Bali, Why?

I’ve spent a fair bit of time puzzling over why people have such a positive mental image of Bali. Before my trip, if I mentioned my plans to visit Indonesia to anyone, I received mostly indifferent looks. Say the word “Bali,” though, and it’s a different story. Bali evokes paradise. But why? It’s one of literally thousands of islands in Indonesia, and it seems like no one even knows that it isn’t its own country.

I recently helped a friend plan a trip to Bali. After booking the flight, he began to do research. While trying to help pinpoint areas of the island for him to visit, I asked him: “Well, what made you book the flight in the first place? What is it about Bali that drew you to this particular island?”

He shrugged. “I guess, when I think of a place that is just perfect, it would be Bali.”

I arrived in Bali after a tremendous time in Java, really immersing myself in the local culture there. I found the Javanese to be incredibly welcoming, curious, and hospitable. In Bali, I chose the northern village of Pemuteran for my first stop. I knew I wanted to avoid the touristy southern beaches, and I have no interest in surfing, so it was to be the north for me, with its calm waves. Pemuteran was described as a “sleepy fishing village,” which I suppose it was, but tourism has definitely made its mark there. It’s literally a one-street town, but it’s peppered with honeymoon-ish restaurants and dive shops. The black sand beach is pretty enough and the water is good for swimming. We took a snorkeling trip to Menjangan Island, where we saw barracuda, schools of batfish, clownfish, blue starfish the size of my head, parrotfish of all shapes and sizes, giant blue clams, and much more among the well-kept coral reefs. Everything was spectacular, and yet I felt a bit hollow. I had a hard time drilling down into the spirit of Bali. It all felt a little manufactured, the frangipani and the banana pancakes and the tropical cocktails.

It didn’t get better with our drive to Ubud, the so-called cultural heart of Bali. We hired a driver to take us around the interior of Bali on the way to Ubud; I’d done my research on what I wanted to see along the way, but Ketut, our driver, tried to thwart me at every turn. “You want drink Kopi Luwak?” he’d say hopefully for the five hundredth time, after I affirmed, tiredly, yet again, that no, I have no interest in putting my tourist dollars toward an industry that keeps civets in cages, forcing them to eat coffee beans so Westerners can delight in trying a far-too-expensive cup of coffee.

We managed to come to an agreement on visiting a clove plantation in Munduk, which was gorgeous. Sinead and I savored cups of local tea overlooking the mountains—a lovely moment, until Ketut sat down and tried to hustle us into taking us to a lunch spot he knew about, a bargain for “only 100,000 rupiah.” I sighed as I recalled delicious 15,000 rupiah meals of mie goreng (fried noodles) in Java.

And he tried his darnedest to stop us from going to Pura Ulun Danu Bratan, a water temple I’d had my eye on. Why? I don’t know. It was gorgeous.

It was the first time I’d really felt the tourist hustle in southeast Asia, and Ubud wasn’t any better at first. I expected Ubud to be touristy—this is the home of Eat, Pray, Love, after all. And it’s quite built up, indeed. For some bizarre reason there are Polo Ralph Lauren shops on nearly every block, and it’s tough to ignore the constant chatter of touts saying “taksi? taksi?” with every step. The famous Yoga Barn is a joke: could be transplanted from LA, with its hordes of acrobatic western yogis sipping kale and twirling their dreadlocks.

But at the same time, there’s an energy here that I’m connecting to. It is faint, but it is there. I found it in a silent herbal sauna in the rice fields, as I spent the evening moving between the steam, a saltwater pool, and a bonfire under a full moon, sipping ginger tea. I see it in the extended family in my Balinese homestay compound, where my host’s mother spends her days intricately weaving bamboo offerings and lighting incense in the family temple. And I hear it in the sounds of little boys beating their drums and dancing the barong dance up and down the streets, celebrating the triumph of good over evil.

Bali is a long, long way from the United States, and I’m not sure I’ve seen the evidence that the trip is worth it—partly because it’s over-touristed, and partly because there are so many beautiful islands so much closer. But at the same time, there’s a certain heartbeat of Hinduism, a sprinkling of magic, a unique aspect of a culture clinging to its own identity as just one Hindu island in a nation of thousands, that is making me glad to be here.