Let me preface the final part of this series by telling you: the dream in Indo is dead. Or, at the very least, on life support and registering only the faintest pulse. 

The dream I set out to chase, that ultimate idyll of surfing: to ride pumping, empty waves alone or with just a couple of mates is mostly a faded memory, surviving mostly in film photos and the stories of old salts at the bar.

Sure, the waves are still there, and always will be.

But that dream has been besmeared by seven other surfers on a set wave at Desert Point. Russian surf school kooks at Uluwatu.  A 100 hungry surfers hassling for the wave of their life at G-Land. 

You can still buy a little slice of that dream if you can bring yourself to pay $5000USD per night and an extra $100USD per surf session at Nihiwatu.

Or you could do what I’ve done and set off alone on a motorbike, spend three months sleeping on floors and surviving on rice and two packs of durries a day to maybe stumble upon some rare, fickle gem.

It is still out there, that dream, I’ll tell ya.  But you have to really, really want it, and be prepared to spend a lot of time waiting and feeling disappointed and alone. 

There are many other reasons to explore Indo, though. For the beauty and friendliness of its people.  For the cultural diversity, the stories. Tropical warmth and the slow, meandering chaos of life. 

Already, I miss all that and I realise just how accustomed I’ve become to it all as the crisp Victorian air slaps me in the face outside the Tullamarine airport, the cri. I lug my board and backpack into the Rideshare queue and order a ...