Bali Diaries I

I've been to Bali almost ten times throughout my life. Hence the territories between Denpasar, Kuta, Ubud and Amed are as familiar to me as the land expanses within my hometown of Raub, Pahang. My parents fell in love with Bali during their world wandering years, and the people they've met during their various visits have become more than foreign acquaintances, closer to relatives. In this sense, a part of me has grown up in Bali, as Bali grows too. 

And boy, has Bali grown. 

The first surprise dawned the moment we stepped into Angkasapura Airport in Denpasar. Even in my sleep huddled haze I was amazed to see the glistening marble pillars, the shiny steel barricades, the chrome glass partitions. What was once a quaint rough stone airport became just like any other modern glass transition in different countries around the world. And in this manner, so has many of the attractions in Bali succumbed.

Traffic aside, walking along the congested streets of Tegalalang now would welcome you to a crowd made up of 80% tourists, at any time of the year. Stalls in Kuta that used to sell original wooden handcrafts have been replaced by the likes of Pandora and Polo Ralph Lauren; a large, beautiful Starbucks, secured in air condition, watches over a busy Ubud road; photos of famous terrace paddy fields or the Jimbaran sunset would be dotted with various people and souvenier shops.

“In its chase to become attractive, Bali has lost its true attraction,” a quote found in a book by a local writers group. Having been there, before the large four lane highways were constructed, before the popular Eat Pray Love was filmed, before the International Marathons, a part of me understands the sentiment. But in light of this, it should be acknowledged that Bali’s economy thrives on tourism. The presence foreigners alone have allowed its agricultural expansion and technological growth, providing ample work opportunities for locals.

But what Bali used to be, really, was a mysterious charm that hummed into the quiet forests, the slow dance of incense smoke. It was a small lantern-lit maze of lanes snaking through Monkey Forest; dirt paths etched across paddy fields; the continuous knock of a carpenter’s metal on wood; the long line of fisherman coming to shore with the pink dawn. You would look through a large ornately carved doorway and see a glimpse of the tropics, flickering in candle light; gigantic trees would be draped with ceremonial fabrics; and in pagodas, young girls with solemn expressions practicing the dance of Ramayana epics.

Admittedly, not all of it has faded, perhaps only a large portion altered slightly with foreign splashes. The other parts, the rural, quiet ones, still retain an air of self-sustenance. If you ever go to Bali take the smaller road, the ones where there’s an old shirtless lady sitting on dusty steps, where men carry logs on rattling motorcycles. Find the back alleys behind the Italian cafes and grand art bazaars, see the land beyond the famous rice fields, stay in the small family hotel minutes after the international resort.