Not an ideal start to be sure, but the flight the following morning went without a hitch. Many Indonesian islands come with the promise – with varying degrees of truth – of being “like Bali was 30 years ago”, that is to say before the hordes of white-dreadlocked Australians, wanton development and horrifyingly crowded lineups arrived. If Bali in the 70s was its birthplace, The Indonesian Dream™ – of perfect, uncrowded emerald waves, and deserted, palm-fringed beaches on unspoilt islands – had since moved to the Mentawai islands, in the 90s.

“It dawned on me we were not “there” after all. The pilot had U-turned in the storm and we were back at Medan on the mainland, where we’d taken off…”

Now they too are overrun with land camps and boat charters. I had come to Simeulue with my girlfriend and two mates, in the hope that a version of this dream was still alive and well, sustained – we hoped – by its difficulty of access (which our inbound episode confirmed) and Sharia law (no booze, no bikinis and so forth).

Volatile plate tectonics are simply a fact of life in Simeulue and, perversely, that very volatility has borne fruit for Simeulue, in the form of its most consistent wave. The 2004 quake moved the furniture around on the sea bed, creating “Jackals” a.k.a. “The Peak”, an ultra-consistent A-frame reef break in the middle of an exceedingly picturesque but previously unsurfed stretch of beach.

“‘Dylans’ was a fickle but bewitchingly-perfect-when-on right-hander that offered wrapping, metronomic barrels.”

Casarina occupied prime beachfront real estate directly in front of The Peak, and we surfed it every day for a fortnight. Never smaller than head-high, the ultra-consistent wave nonetheless had a different complexion on any given day, depending on the subtleties of swell size, period and direction. As a rule, the lefts were faster and hollower, yielding a barrel or two on take-off or through the inside section, whereas the right offered up a whackable wall.

Located in the doldrums, the daily weather pattern made for windless morning and evening sessions, and a light onshore midday breeze, punctuated by the occasional short-lived tropical squall. The glassy morning and evening sessions saw a light crowd of 5–10 at The Peak, and an empty line-up in between.

With the vast majority of Simeulue’s population Muslim, each village around the island featured a mosque as its centre-piece. Their ornate roofs made up a kaleidoscopic patchwork of colour as we explored the island. The call to prayer at dusk signalled the end of the day’s surfing, as the sun slipped into the Indian Ocean.

“We were treated to a veritable barrel-riding clinic by a preternaturally talented 14-year-old local kid named Rambo.”

As seems to be the case everywhere on earth, the boys were mad about football. Despite there being very little mobile phone signal on large parts of the island, and wifi available only in Sinabang (Simeulue’s “capital”), the Premier League was a big deal.

At least half of the footballers in Simeulue seemed to be Liverpool fans, making the island perhaps the world’s unlikeliest Scouse stronghold and causing me to wonder whether football rather than Christianity or Islam is in fact the world’s premier religion. Girls would mostly play volleyball, while tiny children would fly kites hundreds of feet in the sky with their fathers.

Simeulue teemed with wildlife. Water buffalo, chickens and goats roamed free across the island. Steaming buffalo dung on the road represented a real navigational hazard when on scooters. One day we set off inland, on a hike up a creek through the rainforest, climbing waterfalls and traversing rapids on slippery fallen trees. Our path was crossed by wild boar, troops of long-tailed macaques unique to Simeulue and giant centipedes.

In respect of local custom tradition, my girlfriend Tash was required to cover up on the beach or out and about. Which would’ve spelled disaster for her tanning aspirations, were it not for the grassy garden at Casarina, where she could sunbathe in a bikini to her heart’s content.

Our rooms – in traditional Sumatran wooden cabins – were clean and simple, featuring a comfy bed, fan, traditional Indonesian (squat) toilet and bucket shower. Not five-star surf-resort luxury, certainly, but wasn’t that the point? We ate like kings, slept soundly every night and felt like guests in Rina’s home rather than package-holiday surf tourists.

As our time in Simeulue drew to a close, we reflected that we had got what we came for, and much more. Its remote location, tricky access and lack of a real A-List wave – like G-Land or nearby Nias’ Lagundri Bay – has kept the influx of travelling surfers to a trickle.

We found a warm and friendly people living simply on a wonderful island. Sure enough, as we arrived at the tiny airport on our final day we learned that, due to technical issues, the plane would not depart until the following morning. Dismay turned to delight as I realised that if we were quick, there was time to catch the evening session at Dylans for a bonus session to sign off.

Do it yourself:

Getting there: 

From Kuala Lumpur, Singapore or Jakarta, fly to Medan on the Sumatran mainland with one of the Indonesian low-cost airlines (Lion Air, Batik Air etc). From Medan, Wings Air operates daily (ish!) flights to Simeulue.

Accommodation:

Casarina offers accommodation including 3 meals per day for 45USD per day. Rina can organise scooters or 4×4 hire on request.

Guides & Expeditions:

We hooked up with local English-speaking surf guide Ilan who can help with all logistics around the island – boat charters, jungle hiking, board hire should you need, surf photos and more. Reach him on Facebook.

To read the rest of Mpora’s Search issue head here

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