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.
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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.
