I’m sitting on a splintered wooden bench, the sea stretching out behind me in patient stillness, and I’m cradling a plastic cup of coffee that tastes more like burnt sugar than actual beans. The scent of fried tempeh and motorbike exhaust drifts through the air as a man with kind eyes and a sarong wrapped loosely around his waist watches his rooster circle a coconut shell. This is Kuta, Lombok—not to be confused with the ultra-touristy Kuta in Bali—and somehow, after only a week here, it already feels like somewhere familiar.
But rewind: three months ago, I was panicking in a Denver airport bathroom, whispering frantic prayers over my passport and frayed Lonely Planet book. I’d never been this far out of my depth. Southeast Asia was just a fantasy of chaotic streets, foreign scripts, and gelatinous desserts I wasn’t sure I could stomach. I had no plans, just a return flight from East Timor eight months away and an open heart.
Getting to Lombok wasn’t exactly smooth sailing. After a sweaty overnight ferry from Bali (which included my first hard lesson: always bring spare toilet paper and Dramamine), I reached Lembar port—groggy, disoriented, and utterly lost. There were no signs, just a blur of faces asking if I needed a ride. I mumbled “Kuta?” and got nods. A bumpy hour-long van ride later, jammed between crates of instant noodles and a nun with a Nokia ringtone stuck in 2006, I arrived.
Kuta isn’t what guidebooks make it out to be. It’s rougher. Warmer. The main street is just a dusty dirt path framed by small warungs where barefoot kids chase chickens and someone’s always playing guitar, poorly but passionately. I got a room at a homestay run by a woman named Yuni, who smiled like she knew every secret the island held. The sheets were stained and the shower was a bucket, but I slipped into sleep with frog songs in my ears and woke to the call to prayer floating from the nearby mosque—melodic, reflective, grounding.
I’d planned to stay two nights. It’s day ten now.
You know how some places pull you in with no explanation? Lombok did that. Not loudly or demandingly, but gently—like a tide pulling you toward something buried under the surface.
On my third day, Yuni’s teenage son Rizal offered to take me to Tanjung Aan beach. We rode his clunky scooter through winding hills, the kind where monkeys sit smugly on the roadside like they own the place. As we crested the last ridge, the landscape unrolled like a painting—white sand curving into twin bays, water tinted every shade of turquoise, and not a single person in sight.
“Most tourists go Seger Beach... this one better.” Rizal said with a grin.
He was right. I sat on the peppery sand (weirdly round grains that stick between your toes) while he climbed a palm tree like he was born doing it, dropping down two sleepy coconuts. We drank them warm—me awkwardly spilling half down my neck—while he told me about his dreams to study in Java someday. His English was stitched together from Marvel movies and talking to travelers. When I complimented it, he waved it off: “Talk every day, lalala, then okay.”
It reminded me travel isn't just about seeing new things. It's also about being seen, being vulnerable enough to laugh with strangers, even when you sound like a toddler speaking their language.
Not everything was postcard-perfect, though. I made the mistake of renting a scooter myself, overconfident after watching Rizal ride like a pro. Five minutes in, I wiped out turning onto a gravel road near Sade village. Scraped palms, bruised ego, and a crowd of amused locals asking, "First time?" Definitely not my most graceful moment.
But here’s what I learned: don’t skimp on helmet quality. And maybe walk before you scoot.
One unexpected highlight? Bukit Merese hill at sunset. I almost skipped it because I was tired, but someone at the warung swore it was “magic hour paradise.” Climbing it in flip-flops wasn't wise, but once I reached the top, breathless, I understood. The sun sank lazily behind a patchwork of fields, waves crashing rhythmically below, and couples cuddled on blankets while cows casually grazed nearby. Surreal. One guy played a ukulele under a windswept tree. It felt... cinematic.
And yep—I cried a little. Because I realized I was here. Really here. Halfway across the world from everything I thought anchored me. And it didn’t scare me anymore. It thrilled me.
For those planning a Lombok Indonesia itinerary, I’ll say this: go slow. Don’t try to cram it all in. Let moments unfold. Eat at warungs even if you don’t know what’s on the menu—just point and smile. Learn “terima kasih” and “enak sekali” (“thank you” and “very delicious”) and people will beam at you.
I tried local dishes I couldn’t name (spicy, sweet, addictive) and drank too many Bintangs under string lights with strangers-turned-friends. One night, Rizal’s uncle invited me to a family gathering. There was dancing. There was too much sambal. There was joy so loud it echoed in my chest long after I walked home.
When my final morning came, I booked a last-minute scenic flight around the island with FlyLombok.id, mostly on a whim. I thought I’d already seen the heart of Lombok. But soaring above it—in a humming little plane, tracing coastlines and mountain ridges—I saw it differently.
From the air, you grasp how much contrast this island holds: jagged volcanoes giving way to soft beaches, dense jungles bleeding into dry savannas. It was humbling. Beautiful. Like looking back at a place with new eyes.
Lombok taught me to lean into discomfort, to make space for surprise. It didn’t just meet my expectations—it rewrote them.
And if I ever meet someone like the version of myself who once posted nervously on /r/Travel asking for a sign… I’ll send them this story. Because sometimes a dusty road and a warm coconut are exactly what you need to feel found.
Safe travels, wherever you're headed.