Every morning, Angga rolls into Tanjung Aan in his red Volkswagen, surfboards stacked on the roof like flags of a moving tribe.

Hair sun-bleached. Skin salted. A half-smile that suggests he already knows how the tide will turn.

He teaches surfing the loose way — fall, laugh, paddle back, repeat. There’s no whistle, no pressure, no hard edges. The ocean does the talking. Angga just translates. By afternoon, he’s barefoot in the sand, cracking coconuts, passing out cold drinks, telling stories that somehow grow better as the sun drops lower. People come for a lesson. They stay for the feeling.

Because Angga isn’t working at the beach.

He’s living in it — in the waves, the wind, the quiet in-between sets, and the laughter that carries long after the boards are stacked back on the roof.

Under the wide skies of Selong Belanak, where the road dissolves into sand and pasture, you will often see him before you hear him — walking slowly, staff in hand, surrounded by the quiet power of water buffalo.

His name is Amaq Tin. He comes from the village of Kabul, but most of his days unfold here — among the fields and beach, and winding roads— He moves through the landscape like he belongs to it, a quiet king among his herd. His age shows in his weathered skin and in the tired weight of his shoulders. His t-shirt darkens with sweat from long walks under the sun, searching for fresh grass for the buffalo. Yet his eyes still sparkle with youth — alert, warm, alive with stories. Amaq Tin raises buffalo for meat. A minimum of nine is enough to sustain his livelihood. But when we met him, seventeen animals trailed behind him, like moving shadows. They followed calmly, trusting him, knowing his rhythm.

He paused, rolled his tobacco with steady hands, and began to talk. “I love my journey,” he said, smoke curling into the air. “The animals around me make me feel like Lion King.”

There was no irony in his voice — only pride and affection. This land, these animals, this routine carved by sun and distance — they are his kingdom. As he continued his walk, he looked at me and shared one final thought — a wisdom shaped by years of quiet observation: “Faith already decides for each person. Accept it, and you will have a better day.”

Then he moved on — staff tapping earth, buffalo shifting behind him — disappearing slowly into the living landscape.

Jro Mangku Kerti Sejati, known as Ninik Mangku in Sasak languange. At 98 years old, she carries a quiet dignity that feels almost timeless & traditional attire reflect a lifetime shaped by devotion, discipline, and deep spiritual grounding.

For nearly half of her life, she has chosen to sleep and live within the sacred grounds of Pura Lingsar. The temple is not just a place she serves.It is her sanctuary, her responsibility, and her destiny. Every day, she prepares and sells sacred oil from the Nagasari tree that grows in the temple courtyard. Continuing a tradition that holds cultural and spiritual weight. As we sat and talked, she began to share stories from the era of the Karangasem Kingdom, describing the long history and sacred power of Pura Lingsar. She spoke of the ancient agreement that pork must never enter the temple grounds. A rule believed to bring grave misfortune to anyone who dares to break it. Hearing these stories felt like being guided through centuries of living heritage.But the moment that struck us most was when she said:“It’s not that I don’t have a home or family, but I choose to stay here because of an old mystical." Those words carried a depth I couldn’t forget a mix of faith, loyalty, and peace that only someone who has devoted her life to something greater than herself could express. Meeting her made me want to return, to sit longer, and to listen more. She is not just a guardian of the temple. she is a living bridge between the past and the present a symbol of unwavering devotion, and the quiet soul of Pura Lingsar itself.

On a sunny morning I took my scooter from Selong Belanak toward Torok, hunting for the best views and rice fields. Somewhere between one wrong turn and another, I spotted a perfect viewpoint of Serangan Beach and a tiny island. A small warung appeared right beside the road, five scooters parked out front—yet not a single soul inside except a smiling woman: Ibu Eri.

She asked how I found her. I told her I’d been riding around for 50 minutes and desperately needed a five-minute break—and a coffee. She served me a wonderfully bitter cup and told me she has run this warung for five years. Before that, she worked the rice fields while raising her five children. She had just turned 50.

Trying to be funny, I asked if she also had five husbands. She laughed, covered her face, and explained that in Sasak tradition only men can have multiple wives. I asked if she thought that was fair. She didn’t answer—she simply smiled and offered me another coffee.

While she talked proudly about her children, I realised I may never fully understand how women here feel about emancipation… but I could clearly see her happiness in the life she built.

When I asked for the bill, she said, “Lima ribu.” Five thousand. The cheapest coffee I’d ever had. So I tipped her fifty thousand—because somehow the number five had been with us from the moment I walked in.