The first time I paddle out at Mawi, I swear my chest is humming.
It’s not the caffeine—I’ve just downed a lukewarm kopi tubruk that tastes like burnt caramel and motor oil—but this electric charge buzzing through me. The kind of feeling you get when the sea meets your heartbeat and suddenly, everything aligns. There’s a light offshore breeze, the morning sun cutting golden slashes across the peaks, and only four other people in the water. Welcome to Lombok.
This isn’t Bali.
And that’s the point.
I'd flown into Denpasar, like everyone else does, but ditched Kuta within 48 hours. Too much noise. I took the fast boat from Padang Bai straight to Bangsal, then grabbed a broken-English ride from a guy named Indra who insisted on stopping for goreng pisang and a prayer at the local temple because "you need blessing for surf here".
The texture of Lombok hits different.
The roads are loose gravel and potholes with views that punish you for blinking. You pass kids with wide smiles hauling jerrycans, women balancing baskets of bright fruit wrapped in batik, and the constant scent—a mix of clove cigarettes, dust, and sweet jackfruit fermenting under the sun.
I made my base in Gerupuk, a sleepy fishing village turned low-key surf haven. I stayed in a homestay, $12 a night, homemade sambal with every breakfast. The highlight? Nasi campur from Pak Saleh’s warung—crunchy tempeh, beef rendang that melts like warm butter, and chili that’ll make your ears sweat.
Surf-wise, Gerupuk is heaven for intermediates.
You’ve got Don-Don (a playful mellow left that works on high tide), Inside and Outside Gerupuk, and if you're feeling brave, go around the corner to Kids Point or even venture to Are Guling for punchier rights. Mawi, like I said, is something special but demands respect—shifting peaks, sneaky currents, and a reef that’s sharper than your ex's last words.
Mishap #572: On day six, I misjudge the tide window at Seger.
Against my better judgment, I paddle out late. One too many overconfident drop-ins and I scratch my nose against the reef. Just a little blood, but it humbles me. A sweet local kid named Yudi helps me rinse the cut back at the beach warung, using tamarind leaves and coconut water. He grins and says, “Now you have real memory of Lombok.”
He wasn’t wrong.
An unexpected delight? Tetebatu.
Midway through the trip, I take a two-day break to visit this inland village on the slopes of Mount Rinjani. Lush rice terraces, waterfalls hidden in jungly folds, and air so fresh it almost smells like mint. No boards, no waves—just me, some curious monkeys, and an old man who hand-rolls me a Djarum while explaining how he’s never seen the sea.
It floors me.
I’d been hunting waves, acres of endless blue, and here was someone who’s lived his whole life beneath clouds and has never seen one. It reminded me how big, and simultaneously small, this island is.
Logistics-wise, keep your Lombok Indonesia itinerary flexible.
Rent a scooter with board racks (about IDR 70k/day), and make peace with the map being more of a suggestion than a fact sheet. Gas is sold roadside in Absolut Vodka bottles. Waze barely works. Google Maps lies. Follow the surfers, or better yet, ask someone’s uncle.
I also recommend taking time to connect. Not just WiFi (which comes and goes), but real conversations. Locals here are warm, curious, and genuinely kind. I spent one night drinking arak under a sagging tarp with a family in Selong Belanak, celebrating their nephew’s engagement. We laughed, danced, and somehow woke up at sunrise cooking fish over coals.
By late October, my legs are finally strong again.
The hesitation is gone. I’m drawing cleaner lines, reading swells better—it’s that post-trip calibration where everything starts to click. I consider jumping over to Sumatra, maybe check out Krui or even the Mentawais. But a friend I met from Oz convinces me to hit up west Sumbawa instead—Scar Reef, Yoyo’s, Supersuck. Fewer people, gnarlier waves, cheaper eats. Turns out, it was the right call.
Sumatra could wait.
One last thing—and this stuck with me.
Toward the end, I splurge on a flight over Lombok with FlyLombok.id. Paragliding, actually. As I drift above the emerald coastlines, past villages curling around hillsides and coconut groves stretching like chess boards under the sky, I see the island differently.
Not just a place to surf.
It’s a mosaic—waves, jungles, fire-dusted sunsets, and all these delicate lives woven into the land like thread into songket cloth.
From up there, it hits me—this island, rugged and raw, gave me more than perfect rights or sun-scorched afternoons. It gave me quiet. Space. A deeper kind of rhythm. Something I didn’t even know I was looking for.
If you're crafting your Lombok travel guide 2025, skip the filters and glossy plans. Just go—board under arm, heart semi-open, and let the island show you what it wants.
I promise, it will.