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Trawangan. Meno. Air. These are our destinations. Otherwise known as the Gili Islands, they are three tiny gilis (islands) within sight of each other off the northwest coast of Lombok, Bali's Muslim eastern neighbor. After five days in a Balinese rental car, Richard and I are looking to kick back, especially as these islands had been touted as being like rural Indonesia 40 years ago. Providing tourist services, known locally as "picking white coconuts," is the islands' most profitable activity.

At Senggigi Beach, we negotiate with Omar to charter his outrigger fishing canoe with its blue canopy and orange fluttering flags. As our fisherman-turned-guide, he steers us through smooth water hugging the west coast. "He catch the lobster!" "He spear the fish!" he exclaims excitedly. Roughhewn canoes dot secluded bays, reddish roofs peek through smoky coconut groves, and a crazy quilt of farm plots dot hillsides.

A glistening barracuda leaps out of the water as Trawangan, the most westerly island, looms closer. We're dropped off into ankle-deep aquamarine water near Hotel Vila Ombak, our lunchtime destination. A slowing-down of pace and a mellowing of attitude sweep over us as, with a friendly wave, Omar goes fishing. He'll return in two hours to take us on to the middle island, Gili Meno.

From Vila Ombak's second-story open-sided restaurant, we savor local Bintag beer and nasi goreng, a traditional Indonesian rice dish, while a distant mosque echoes its call to prayer. Cars and motorbikes don't belong on any of the three islands, only horse-drawn carts called cidomos, or rental bikes. At the market, eye-catching multicolored sarongs hang on frames next to primitive elongated wooden masks carved by native Sasak people. Cheap bamboo-and-thatch bungalow huts called losmen add to the Bohemian atmosphere, and a lackadaisical European couple slumps on beachside seating under shady waru trees.

Smiling Omar, with his catch of tuna flapping intermittently under bleached floorboards, has returned. As we cross the narrow channel between islands, Vila Ombok's motto, "Come and let the waves take you along," whispers on the air. We peer over the side and see blue and mushroom corals distorting crazily with white sand and fluorescent fish. Saying farewell to Omar and his trusty water taxi, we wade ashore at Meno island, still without electricity. Tranquility permeates its casual, eclectic atmosphere as a sarong-clad figure strums a guitar by shaggy towels laid over a stilted bamboo verandah. A brick maker churns out elongated handmade bricks from a metal mold. We follow the sandy pathway along the shore which leads us part-way around the island to an isolated silky-pearl beach. With sighs escaping heavenwards, we wallow in the inviting turquoise water.

A barefoot, middle-aged hippie and a breast-feeding islander are fellow passengers on the regular "Hopping" ferry that drops us at the southern end of the third island, Gili Air, a name that means "water." Despite being the most populated (about 1,000) and closest to the mainland, its charm is distinctly rural. Small farms nestle between tropical lushness, roosters crow, and cows munch under coconut palms. Our destination is the more up-market Hotel Gili Air on the northern shore, where we're headed on foot for our one-night stay. An occasional cidomo breezes past with the soft clip-clopping of horses' hooves and tinkling of bells. The rustic hotel has thatched bungalows surrounded by casual verdant gardens bordering a white crescent beach. It's mosquito-free and temperature-perfect as we dig our toes into warm sand to watch the silver-peach sunset. Water laps in lacy ribbons and the aroma of barbecuing fish wafts on the evening air.

After a peace-filled night, us solitary beachgoers recline on loungers watching a flock of cormorants silhouetted against azure sky. Threads of blazing bougainvillea tumble off our palm-fringed umbrella, through which Mount Rinjani, Lombok's lofty volcano, rises in misty glory. A bamboo wind chime jingles. Pushing his rusty bike, a local offers us beach massages for $3, or "What you want to pay?" Two snorkelers gurgle past. Children with large innocent eyes selling freshly cut slices of pineapple and banana are irresistible, as is the gap-toothed sarong seller.

Like interest-seeking hobos, we move on to Hans's eaterie passing dissected fish drying on bamboo frames. Lunch is chicken satay and gado gado (vegetables in a peanut sauce), and island-born Hans joins us on the cushions of a thatched bale (elevated eating area). In local parlance, he reminisces about the days when islanders relied solely on coconut palms and fishing for income. The faint outline of the Oberoi Hotel on the mainland shimmers across the water and, without a prompt, Hans offers to organize us a ride there in his motorboat.

We feel spoiled by the unspoiled as we leave this unpretentious micro-paradise. Hans's cook-turned-captain skims us towards the mainland hotel, and Gili Air's double ring of white beach and turquoise water fades slowly as the umbrellas we'd lazed under that morning disappear in the warm haze.

Photographs by Wendy Windebank

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