Sumba had been on my bucket list since I saw the photos of the wild horses cantering on the beach into the surf. It had imprinted the ultimate romantic notion - the power of horses with the wild, free feminine.
When my friend Joe said she was coming for ten days to Bali, it seemed logical to take a mini break away from my 24/7 hour job running the villas. Even though my villas are luxurious, and I have a fantastic team, the buck always stops with me. I never sit by the pool, read a book and chill out like my guests; I have to get away from home to relax.
The hotel of our dreams, Lewewatu, jumped off the Bookings.com site, and flights and bookings were made. Only an hour's flight with NAM Air, the flight was going smoothly, with no delays, and no disasters, until the flight attendant asked us to pray. With her dry wit, Joe glanced over and said, "Not a good sign. Do they expect that we're going to crash?" She was already a little trepid about flying in a small aircraft, but we didn't crash and landed smoothly with the limo planned to greet us at the tiny Tambaloka airport.
We climbed into the limo; the seats were big and wide and very first class. The driver spoke little English, but we managed to convince him to take us via a textile shop. Zumba is renowned for its beautiful hand-woven ikats - blankets- individually designed and crafted by local women. After heady negotiations, I became the proud owner of some fantastic ikats, with delicate hand beading and locally designed jewellery inspired by their culture.
We jumped back into the limo, excited to get to the hotel, now only thirty minutes away, but the driver turned the key, and the limo spluttered some painful groans. He kept turning the key, then embarrassed, said, "Not working." Well, that was obvious. "I call the hotel; they come forty minutes to take you," he said reassuringly. We traded ideas, like jump-starting, but it was automatic.
By now, it was midday and sitting in the car with no aircon on the side of the road did not appeal, especially as I know forty minutes in Indonesia means two hours. "Can you please find someone to take us to a restaurant, we're hungry, and we can wait there." I more than suggested.
With that, he hailed the town bus driving past. Three local girls sat inside, giggled and looked bemused at the two middle-aged white women who climbed aboard the bus. A UB40 song blasted out of the boom box, and as we drove around the little town we waved like royalty to everyone we saw, while singing and dancing to, "I've got you, babe". The girls covered their faces, peeking their jet-black eyes through their fingers and giggling.
I assumed that there was no Gourmet Café in this little town and was surprised to be dropped off at the only restaurant that offered- lino floors, Fluro lights, and effective air-conditioning. The meals looked like half-decent Indo meals that we could only choose by looking at other people's half-eaten plates and pointing to the waiter, "We'll have this one."
As I anticipated, the limo pulled up two hours later, and like groundhog day, we resumed our journey, chomping at the bit to see our new home for the next four nights. Finally arriving at 3 pm, to a flurry of apologies from our personal Butler, the panorama that greeted us outweighed any discontent we may have had with our delay.
Perched on the cliff face, the Indian ocean wrapped around for as far as the eye could see with the rolling surf breaks, to the rocky cliffs and pocket beaches tucked between the hillside folds. Bouganvilla, bright crimsons, and luscious pinks sprawled lazily in brilliant contrast to the aqua blue ocean, as the sun cast a golden glow over the whole painting. The hotel was far beyond the pictures on Bookings. com, and our expectations, it was breathtaking in every way.
If it couldn't get any better, it did. Our Butler showed us to our villa, admitting that he thought our villa was the best. He apologised for the construction of a few villas nearby and shrugged, "Covid. We were shut the whole time," he confessed. The room was on par with any Four Seasons hotel I have stayed in, except we only paid $300, including breakfast and complimentary airport transfers. In a daze, we walked around the room, the hand-carved four-poster bed, the Sumba-inspired lamps, and the soaring ceiling. We slid open the glass doors to the infinity pool that slipped straight into the Indian ocean. I looked at Joe, "Think we need to crack open that bottle of Moet champagne you bought. "Sitting beside the pool, sipping our champagne and watching the sunset; we were mesmerised by the paradise we had landed in.
We meandered happily to dinner, noticing there were no path lights to guide us on a dark, cloudy night. Our Butler, just shrugged his shoulders saying, "Power problems."
"I understand; I have the same problems with my villas. Bloody PLN, they are so unreliable, always blackouts and power surges." I said as he looked relieved that I wasn't going to complain.
We stood at the entrance of the vast restaurant, positioned beside the pool overlooking the ocean, "I suppose we didn't need to book." Joe said with her inimitable wit.
Only one couple sat at a table with possibly thirty empty tables.
"How many guests are staying?" I asked our Butler, who was hovering around to see which table we'd choose. He l lowered his head, almost embarrassed, "Only two other guests. We're a little bit quiet." Odd, I thought, considering how stunning the place is and the very reasonable price.
Sadly, this is where our fairy tales start to get a bit gnarly. The chicken I ordered was inedible, so much so that I spat it out. The calamari Joe ordered needed a hack sore to cut. Dinner was a glass of overpriced cheap wine and a chocolate cake. With the last mouthful of chocolate finished, we scurried into the buggy to get back to the villa. Only our phone lights lit a dark path for the buggy to traverse the winding path. By the time we got to the room, the storm was at full velocity, and when opening the door, we witnessed its carnage – an almighty stream of water coming through the ceiling onto the bed – my side. A team immediately came down and we all looked at the culprit leak in despair. Our Butler suggested we move rooms but that seemed impossible considering the weather conditions. "Where's the ladder?" I asked as a young maintenance man, as agile as a monkey, who was already jimmying up the pole of the four-poster bed into the cavern of the ceiling. Ingeniously, he placed a piece of plastic over the lid of the mosquito net to stop the drip. "Hey, you've left an umbrella up there," I said confused. He said almost with pride, "So water can drip down and not make a big puddle." And it worked, we slept safe and sound and dry.
But the bubble had burst for me, and soon the underbelly of this pretty-as-a-picture place was revealed. The villas under repair were falling into the ocean; the chef had walked out, leaving a local girl to cook, clean, and serve. Our Butler was the cleaner, assistant cook, and dogs' body, and the only three guests were honeymooners, not wanting to be friendly.
I looked at Joe over a carb-fuelled breakfast and said," Don't think I'll cope with four days of shit food, no matter how fabulous the place is. What do you think?"
There were no local restaurants and the only neighbouring hotel where we could have eaten was Nihi – the 10-star hotel touted as the best hotel in the world only for celebrities and stars, not hungry Aussie girls wanting good food. Regardless I called and spoke to the GM and explained our predicament. Madeline apologised in a sexy French accent, "Sorry, we don't allow anyone in from outside the hotel. I'm sure you can appreciate that." I felt very un-special but pestered her, "Can you suggest somewhere else?" She gave us a few names of other hotels, but all were 10-15 kilometres away, with a driving time of an hour or more. Too far to go for a meal and return.
"Joe, I think we should move hotels. I can't be somewhere falling apart and with shit food and service." She agreed. So, when an Aussie hotelier from Melbourne, recommended by the sexy 10- star Madeline, said he had a room, we grabbed it.
There was not the same elation as we pulled into the drive of Alamayah. Set back from the ocean in a coconut grove, this super cool, beautifully designed Bali style six -uniquely designed suits didn't have wow magic, but a master-chef-inspired kitchen, brilliant service, and beautifully appointed in every way. Owned, built and designed by a young Melbourne couple, it was easy to slip into chill mode and know we were looked after. Over our first cocktail, Joe and I debated the needs of the modern-day tourist, agreeing that ambience and food outweighed the wow factor, even though we both felt very sad deserting the sinking ship of Lelewatu.
For the remaining three days we ate delicious food, met interesting people, lounged around the pool, and explored the nature and culture of Sumba, a Christian Island renowned for surfing and horses. Unspoilt by mass tourism, the culture has remained intact with the traditional tall pointed thatched roofs with bamboo floored structures (a killer to walk on). Christians with names like Florence and Jacob, still worship the ancestors and deities and are rich with ceremonies and traditional festivals of horse racing, bull sacrifices, complex funerary rituals, and fights with spears. The island has a wholesome naivety about it that is very endearing.
"Where can I ride the horse?" was my first request to Maria, our new Butler.
"We can take you to Sanubari hotel; it is very close."
The following day Moses and Micky were waiting for us on their motorbikes to take us to the horses. On the back of the bikes, on dirty roads, we meandered through villages and arrived at the neighbouring hotel where our horses waited.
We had deliberately dressed the part in flowing dresses and bikinis so the photos would be Instagram-worthy. Jumping up on my horse, the confidence of childhood riding camps and holidays with country girlfriends quickly came back even though I hadn't ridden a horse in thirty-five years. The horse wanted to walk casually up and down the beach like the pony rides at the circus; instead, I wanted the full-blown The Man from Snowy Mountains experience. I kicked the belly of the horse in my riding gum boots, and he took off heading straight to the ocean. As the waves lapped around his girth, he stopped suddenly, with the clear intention to buck me off. Joe said all she could see was my cobalt blue bikini and my peachy bottom bouncing into the air as I pulled the horse back into submission and out of the water. Although a large part of me was terrified, I was equally excited and felt alive. The wind, the ocean, the horse's power, and my fragility, were a combination worthy of being on my bucket list. While Joe, who had never ridden, donned a helmet and was led calmly up and down the beach. She vicariously enjoying my dream come true as I cantered around her, my blue bikini top hardly holding my boobs in, the white dress slipping off, a smile so big plastered on my face and my hair wild like how I felt - wild and free and untamed, all the while the Daryl Braithwaite's song Wild Horse playing in my head.
On a high I've not felt for some time, the rest of the day was spent on the back of the bikes discovering limestone cliff-faced beaches tucked in little groves with secret caves and local men selling coconuts. The final days merged into memories of blazing sunrises, a luxurious bath on the balcony overlooking the ocean, being mercilessly bitten by sandflies, and enduring broken air conditions. A tip around the island driven in a tiny speedboat with a shaggy young Olympic surfer again was exciting, but we had to swim out to the boat as the waves were too big. Coming back, Joe was dumped so severely that she had whiplash and lost her Cucci sunglasses and hat, but she never complained or stopped smiling.
As a friend who is a travel writer said – Sumba is interesting. It’s very Machiavelli. Your greatest strength is your greatest weakness. There is no infrastructure in Sumba. That's what s great. And that's terrible. I couldn't have summarised it any better and will definitely go back and hope you do too.
Love,
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