Six Weeks In Indonesia: The Bali Experience

When I was younger and I thought of Indonesia, I thought Bali. I thought fancy beachfront property and yoga resorts. I thought Eat, Pray, Love.

Now, at age 25, I know Indonesia is much more than Bali. Bali is just one of Indonesia’s thousands of islands.

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When we started our trip, when I landed in the Denpasar airport, I was a bit angry at how westernized and developed this island was. The first time I visited Indonesia, back in October in Sumatra, my airport experience was so different. I felt culture shock. There, I was out of place, naked wearing shorts in a Muslim country. So this time around, when I was better prepared, I rolled my eyes at the ignorant women wearing backless shirts and mini skirts with too high heels. I didn’t feel like I was walking into Indonesia. I felt like I was walking into Hawaii. I guess I’d failed to realize how Hollywood Bali has become.

My idea of travel extends far beyond relaxation with sea, sun, and sand. I want to feel something. I crave the shock. I don’t like walking down a street with a stream of other tourists passing shops designed to absorb tourism dollars with stockpiles of Buddha statues. So, our first days in the popular destination of Ubud, with its famous rice terraces and monkey temple, did not amuse me. Sure, I was interested in the whole health food movement. But I wasn’t wowed by a viewpoint lined by cafes where handfuls of travelers took the same photo in front of the green backdrop. And I wasn’t wowed by the exploitation of monkeys in the forest where tourists paid to hold a banana so they could get a notorious photo of a primate on their shoulder.

So, realizing this place didn’t match our vibe, we quickly moved on. We found our type of destination that really felt like home-a little surfer town called Canggu. I’d been introduced to the place by word of mouth from friends I met while volunteering in Thailand. With their wisdom, our whole Bali experience changed for the better.

I was able to reconnect with one of the girls, who was still traveling with her boyfriend, at a neat hostel with a responsible tourism focus. Here, at Farmer’s Yard, it was like we had roommates.  The growing garden extended into a great common space and a kitchen equipped with rap battles and instrumental beats. As a base for daytrips to Immigration for our visa extension and another coastal town, we’d really started to find our groove in our Indonesia trip. We spent the days exploring by motorbike and relaxing in the company of newfound friends. We were invited to the neighbors wedding. We chilled out and appreciated the waves, watching our friends ride while the sun was setting.

And then we were introduced to an island off the mainland. An island I want to scream on the top of the rooftops because it’s so amazing. But I know it should be kept secret, hidden from the commercialization and development the rest of Bali feels. I’ve heard it’s what Bali was like 60 years ago, before tourism hit like a wrecking ball. All I can say is that it was true paradise.

We arrived without accommodation, purposefully, knowing that our friends had slept on the beach. When we got to the beautiful bay, with the sun setting and our tummies rumbling, we had a little unease that there was no restaurant. But we were offered coconuts and cup a noodle soup, and soon invited to sleep under a hut. The son and father started moving a table for us to lie on, cushioned with a yoga mat. And when they realized it was a little short, they grabbed another table to make it just right.  

The hospitality and kindness was off the charts. Later that night, the son was admiring my many bracelets and pointed at one saying, “Mine?” I knew the language barrier was making his statement come off much stronger than he meant. And for a split second, I selfishly thought there was no way I was giving up one of my prized possessions. But then I thought about how willing they were to provide us a place to stay, and how I needed to return the favor, even if that meant letting go of one of my memories I carry on my wrist. So I handed it over with a smile. And was glad to see later in the week that he wore it with pride, showing it off to friends.

Although when I relayed this story to my brother he called me a hobo, I promise you we only slept this way one night. The rest of the days we joined the efforts of a bird conservation group on the island. In exchange for a couple hours of manual labor in the morning, we received many discounts from accommodation to ferry to rentals. The best part was a limitless supply of aloe to remedy our sun kissed skin!

In this beautiful place we spent the days motor biking up and around the picturesque island, with no high rises in sight. The coast was lined with seaweed farms and the streets were drying racks for their crop. We were directed by village women to hidden treks and secluded coves. We snorkeled coral reefs and climbed up a floating rock. We passed by a ceremony where the locals cheered us on like celebrities. We finished the nights off listening to the guitar, and experiencing the lunar eclipse which legend said was a faceless monster eating the moon. It was a truly unique experience on an island with only a handful of westerners.

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We ended our trip in Bali, back in Canggu where we were welcomed with familiar faces as if we had headed home. So maybe the trip didn’t start off how I imagined. But I think it all happened just right, because I was meant to have a realization about the type of travel that tickles my soul. I was meant to realize that even in an overdeveloped, tourist saturated destination, off the beaten track treasures can be found. However big of a stigma Bali has become, there’s still a true gem of Bali somewhere in there.

The Touch of a Healer

The moment she put her hand on my heart, I wanted to throw it off. I felt an immediate pull of energy, and I didn't want to feel exposed.

I didn't want to let go.

I had just returned from a chanting ceremony where the energy in the room reverberated through my body. There was an intense love in the air, and a feeling of infinite freedom. But when the lady on the left side began to recite her mantra, I immediately felt hurt. I was overwhelmed with sadness.

In listening to this sadness, whether it came from outside or within I was unsure. All I noticed was my unease and my unwillingness to sit with it. I just wanted the song to be over, I just wanted to halt this immense feeling of pressure on my chest. But the song kept going and there I sat, fidgety and unable to let the feeling pass. The heaviness loomed on me, and I didn't want to let it fully in.

A new player began their song, and I felt like I could finally breath again. I got into it, and moved and jibed with the uplifting beats. But I couldn't help but think that moments ago I had felt imprisoned and resistant. 

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I don't like to feel sad. I don't like to let my guard down. But when you've come to a point in awakening, you can't help but notice all your feelings. I can't help not to, at least.

So there I sat. Hours later. In a new space. Puzzled by my unwillingness to let the sadness in, or rather out. Unwilling to let my heart break. Unwilling to let my heart go. I couldn't even remember what we had been chanting about, was it Gopala? Was it Govinda? What were the words that had made me feel so broken?

And then I glanced up and saw the world map on the wall, in the living room of a friend of a friend. I looked at where I was, Australia, and I looked at where I was born, America. I looked at where all my family were. I looked at where all my friends were. The distance became so much more apparent. I imagined dotting the globe with all the people I've come to love. Scattered around the world.

While my surrounding company spoke, I dazed off and wondered what if I had stayed put in the USA? What if I had never left the confines of the United States border? Would all those dots move closer, blanketing me rather than spreading out thin? Would I feel more comforted?

And in that moment of coulda, woulda, shoulda she placed her hand on my heart. The hand I had wanted to tear off my skin.

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I'd met her when I was 19 years old. Her name was Gini.

My best friend and I had come to volunteer on her biodynamic farm in New South Wales. The moment I had seen a picture of Gini and her partner, Pete, on the workaway website I knew this was the loving place I wanted to go. I felt a connection to the words on the page, the description of a place of healing. I didn't even know what healing meant back then, but it sure enticed me.

Pete introduced us to the land, where he shared his practice of speaking to the vegetables and handling them with compassion and care. Gini showed us a gentle type of yoga called Dru and opened up about her experience with Reiki. It was all so new to me, but it all felt so natural.

Days were spent working, laughing, absorbing, relaxing. We suntanned by the lake. We hiked to the river. We journeyed to the tepee. And within a short two weeks, we were gone.

Gini and I kept in touch over the 5 years, not consistently, but the connection lasted. And in some moments of my life, at just the right times, she'd appear on my news feed as a beautiful reminder to the work being done at Ingelara.

She'd opened up my spiritual genes without me even realizing.

So in my voyage back to Australia, who did I know I needed to see but her. Her, who placed a hand on my heart without me even verbalizing much of my pain. Her, who kept that hand there until the tears slowly broke through. Her, who saw my struggle and opened it up wide.

Her, who recognized my role as a child of the universe.

It became clear while staring at that map, with tears leaking from my eyes end, with her hand hovering my chest, that I had attributed heartbreak with my nomadic lifestyle. And that I would have to let go. There was no going back, that was clear.

Because when you find your role in this life, when you really figure it out, it's what you have to do. You can question it, yes. You can be unsettled, yes. You can toss it aside, not really.

And in that moment, the guilt, the pressure, the doubt, it all seemed to ease.

I let go and I let be.

Walking Into Wilderland

Off the highway the broken path began. The first crossroad came earlier than expected as I managed my way over a broken bridge holding my breath, hoping it wouldn’t be it’s moment of collapse. And then the uphill battle began. My black yoga leggings, a size too large kept cinching low just as my fake ray bans slid down my nose in sweaty drips.

On any other day, roaming around the landscape, the walk would have been enjoyable. But with inappropriate clothing for a hot day, a 20 kg pack strapped to my back, and an uncomfortable side bag weighed down with my “essential” technology gadgets, the ascent was frustrating.

I had to remind myself that easy paths lead to ordinary destinations.

I had to remind myself that this is what I asked for, somewhere extreme, somewhere extraordinary.

I’d just finished spending the past two weeks in pure luxury, traveling to Australia and New Zealand with my parents. After being separated from them for ten months, my Mom and Dad had decided it was time to visit their nomadic daughter across the globe.

For me, it was a sudden change in perspective and pace, as I’d spent the prior four months backpacking and volunteering through Southeast Asia. I was used to sleeping in open-aired huts, friends beds, and hostel dormitories. With them, I’d find home in studio apartments, queen size mattresses, and flat screen TVS. I was used to public transportation, in the form of buses, trucks, and tuk tuks. With them, I’d be graced with airplanes, private cars, and yachts.

Although sudden, I so easily adapted to this opposite spectrum of life. Yes, I’m a backpacker, but I was definitely born a princess. Just as easily as I can eat a $1 toastie from 7-11, I can also prepare gourmet sandwiches with hummus and deli meat and tomato and cheese and onion and salt and pepper. I can sit in hundred(s) dollar seats watching professional tennis players like Venus Williams. I can snap tourist photos from the top of a double decker bus. I can take tours of the Sydney Opera House and absorb the history of a spectacular monument. I can order dinner without cringing at the prices- yes appetizer, yes dessert.

I could so easily transition into royalty, but in reversing the order and greeting the rugged life once again, I just wanted to give up.

As I bent down to tie my shoes, that 20kgs tested my balance and I went backwards sliding down the hill. Unbuckling my cargo, and throwing it aside, I found shade besides the trail and guzzled what was left of my water. I had managed to walk five minutes before ultimate frustration had taken effect.

Still, my only option was to move forward. I couldn’t let myself be that pathetic girl who admitted defeat by leaving my pack at the roadside shop. This walk was going to happen whether it took me until nightfall.

As negative thoughts rambled in my monkey mind, I held my breath and let out a deep exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Within minutes of mindful breathing, I recognized what was missing from this ‘disaster’ was a pure appreciation of the present moment.

Ok, I said, I’m twenty-four years old. I’m in New Zealand. I’m walking to a sustainable community.

And just like that, I began to trust the process. Doubt passed. Calm entered.

No, my pack did not miraculously become lighter. Actually, it became heavier as I decided moving my side bag into the backpack would make my stride a little less cumbersome. No, the heat did not retreat. No, the ascent did not level out.

The conditions of the journey remained the same. It was simply my intention of the journey that had changed. And it made all the difference.

An hour later I’d arrived. I had withstood some falls. I had enjoyed some roadside plum snacks. I had made it.

Strangers embraced me with hugs as I watched a pregnant lady walk barefoot with her belly exposed. One of my first introductions was to the composting toilet, where our human shit would transform into food for the soil. I would be living in the “Love Caravan” and I was allowed to eat whatever I could harvest from the garden.  

I had arrived to Hippieville, Wilderland they called it. I was exhausted. 

I unpacked my bag pleased that I wouldn’t be carrying it around, at least not for a while. I looked out over the bushland and on to the estuary.

And I smiled.