Over the past few weeks Liam "Itchy" Taylor and a few of the boys from Bronte escaped to Nias in Northern Sumatra, and here he shares with us the highs and lows of this tropical getaway.
You know when it’s raining and your listening to that mind numbing pitter patter, lost in the tranquillity of it; Then all of a sudden there’s this instantaneous crescendo where the volume jumps from pattering to roaring and you go – OK! Now it’s really raining! As we sat on the balcony of our losmen we were unable to see the usually idyllic bay in front of us through the thick curtain of rain. It seemed as if the demons dancing behind our craniums, waiting to escape, had been released by the monsoonal crank. Rain can make you go a bit crazy in the tropics. Served up simultaneously, torrential rain and no swell can really cause you to lose your shit. Having already spent 2 weeks at Lagundri Bay, Nias in Northern Sumatra, we’d had our fair share of waves. But two days of downpour had managed to revert the six of us into a bunch of first graders stuck in the classroom minus the playthings, female students and supervision.
Our accommodation in Nias was at Raffiel’s Surf Camp, a nice two storey losmen situated halfway down the point; A welcome distance away from the hubbub of the keyhole, where most of the accommodation at Lagundri is concentrated. However, as the rain rocketed down our top level of Raf’s joint resembled more of a psyche ward than a tropical hideaway.
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The drumming of the rain did nothing to muffle the head noise emanating from each of us as we battled the boredom. Mouse paced around the balcony of the losmen, folded arms fidgeting constantly as if he was trying to wriggle out of an invisible straitjacket. While Whippet was busy playing his 300th game of backgammon against our Niasian go-to man and semi-concierge, Tao. With a strong gammon background nurtured in the cubes of Bronte over countless flat summers, Whippet delivered numerous ‘gammonings’ to his small dark opponent. But, the unyielding look of defeat was plain on Whip’s face as the rain pelted down on the calm sea. Tao on the other hand giggled like a maniac as he lost each game and it was clear that he had lost his mind some time ago. Meanwhile, Lukey Daniels used the downtime to work on developing his relationship with the Indo clove cigarette Samppoernas. With Matt Sloman doing his best to bottle up his head noise by not saying a word to anyone.
After 2 weeks together the barrage of stories, hilarious anecdotes from prior travels, and reminiscence of epic surfs in various parts of the world had all run dry. “No TV and no beer make Homer go something something….” Well, no swell, bucket loads of rain and a couple of beers to tip us over the brink, led us to shoot helpless geckos with makeshift blow darts. It was safe to say the mental state of the boys was about as solid as a Whippet’s guts after a beef rendang from an Indo street cart.
John “Bones” Dwyer on the other hand seemed immune to the bout of tropical psychosis. It may have been the other demons that haunt him, or the obvious ADD but Bones remained upbeat and was never lost for words. Looking back, his relentless vocal peppering could have actually been a major source of the other lads’ lunacy. In fact, he was even louder than usual and this was almost certainly due to an ongoing tussle with his new arch nemesis, ‘White Bones’. A couple of days earlier two Kiwis had arrived at Raf’s losmen. Quiet and reserved Lyndsey and his pal Sean. The later was a hurricane of energy assaulting us with information about himself in an unabashed manner that I’ve encountered before in only one other person. I gazed from one to the other, Bones with his dark Maltese tan and steel wool brown hair; Sean with his fair skin, bleach blonde hair and beard, both men sporting large ‘lived in’ frames. As Nias’ newest couple talked to each other, over the top of each other and to everyone else – all at the same time – the parallel was glaringly obvious. From this moment on Sean was known to us as ‘White Bones’.
Whether each one realised he had found his kindred spirit, I’m not sure. But, they both knew it was on, and Mother Nature had gifted them with the rain to prove their worth as meaningless raconteurs. They were involved in a constant tussle for the attention of the rest of the group, and like two Indo salesman fighting over who has the better woodcarving, they were throwing down stories blow for blow. We have been buying Bones’ cheap laughs for years, but White Bones had some new material. So as White Bones gradually wrestled the spotlight -which was a fluorescent bulb at all times surrounded by tiny flies and mosquitoes- from Bones’ greasy clutches, we were privy to something that is rarely seen. As White Bones regaled us with tales of waves in New Zealand, let slip secret spots he had discovered in Bali and confessed that one day he wanted to try the hard stuff, “just to see what it was like”, the original Bones sat back and started to take it all in. White Bones was truly the master of random unashamed jibber and even Bones knew it.
As I write this I begin to realise that I too have succumbed to the outbreak of Indo insanity, victim to the lure of dissecting my mates for all to see like a deranged science teacher. What I was meaning to talk about, before I got side tracked by the weirdness, were the waves! Well, all I can really say is that we seriously scored. In two weeks we had two solid six-foot swells, with the odd eight footers and waves pretty much every other day. The famous right-hand break at Lagundri, Sorake, dished up some of the best barrels we’ve ever had. Whippet and Lukey D in particular were ripping. Whip tore apart Sorake at all sizes, catching more waves than seemed humanly possible. While Lukey was the style guru, weaving through the dark green womb of Sorake before recklessly dropping his wallet on her face like she was a two-dollar hooker. Bones had an interesting approach, which revolved around a total disregard for positioning and saw him launch into more late takeoffs than a twin propeller Merpati jet. Everyone got shacked off their heads, even Bones – who charges Ours with tow partner, recently injured Kobi Graham – was frothing on the Sorake caverns.
Reports differ depending on who you talk to but, for better or for worse, the general consensus is that Sorake and the surrounding waves in Nias now break more hollow, due to the massive earthquake that devastated the area in March, 2005. From waves that I’ve surfed, I liken Sorake to Lances Rights (HT’s) in the Mentawais but with a different take off and deeper water, meaning less reef tours but more heavy drowners! As for the surrounding waves, some have become near unsurfable due to the rise in the reef from the earthquake while others have become even better. If you’re keen to have a look there are a few little gems around!
The local surfing talent of Nias is really impressive. While the majority of the locals are natural footers and suited to the right-hander of Sorake, a stylish goofy footer by the name of Anton is the kingpin of the Niasian surfing fraternity. During our stay we watched in awe as Anton toyed with the various waves that speckle Lagundri Bay; at Sorake he played with 6-8 foot kegs, pulling in switch foot and smashing vertical under the lip snaps on old beat up boards; inside the bay he surfed solo at The Machine, a grinding left hander that, after the earthquake, breaks like a mini Teahupoo onto basically dry reef and is seldom surfed; a 2km paddle across the bay and out to the southern tip, he surfed a big left hander – again by himself – before paddling back to the line-up of Sorake to herald that this would be the new wave for Nias.
If Anton was the master of Nias then his young apprentice was surely Mick Fanning. No, not the blonde Aussie world champion, this Mick is the pint-sized 10 year old Indo charger whose name none of us could pronounce. Our closest interpretation was Micciarado, we think; hence we nicknamed him after the incumbent champ. The son of a local ding fixer, we first came across this grommet in the line-up at Sorake. It was about 6 foot on some of the sets and certainly no place for a 30kg 10 year old. Or so we thought. But, there he was plain as day, sitting deep and inside so that he could catch the smaller ones (and subsequently get cleaned up by every set). As he sat there with a permanent grin and made fart noises with his hand under his armpit, my first thought was “This grommet is blissfully unaware and hasn’t had that many beatings”, but we soon learnt that the kid was actually f#cking crazy. Anton told us that he had once taken little Mick out to surf the big left-hander and when he had asked him afterwards if he had been scared he replied, “No, because it’s only water.”
We took young Mick under our wing immediately and had him surfing with us when we travelled to other waves. One day we surfed a slab down the coast that delivered short and intense barrels over shallow reef. Upon turning up to the break we were surprised, but very relieved to hear Mick say that it was too big for him and he wasn’t coming out. We had surfed this place before and it was a serious slab, with the odd 5-6 footers that would dredge below sea level before throwing out square kegs. After a pretty mellow first hour of surfing the tiny kid paddled out, the temptation proving too much for him. Once again little Mick did his best tight-rope walking impersonation, waiting on the inside for the smaller waves that he had the power to paddle into. Then, probably the worst thing that could have happened did happen. Out of nowhere the biggest wave of the day popped up. It was hard to say how large it was because of the thickness, but at least 6 foot. I had just caught the wave before and watched the monster while paddling back out. Everyone in the line-up screamed at our mates to go. Whippet paddled for the right, while Bones paddled for the left. Neither of them had any chance, and I watched in voyeuristic delight as my mates fell out of the sky from the lip of a wave that you could only have been towed into. What I didn’t see, until he popped up later amidst the turbulent whitewash with the fear of God in his eyes, was young Mick Fanning. He had been caught inside and tried to paddle between Whippet and Bones in an attempt to punch through the lip of the wave. When watching the video footage later, we realised how heavy it could have been as the 10 year old’s board appeared for half a second through the lip of the wave, before being violently sucked over the falls. He got absolutely annihilated! Luckily, Bones popped up right next to him and was able to grab the grommet and they washed in together. Young Mick was a little cut up and shaken but after a few tears and some hugs from the boys he surfed Sorake later that afternoon.
As I ease back in the hammock on the balcony of Raf’s joint, half listening to White Bones confessing to how he’s really star struck -staying at the same joint as Whippet from Bondi Rescue- I can feel the rain induced jungle fever easing. Some of the other boys are starting to settle as well. I know they must be thinking back on the waves we’ve had, mindsurfing through the big barrels over and over. It’s funny how the bustling chaotic nature of the Eastern Suburbs can chase you halfway around the world sometimes. But there’s no stress that pumping waves can’t ease. So for all of you strung out city surfers, don’t forget to book a plane ticket out of town this winter. If you can’t manage to leave the noise at home, then make sure you wash it off with some warm salt water!
If you’re interested in staying at Raffiel’s losmen, contact Raf on Ph +62812 6445 3451 or Email RaffielSurfCamp@gmail.com
Words by Liam Taylor and Pics by Santos @ Nias