“SOUTH TO SIAN” By Harrison Roach

By Harrison Roach
In a time where there are fences around everything, and we ’re not encouraged, or even allowed to exercise instinct of self-preservation, it is difficult to find a place free from rules or restrictions, but not yet impossible. We had found ourselves on the edge of an ancient volcano, a thousand miles ticked over and thousands more to go. Staring into its slumbering depths, we reflected on what we had already experienced…and what was yet to come. We were on a journey to rediscover the freedom found when lines are crossed, rules are broken and life is taken back from the hands of others. But lets take you back to the beginning.
This is a story of a couple of mates trying to go beyond the guardrails.
I grew up with Zye. He’s always lived down the street. He, like I was looking for something with a slightly greener hue. We’d set off on a journey hoping to cover the distance between West Nusa Teng erra and North Sumatra
We knew we weren’ t doing anything new
but we were trying to find something new in something old
the epic Indonesian road trip. We were searching for the lasting satisfaction that only comes from doi ng things the hard way. A old brute four-wheel-drive, a couple of motorbikes and a literal stack of surfboards represented our riches. We were heading South To Sian.
Everyone pushes themselves to what they perceive to be their own limits
but we all feel the same when we exceed them its both humbling and elating for my mate
Zye, who’d grown up surfing longboards over two foot sand bottom, point breaks
his own expectations were exceeded on his first proper swell in Indonesia.
We had peeled away from our first stop sufficiently surfed out but after a quick ferry ride and long drive the fatigue began to fade and we found ours elves gravitating toward an infamous left-point break: A sure stopover for the travellin
g surfer. Once there, the accommodation was somewhat minimal and not in the fashi onable
sense… but in the go without sense. Its luxury was defined by where it was situated, and not by the thread count of its sheets. The swell came in directly from the west. Riding that wave was like riding a freight train. A freight train that was just as likely to run off its rails, as it was to drop you at the end of the line.
After the big swell our lacerated skin called for time on dry land. We trekked into the mountains in search of new heights, to a volcano that’s stood here long before us and will stand long after.
Lava fields rolled up and down forming a motorcycle playground that
seemed to have been perfectly engineered for our entertainment.
Our two became three as we were joined by Agi Agassi, a great local rider with a love for custom two strokes. As anyone who travels knows, local insight will always heighten the experience… turning something good into great.
While our abilities were varied, we were equally challenged by our wil lingness to transcend our own limits. High jumps low jumps
… wheels not leaving the ground it was beside the point. Agi told us that this volcano had a big sister on his home island and we’d better see him there on our way past. We promised through the shake of a hand and marked it on our map. Both of us looked forward to riding with him again.
Back on the coast it was small wave galore and a chance to ride some of the fun boards in our quiver. On our staple diet of black coffee and cup of noodles, we hunted down peaks and appreciated the waves of lesser consequence. In the water we saw our California friend Jared Mell. We thought the wave was a right, until he went left.
Visiting a country in search of surf brings you to both the quiet and popular locations.
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