Lombok, You Got Me.

Coming home to an island you’ve never been to before. I didn’t know that was possible, but Lombok is different from anything I know — quieter, rawer, more real. Stepping off the plane into a wall of warm air, I collect my luggage and look for Lalu. He rents me one of his scooters, booked all the way from Belgium: a sleek Yamaha N-Max with just 2,500 kilometres on the clock. As good as new. I sling my bag over my shoulder, figure out how to make it all fit on the thing, and then — off I go.

Riding on the left comes back quickly — thankfully not for the first time. Once clear of the busy airport traffic, beautiful roads unfold ahead of me, winding over lush green hills. The ride takes about forty minutes, and since I’m still dressed for a Belgian climate, sweat starts creeping out from under my helmet before long. But then: Disini Lombok Eco Houses in Selong Belanak. Danika is waiting for me with her staff and a cool welcome drink. I couldn’t have asked for a better arrival.

The jetlag is starting to bite, but the rain that begins to fall doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Quite the opposite — it’s the perfect excuse to settle onto my balcony, listen to the sound of drops on leaves, and breathe in the smell of a tropical downpour. Lombok welcomes me in its own way. I push myself to stay awake until evening, hoping to slip into the local rhythm as quickly as possible. The rain, the view, and the silence do the rest.

Day two wakes me with the call of the mosque from a nearby village — the Fajr, the Islamic morning prayer, at five o’clock. Lombok is a Muslim island, and you feel it. It takes a moment to adjust, but there’s a certain calm in that distant chant in the dead of night. It doesn’t take long before I drift off again. When I wake later that morning, I already feel more settled. Time for breakfast.

A plate of fresh fruit, a coffee, a granola smoothie bowl, and a fresh juice — simple, light, and exactly what I needed. The best way to start a day on Lombok.

After breakfast I sit down with Danika for a while. She quickly picks up that I’m not afraid of a little adventure, and the tips start flowing. She suggests heading west — a part of the island that sees few tourists and still holds real hidden gems. That sounds like a plan.

I ride first to a viewpoint on a high hill. The dirt track leading up is a succession of potholes and stones, but I barely notice. On either side, rice fields stretch as far as the eye can see, and among them: women in woven hats, bent close to the ground, planting rice with a patience I can only envy. I stop for a moment. Not because the road demands it, but because this image asks to be held a little longer.

The warung where I stop for lunch is small, simple, and exactly right. I can tell straight away that not many foreigners pass through here — the locals look at me with a mix of curiosity and warmth, nodding when I greet them. While I eat, I notice the owner photographing me from a distance. I pretend not to see and enjoy my food. When I go to pay, things take an unexpected turn. She asks if I’d like to record a short promotional video and pose with a banner — Explore Indonesia. I laugh, but of course I do it. Why not? If I can nudge even one tourist toward this forgotten corner of Lombok, the mission is accomplished.

Orong Bukal. The name meant nothing to me when Danika mentioned it, but the view that greets me makes my jaw drop. Small islands scattered across glittering blue — the kind of view that makes you briefly forget to breathe. There are four different spots to take in the panorama, and for those feeling adventurous: a rope path that brings you all the way down to sea level. I don’t hesitate for a second. Down below, where the waves crash against the rocks, I meet two locals grinning from ear to ear. We laugh, we pose, we barely understand a word each other says — and it doesn’t matter at all. This is exactly the kind of moment you travel for.

The days that follow I spend in the south of Lombok, looking for what Danika called the hidden pearls. She was right. I find beaches that — apart from a lone warung — I have entirely to myself. No tourists, no noise. Just the rhythm of the waves, the sun on my skin, and a feeling of complete stillness. This is what I came for.

I swim carefully — the currents are strong and the water demands respect. But the silence gives me more than enough.

Occasionally I have company. A stray dog sidling closer to see if I have anything to offer. There are many of them on Lombok. In Islam, dogs are often considered impure and are rarely kept as pets — you notice it. Some of them are genuinely wary of people, cautious and a little lost. Just surviving. It gets to me more than I expected. Luckily I have some treats with me. When I spot a dog that’s limping or clearly been through something, I quietly leave a small handful somewhere safe. A small gesture, but it feels right.

Dogs aren’t my only company. Brown monkeys are everywhere here — and in the mornings they come right up to my balcony. Face to face with one, only a frosted window between us. He peers inside, curious, scanning the room — not knowing I’ve had my eye on him for a while.

One of the staff at my accommodation — Andie — asks me a question I don’t need a second to think about: would I like to come and meet his family? We hop on the scooter and dive into the narrow sandy tracks. I feel excitement, but also a small flicker of uncertainty. Where exactly am I going?

We arrive at a cluster of small houses where Andie’s family lives. It’s a little awkward at first — only Andie speaks basic English and has to translate everything. But that doesn’t last long. Because very quickly I sense the interest is mutual. Real interest. A cup of coffee is poured, and before I know it the photo moments follow. First with his mother and father, then nephews and nieces join in. The houses are just a few rooms each, simple and modest. In the middle of it all, the power cuts out. Nobody bats an eye — that’s just normal here. And honestly, it only makes everything feel more real.

Somewhere along the road I catch sight of a sign — Skylancing, paragliding. I don’t need long to think about it. With the surname ‘Vliegen’ — which literally means flying in Dutch — I didn’t have much of a choice. It’s a fraction of the price it would be at home, and this is the perfect chance for my very first tandem flight.

My pilot Sam inspires confidence from the start, and once we’re in the air I understand why people get hooked on this. We cruise gently above stunning bays and villas perched like swallows’ nests against the green hillsides. No stress, no rush — just the wind, the view, and the feeling that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Back in Selong Belanak I stumble across the Sunday market. No tourist spectacle — just simple wooden stalls along the roadside, manned by locals selling fresh produce. The street is almost completely blocked, but that doesn’t bother me. From my scooter I buy a bag of tropical fruit and shuffle along. It’s here that I discover the mangosteen for the first time. My new favourite — I know it from the very first bite.

After six nights — and several extensions I hadn’t planned — I leave Selong Belanak with mixed feelings. It’s hard to let go of a place like this. But I know Lombok has more to offer, and that’s what keeps me moving.

Along the way I hear about Tetebatu — a region on the slopes of the central volcano Rinjani, covered in rice terraces and cut through by rivers and waterfalls. It sounds like a world apart. I change direction. But first: ninety minutes of riding that demands my full attention. Away from the peace of the coast, the roads grow busier, more chaotic, more alive. No time to daydream — here you just go with the flow.

As I approach Tetebatu, I’m welcomed in a way that makes me smile immediately. Kids along both sides of the road call out “Hello!” one after another, as if they’d rehearsed it. You couldn’t script a better arrival.

My accommodation is a simple bungalow, surrounded by jungle and overlooking the rice terraces. No luxury, no frills — but exactly what this setting calls for. I go to bed early. Tomorrow, the exploring begins. I’ve been warned: the mosques in Tetebatu are loud. I try not to think about it too much and close my eyes.

At 4:50 AM, I’m yanked out of sleep. The Fajr — but this is a different level from Selong Belanak. It sounds like the local mosque has made a serious investment in its sound system. The call blasts through the speakers as if the entire region needs to be awake. Earplugs won’t save you here. For half an hour it continues, like a tape nobody thought to stop. Somewhere between admiration and despair, I lie waiting for the silence to return.

I manage to doze off again afterward, and by breakfast I feel ready for the day.

First stop: Monkey Forest. Home to the Javan langur — black monkeys that are naturally shy around humans and can be hard to spot without a guide. I decide to take my chances alone. I wander around, head up, eyes open. Then I hear something. A rustle, a movement somewhere above me. And then — suddenly — an entire family leaping from branch to branch, right above my head, as if they’ve decided I can be trusted. They slow down, they look, they almost pose. I stand completely still and let my camera do the work. A moment I hadn’t expected — and one that raises goosebumps.

From there I head to the waterfalls. The Tetebatu waterfall may not be the most spectacular I’ve ever seen, but the setting is nothing short of magical. Before I know it my clothes are in a heap and I’m jumping into the cool water — fed by Rinjani itself. Exactly what you need in the heat of the day.

After a local lunch stop I continue to a second waterfall — same river, lower down. A bamboo path leads me there, and what I find is almost surreal: the waterfall is tucked inside a kind of cave, surrounded by moss and stone. It feels like a hidden world.

But I can’t enjoy it for long. The sky opens. And near a waterfall that’s suddenly flooding, things can turn dangerous fast. I turn around and leave as quickly as I came — the sound of rushing water and rain merging into one behind me.

Back at the car park, a couple of locals building a roadside warung wave me over to take shelter. Before I know it, there’s a cup of coffee in my hands. They introduce themselves — he as Mr. Sometimes Eyes Closed, she as Yuni. The name makes me smile but I don’t ask further. They’re building a small warung to bring tourists to one day. We talk, we laugh, and somewhere between the rain and the noise of construction, Mr. Sometimes reaches for a guitar. I get a private concert. A wonderfully spontaneous moment — though I wouldn’t be rushing to offer Mr. Sometimes a record deal just yet.

That local lunch stop catches up with me in the evening. Just before bed, the nausea hits, and I spend most of the night hunched over the toilet. Not exactly pleasant — but that too is part of travelling. You take the gems with the rough patches.

With a fragile stomach and a head craving sleep, I ride toward Sembalun. The road climbs steadily, and before long I’m reaching for a jacket — a strange sensation after days of tropical heat. Along the way, monkeys inspect a lost bag of crisps with the solemn concentration of professional food critics. I almost laugh. Almost.

Sembalun is busy. It’s the weekend, and this is the departure point for those climbing the volcano Rinjani. The procession of hikers, guides, and backpacks seems endless. I watch for a moment and quickly decide — this isn’t for me. Not today. My body simply won’t allow it, and honestly, I have little desire to share that experience with hundreds of others.

My accommodation is a simple cabin with a view of Rinjani itself. I settle in, watch the summit disappear into cloud, and leave it at that.

After a restless night I fall asleep early. The next morning, Rinjani grants itself a brief appearance — the volcano reveals itself, magnificent and clear, without a cloud in sight. But it doesn’t last. The clouds creep back in and it hides itself again. For a moment, it was there. That’s enough.

I decide to continue north — a region that draws few tourists and has almost no accommodation. Normally exactly my kind of place. But not today. My body is asking for rest, for comfort, for recovery. What had taken hold of me feels more and more like a mild case of food poisoning. I listen to myself and decide to allow something a little more comfortable than a thin mattress in an authentic guesthouse. Sometimes the wisest choice is also the least adventurous one.

I end up near Senggigi — a place that looks out across the water toward Bali. In the distance, Bali’s highest volcano traces itself against the sky. As much as I love a volcano in all its glory, Bali isn’t on my list. But this view I’m happy to give myself.

The days that follow are quiet. I read, I reflect, I give my body the rest it’s earned. But before long, the plans start pushing back in — that’s just who I am. I take the scooter out again and let myself be drawn by the sound of a waterfall. Recharging, in every sense of the word.

In the capital Mataram I make an unplanned stop that wins me over immediately: the Naughty Little Cat Park — a cat shelter run by the self-proclaimed ‘Catfather’ and his Australian wife. They care for no fewer than 59 cats, all sterilised and vaccinated. It’s wonderful to see them simply being cats — lounging, roaming, doing what cats do best. Every now and then one gets adopted by a European expat. A small, warm initiative tucked somewhere between the noise of the city.

And then the decision is made. A flight booked, the first preparations underway. Lombok has given me everything it had — and that was more than I’d dared hope for.

But the travel bug doesn’t tame easily.

Flores, here I come.

Originally published on Introverted Travel — introvertedtravel.substack.com