Nobal Glomad

‘The best bloody authentic mushroom shakes in town’ claim placards in all their misspelt variants at the plethora of cafés lining the Gilli Trewangan backpacker strip, all focused on enticing aspirational island trippers to their inevitable ‘shroom shake’d doom. Koh Phangan – Thailand, Ibiza Island – Spain, Vang Vieng bucket sloshed river tubing – Laos, ‘Caught in a Bob Marley groundhog loop’ Goa – Southern India… just a few from the list of must do/avoid at all cost backpacker get on it party destinations. Perhaps these climates provide optimal growth conditions for mind-blending fungi? Or perhaps it’s a fistful of coloured capsules, coconut, banana and papaya in the blender that sends aspirational prey into a desired state of self-escaping utopia.

I boat-landed on Koh Phangan for the infamous Full Moon ‘shroom festivities in my late 20s… paperback copy of ‘The Beach’ hot off the top 10 travel press in hand. Streets were stacked with quirky little ‘medical shacks’, Thai girls behind their glass cabinets in bleach-white nurse outfits prescribing anything but paracetamol. I managed to smoke myself stupid with some nut-ball German at a ‘happy shake cafe’. After a self-jellified sea plunge I artfully sliced open my ankle on a razor-edged oyster shell, clambering from the ocean in a blurry-eyed state of less than Olympic coordination. The night’s partying left me confined to the hammock.

The following morning a Japanese surfer guy in the shabby shack next to mine was nowhere to be seen. Last spotted running hysterically for the jungle, I never bumped into him again in the remaining seven days of my stay. As a memento of the experience I returned home with delightful septicemia in the system from my oyster slicing experience.

This story is not that of a 30-something ‘still got it’ fire twirling his way through the relentless nights of Gilli Trewangan’s brain fry-a-thon. A fast boat from Padangbai, Bali to Trewangan, Lombok gave us three hours of transit exposure to the arak-swilling soiree before being whisked to the neighboring tranquility of Gilli Meno, the island they call Honeymooner’s paradise.

Wind rustled coconut palms, frangipanis in a Pantone’d plethora of white plus one colour variations, aqua saturated shoreline gradients curbing pristine albino beaches, and the pleasant lack of anything petrol sucking shuffling locals and tourists from a to b. Instead Santa-like sleds drawn by cantering ponies trot by, and the vista of Lombok’s 3,725m Rinjani occasionally reveals her highest peak from the encasing microclimate.

Gilli Meno offers captain tranquilly yet-to-be-over-developed Island paradise. There’s a definite sense of doof doof rejection… a sense of happy to still be local. With only 300 or so permanent residents it’s easy to stake claim to your own stretch of Gourmet Traveller cover story worthy beach for a few days. There is the overly constant “Pineapple, Mango? Necklace for your Mum?” beach performance but take this in your temper-free stride… this is a poor country. This is their job and only income. They’re locals earning little to nothing and like you have families to feed.

Meno is far from everyone’s cup of tea. The tourism evolution of Bali is a good 20yrs ahead in terms of creature comforts, pillow menus, international cuisine and luxury spa tickets. Stroll the network of backstreets and you discover families gathered on simple bamboo sleeping platforms, goats, chickens and cows wander the borderless paddocks and children cycle by with smiles and hellos. A beautiful experience. Say hi to a kid in the streets back home and their paranoid parents give you concerned looks of stranger danger. How stupidly overprotected our western societies have become… ah I feel another article in the making.

Lunching at a shore-sided cabana the local school kids splashed and laughed amongst the boats with a group of New Zealand girls based locally for teacher exchange. There’s a sparkle of joy in their play, a sense of happiness that’s not looking for the next commercial break of multi-tasked Playstation entertainment. And the lack of over-supervision seems to be in their favour… no floaties, SPF 4,000 and stroke correction classes required.

The hour-long stroll around the island reveals skeletons of a former tourism life for Lombok. Several once-were resorts, barely 10 years old stand crumbling, battered, overgrown and in a eerie state of beyond-repair. Since the Lombok anti-Chinese Christian riots of 2000 in Mataram, and the Kuta, Bali bombings if 2002, there has been a serious struggle to draw once confident tourists to these beautiful destinations with government issued warnings. Fair enough. Unfortunately our home-advisor’s duty is to ‘prepare and protect’ us from the worst. Day-to-day they are just people living out normal routine’d lives. Unfortunately a minority act of world media loving extremism can quickly wound a lesser-developed culture for many years.

As the sun sets, the chorus of ‘eck…kooo’ Geckos begin their evening insect buffet. Strolling the main drag of Meno’s at best half a dozen eateries in the early evening we peroused the local fisherman’s daily catch of Red Snapper, Calamari and King-sized Prawns for the BBQ-ing (In this off season visit I saved my ‘scurry’ cravings for back home… the bucket of prawns were smelling on the wrong side of funky). If you’ve been on the local road and have the hunger for Napoli… fear not. The strip is (randomly) ablaze with wood fired pizza ovens dishing out anything but local salami and olive toppings. Between the Nasi Campurs and Mi Gorengs it’s a welcome intermission from simple, rustic (often MSG’d) cuisine.

For just $10/night a bamboo-clad local hut on this island paradise can be your very own slice of simple perfection. Bump it up to $70/night and it’s the finest local architect designed bungalow with an ex-pat Ozzie touch at Nautilus Villas (world’s worst website). The perfect cheeky 2 weeks in Indonesia from a Jetstar’d Denpasar return flight? One week on Gilli Meno to soak up the rays, one in the highlands of Ubud or Tetebatu Lombok for an abundance of rice paddies and endless green… more on this soon.

Enjoy. Live. Love.