I’d been to Indonesia plenty of times before, but this felt different from the start. The flight from Bali was short—barely fifty minutes—but when the wheels touched down in Sumbawa, the air already felt calmer, heavier with heat. The resort I’d booked had sent a driver to meet my partner and me. He didn’t speak much English, just a polite nod and a soft smile, but there was something steady about him. Even his driving had a quiet patience to it, like he knew there was no need to hurry anywhere out here.

The road west was a winding, rolling line that hugged the coastline for hours. It rose and fell through farmland and small villages, every turn revealing another glimpse of the sea. I didn’t know anyone who’d made this trip before. That uncertainty made it better—like stepping into a part of Indonesia still content to be itself.

Through almost every village, I noticed goats. Not the thin, scrappy kind you sometimes see near markets, but strong, clean, bright-coated animals. They looked healthy and proud, wandering freely or herded by kids no older than ten. It said something about this place—that even the animals looked well cared for.

Halfway along the drive, the driver asked if we wanted to stop for food. We pulled into a small roadside warung: a woman cooking corn over a coal fire, her toddler sitting nearby. She offered simple nasi campur wrapped in banana leaves, served with sambal that stung the air. There was no crowd, no rush—just us, the smoke, and a few monkeys watching from the trees.

While we waited, the driver insisted on paying for our lunch. I tried to refuse, but he smiled, handed over the money, and that was that. We got back in the car with warm corn and two small bundles of rice and vegetables. Only after unwrapping them did we realise we had no utensils. That was the first lesson of Sumbawa: sometimes you eat with your hands. My partner laughed, I did too, and the driver passed back a packet of wet wipes with a grin.

It wasn’t a spectacular stop. No one else was there, no view worth posting. But that quiet, ordinary kindness stuck with me. It summed up West Sumbawa—simple, generous, and untouched by the rush that’s swallowed other parts of the country.

As the road curved toward the western hills, the bays grew wider and the villages smaller. I looked out at the bright water and thought, this must be what Bali felt like a hundred years ago. Paradise, but without the noise.