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The young Indo beach boy hurried along the tramped out jungle path. Johno had told him that maybe Bahiga had a job for him. Bahiga owned an old converted fishing boat that was now being used to take tourists surfing to the outer islands. The boat was called "Reformasie" (political reformation).
Maybe Bahiga had job for him as a deckhand on Reformasie. Through the palm trees the beach boy could see Bahiga's house. He slowed down to walking pace to get his breath back. The afternoon sun cast deep shadows across the porch of Bahiga's house. A figure sat smoking in the blackness of the porch. The beach boy stopped before the staircase leading up to the top of the porch. He held his hands respectfully behind his back.
Lagundri bay was one of the great surf discoveries of the mid seventies. An absolute picture-perfect top-to-bottom barrelling right-hander. When it goes,
it's one of the best waves in Indonesia which makes it one of the best waves in the world. But the Lagundri right is a dangerous gem. Like Bilbo's ring in Tolkien's 'Lord of the Rings' she makes you disappear and if you use her too often she slowly corrupts your mind, creating an evil being which lurks in the dark preying on the unwary stranger.
It's is a legendary wave in the true sense of the word. Nowadays remote island surf destinations are a dime a dozen with the growth of modern yacht charter surf exploration. It's the year 2000, and the globe is being fine-combed by Tom, Dick and Harry, hell-bent on finding their own unridden perfection in the most isolated archipelagos of the world.
But I may remind you that this was not always so. Movies like 'The Endless Summer' alerted surfers everywhere to the fact that 80% of the earth's coastline is unexplored and that you just need to get off your arse and go find it. But there was no mad rush. A few went out looking. Two of them decided to check out northern Indonesia and in 1975 they slogged over the hill at Lagundri Bay. A legend was born.
"Good evening sir Johno said you have a job for me on Reformasie", the beach boy blurted out. An irritated voice answered: "Who said anything about Reformasie? Come up here. Let me look at you."
The man was sitting on his arse leaning against the wall of the house. His long black hair was tied back in a ponytail. He was unusually fat for an Indonesian. Fat cheeks and a pot belly. He wore short pants and a dirty white T-shirt. His right hand held both the stub of a cigarette and the neck of a beer bottle. He took a swig of beer and simultaneously exhaled smoke through his nose. His eyes were slits, black and expressionless like the eyes of a small shark.
Palm trees impenetrably thick. A white beach surrounding a horseshoe shaped bay. Those trademark photographs showing a wave walling up impossibly far down the line against a backdrop of palm trees. The combination of a swell, which has to refract far into the bay and the fact that the southern end of the horseshoe curls far around the other side, creates the optical illusion that a thick palm forest grows directly behind the wave. I started surfing soon after Lagundri was discovered in 1979. I was 12 at the time and had no clue of surf anywhere else in the world. But I remember those early photos of Nias.
In my mind the most distinctive line up ever…but it may as well have been on the moon (or in heaven for that matter). All I knew was that an island existed somewhere (maybe on earth?), that it was a tropical paradise and had the best right-hander in the world. It caused a spate of wave art on school bags the likes of which has not been seen again since. That intimidating wall was studied and analyzed. Was it makeable? Would I make it?
The beach boy waited. He did not want not fuck this up. Jobs are very scarce in Lagundri Bay since the steady supply of tourists dried up.
Bahiga reached into a pocket of his shorts taking out a wad of cash. He counted out 200 000 rupee ($25) and held it out to the beach boy. The boy hesitated. 200 000 is one months salary.
"Don't you want it?" asked the man.
"Yes sir, I…"
"Well then take it!"
The boy reached forward uncertainly. But in a sudden blur of movement like a moray eel docile one second and deadly the next the man lunged forward grabbing the boy by the wrist. He's other hand now held a knife. The boy was paralyzed with fear, unable to move, uncomprehending.
Bahiga stroked the boy's cheek with the edge of the blade in a gentle but deadly motion.
"If you take the money you take the knife," the man whispered. "You know Lombard? You know Gideon? The captain on the white boat? The knife is for them. I want their blood on this knife."
So when I first arrived in Lagundri Bay in 1996 the place was pumping. And I don't only mean the surf. There must have been more than 50 losmen strung out along the beach. Single and double storey wooden huts with grass roofs and lazy balconies hanging over the sand, facing the wave. Most of these losmen are still there today, in various states of decay and neglect.
But I'll come to that later. This was 1996, and Lagundri was booming. The Legend had created an infra structure around herself not unlike the shanty towns found in the American west and the South Africa during the gold rush. Restaurants, bars and brothels. Old timers, red Indians and the new cowboys on the block. All rubbing shoulders at one of the bars along the strip. Wanna massage? Wanna buy ganja or mushrooms? Wanna take one of the speedboats out to the outer islands? Wanna buy a beautifully carved chess set? Feeling lonely tonight?
Slowly Bahiga pulled the boy by his wrist down to ground so that the boy was kneeling before him. He could feel his cock hardening in his pants. He found the bare torso and smooth legs of the young boy very arousing. Still Bahiga played with the knife, caressing the boy's flat stomach, using the tip of the blade to draw patterns around the boy's exposed nipples. The boy shivered and shrunk back like a trapped animal at the back of its cage, knowing there is no escape, knowing that even if he leaves here alive the nightmare will not be over.
Bahiga took the wad of cash and slid his hand up the pants leg of the boy. He could feel the boy's small limp penis. He wrapped the cash around the boy's dick. "You've got one week, my brother. One week and they are dead." He squeezed the boy's testicles and at the same time became aware that his own cock was as hard as a rock. "If they are not dead in one week I will use that same knife to cut these off!" shouted Bahiga, giving the boy's dick a final twist. He then shoved the boy backwards, and threw the knife onto his bare belly. "Now fuck off," he said.
The boy stumbled down the staircase and ran down the path. In his left hand he held the knife. In his right hand was a wad of cash. He sprinted like a relay runner, holding the knife awkwardly by the blade as if he was planning the hand it over to an imaginary next athlete in mid stride, pumping his arms up and down, running for his life. Only when he got home did he realize what he had in his hands, but by then it was already to late.
The wall held up and in 1996 I realised for the first time in my surfing career what a real barrel ride was all about. She made me disappear for ridiculously long periods of time. But I wasn't in her grip for long enough. Ten days later I was on an Indo stink pot headed for the Mentawai Islands. For this was not the 70's, but the 90's, and new waves were being discovered on a daily basis on the islands around Nias.
So fuck Nias and it's a kak wave anyway because its short and fades out quickly once the barrel section is over and its totally overrated, doesn't pick up any swell and hardly ever breaks. WRONG!!! When she goes at 8-12 foot the sets come 10 at a time and she'll have you slotted deeper and longer than anything Lances, Rifles or Rags can dish up. Every time a coconut.
Not "maybe this wave with the wall swinging wide" or "that wave breaking more on the reef" or whatever, but every single wave is a fucken beautiful spiralling pit. Take off late and pull in straight away. Take off earlier, fade the bottom turn and WOOOOSH.
Now it's the year 2000, and I'm back at Lagundri Bay. Looking out to sea it would seem as if nothing has changed. Eight foot barrels squaring out over the reef. But behind me is a surf camp gone wrong. I look out in the bay to where the Indies Explorer lies at anchor, happy with the fact that tomorrow morning we leave for Asu and Bawa. I like the fact that we don't have to stay ashore. The place gives me the creeps.
I hear a rustle in the jungle to my right. Six young beach boys appear in the clearing where I'm having my solitary sundowner. "Hey mister! Got a light?" One of the beach boys approaches me, waving a cigarette. Another one circles in behind me, exhaling smoke through a clenched jaw. 'Now why ask me for a light?' I briefly think. Then suddenly a knife glints in the last rays of the setting sun.
"What the fuck do you want?" And as I ask the question someone takes off and pulls into the barrel. One of the last barrels of the day. "You're dead mister, know what I mean?" The lucky fucker was still in the barrel. "Yeah," I said. As I finished talking the lucky fucker suddenly shot out into the last rays of light and kicked out over the back of the wave. He did not claim it. Just nonchalantly kicked out. By now the next wave was already peeling, even bigger.
I had to wait and see whether there was someone inside.
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