Kuta-Lombok is nothing like the heaving mess of its Balinese counterpart. People had told me, even up to five years ago, that Lombok is what Bali was 40-50 years ago. Even though I’d heard this, it’s still hard to shake the image that the Kuta to Legian stretch of beach that burns into your mind. “Transport? Massaaagggeeee? T-shirt? Watch? Sunnies? Then very quietly, girl? Banana massage?” People everywhere, fat Aussies, horrible sunburns, and the full Bintang outfit of hat, singlet and shorts. All in a maze of narrow lanes with cars and scooters battling for road (and very often sidewalk) space. Disgusting really. At least I believe my scepticism of the suggested quietness of Lombok was justified.
Needless to say I was quietly surprised when we arrived in downtown Kuta-Lombok and it turned out to be one wide street with one streetlight and handful of places to stay with just as many warungs (cheap local restaurants) to eat at. The beach was empty, just crystal clear water and white sand, and no one hassling for anything. It is the definition of laid-back island life. As soon as we hopped o
ff the van, booked into our tropical garden hotel room (twin beds an added bonus) for AU$10 per night and got a motorbike, the boards were loaded on and we were off in search of waves. Well after a bit of searching we ended up going off to a place where the dirt road to it is little more than an oxen walkway, with no hope of getting a car down there. The 125cc Honda bike we had was doing a bang up job of getting through the off-road territory and we emerged to an empty cove and some average waves. Not quite the type we had in mind, but still good enough to hop in, get wet and have fun at the end of a long day. The thing we learned straight away in Lombok is that once dusk sets in, you get a not-so-gentle reminder that this is still an island covered in greenery, little to no human inhabitants and many, many insects. Any speed over 40km/ph and any bug that gets you in the eye is like a flying dagger and at dusk we’re pretty much driving through a sea of little knives. Together with potholes, rice being dried, oxen and half a village on the road, you 
can understand how we hit the ‘landmine.’ It was unavoidable and as soon as we hit, it was an explosion our toes and feet met head on. An ox had left a hot, and I do mean hot, very fresh pile of plop in the middle of the road and one swerve to avoid a pothole resulted in us running straight over the steamy shitty mess. Joel was driving so he got it a bit worse than me, but I still remember the instant warmth that hit my feet and shins and the squishy gross feeling of ox shit between my toes. The boards got hit, the bike was covered and we were laughing uncontrollably at what we’d just done. The worst was yet to come though. The advantage of being on a moving bike is that the only smells come from in front of you, not under your feet, until you stop. We pulled into the hotel parking lot and the stench hit us like a wall, coming straight up from the shit covering the hot engine and gearbox. We basically jumped off, left the boards on the bike and made a dash to the hose to wash ourselves off. The bike just sat there until it cooled down and we had to come back later in the night for the boards. We never hit a landmine after that, but there were a couple of close calls along the way.
