Tucked below the soaring cliffs of the Bukit Peninsula, disguised by dense jungle and cascading rocky drop-offs, it’s the first place sun-lizarding tourists will bypass.
Just a couple of years ago it had no vehicle access. Surfers would scramble down a rocky jungle path, tripping over thongs, lugging boards, sweat and grumbles through the tepid heat. Today there is a comically steep concrete ‘road’ for scooters with board racks to careen downhill on. But cars still need to park at the top and you can’t see the swell from there.
A surf check at Nyang Nyang is thus a commitment to roll the dice and surf whatever Bali’s southwestern point dishes up.
“They call it ‘secret beach’ but the funny thing is, when there is no swell, everyone knows there will be waves here and everyone comes,” local legend Betet Merta tells me.
Betet is a professional freesurfer and Uluwatu local who introduces himself by rattling off a star-studded list of mates he has paddled out with since his teen years (Kelly Slater, Mick Fanning, Taj Burrow, Andy Irons among them). He knows my Italian photographer Federico Vanno, who has lived in Bali for the past decade, as well as almost every person in the water today. It comes in handy when Betet decides it’s his mission to block for me in the bloated lineup, shouting and whistling whenever someone begins paddling on my inside. The locals dutifully pull off, leaving me – dumbfounded – to drop in.
Federico and I have come hunting waves during the first week of Bali being open to vaccinated international travellers with no quarantine. The island has been closed to holidaymakers for two years thanks to you know what. And my luck would have it that the ocean plays dead as soon as I get on the plane.
Fede drives from his villa in Canggu (flat, he tells me) and picks me up in the resort town of Nusa Dua – where I’m staying courtesy of Jetstar – to hunt down swell along the dramatic cliffs of the Bukit Peninsula. If anywhere has a wave in Bali, it will be here.
Bumping on the windy roads around Uluwatu feels familiar but different. The streets are noticeably quieter and cleaner than I remember – fewer people are walking, bartering, selling, and/or littering on the roadsides. There are depressing rows of boarded-up shops that fell prey to lockdowns and the lack of tourism. But there are also plenty of new, Instagram-worthy warung (restaurants) serving poke bowls and vegan tacos to the growing number of digital nomads living out the pandemic in Bali.
I am impressed by a strong almond latte we pick up from a trendy looking café called Ituaja and start speaking with the owner. He tells me he pivoted into the business in 2020 after losing his job in a nearby hotel. He and his wife decided if they wanted to continue their daily coffee habit, they might need to make their own.
Another local, last night’s taxi driver Komang Bagiarta, tells me his family survived on “steamed rice and a bit of egg every day” through the pandemic.
“We cut the electricity at 8pm every night because we couldn’t afford it,” he says. “We lived like we were in the jungle.”
We tip the parking lot guardians when we arrive at Nyang with these stories fresh in mind, and leave the car on the hill.
Lines of swell begin to pop above the jungle canopy as we teter with boards and cameras down concrete snapbacks to Nyang Nyang. My hope is that the pandemic may have helped reduce numbers in lineups around Bali. But Fede reckons the dent is minor. There may be fewer tourists but we spot enough locals for a closeout set to scatter multiple figures and boards as we approach Nyang’s.
A familiar gut-skip of anticipation reaches my chest and I suddenly feel very rusty in the surf department. But Betet is next to me, jostling me to paddle out with him.
“C’mon Kate, let’s go! … These waves are easy! You’re a natural footer right? Perfect!”
I follow him out through the channel in bath-like warm water, and spend some time sitting on the shoulder, gaining confidence on the smaller right handers. Meanwhile, Betet casually sends it – pulling airs and 360s off the lip with the nonchalance of someone parking a car. Each time he paddles back out, he seems more excited to bully me into dropping deeper on the bigger set waves crashing through.
“Go for a big one, Kate! Go for this one, THIS one!”
The reliable flow of a Bali reef break comes back as I stand up and cruise across the face with a few soft turns – generous, predictable and clean. Bali is back and I can confirm it’s a real treat for Maroubra locals worn down by weeks of storms, floods, and shark attacks.
I’m laughing now, as I twirl around on Betet’s contradictory calls – “this one!”, “no, too far…”, “THIS one Kate!”
A sun-browned man with long blonde locks and an Australian accent chortles at our increasingly childlike enthusiasm: “Which one?!”
I paddle while Betet yells back.
“THIS ONE!”
