were armed with traditional swords and spears. Sifarma had alerted them to remain in the plantation for protection. Nadea and his assistants debated the possibilities for some five to six hours, hanging around the campsite and also returning to the beach. The problem was they were becoming very frustrated. The locals were aware of the shaman’s intentions, and the only escape route was back around the beach to Lagundri. The only other track through the dense jungle was the one beside our hut, which led up to Botohili.

If they attempted to murder us, they feared that they then could be hunted and killed during their escape. The frustration increased until they abandoned their plan and disappeared in disgust. Sifarma, who still believed in the traditional ways, had also converted to Christianity, as had many others in the village. He told me at the sight of Nadea’s departure he fell to his knees and profusely thanked Jesus for our salvation. It’s amazing isn’t it, when you consider how naive you can be about events that happen in your life. Sifarma, with perfect recall had given me a first person account of the proceedings. I listened in awe. In June ’76, while perfect surf pumped around the palm-lined point, for all intents and purposes, we believed we were experiencing heaven on earth. In actual fact, the locals saw us in a transitory stage of passing through hell. What is this thing called reality? It’s all either illusion or delusion, we can only find what is real by first finding ourselves.

The story of the Birdman didn’t end there. He became a figure who loomed large in our lives and who I now believe directly contributed to the sickness which eventually engulfed the camp. Ingrid and Stuart the mismatched couple showed up several weeks later. Nadea was back immediately. He had now found exactly what he was looking for. Ingrid was an attractive, 19-20-year-old of Indian descent. Unbeknown to her and us, she was to become Nadea’s black magic woman. As Stuart dealt with his disintegrating personality, Ingrid became the center of attention for these heavy looking guys. They were always hanging around her. We recognized them from past experiences, but had absolutely no idea of their real intentions. They would take her away for walks. We remarked to each other that there was a strange vibe in the air. It was tough on Ingrid, because she had never traveled before, and she found herself dumped in a remote location by a boyfriend who had run off to play Jungle Jim. We cared for her as best we could when her sickness developed. As she entered the downward spiral of her illness, Sifarma became very concerned with the continued appearance of Nadea and the obvious influence he had over her. On the day of her evacuation, Sifarma could not believe his eyes as the party moved off from the camp carrying Ingrid on a roughed-out stretcher. Her kidneys were so inflamed and painful that she could not put weight on her feet.

Sifarma recounted that as the party walked around the point, he threw himself down on his knees and prayed desperately to Jesus for Ingrid’s protection from the headhunters. He never saw or heard of Ingrid again, and it was the question he had waited twenty years to ask me. Well, I was reeling from his account of this separate reality of events, which had occurred so long ago. We were unwittingly cast as the main protagonists in the unfolding drama, which was witnessed and understood by all the inhabitants of both villages. Sifarma finished up by saying that the locals always considered that one or all of us would die. Ma-ur, his uncle, had always wondered when we would come back. He had recognized that somehow we had broken through the taboo that had been imposed on the point by Nadea the birdman.
The bridge was finally consecrated in 1976 with a skull neatly placed under the foundation stone. For twenty years Sifarma wondered if it had been Ingrid’s.

I had to move. I needed air. A breeze on my face. I needed confirmation of this story from someone else. I borrowed a bike and rode around to Lagundri Village to my friends, Pringitan and Norhyat, at Losmen Aman. I walked in and Pringitan knew exactly what I had come for. The first thing he asked me was, “Kevin, what happened to the orang Indian?” What happened to Ingrid? I then asked him about the headhunters, if it was true.

“Of course,” he said, all the locals liked us. They didn’t want us to leave. That’s why they didn’t tell us. I was dumbfounded. It was a classic piece of Indonesian reasoning. He then filled me in further. When Ingrid had been brought across the flooded rivermouth, the locals became very heated and agitated as to what was going to be her likely fate. Pringitan, who was kepala desa (headman) of Lagundri at the time, vehemently warned Nadea that if Ingrid died, he (Pringitan) would alert the government authorities in Teluk Dalam, and they would hunt him down and kill him. Ingrid disappeared in the back of the rusted out ute headed for the decaying German mission hospital outside Hilismantano. The Germans had apparently run off years ago and the hospital had been partially reclaimed by the jungle. Pringitan had also wondered for twenty years what had happened to Ingrid. Well, so it was all true. The thing about Niasans is that they do have incredible memories. As for Ingrid, what was her fate? I don’t know. Maybe someone reading this account can verify her continued good health. I would very much appreciate it.

As Norhyat brought the food to the table, Pringitan reappeared accompanied by a tall, proud looking old man wearing a traditional black Muslim cap. He introduced him as Damrah, his 74-year-old uncle, who he said was the oldest living descendent of the first inhabitant of the point. Pak Damrah was also the aural historian of Lagundri. He could recall names, places, dates and times from yesterday to 250 years previous and beyond. I pushed the food away and listened as he told me about the life of the son of the warrior chief, the man known as Sar San Gaila. The constraints of time melted as the events of a bygone era were recounted with vivid imagery. Mysteriously, Sifarma reappeared as we were drawing to a close. He wanted to take me to Sar San Gaila’s grave, nestled in a little hook in the bay just off the beach between the village and the point. Pak Damrah explained the line of descendents, originating from Sar San Gaila. Ma-ur and Sifarma were the only inhabitants on the point when we arrived. They were of course directly related, as was Pringitan. Interestingly, it was these two families that we were drawn towards. It was with these two groups that we had the most interaction.

As Sifarma cleared some undergrowth away from the headstone, a feeling of strength and resilience emanated from the site. The great man and his wife’s grave lay side by side. Kanowi, the shaman, who preceeded his master as the spiritual convener of Jamburae, lay a short distance away. My mind harked back to the many times I had passed this site just off the beach. I remembered sticking my head in once to check it out. Little did I realize the significance of what I was viewing.

The bus would come for me in the middle of the night for the return journey to Gunung Sitoli. It meant I had enough time during my last day to accompany Sifarma on my motorbike to the bridge over the I Dano Ho River some 25kms from Lagundri. It was a magnificent ride. Upon seeing the decaying remains of the bridge, and the large teak bearers still lying in place, I was overcome by a vision. I sat down on the foundation stone that Nadea had consecrated so long ago.

Lagundri should have a museum dedicated to the preservation of its natural history. It would also provide a focal point for the establishment of a coastal management plan that is so desperately needed for the area. Wastewater treatment and the removal of all buildings back from the high tide mark are two issues currently being discussed by the local community. Government bodies are in consultation, but of course, time drags on. This is an open invitation for any interested individuals or outside bodies to offer assistance in the establishment of the museum.

Lagundri has now become a way-station for forays into other more remote areas. We’ve had twenty-two years experience of interaction and development between the surfing tribe and a megalithic Stone Age culture. We can learn from the mistakes to ensure other fragile environments don’t suffer the same fate.

Our covenant with the creator to draw breath in this life is made on the assumption that by helping ourselves we also help each other. We also must protect, maintain and restore that which has been given to us. We are all custodians of The Point wherever that point may be.

On the bone-jarring journey north to Gunung Sitoli, I wrestled with discomfort in the front of the bus as we plunged on relentlessly through the cool dawn mist of another Niasan day. In a semi-dream state, I reflected on Larry Yates’ curious quote, “It really isn’t a place, it’s a state of mind,” the now and zen of it all, I concluded, was that the experience had transcended into a “state of being”. We had lived out a myth at Lagundri, and our lives had been transformed forever. It was a different time; it was a different place.