The Spirit of Surf Travel

.



The glamorous image of the sun-bleached, bronze-bodied surf adventurer has been popular in magazines and movies since the 60s, inspiring the daring to pursue the dream of the perfect wave where swell, tide, and good fortune conspire to produce that magical session. Early surf adventure movies like ‘The Endless Summer’, and ‘Morning of the Earth’, were the harbingers of a surfing tourism industry inspired by stories of trailblazers, innovators, and eccentrics. And so it was, immersed in this surfing mythos, that Nick set off board under arm, to follow in the footsteps of his heroes, those counter-culture beatniks who weathered the hardships
of the road to explore the uncharted frontiers of surfing bliss.

This months travel evening will include a video, and photographic presentation of surf travel through Sri lanka, Indonesia, and the Canary Islands, including clips from iconic surfing movies, and readings from journal entries and letters from the road. Nick will recreate the spirit of surf travel as he has experienced it over the last decade, be it escaping from the motorcycle pursuit of angry machete wielding Sumbawans, or suffering the stomach clutching agonies of Bandula’s sticky cake. His stories of pristine waves from Hikaduwa to Hu’u will resonate with those travellers who love the challenges and joys of a life on the road.

Journal excerpts:

A letter from Hikaduwa



Here I am in Sri lanka. I’m sitting on the Balcony of the Guesthouse I’m staying at. It looks out over the Jungle and is surrounded by tall palm trees. Its hot, approximately 35 degrees, but shady and a welcome retreat from the dusty main street of Hikaduwa with all its tourist entrapments, beggars, and constant noise. Often in the evenings I sit out here under the stars, listen to the jungle noises, and watch the fireflies. Life generally is fairly slow and lazy. Once you get away from the main street into the jungle suburbs, nobody is in a hurry to get anywhere fast, and everybody greets you with a friendly smile. Although initially I found it difficult to feel so conspicuous. Being tall and white I stand out and westerners are considered wealthy. It was a strange transition to make from a poor Ponsonby café worker to a rich western tourist, and a little intimidating to be harassed in the street by beggars; however, I am growing increasingly accustomed to the people and culture. Everyday I feel more in tune with my surroundings and Hikaduwa is feeling more and more like home, although I could not have felt further from home upon arrival in Sri lanka, which I can only describe as an intense introduction.

A lesson I have learnt in the waves which seems pertinent in life also is that when things get out of control, don’t fight, relax, and just ride the wave. Upon arrival in Sri Lanka I was confronted by a knarly warping closeout; let me explain;
After a long and very hot day in Kuala Lumpur, and not having slept for some twenty-four hours or thereabouts, it was a rather tired Nick and Scott who dragged their travel weary bodies into the main foyer of the Colombo airport. On top of our worries about keeping tabs on endless travel documents, infuriating airport bureaucracy, and the fear of contracting malaria, we were confronted by the immediate problem of how to get from Colombo to Hikaduwa, a three hour journey late on a Friday night. Not to worry, no sooner had we stepped into the main foyer than we were pounced upon by a group of heckling Sri Lankan taxi drivers who proceeded to fight over us in strange dialect while imploring us in pigeon English to favour them with our business. Scott and I could only look at each other in bewilderment as the arguments raged around us. When things started to get really heated, we decided it was best to move on. We created quite a spectacle as we moved between the parting see of dark faces with a bunch of shouting fighting taxi drivers struggling along behind. We laughed with the realization that things are done a little differently in Sri Lanka. To two mild mannered kiwi boys things seemed more in tune with the behaviour of a mad house than an international airport. Our careless laughter was belied by a nervous undercurrent. We were both thinking about the hordes of Thieves and notorious ‘Touts’ who we had been warned would be waiting for us at every taxi stand, bus stop, train station, nook and cranny of the entire country. Not to fear. We had planned for this kind of trouble and hoped to avoid it by means of a quiet and inconspicuous entry. Instead, it was accompanied by the hooting howling wails of angry Sri Lankan taxi drivers and with a sense of heavy foreboding that we approached the chaos and blearing noise of a Colombo main street. Army officers in full military uniform carrying machine guns did not strike confidence into our hearts, and with the fear that every Thief and Tout in Sri Lanka was alerted to our arrival we decided that the taxi drivers weren’t such a bad option.

We were soon cowering in the back of a van moving at breakneck speed through crowded nighttime Colombo. The only road rule seemed to be loudest horn equals right of way. Despite our drivers best efforts he could not toot his horn louder or with more regularity than any of the other road users who all dodged and weaved with the same reckless abandon, frightfully unaware of their fatally flawed road rule. It was not uncommon to be overtaking three cars abreast, a highly skilled manoeuvre on a single laned main road overrun with Took Tooks, Bicycles, and pedestrians. Scott and I sat clinging to our seats staring in wide-eyed disbelief as we regularly swerved to avoid oncoming traffic at the last possible second. Passing thought the crowded, filthy, and impoverished streets of Colombo the only conversation we could muster was an often repeated and long draw out faark!


By the time we reached Hikaduwa the harrowing experiences of the last three hours had taken their toll and I was fully feeling the effects of the flu I had caught on the Sydney to Kuala Lumpur flight. Meanwhile Scott was fumbling through his pack for the directions to our guesthouse written by his legendary boss Tony. I had heard a lot about Tony in the weeks leading up to our departure. From descriptions, I believed him to be a man of vast travelling experience and immense worldly wisdom. Scott spoke of him with great enthusiasm and often started sentences with "Tony said." We both regarded him as a Guru, a surfing legend. As we approached the outskirts of Hikaduwa, penetrating deeper into the dense palm tree jungle, Scott began reading the directions. When he got to the part about turning left at the third palm, I knew we were in trouble. Scott struggled with the Taxi driver for some time and in a last desperate effort to make him understand, as if the mere mention of his name could save us from harm, he began with the all too familiar “Tony said.” My heart had fallen into my boots even before the taxi driver could interrupt with the predictable response “Who Tony.” It now seemed that the impossible fear of a night under the stars in a hostile war torn land beset by marauding touts and plagues of malarial mosquitoes was turning into an ugly reality, and our previously fool proof directions amounted to nothing more than some indecipherable scribblings made by a stupid aussie git! The taxi driver, not adverse to taking life and death matters into his own hands, plunged the van down a randomly selected dirt road into the jungle. Armed with the knowledge that a tooting horn can solve anything he proceeded to stop at intervals outside randomly selected huts and sound his horn relentlessly until the occupants emerged. Scott suggested that I had to laugh. I admitted at this point that I had lost my sense of humour and began fortifying my succulent flesh with bucket loads of dimp. Luckily, at about 2am, we struck upon the correct house and after some apologizing for our very late, unexpected, and unusual arrival we were shown to a room where we collapsed and feel asleep to the distant rumble of detonating bombs.



Since the chaos of the first night things have settled into a happy routine. Our surroundings are stunningly beautiful. Palm trees grow right to the edge of Hikaduwa beach where the A-Frame reef break goes off just about every day. There is a community of surfers in Hikaduwa from around the world and Scott and I have made some new friends and met some crazy characters like Art the Californian long boarding philosopher and many more who I will write of another time. As my letter is assuming the proportions of a short novel, I will cut it short here but not before I leave you with one more story that happened only yesterday and is in character with the events of our first evening.

It was a wet humid morning when the surf was flat and nothing other than lazing around the guest house seemed worth the effort, I resolved to entertain my lethargy with Clive James’s 'Falling towards England' and sticky cake purchased from Bandula’s Wele Kade Dairy. By mid afternoon it was with a feeling of unnatural tiredness that I lay back on the bed and fell into a fitful sleep. When I awoke in the late afternoon I noticed the room temperature had dropped alarmingly and for the first time since arriving in Sri lanka I found it necessary to wear a sweater. It concerned me when I noticed that despite the sudden chill Scott continued to kick around in nothing more than a pair of board shorts. As I lay Watching the fan above me slowly rotate my subconscious began summoning up images of Bandula’s sticky cake and with accompanied feelings of nausea I rushed to the toilet. The next few hours consisted of sitting on the toilet swaying gently to and fro while my anus released explosive foul smelling diarrhea, or leaning with my head rested on the back of the sink vomiting violently and praying that I wouldn’t die. Despite my prayers my condition continued to deteriorate. When movements to the sink became too strenuous and I could no longer sit on the toilet without fear of falling off, I resigned myself to lying on the floor of the shower. As the cool water trickled over my gently shaking body I prayed that death would come quickly. On one of his routine checks Scott noticed that I had turned a sickly luminous yellow colour, and when my condition had entered its sixth hour with no signs of improvement, and the Imodium capsules I had been popping had the irritating habit of reappearing in bits of half digested sticky cake, we agreed that the best option was to seek help. A visit from the local Sinhalese doctor came just in time. I was prescribed a simple herbal remedy. My stomach settled straight away and after drinking his rehydration potion I was able to settle down to a good nights sleep. I awoke this morning feeling fine and I am looking forward to curry this evening
Hope you are all as stoked as I am
Love Nick




. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .