Bill Morris’s infatuation with G-Land began a little over four decades ago. Since then, he’s answered the call of the jungle more than 20 times.
As a committed surfer he’s always juggled his barrel ambitions with his love for photography. Fortunately, G-Land with its otherworldly reef, critical tidal fluctuations, curious wildlife, and colourful pilgrims, is the sort of wonderland that facilitates immersion in both his passions. In the following feature, Bill recounts the hard-won glories of his first trip and provides insight into some of his favourite photographic moments over the years.
The First Time
In late September 1982, I arranged for my good friend, Jay Carter, who was already in Bali, to pick me up at Denpasar airport. I was 22, and after my first trip the year before I was totally in Indo’s thrall. Bali had lived up to expectations, but after seeing ‘Tubu-lar Swells’ my mind was already spinning with images of east Java’s jungle-fringed left, G-Land. The only problem was that Mike Boyum’s fabled camp was way beyond my budget.
When Jay met me he was with another guy, Jeremy Conekeny from Bondi. We all shook hands and straight off the bat Jay says to me, “Well, are you ready to go to G-Land tomorrow?” I was kind of stunned and confused, as we had already discussed the fact we couldn’t afford it. However, Jay insisted he’d found this Indonesian guy who was running cheap underground trips, right under Mike Boyum’s nose. His name was Ida Bagus, and he was charging less than half the price of the mysto American.
The Trip Over Land
A rundown minivan arrived at our losmen just before midnight and three young Indonesians jumped out and began loading our boards onto the roof. We grabbed our bags and found a spot in the back amongst the few cardboard boxes of supplies and a 40-litre plastic drum of water. As our mini-van bumped and swayed along west Bali’s treacherous coastal road in the darkness, I wondered what lay ahead. What would the jungle really be like? Rumours of evil spirits and tigers roaming the beaches of a night were getting around which made us all a little apprehensive. Eventually, we arrived at the ferry port of Gilimanuk and waited for the next rusted old ferry to arrive. Driving over the swaying, gangway bridge onto the vessel was a little unnerving but the smell of diesel, wafting through the lower deck was unbearable. We exited the van, making our escape to the upper deck and cleaner air. The old ferry fought its way sideways across the strait, as it battled the strong, deep water currents that constantly flow between the two islands. Once on the other side, we were glad to be back on land again as our mini van continued on into the Java night. After another hour or so of driving, the sky began to turn a lighter shade of purple, as we descended into the heavily wooded teak forests surrounding Grajagan Bay.
We parked by the river inlet, waiting for the sun to come up. We were all trying desperately to get a little sleep after a long night, but strange faces began pressing against the windows – dark eyes peering at us from all directions through the glass as we sat uncomfortably in our seats. When it got light enough to see properly, we got out to have a look around, our inquisitive new friends in tow. They studied us like we were from another planet, watching every move we made as we took in our new surroundings.
The tide was still low and dozens of colour fully painted, timber fishing boats lay half on their side along the dark- sand shore of the riverbank. As the ocean slowly trickled in with the higher tide, the boats began to move and stand more upright, bumping one another as the old ropes that held them in place, moaned under the strain. Once our boards and gear were loaded, we began heading for the sea. Waves were breaking in the distance and when we finally reached the river entrance, we were surprised to see a perfect right hand barrel peeling across our exit point on the bar. We were all standing as the captain slowed the boat, waiting for a lull and our chance to get through the break. Everyone was gripping the long, bamboo boom that ran from aft to stern as the small boat rocked side to side in the swell. When the lull finally came we all shouted, GO! But the captain seemed frozen, his dark weathered face looking unsure as he nervously scanned the horizon. Our screaming taunts did nothing to change his mind as we drifted aimlessly inside the break. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally engaged the throttle of the outboard motor, and with a length of rope the deckhand lowered the spinning, eggbeater type prop over the side and into the water. As we slowly began to move forward towards the bar, I saw more dark lines appear on the horizon. We were holding on for grim death at this stage, as our tiny, timber vessel gradually gained speed. The next set was now looming and from the corner of my eye, I spied my 6’7” single fin laying against the side of the boat. I made the decision there and then that if things went south, I was leaping over the side with that board. It was extremely touch and go but after breaching the first two waves of the set, and landing hard over the back, we finally slipped into the safety of deeper water. Feeling very relieved and worn out from all the excitement and adrenaline, we each found the most comfortable spots we could, on the hard wooden deck, and fell asleep.
First Glimpse
Hoots and yelling startled me awake. As I jumped to my feet, I tried to adjust my vision to what was happening. In the distance, a perfect left was grinding down a very long, jungle-fringed point. Its constant warping barrel clearly visible as it endlessly folded its way along. It was hard to judge the size, as we were a long way away, but there was definitely surf! Excited laughter now filled the air, as our multi-coloured transport made its way down the reef, away from the wave. We noticed a large yacht anchored alone in the bay, as we slipped through a small gap in the reef, entering a shallow lagoon near the shore.
A Cold Welcome
By the time we offloaded everything it was 1pm, the heat of the blazing midday sun hitting us hard, as we began walking the beach. I had arrived in Indonesia straight from the end of winter and was nowhere near acclimatised for the tropics. I had also made the stupid mistake of not covering up when I fell asleep on the boat and was now horribly sunburnt. After trudging close on a kilometre carrying all our gear, we finally arrived at what we thought was our camp. A few bamboo huts sat high on the beach against the jungle and as we approached them, a tall, sinewy figure in boardshorts emerged from the doorway and began walking towards us. It wasn’t the warm welcome we expected, his broad American accent cut through the heat with a condescending tone, “You’re not staying here, you’re staying up there”, and he pointed due south.300m away, a timber structure shimmered in the heat atop of a small rocky headland. As we picked up our boards and bags and began trudging once again through the blistering hot sand, I wondered why he had looked so pissed off and as the sweat oozed from every pore of my crimson, red body, it finally dawned on me. That was the mysterious Mike Boyum, and his KONI surf camp operation, which he had started back in ’76,was now being undercut by people like Mr Ida Bagus, who we were staying with for a much cheaper price.
First Surf
When we finally arrived at the South Hut, which they called ‘The Fishing Shack’, we noticed the three Indonesian boys who had been employed to look after us, were all sick with stomach trouble. They told us they had been drinking out of the 40-litre drum of what was supposed to be our drinking water for the week. Rubbing his stomach, one of them just pointed to the drum and said “tidak bagus”. Luckily for Jeremy, Jay and I, we had still been drinking out of the few bottles of Aqua water we had purchased in Bali the night before. With the waves absolutely firing at a solid 6-to-10 feet, we forgot about any immediate problems and got ourselves ready to surf. These were the days before sunscreen, and all I had was a tube of white zinc. The back of my legs were so sunburnt, that I decided to surf in my new, long pair of Bali pants that I had bought the day before. I didn’t think my glowing red legs could take any more of the blazing, afternoon sun. The Fishing Shack was situated right in front of the take-off section of the wave, which we would later find out was called Money Trees. It was a good 300m paddle out across the reef, which was now completely covered by the high tide. Not knowing any better, we paddled straight out from in front of our hut and after being washed down the reef by a set or two, we finally made it out into the lineup. We could see people with surfboards, on the yacht in the distance, so we knew we would eventually have some company. As we paddled up the reef towards the take off area, marveling at the gaping, almond barrels that were grinding by, the worst case of butterflies filled my stomach. I remember taking off on my first wave, struggling against the stiff offshore tradewind as I blindly jumped to my feet. After the weightlessness of a long drop, an endless wall stretched out in front of me and I high-lined each section, trying to gain as much speed as my 6’ 7” single fin would allow. As an even bigger section loomed ahead of me, I pulled up high once again, but this time into the tube. My memory now sees it in slow motion, the lip folding over me as I battle to maintain my line, fighting to catch the view of the jungle, through the eye in distance . The wave eventually outran me, the foam ball tossing me up, over the falls and in the violence of the ensuing wipeout, my thin, cotton Bali pants, which I’d stupidly worn for protection, were ripped almost completely off. Fortunately, I was wearing a pair of speedos underneath, which saved me the embarrassment of surfing the rest of the session in the nude, because there was no way in hell that I was paddling in with the surf being as good as it was. When the guys from the yacht came out, one of them paddled up to me and asked if I was the guy that was wearing the long pants. He said they felt worried for us when they saw me paddling out in them, thinking we were just kooks that were going to get annihilated on the reef. We all traded waves, while dodging big double-ups on the outer ledge. It was one of those surfs you were glad to be sharing with a few people. That intense feeling of being just out of your comfort zone but loving every minute of it. It’s not often you go somewhere that you’ve never been before and score crazy, uncrowded waves that are right on your limit. A few of the guys on the boat were riding bigger boards and we felt so under gunned, on craft well under seven feet in length. We managed to catch some incredible rides though, probably some of the best waves of our lives up until that point. Being young and fearless, we never really paused to consider the dangers of surfing such heavy reef waves, so far from any real medical help. Our fishing boat wouldn’t be coming back for us for another week and the guys on the yacht would be leaving the next day. There was no such thing as a mobile phone back then or even a radio. This was the jungle and for the next six days it would be just us, surfing an otherwise empty G-Land lineup.
Boyum’s Blessing
Mike Boyum came to visit us at The Fishing Shack the very next morning and he was in a much better mood. We told him about our drinking-water issue, and he seemed genuinely concerned, so we asked him if he could sell us a few bottles to get us through the week, which he kindly did. Mike was staying at his camp with only one other person, his friend from Maui, Joe Mayolett, who helped run his camp, when he wasn’t there. Although we never saw him or his friend in the water, he told us we were lucky to score such a great swell so late in the season and that the ebb tides, which mostly covered the reef all day, were perfect for the Money Trees section. Our fortuitous timing allowing us to surf as often as three times a day.
We lived on rice and biscuits and a few meagre vegetables, and at night we slept on yoga mats with no mozzie nets, lathering ourselves in Aerogard, to ward off the risk of contracting malaria. It was a hard-core surf adventure but the waves absolutely pumped! The trips wading in and out over the reef on the lower tides took their toll on my flimsy booties, the sharp, live coral tearing holes in the soft neoprene. Someone had brought a needle and thread and of a night I would sit by the kerosene lamp and sew up all the holes. By the end of the trip, there was virtually nothing left to sew.
The swell remained solid, dropping slightly in size each day but retaining its perfect shape. We settled into a program where two of us would go surfing, while the other would stay behind for a while, to capture some Super 8 film of the session. Out in the surf, the reef was such a huge playing field and quite often, as your only companion took off and disappeared into the distance, you would find yourself all alone in the lineup. At other times you’d be flying down the line and all of a sudden see him paddling back out, both of you screaming at each other as you passed by. It was a surreal scenario, surfing such perfect waves with no one else in sight.
Jungle Myths
We woke up on the last morning, sore and surfed out. With our rationed water and food all but gone, we packed our gear and made our way back down the beach. As we passed Boyum’s camp, we noticed all the bamboo huts were empty. We would later learn that Mike’s tenure was over; kicked out of G-Land by the very same people he had persuaded to let him in. It seemed a shame, after he had fought so hard to gain permission to build his inaugural surf camp here in the jungle.
When we rounded the last headland, our colourful fishing boat with the weird, eggbeater outboard motor, sat all alone on the high tide. It was the only thing that pronounced a human presence, against an endless, jungle backdrop. The remains of Java Man, the first species to walk upright on earth 1.8 million years ago, were found on this very same island and curiously, Alas Purwo, the name of this National Park, means ‘Virgin Jungle or Forest.’ The Javanese believe this land was the first to rise from the sea, a mystical place where if a person was to destroy a tree or any living thing on this headland, they would suffer the wrath of ‘The Elders’ whose spirits inhabit the jungle. The early surfers who walked in and camped here, mentioned experiencing strange feelings and how the jungle sometimes seemed to be pulsating, or breathing.
Jay, Jeremy, and I weren’t the first to visit G-Land, far from it. We just came along at the perfect time after a hard-core crew paved the way. I was the only one of our trio that would come back again year after year throughout the 80s and beyond. Maybe being the only goofy-foot had something to do with that; I’m not sure. The following year in 1983, Mike’s good friend and Balinese understudy, Bobby Radiasa, took over the surf camp operation, which he still runs to this day. That year, only 12 surfers at a time were allowed permits to stay at the camp, but by the end of the decade there were permits for 100. These days there are four camps, a road, and power lines through the jungle. Guests typically arrive from Balivia a two-hour speedboat trip and stay in air-conditioned bungalows.
It’s a lot more crowded these days, sure, but those long winding lefts are still the same, and the creature comforts of a modern surf camp are gladly welcomed by this ageing surfer. Nothing will ever out-do that rugged first trip, but I still get excited when I book to come back. Hopefully, I have a few more trips to the jungle left in me yet.
