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Just perfect

Perfection


The Inertia

It was a last minute decision of restlessness and moth-eaten ennui to leave for Bali. I would momentarily abandon the cloistered monotony of living in a cube of drywall and crumbling brick, the peeling linoleum bathroom walls stinking from their decades of compounding sweat, and the years of scummy bathwater leaving a permanent stain around the top of the bath. That old routine of working during the week and drinking during the weekend made the days blur. I was most interested in the island of Lombok—part of the archipelago of Lesser Sunda Islands, in the West Nusa Tenggara province of Indonesia. I wanted to surf the most isolated crystal blue waves possible in nothing but trunks. Just like I used to gawk at in surf magazines as a kid.

But when I arrived in Bali, the beaches were littered with debris. I grabbed a piece of trash almost every time I dipped my hand into the water to paddle. A plastic bag, a popsicle wrapper, a baby diaper—our collective stain strewn in our wake wherever we go. Remnants of what we consumed and tossed away became entire oceans of debris. And perhaps it’s not entirely the fault of the Balinese. For hundreds of years, they ate from bamboo-leaf plates. After eating, they would toss the leafs onto the ground, and everything would turn back to the soil. It takes time to adjust, to realize the creek in your backyard is filling with non-decomposing trash. In the ocean, the waves spilled with discolored froth, the hallmark paradise of white sand and long galloping palms leaning over a once coruscating body of water made a new postcard of how far we’ve come. Sunburnt tourists slurped from coconuts with long white straws, extending their selfie-sticks and marking their photos with hashtags and filters. They either didn’t care or didn’t seem to notice.

Lombok was different. The mega resorts and lumbering herds of tourists weren’t there yet. In the main tourist town of Kuta, there was a strip of shops serving avocado toast and café crèmes, the late night bars offering the same opaque hangovers that we previously came from, in which you would constantly be approached by six-year-olds selling bracelets and fifteen-year-olds selling baggies of psychedelic mushrooms. It was far less complicated a decade or two earlier. Tourism brought money and a better standard of living for many who lived here, but it also brought the unique mania of the West. We are masters of waiting around, of eating açaí bowls and buying flip-flops. Year by year, towns and island villages slip into masticating homogeny and its consequential waste, the growing heap of stuff spilling from its borders.

I befriended a group of local surfers—always barefoot, their skin permanently emblazoned by the sun, who had a knack for attracting blonde Scandinavian girlfriends. For several days, we went out on a trimaran to a secluded reef, the warm turquoise waves peeling perfectly one after another. A few of the kids were as talented as many professional surfers I knew in California, without any of the celebrity of international sponsors or competition podiums. This was their day-to-day, taking Westerners on routine excursions, letting us peek into their lives, giving themselves an excuse to surf six hours a day. The so-called “culture of cool” surrounding surfing can be suffocating and contrived as if it’s intrinsically pretentious, full of needy luster and pride. But it didn’t affect them. My friend and I were the ones who brought the expensive cameras to film and photograph ourselves. When we told them we could send photographs of them surfing, they quickly became excited, admitting they didn’t have any pictures of themselves yet.

We surfers are hapless minions. Following the episodic bliss of riding a wave. No matter how splendid and surpassing it may be, we paddle out again and again for another one. We’re like a dog chasing a ball, unthinking in our rabid animalism for amusement. But we also indulge in things for the simplicity of their pleasures. There’s a measure of innocence without any claims of self-importance. Lombok wasn’t strewn with expensive resorts and covered in garbage just yet, but it seemed inevitable. It was another perfect paradise begging to be spoiled. The young men we surfed with for several days weren’t yet self-aware of their natural aptitude or their laissez-faire appeal, and in some way, I hope they’d never realize it.

 
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