Finding Waves and Peace: My Journey to Lombok’s Kuta Beach

The first time I laid eyes on Kuta Beach in Lombok, I was honestly a bit underwhelmed. After a grueling 2-hour scooter ride from the harbor, sweaty and disoriented, I remember thinking, “Did I really come all this way for this?” The beach looked pretty enough from a distance—long stretch of white sand, turquoise water shimmering under the afternoon sun—but it wasn’t the postcard-perfect paradise I’d built up in my head.

Then I woke up the next morning.

I’d dragged myself out of bed before sunrise (jet lag is occasionally useful), stumbled down to the shore with a lukewarm coffee in hand, and watched as the first light painted those limestone cliffs in shades of gold. The bay was perfectly calm, reflecting the sky like a mirror, and not another soul was in sight. That’s when it hit me—this wasn’t Bali’s version of Kuta with its pulsing crowds and persistent vendors. This was something else entirely. Something I didn’t even know I was looking for.

Over the next two weeks, Lombok’s Kuta Beach became my sanctuary, my playground, and occasionally, my humbler. I surfed (badly at first, slightly less badly by the end), made friends with locals who laughed good-naturedly at my attempts to speak Bahasa, and found moments of perfect stillness that seem impossible in my normal life back home.

This isn’t going to be one of those guides that tells you the “top 10 things to do” or “best Instagram spots” in Kuta Beach. God knows there are enough of those already. Instead, I want to share what it actually felt like to be there—the good, the frustrating, and the unexpectedly magical. Oh, and fair warning: I completely forgot to pack sunscreen on my first day and ended up looking like a partially boiled lobster. Learn from my mistakes, people.

Why Kuta Beach, Lombok, Stole My Heart

Let me clear something up right away—Kuta Beach in Lombok is NOT the same as Kuta Beach in Bali. I can’t tell you how many confused looks I got when telling friends about my trip. “But you’ve already been to Kuta,” they’d say, remembering my Bali stories from years back. Same name, completely different vibe.

I chose Lombok partly because I’m a contrarian at heart. When everyone zigs to Bali, I want to zag. But it was more than that. After spending three hectic months meeting work deadlines and barely seeing daylight, I needed somewhere that wouldn’t replace office stress with tourist stress. Somewhere I could decompress without a schedule.

Lombok’s Kuta delivers that in spades. The horseshoe bay is embraced by dramatic hills that seem to tumble right into the sea. The coastline stretches far in both directions, with little coves and beaches that you can have entirely to yourself if you’re willing to walk a bit. The water shifts between deep blue and transparent turquoise depending on the tide and time of day.

What really got me, though, was the sense of space. There’s a vastness to Kuta that makes you feel small in the best possible way. Your problems shrink when faced with that much sky and sea.

I’m not claiming it’s undiscovered—that ship sailed years ago. There are plenty of guesthouses, surf schools, and warung restaurants catering to tourists. But it still feels like it’s on the cusp, not yet fully transformed by tourism. You can still find stretches of beach with more cows than people (yes, actual cows, just hanging out on the sand like they own the place, which I guess they did long before we showed up).

A Quick Comparison to Bali’s Chaos

I loved Bali when I visited five years ago, but returning to Indonesia, I wanted something different. Bali’s southern beaches have become victims of their own popularity. The last time I was in Bali’s Kuta, I couldn’t walk ten feet without someone trying to sell me a massage, a bracelet, or a timeshare (okay, not really the last one, but it felt that close).

Lombok’s Kuta still gives you room to breathe. There are vendors, sure, but they’re less persistent, more willing to take a friendly “tidak, terima kasih” (no, thank you) at face value. The touts who do approach tend to be local kids selling bracelets or offering to watch your scooter—and honestly, they’re so earnest it’s hard to be annoyed.

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One morning, I woke up at dawn (again, thanks jet lag) and walked down to the beach. The only sounds were waves gently lapping at the shore and the distant call to prayer from the village mosque. I sat on the sand, watching fishermen prepare their boats for the day, and felt a sense of peace that’s become rare in our hyperconnected world. In that moment, I was pretty smug about my choice to pick Lombok over Bali. Not that I’d ever say that to my Bali-loving friends. (Well, maybe I would.)

Riding the Waves: Surfing Adventures

I should probably confess something right away—I’m not a great surfer. I’m enthusiastic but decidedly mediocre. I can stand up and catch green waves, but I’m not doing any fancy cutbacks or aerials. My surfing style has been described as “endearingly awkward” by a former instructor, which I choose to take as a compliment.

That said, Kuta Beach in Lombok is perfect for intermediate surfers like me. The area has a variety of breaks suitable for different skill levels, and the waves are generally more forgiving than some of the gnarlier spots in Bali.

My first morning surf session was at Seger Beach, just east of the main Kuta Beach. I rented a board from a local guy named Adi who sized me up with a glance and handed me a 7’6″ funboard—the perfect choice, though I pretended to deliberate before agreeing. The paddle out was relatively easy, with a channel that lets you avoid getting pummeled by the breaking waves.

I’d love to tell you I caught wave after perfect wave, but the truth is I spent the first hour mostly falling, occasionally in spectacular fashion. There was one wipeout where I’m pretty sure I did a full underwater somersault before surfacing to find my rash guard twisted around awkwardly. Meanwhile, local kids half my age were effortlessly riding waves all the way to shore, some of them on boards that looked like they’d been passed down through generations.

But that’s the beauty of surfing—every now and then, between the wipeouts and the paddle-backs, you catch that perfect ride. On my third day, I caught a clean right-hander at Gerupuk Bay that let me trim along the face for what felt like forever (probably 15 seconds in reality). For that brief moment, everything aligned—the board felt like an extension of my body, the wave seemed to slow down just for me, and I remembered why I drag myself and my not-exactly-surf-fit body into the ocean again and again.

Finding the Right Spot

One of the best things about Kuta is that it’s actually a gateway to multiple surf spots, each with its own character. Gerupuk Bay, about 20 minutes east of Kuta by scooter, has several breaks accessed by boat. You pay a local fisherman to ferry you out, and they’ll usually wait while you surf, then take you back when you’re done.

I thought I’d be slick and save money by finding Gerupuk on my own the first time. Bad idea. I ended up on a dirt path that got progressively narrower until my scooter and I were basically bushwhacking. After 30 minutes of increasingly sweaty confusion, I admitted defeat and backtracked to the main road, where I immediately saw the very obvious, well-marked turn I’d missed. Classic Jack move.

Mawi Beach, on the western side, offers more powerful waves for experienced surfers. I gave it a try on a smaller day and still got humbled pretty quickly. The current was stronger than I expected, and after fighting it for an hour, my arms felt like overcooked noodles.

For beginners, Inside Gerupuk (also called “Don Don”) offers gentler waves and a forgiving sandy bottom. I spent an afternoon there watching first-timers in a surf lesson, all wobbling to their feet with expressions of pure joy or terror—sometimes both.

Gear and Costs

Renting boards in Kuta is easy and relatively inexpensive—I paid around 80,000-100,000 IDR (roughly $5-7 USD) for a half-day rental. Most places don’t ask for a deposit, just your name and where you’re staying. There’s a trust system that works because, well, where exactly would you run off to with a stolen surfboard on a small island?

I tried haggling for my first rental and made a complete mess of it. After some awkward back-and-forth, I’m pretty sure I ended up paying more than the initial asking price. The shop owner was too polite to laugh in my face, but the twinkle in his eye told me all I needed to know about my negotiation skills.

If you need lessons, they’re widely available for around 350,000 IDR ($25 USD) for a 2-hour session. I took a refresher lesson at Selong Belanak (a beach about 30 minutes west of Kuta) and found the instructor patient and knowledgeable, even when I kept making the same mistake over and over. “Weight on front foot, Jack! Front foot!” is still echoing in my dreams.

One word of caution—the sun in Lombok is brutally intense. I went through three bottles of sunscreen in two weeks and still came home with tan lines that look like I’m wearing a strange, uneven vest. The local surf shops sell surf wax that’s formulated for warm water, which was a detail I hadn’t considered but makes a huge difference when the tropical sun is turning your board into a slip-n-slide.

Beyond the Board: Finding Serenity

Not every day was made for surfing. Sometimes the waves were too small, sometimes my muscles screamed for mercy, and sometimes I just wanted to experience Kuta’s quieter side. Those became some of my favorite days.

There’s something about sitting on a beach with absolutely nothing you have to do that feels both liberating and, initially, a little uncomfortable. I’m usually a chronic planner—the guy with the Google doc itinerary shared with everyone on the trip. Learning to just… be… took some practice.

The first time I tried to “relax” on the beach, I lasted about 20 minutes before I got antsy and decided I needed to walk somewhere, anywhere. By the end of the trip, I could happily spend hours just watching the changing patterns of light on the water, or observing the tiny sand crabs that emerge at low tide, leaving perfect little ball patterns around their holes. (I became weirdly invested in one particular crab I named Gerald, who had constructed an elaborate sand castle system. Nature’s architect, that Gerald.)

One afternoon, I found a secluded spot past Tanjung Aan Beach where the only footprints in the sand were my own. I sat on a rocky outcrop watching frigatebirds soar overhead, their distinctive silhouettes cutting across the sky. The water was so clear I could see fish darting around the reef below without even getting wet. I remember thinking, “I should really be doing something right now,” and then laughing at myself for being so conditioned to constant activity that sitting in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen somehow didn’t feel productive enough.

I actually started a journal during those quiet beach days—something I haven’t done since I was a teenager. Nothing profound, just observations and random thoughts. Reading back through it now, I can see my entries getting progressively less self-conscious and more present. Early on: “Should explore the eastern beaches tomorrow, heard they’re less developed.” Later: “Watched an old man fishing from shore for two hours today. He caught nothing but seemed completely content. What does he know that I don’t?”

The sunsets at Kuta deserve their own paragraph. Every evening, the sky would put on a different show—sometimes bold oranges and reds that looked almost artificial in their intensity, other times subtle gradients of pink and lavender that seemed to go on forever. One night, I watched the sunset from a small warung on the hill, nursing a Bintang beer that had gone slightly warm (refrigeration is sometimes spotty in Lombok). Despite the lukewarm beer, that sunset was so perfect it almost felt staged. I actually got a lump in my throat looking at it, then immediately felt silly for getting emotional over a sunset. But hey, that’s what travel does sometimes—breaks down your cool facade and lets you be moved by simple things.

The Local Vibes and a Few Surprises

The people of Lombok, particularly around Kuta, live at a different pace. There’s a phrase I heard often: “jam karet” or “rubber time”—the elastic, flexible approach to schedules and appointments. As someone who’s habitually five minutes early to everything, this was both refreshing and occasionally maddening.

I rented a scooter from a guy named Dedi who ran a small shop near my guesthouse. When I asked what time I should return it on my last day, he just smiled and said, “When you finish, you bring.” No specific hour, no paperwork beyond a handwritten receipt. This casual approach extends to most aspects of life in Kuta—restaurant opening hours are suggestions at best, and “meeting at sunrise” could mean anywhere from 5:30 to 7:30 AM.

The local Sasak people were unfailingly friendly, though language barriers sometimes led to amusing misunderstandings. I spent one evening convinced I’d been invited to a wedding ceremony, only to discover upon arrival that it was actually a circumcision celebration. I still don’t know if I should have stayed or left, but the family seemed genuinely happy to have a random foreigner joining their festivities, so I ate some delicious food, awkwardly danced when encouraged, and tried to look like I absolutely knew what I was doing there.

Food was a constant delight, though not always what I expected. The local warungs serve simple but flavorful dishes—lots of grilled fish, rice, and sambal (chili sauce that varies from mild to face-meltingly hot). I became addicted to ayam taliwang, Lombok’s famous spicy grilled chicken, though my first encounter with it left me gasping for water and questioning my life choices. By the end of the trip, I was asking for extra sambal, much to the amusement of the warung owners.

I did have one slightly uncomfortable experience when I realized I was being charged about triple the local price for a scooter rental at a different shop. When I (politely) pointed this out, the owner shrugged and said, “Tourist price.” Fair enough, I suppose—I’m obviously there on vacation while he’s making a living—but it did make me more careful about asking prices upfront.

One of my favorite memories was an impromptu soccer game with local kids on the beach. I was reading a book when a ball rolled my way, and before I knew it, I was playing in a 5-on-5 match with children who ran circles around me in the sand. We couldn’t really talk beyond basic words and gestures, but it didn’t matter—the universal language of sports bridged the gap. Though I’m still not sure if I was actually invited to play or if they were just too polite to tell the sweaty foreigner to give their ball back.

Challenges and Real Talk

For all its beauty, Lombok isn’t without frustrations. The infrastructure is still developing, which means power outages are common. My guesthouse had a generator, but it would sometimes take a few minutes to kick in, leaving me in pitch darkness mid-shower more than once.

The internet situation was… challenging. I’d promised myself a digital detox, but let’s be honest, sometimes you want to post that perfect beach photo or check if your house has burned down. (Anxiety doesn’t take vacations, unfortunately.) Most cafes advertised WiFi, but the reality ranged from “surprisingly decent” to “is this actually connected to anything?” I found myself both loving the disconnection and getting irrationally annoyed when I couldn’t send a simple message.

I also underestimated how remote some parts of Lombok would feel. One day I rode my scooter to a beach I’d heard about from another traveler, only to find myself on increasingly rough roads with no signs of civilization. My fuel gauge was dipping worryingly low, and I hadn’t thought to bring much water or snacks. Just as I was contemplating whether I’d need to drink my own sweat to survive (dramatic, I know), I crested a hill and found a tiny warung selling gas in vodka bottles and warm Sprites. I’ve never been so happy to pay triple price for basic necessities.

The trash situation in some areas was disheartening. Indonesia, like many developing countries, struggles with waste management, and while Kuta Beach itself was relatively clean, some of the surrounding beaches had plastic debris washing in with the tide. I joined an impromptu beach cleanup with some other tourists and locals one morning, which felt good but also like a drop in the ocean of a much bigger problem.

And yet—I loved how remote it felt. I complained about the spotty internet but secretly enjoyed the excuse to be unavailable. I got frustrated when I couldn’t find a decent coffee before 8 AM but appreciated that the town wasn’t built solely around tourist conveniences. It’s these contradictions that make travel interesting, I think—the tension between what we’re used to and what we discover.

Why I’d Go Back in a Heartbeat

On my last morning in Kuta, I woke up early (finally adjusted to the time zone just in time to leave—typical) and went for one final swim. The water was as warm as bathwater, the beach nearly empty except for a few fishermen and early-rising surfers. I floated on my back, looking up at the sky turning from purple to pink to blue, and felt a pang of preemptive nostalgia. I knew this moment would become one of those memories I’d return to during stressful days back home.

Lombok’s Kuta Beach gave me exactly what I needed, even when I didn’t know what that was. It challenged me with waves that humbled me and rewarded me when I persisted. It forced me to slow down when all I wanted to do was cram in experiences. It introduced me to people who approach life with a gentleness and patience I’m still trying to learn.

Would I recommend it? In a heartbeat. But not to everyone. If you need luxury resorts with swim-up bars, or if your idea of roughing it is a hotel without room service, maybe give Kuta a pass for now. It’s for travelers who don’t mind a few inconveniences in exchange for beauty that hasn’t been completely packaged and sanitized for mass consumption.

I brought back a small piece of driftwood that I found on that secluded beach. It sits on my desk now, smoothed by the sea into something both ordinary and beautiful. Sometimes when work gets hectic, I pick it up and remember the feeling of having nowhere to be and nothing to do but watch the waves come in.

I’ve already started planning my return trip. Next time, I’ll pack more sunscreen, learn more than five words of Bahasa, and maybe, just maybe, master that tricky break at Gerupuk. Or maybe I’ll just spend more time doing nothing at all. Either way, Lombok will be waiting, moving on rubber time, in no particular hurry.

If you’re considering a trip there yourself, my advice is simple: go soon, go with an open mind, and give yourself more time than you think you need. The magic of Kuta isn’t in checking off activities—it’s in the space between them, in the moments when you finally stop looking at your watch and start watching the horizon instead.

About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.

Barefoot in Indonesia

Surfing and Serenity at Lombok’s Kuta Beach

Finding Waves and Peace: My Journey to Lombok’s Kuta Beach