I’m deep in Tetebatu, standing barefoot in the ankle-deep water of a rice paddy next to a farmer named Pak Dede, and he’s laughing at how badly I’m failing to plant the seedlings. His laugh is this joyful rumble that echoes across the quiet valley—well, quiet except for the chorus of frogs and the distant call to prayer drifting down from the mosque tucked into the palm-covered hillside.
I didn’t come to Lombok expecting this. Honestly, most people don’t. They bounce right past it on their way to Bali, or maybe hop to the Gilis for a few blurry days of beaches and Bintang. But Lombok… she’s something else entirely. More raw, more patient. At first glance, she’s low-key. But linger here, like actually stay a bit—and she starts to open up like a shy friend finally telling you her secrets.
My journey kicks off in Mataram, not far from the airport. It’s not flashy, but this is where you catch real life: motorbikes zipping through tangled streets, smells of grilled satay wafting from roadside warungs, little kids giggling behind their mother’s sarong wrap. It’s gritty and warm, and after 65 countries, I’ve learned to appreciate unglamorous honesty over polished perfection.
From there, I make my way west to Senggigi, the stand-in gateway for many travelers. The beach is alright, especially at sunset when the sky turns into this bleeding watercolor. But honestly—it’s what’s just beyond, in the hills and fishing villages north along the coast, where things start to hum.
One morning, I hop on the back of a local’s scooter—it’s the kind of ride where your thighs burn from gripping on, hair slapping your face—and head to Malimbu Hill. We pass monkeys idling on roadside guardrails and women carrying woven baskets with effortless grace. When we finally reach the overlook, Lombok spills out below—jungle, black sand coves, that endless, moody sea.
Here’s where I hit my mishap. Somewhere near Tanjung, I take a hiking shortcut, looking for a waterfall a guy in a coffee shack told me about. It’s barely a path. Just mud, overgrown brush, and steep—and then my sandal snaps. I faceplant. No blood, but I lose my phone.
Just gone.
And you know what? After some initial panic and muttered curses, I start to see things differently. Without a phone, no map, no photos—I start talking more. Asking locals for directions. Eating where the vibes look right. I sit longer, watch more. Sip kopi tubruk brewed thick and grainy by a grandma near Bayan while a chicken pecks at my toes.
That detour eventually leads me to Sembalun.
Listen: if you do one thing on your Lombok Indonesia itinerary, make it to Sembalun.
This is highland country, at the foot of majestic Mount Rinjani. There’s this field—Bukit Selong—layered like a patchwork quilt at golden hour, when it all turns into firelit geometry. I meet a group of young guys rolling cigarettes and carving bamboo flutes. We talk about tourism, weather changes, girls. One of them, Joko, tells me that his granddad still climbs Rinjani barefoot every dry season. Makes me feel absurd with my brand-new Merrells.
I don’t end up summiting Rinjani myself—it’s a multi-day beast, and I’m not feeling heroic this trip—but there’s plenty of humbler trails around. Plus, sitting in a hot spring outside Sapit while staring up at stars? That’s plenty for me.
Still, it’s not all nature and deep thoughts. Down south, Kuta Lombok is having a moment. But—don’t confuse it with that wild Kuta over in Bali. This Kuta feels like what Canggu might’ve been like before it got Instagrammed. Huts, not high rises. Surf bums, not influencers. I rent a worn-out Yamaha and push it through coastal roads lined with cornfields.
Some of Lombok’s best beaches roll out here—Selong Belanak, Tanjung Aan, Mawun. I like Seger the best. There’s a small hill here, and when I climb it, I’m alone except for a fisherman fixing his net and humming softly. The ocean below glitters like silver shards, and I just sit there, breathing, still sore from a beginner surf lesson where I ate more sand than glory.
Now, for the surprise twist of it all? Pottery.
Not yours-to-bring-home trinkets, but real, soul-thick, red-earth pottery made in Banyumulek village. A woman named Ibu Sari takes me under her wing. We don’t speak much of the same language, but she guides my hands with hers, dusty and patient. The clay sticks under my nails, warm and slick like wet bread dough. When she smiles, it's her entire face—lines widening, eyes twinkling. I try to help lift the jug I made. She laughs. It collapses in on itself. We both dissolve into giggles.
The people here—man. They don’t smile because they’re trying to sell you something. Their kindness sneaks up on you. Real as the sweet, earthy tang of nasi balap Puyung burnt at the edges and served on banana leaf. Real as the callused handshake from a peanut farmer who shares his one cold beer with you just because it’s Tuesday.
I wrap up my final days craving one last glimpse from above. So I book a ride with FlyLombok.id—a microlight flight thing I’d read about from this surfer dude I shared a bemo with two weeks back. The wind’s sharp, the little engine roars inches behind me, and the pilot shouts my name before we lift.
Then we’re airborne.
Lombok slides beneath us like a forgotten map. Mountains slump into rice paddies, fronds whip in seaside gusts, and crater lakes wink blue amongst jungle sprawl. It’s dizzying—in the way new love or profound freedom are dizzying. Seeing it all stitched together—the farms I stumbled through, mosques that beckoned dusk prayers, winding trails I bled sandal over—all of it makes sudden beautiful sense from above.
If you're reading this because you’re piecing together your own Lombok Indonesia travel guide, don’t make it a checklist. Let yourself get lost. Miss the boats. Break your sandals. Ask for directions. Drink the thick coffee. Touch the clay.
Because Lombok isn’t trying to be anything. She just is.
And when you finally look down at her from that slow roll of clouds through the wing of a microlight with FlyLombok.id... you’ll understand what I mean. And you won’t want to leave.