The Golden Armour

In 1992 I travelled with a very tolerant lady across the most populous island in the world: Java. It was a memorable east to west journey – watching the sunrise burst over Borobodur, listening enrapt to the Jogjakarta kraton gamelan and discovering a wide range of surf set-ups, with virtually zero other surfers. The only real negative was the continuing lack of swell, which hastened our journey as surely as a decent swell, while it lasts, can stall all forward momentum.

With 10 days remaining, we arrived in steaming Surabaya. My girlfriend planned to head on to Bali. Should I join her? I was running out of coastline to explore…until I remembered the last Javanese wave before Bali, arguably the most consistent and famous lefthander in Indonesia, if not the galaxy: the mind-boggling Plengkung, more popularly known as…G-land! Located deep inside Blambangan National Park, the only known way to surf the G-land reef machine was to pay out big US dollars to be boated into the exclusive surf camp. My problem was simple: my budget only allowed for being accommodated in local losmen. So I would have to find another way to penetrate the seemingly impregnable jungle…
I kissed my girlfriend goodbye and set off south toward the fishing village of Grajagan. My goal: to charter a fishing boat to Plengkung, some 40 kilometres away. Yet the men at the harbour simply laughed at me. The fishing boats had already departed at dawn, and besides, I needed a national park permit, and these were available only at the regional capital of Banyuwangi, a back-track of several hours. I sighed and turned around…

The pretty ladies at the National Parks office handed me a piece of paper that listed the expensive surf camp rates. I peered around desperately, until I noticed a map of Blambangan on the wall. I pointed at what looked like a village nearby to Plengkung and asked, ‘Why can’t I stay there instead?’

The head lady answered my question with a question: ‘Why don’t you want to stay at the surf camp with the other surfers?’

This was the tricky bit. I knew I couldn’t admit that a week in the surf camp would exceed my entire trip budget, so instead I bluffed in my bad Indonesian, ‘Er…but I don’t like western food. I like nasi campur and gado gado, and staying with Indonesian people…so I can practice my Bahasa Indonesian!’
The ladies all smiled broadly at this answer. In the next half hour they convinced their boss out the back that I would be ideologically safe to stay at the village on the map, Pancur. Yet my problems were far from over. The ladies explained that Pancur was still a considerable 13 kilometres from Plengkung, and wasn’t really a village as such. Only one old couple lived there, and they spoke no English. I would have to take in all my own food, and cook it. Tidak apa apa (no worries), I reasoned.

While my permit was being processed, I went shopping at the markets with the office ladies, who were equally keen to practice their Bahasa Ingerris (English). I slept in the office, having first copied down the big map on the wall. It listed by number where the various park fauna lived – including leopards, panthers, wild pigs and dogs. I was relieved to see that none of the potential man-eating numbers were listed over the jungle track I would have to negotiate each day to reach Plengkung. I only hoped the animals had seen the map too…

Getting to Pancur involved a long, bumpy bemo ride, followed by a warm-up 3km walk, lugging gear and food. My host, Mr Pancur, was a surly old fellow, who rolled gigantic tobacco cigarettes. Mrs Pancur, with her right-angled spine, preferred to chew huge wads of the stuff with her few remaining red-brown teeth. Their wooden hut, shared with chickens, had no electricity or western conveniences, but it would keep out the rain and Javanese tigers.

I was stoked to see the old couple had two ancient pushbikes – and they were prepared to rent them! A bike would make the journey to Plengkung much easier, I thought. One had metal rollers instead of pedals and a seat that would rise up to vertical at the slightest jolt. I elected to take the bike with no brakes, to tune up my G-Land surfing technique.

I quickly realised my mistake. The track to Plengkung is riddled with roots and rocks. It has narrow bamboo bridges, slippery waterfalls and countless suicidal gullies. Steering with one hand (my surfboard under the other arm), I flew down into these gullies, trying desperately to slow down by dragging one thonged foot. Soon my thongs were coated in blood, and my knees and ankles, with bruises. I discovered it’s not easy pushing a heavy bike up a vertical gully with one hand. It was also bloody hot. By halfway there, both tyres were flat, the chain was choked with sand and the pedals would no longer engage, all of which at least took my mind off lurking leopards. Not that nature was in short supply. I passed monkeys who shrieked and threw sticks at me, heard several mysterious crashing noises in the jungle and witnessed two small crocodiles scuttle into a creek.

A few hours later I lurched into Plengkung. The surfers at the camp looked at me as if I was an alien visitation. I was sweaty, dirty, bleeding and bearded, with a mangled pushbike and a seven foot gun. My brain was overdosing on adrenalin, but the surf was small, almost unsurfable. I was disappointed at this, but still buzzing to have completed my historic gatecrash. I sat out on the point and yarned with a surfer I knew from home.

I learnt the surf camp option provides: accommodation in basic huts that overlook the surf; all the food one can scoff; all the beer one can gurgle; plus facilities like ping-pong, TV and a rubber ducky lift to the line-up whenever the surf looks too big to risk jumping off the reef. At least this option keeps the crowds within some sort of limit – mainly because many surfer travellers simply can’t afford a G-Land trip.

Almost imperceptibly, the waves were building, and I knew I would walk more in the next week than I had ever walked before. I returned next day to see the swell had indeed built. My first session at Indonesia’s most famous wave was a delicious entree. Two days later, the swell peaked at nearly three metres, and I travelled faster on a surfboard than I had ever believed possible.

While the camp surfers regularly moseyed off to bloat themselves on pizza and doze in front of an Indiana Jones video, I would lurk out on the point and gobble down my daily packed lunch of fruit, rice and chillies. I had to rush, because I was the camp outsider. To get to the surf and back in daylight meant a minimum of six hours’ walking each day, so I had to make the most of every minute at Plengkung, to get in as much surf time as my body would allow. Never before have I spent so much time alone with my thoughts or become so in tune with tides, the movement of the sun and the rhythms of nature. At Pancur, inspired by the great Lopez, I spent many hours stretching and meditating in a small cave. My dreams, ultra-vivid, hinted at strange and wonderful existences that transcended humanity.

A few camp surfers read my metamorphosis differently, flashing me the sort of worried sideways glances one normally reserves for the criminally insane. I was even asked in a hushed voice during a lull, ‘Are you…the Jungle Man?’ I didn’t mind though, especially because I was allowed to claim virtually whichever wave I desired. However, I knew that if I’d been part of a group of gate-crashers, rather than just one person, the other surfers would have felt more resentment than respect. After all, they were being slugged what seemed an almost criminal amount of money to surf exactly the same waves – though admittedly they didn’t have to leave the water mid-afternoon and trudge three hours through jungle for the privilege; a task I found increasingly difficult as the waves grew increasingly large. One afternoon I came in well beyond my deadline. I set off at a very brisk trot. Yet I didn’t feel worried. I had that totally illogical feeling of invulnerable joy that comes from surf-stoke and exhaustion, as if I’d conquered all my fears of the jungle. After all, I reasoned, big cats are nocturnal beasts. In the daytime, man was king of the jungle!

I emerged from a gully, and there it was. A huge, hairy pig, tusked and ugly. It shrieked at me. I screamed back. It shrieked again and charged, but at an angle, off into the bush. I began to run, somewhat unsettled. The sun plunged lower. It became difficult to discern the track ahead. The jungle was a world of dark shadows. I ran into a tree and slammed backwards. Cursing, I knew I could advance no further this way. My only hope was to detour to the left, to the beach that ran roughly parallel to the track, which I would hopefully be able to follow to the Pancur turn-off. Everything bad that could then happen, did then happen. Pandanus and sharp vines clawed my legs, arms and face. Mosquitoes zoomed in, and I became paranoid about malarial doom, about how loud even my breathing must sound to all the hungry cats I feared were now listening to and laughing at the king of self-delusion.

As I drew closer to the beach, I heard a roaring. It grew louder and louder. I emerged onto sand, into a full-bore torrential downpour, and was saturated in seconds. Everything was black, apart from the dull luminescence of the sand (which also happened to be extremely soft and difficult to walk through). I followed this dull arc of sand, muscles twitching and burning, until the dull arc of sand ran out.

I’d come to a headland. The rock was jagged and scarred with crevasses. The intensity of the sheeting rain meant everything ahead was black, so I bound my T-shirt around my head to protect my face and eyes and set off like a B-grade movie mummy, my hands groping ahead. I had no choice but to negotiate every step, and climb, and wade, inch by laborious inch. In the daytime, this may have been an easy passage, but not now. I knew if I fell, I would knock myself out, and drown. Every step meant groping my leg ahead. If I could feel nothing, I would toss a stone, and listen. Sometimes the stone fell so far, I heard no sound at all, so I knew I was on a cliff edge, compelled to backtrack. Other times, there was nothing but sheer rock ahead of me, unclimbable. Backtrack. I became so exhausted I lay down beneath an overhang and began to cry. The surf camp option now seemed like such excellent value for money. Oh, for a single pizza slice!

One thought only goaded me back to my feet – if I slept here, I would be a completely vulnerable snack. So I forged on, and eventually reached the apex of the headland. In the distance, I could just discern a second arc of beach. I whooped with joy, though it took me hours to reach that beautiful sand.
Now I only had to worry about finding the Pancur turn-off. The single sign that marked this turn-off was a small waterfall. So I had to follow every tiny creek from the ocean to the jungle wall to listen, and hope – and there were many new waterfalls from the ceaseless rain. At around 3 am, I found the track, I hoped. The steep walkway was so sleek, I had to bore my fingers into the clay to crawl upwards. Atop the waterfall, I broke into a deranged jog – and ran right into the old couple’s hut! I have never been so happy to see anyone as old Mr Pancur, still grumpy about his bike, when he opened the door of his hut. I hugged him with a mad intensity until he pushed me back and cackled at how drenched and pathetic I looked. Mrs Pancur hobbled over to fuss over my wounds and serve me up a mug of grey well-water and a bowl of cold rice and mystery lumps in chili sauce: the best meal I have ever devoured.

‘You guys don’t need Indiana Jones,’ I laughed between mouthfuls, and was asleep on the floorboards five minutes later (and for most of the next day). Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like hut.

No experience had left me feeling so exhausted on all levels. Yet in the aftermath, I attained levels of strength I did not believe possible – physically, mentally and spiritually. I returned to Australia with a self-confidence and inner calm that amazed the people who knew me. I could suddenly solve the most intractable of problems, seemingly with but a wave of my hand, as if my G-land experience had forged an impenetrable armour over my entire body, the colour of a Plengkung sunset. Anything was possible.

My mistake was to assume I would remain forever at this plateau. Work commitments slowly ground me down. I failed to adequately polish and maintain my armour. Gradually, over a period of weeks and months, my spiritual powers waned. I could feel my shining armour dropping from me, piece by piece. One frustrating morning, the final plate dropped from my body and clunked beneath my desk before disappearing. I was a naked fool, again.

Three years later, the opportunity arose for me to cover the first Quiksilver Pro at G-land, to return to the jungle in relatively decadent luxury at the surf camp, which had once shunned me. I leapt at the chance to ride that remarkable wave once more, and to perhaps rediscover even the chest-plate of my golden armour…

First published in Australia’s Surfing Life magazine, December, 1992