Return to Paradise

Or is it “Paradise Lost”? Bit ‘o both, I guess…

I last came to Bali 1991, the entire second half of my life ago. So far.

And the place, as I feared – as I knew – has changed enormously. Then again, so have I. Fair’s fair.

I decided to base myself again in the belly of the beast, the cultural center of Ubud. I was never a beach guy, and never will be. My only stint on a Balinese beach, in 10 weeks that were split between two visits, was in 1985, in the tiny east coast village of Candi Dasa, and even between 1985 and 1991, when we (I’ll get to that in a moment) stopped back in, it had changed literally beyond recognition.

In 1985, the beach, once a classic tropical beach, fringed by coconut palms and with colorful sailing boats on the horizon at morning, a lagoon surrounded by small warungs (restaurants) with only kerosene lamps for light at night, was a delight. We had discovered a place few had, and the lack of electricity (or running water) were, as we say these days, features, not bugs.

Speaking of bugs, the place was perhaps a bit too authentic; we ended our visit with solid cases of mosquito-borne dengue fever, a painful, disapppointing end to what had been an epic, 10-week sojourn in Southeast Asia, and four weeks on Bali.

When we returned in 1991, for a six-week mountain bike tour that saw us all over the island, the beach at Candi Dasa had been entirely swept away by the tides, since the Balinese had “mined” the coral reef for construction materials, thus destroying its protection. In its place were enormous concrete jettys built to preserve what little sand was still there. The result was so ugly, so shocking, and so tragic, that I couldn’t even bear to take pictures.

I had wished I hadn’t gone back.

For 35 years, I have felt that way about Bali as a whole, as reports coming back uniformly describe a paradise lost, a place destroyed by its own popularity among Instagram influencers, yoga “goddesses” and digital nomads, along with beach lovers from the world ‘round.

And yet…I used to say that my three favorite places in the world – hey, I’m a rock guy, we love doing charts and lists – were New York City, Black Rock City (home of Burning Man) and Bali. And I had good reason: This volcanic island, different even from surrounding Indonesia, is utterly unique in the world, a place of deep culture and magnificent, impossibly green landscapes, epic mountains and a Hindu and Buddhist cultural heritage with few paralells in the world.

Plus, some really incredibly nice people.

So I booked nine nights in Sayan, a village near Ubud, where we – my ex-wife and I – stayed on our last trip here. (Not the same place, I’m not that nostalgic.) It’s enough removed from Ubud, which I’d heard is completely overrun, but still in the center of things. And away from the traffic, daily life feels much the same as decades ago.

Ubud is well and truly overrun, but my place is a lovely bungalow in a beautiful garden. All I hear during the day are a gamelan orchestra practising at the temple next door, crickets and paddy frogs at night, and the crowing of cocks in the (very early) morning. My walk to my morning coffee – after a fresh coconut and the traditional breakfast of black rice pudding, brought to my veranda – is through a little forest, over a creek and past gloriously beautiful rice paddies.

And the wifi is good. I don’t miss the lack of electricty at all, and I’m enjoying my hot showers. And in five days, I haven’t seen a single other guest, so at least while I’m here, I can pretend that this is my own private bungalow.

But when I venture out, it’s quite a different story: Ubud is a traffic nightmare, a tourist disaster. There is near-gridlock all through the day, since the two main roads of the town remain barely wide enough to be two-way, and sidewalks are iffy at best. It’s like being in Saigon, but tighter.

Last night, on the way to the emergency room – I’ll get to that in a second – I was in the back of my Grab car (it was raining, and it feels safer to be in traffic than walking along side it). The road down to Mas (where the hospital has a Catscan) used to feel like an adventure to another town: A village of maskmakers and painters, with roadside warungs (eateries) and rice paddies on either side. Now it’s a long line of shops with all the latest tourist and “goddess” fashions, and spectacular-looking restaurants. Beautifully designed, they make even Saigon’s rather grand attempts at immodest architecture pale. Some are quite beautiful; were there not so damned MANY of them, I’d probably appreciate them more.

And having eaten in even just the modest (but modern, Western) places near my bungalow, I have to say that the thing that has actually improved about Bali is the food: Back in the day, there was one “fancy” (ie Western) restaurant, and everything else was typical cheap traveler fare of the time: Banana pancakes, smoothies and the local food: gado-gado, nasi goreng and such. Decent, sometimes wonderful, food, but rarely spectacular compared with other countries in the area, like Thailand or Malaysia. And “Bali belly” was a well-known phenomenon (but still preferably to dengue fever).

Nowadays, the food is remarkaby good, and still well-priced. I can get a nice three course meal that included some delicious bone marrow with peppers, a ceasar salad and some nice gyoza for about $7. And service that is, as with most things in Bali, done with a beautiful smile. The vegan restaurant in which I write this has absolutely delicious food, better than most restaurants I’ve eaten in Europe or the US, and at a fraction of the price.

So, Bali has changed, and so have I. I’m not one to denigrate other people’s travel choices (anymore). I’m sure lots of people are out having authentic cultural experiences in the hinterland when they’re not dining and working on their laptops in the AC (he says as he drinks a kale smoothie and writes on his laptop). No judgement.

But it’s really different here, and the traffic, well…I had my own literal run-in with that yesterday. (I’ll get to it!)

Cliche time: You can’t go home again. And it was never home anyway. And I like my comforts more than I did back in the day, when I stayed in places for $3 a night and bathed with the cold water mandis, and had zero communication with back home. Travel, Bali, the world, and I have changed.

The key for me, this time, is just to stay away from central Ubud, and from Candi Dasa, and as always, the whole west coast “riviera” of the island, from old Kuta Beach (which has now apparently suffered the environmental fate of Candi Dasa, thanks to an extended runway at the airport) up to the hip newer enclaves in Chengu and so on and so forth.

I can’t be bothered. Never could.

But I did ride my bike up to the volcano of Mount Batur yesterday, an epic road ride that, once one gets out of the Ubud area – which takes awhile in bumper-to-bumper traffic – one finds Bali to be much the same as it ever was. The Balinese, even in the mountains, remain friendly, chatty and helpful. As I found when I went down later.

(Historical note: Next week marks the 100th anniversary of the biggest modern erupution of Mount Batur in 1926, and despite the heavy fog and clouds at the 1500 meter (5000 foot) lip of the crater, I could still see the old lava flows that rehaped the caldera and buried the main temple 100 years ago. I rode down in some of the way, but with rain coming, and a big fat ride down in uncertain weather, I didn’t go all the way in.

After descending in the drizzle (and a tanktop, another rookie tourist move), I arrived back in the Ubud area to the usual dense traffic and my little tussle with gravity. (Spoiler: Gravity won.)

Bali is notorious for tourists making bad decisions on motorbikes, and though I once did 500 miles around the island on a mountain bike, this time I was not immune. I was having great fun roaring down the long narrow road that climbs to the volcano, with wonderfully few vehicles, and by the time I got back into the Ubud area, I was ready to tackle the insane traffic. Following the lead of local bikers, I was regularly crossing in and out of oncoming traffic to make a little extra time, something I would NEVER do on a bike at home. But it’s nice to get out from behind that huge truck belching diesel exhaust into one’s face.

I was doing so well.

Until suddenly, I wasn’t. Went flying, just a bit. Not over the handlebars, mind you; more around. Either way, I ended up on the ground, my head giving the asphalt a good whack (yay helmets!) and splayed across a lane of traffic that was not any more enthusastic about my situation than I was.

But a nice Balinese guy helped me up, put the cap back on my gushing gas tank (I had the presence of mind to wave off the guy coming to help with a lit cigarette in his hand, thanks but NO!), and soon enough, I was on my way. Bruised, bleeding a bit and somewhat slightly dazed (as the old Bowie title had it) – not to mention thoroughly embarassed – but with the worst wound being to my pride.

Later, though, my head seemed a little…swimmy…so at the suggestion of a local acquaintance, I went to the emergency room – my second such visit this year – and added another flag to my world map of medical adventures that spans the globe from France to Berlin to Greece to Afghanistan to Saigon and now, to Bali. Not a flag I was eager to plant.

But there’s nothing like visiting local health facilities to get an authentic sense of a place. The first hospital didn’t have a CT scan, which they said I needed. So off to the hospital in Mas, where I walked into a completely empty emergency room, itself surprising. After a thorough check – follow my finger, describe the accident, look up, look down – by a charming young lady doctor, I filled out paperwork and… was sent on my way. When I went to pay the agreed-upon $47, she said “No charge.” Now that’s hospitality!

If I’m going to have health problems, at least it was a pleasant, and cheap, experience! Still: Twice in one year is enough.

So…cognisant of the signs of concussion, I went home and to bed, and woke up this morning to the sounds of the frogs and crowing cocks: Another day in paradise, with only a few scratches, but no bruising.

Let it suffice to say, the Bali I left 35 years ago is as gone as the self I left here 35 years ago – until I got here, I had forgotten the terrible panic attack I had, which almost ruined the trip, and foreshadowed big changes that would soon engulf me and my marriage.

But that’s another story! Perhaps there needs to be a part two to this? For now though, my vegan dinner has arrived, and I’m all typed out!

Onward!

PS - After I wrote this, I heard about the death-by-motorcycle (ok, got it!) of Irish singer/songwriter Glen Hansard. I can’t say I was a fan, though I always liked what I heard, and he had a great swagger (and beard) and I was moved, as were many people, by his duet performance (with co-composer Markéta Irglová) of “Falling Slowly” from the film Once.

Its opening lines were particularly striking:

I don’t know you

But I want you

All the more for that

But there’s another song of his that I always liked even more, the epic rocker “Didn’t He Ramble.” It’s Hansard’s considerable re-imagining of an old New Orleans jazz standard, with roots even deeper than that…it was played after funerals, once the procession got into the street, and the party began. The old ones reallly do resonate, don’t they? Even the new versions of the old ones…

Didn’t he ramble

Didn’t he roam

Didn’t he wander so far from his home

And didn’t he go down in the dark for too long

And lo we look good now

Singing his song.

Didn’t he teach us

Didn’t we learn

Didn’t he reach out beyond all return

And didn’t he go down

Take it all to the grave

And don’t we fare well now

With the choice that he made.

Rest in Peace, Brother Glen.

https://youtu.be/82U9CCjlcJA?si=TKLuoqqEh94k5Cg8