By K&P 
Behind the temple sits an elderly woman with a wrinkled face, hunched over, resembling a witch. She sells peanuts and water for “duapuluh rupiah” per small bottle—quite expensive. She’s always in this spot, and her appearance, poverty, and old age are a bit unsettling. There’s no tourist infrastructure here, just a restaurant by the parking area. The old woman tries to make a living, though she doesn’t speak English. How does she manage to sell anything? The second time I visited, I bought something from her. She had stayed in my mind after I passed her by the first time—maybe that’s her marketing tactic.
The path takes a sharp right turn and leads to a cliff about 150 meters tall or higher. There are crumbling concrete stairs leading downward, with a flimsy wooden railing tied with blue rope—rotten and collapsed in many places. It gives a false sense of separation between the narrow path and the abyss, and at times it doesn’t even pretend to be functional, having completely fallen away, hopefully under its own weight.
The beginning is fairly calm. The view and height make the heart race, but there’s no real sense of fear yet. If it started with what lies just five minutes further, people might turn back immediately. Now, however, it’s a little awkward to go back. The remnants of the railing, even when decayed, offer some psychological comfort. The stairs become steeper and more cracked, covered in leaves, bushes, and branches. Occasionally, water trickles down the slope, making the path slippery. The heat is oppressive, sweat pours down, and even sandals start slipping from the dampness. The blazing sun shines relentlessly, with only sporadic patches of shade provided by vegetation clinging to the slope.
A brief respite comes halfway down—there are sacred wells built into the slope, with a flat, shaded section. It’s clearly a ceremonial site, with holy water and signs prohibiting bathing. Large stone niches are filled with fresh water seeping from the hillside.
Then comes the climax: a section of narrow stairs, barely wide enough for a child’s foot, twisting downward and completely exposed to the slope, offering an uninterrupted view of the ocean. There’s no vegetation to cling to in case something goes wrong. The segment isn’t long—just about 20 steps—but it’s a serious challenge. After this, there’s no equally perilous stretch. The rest of the descent seems manageable and relatively safe. Adrenaline is guaranteed for everyone.
At the bottom, the wide-open ocean stretches out, its waves crashing forcefully. Boulders that have fallen from the cliff lie scattered along the beach, stimulating the imagination. If these were encountered at the start of the trail, they’d be intimidating. But by this point, having navigated several challenges, and being somewhat accustomed to the height, the lower elevation feels less daunting—though still sufficiently high to demand caution.
The stairs lead to the rocky part of the beach, ending in its southwestern corner. Vigilance remains necessary as the rocks—more like large, jagged boulders—are treacherous. They seem to bear imprints of coral reefs, with sharp, protruding edges. It’s easy to cut your foot or hand or twist an ankle on the loose stones that unexpectedly shift underfoot. Fortunately, this hazardous section is short—just a few meters. Beyond it lies white sand, free of footprints.
The beach stretches about 200 meters, possibly more, and is completely empty. The water is a striking shade of aquamarine, with loud, powerful waves. Near the cliffs, the waves make a hissing sound as water rushes into small crevices, spraying upward in dramatic bursts.
There are no trees, save for one clinging to the cliff—its roots wedged into small cracks in the rock. It hangs downward, seemingly defying gravity. At noon, this is the only source of shade, aside from small crevices in the cliffs, which are far from ideal for laying out a towel. The white sand near the ocean is an option, but only for about 30 minutes before the scorching sun becomes unbearable.
The view is an uninterrupted line where the ocean meets the sky. On clear days, you might make out the outline of Lombok to the east. To the south, the vast expanse of ocean stretching 3,000 kilometers makes Australia invisible.
A large triangular rock, about 40 meters high and covered with sparse vegetation, is a distinctive feature near the eastern end of the beach. It’s set about 50 meters offshore, its narrow profile slightly breaking the waves and tempering the tides. This beach leaves an impression even on the most indifferent visitors. It’s wild, raw, and untamed—a perfect reflection of its location in the middle of the ocean, just south of the equator in the Southern Hemisphere.
Access to this beach is not easy. It’s for those willing to risk a fall from the cliff or those with their own yachts—though the latter group rarely seeks out such places.
The combination of ocean, sun, a narrow 30-meter strip of white sand, boulders hinting at the instability of the cliffs, aquamarine water stretching to the horizon, and a sheer 150-meter cliff separating it from the rest of the world creates an unparalleled experience. It’s like being on a deserted island for a few hours—no signal, no outside help.
Walking this path frequently would tempt fate, but visiting once every few months offers a powerful, authentic experience. Thoughts of the return journey linger in the back of the mind. A sudden rainstorm could make the trail even more treacherous. Earthquakes, which are a daily occurrence in this part of the world, could also complicate things. Best not to think too much about it.
Swimming here with large waves and no possibility of rescue might seem reckless, but it’s not all bad. The waves are overwhelming in the shallows, but deeper water oddly feels less turbulent, allowing you to drift with the rhythm of the sea. It’s better than dealing with the debris of coral fragments, shells, and rocks—some weighing several kilograms—that batter your feet as the waves toss them onto the shore and back out again.
The waves’ undertow can be unsettling at first, dragging you seaward. Resisting is futile, but after a while, another wave pushes you safely back. After a few cycles, panic subsides—you learn to trust the rhythm. Larger waves that crest and form air pockets inside are more challenging. In such cases, the only option is to duck underwater and wait for the wave to pass overhead; otherwise, you’ll be spun around and left disoriented. The ocean has a rhythm—stronger waves followed by weaker ones, repeating endlessly.
Tourists appear occasionally, though not in large numbers. They’re typically young, thrill-seeking individuals. Their faces show excitement, proud of their daring descent yet hesitant about entering the water. With no lifeguards, their caution is warranted. Only those with experience—or those acting thoughtlessly—venture into the surf.
During high tide, the beach reportedly disappears beneath the water. It would be a significant disappointment to undertake half the journey only to find no beach at all and have to turn back. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to verify from the top, as the beach isn’t visible from there.
Suwehan Beach could be an icon of Nusa Penida, but in a different world. In the current one, it doesn’t sell itself in its rough, unpolished form. There’s no beer, no coconuts, no loungers, no umbrellas. It’s not advertised on maps and remains somewhat forgotten. Hopefully, it stays that way. Let Diamond Beach and Kelingking be the island’s postcards—they’re stunning, but Suwehan has an unmatched wild character.