Bali High?

I'm on my motorbike weaving through the back roads Uluwatu when it hits me. Not a thought, just a feeling. A sense of recognition mixed with a sigh. Thirty years ago, this was only jungle. Dense, untouched, the kind of green that swallows sound. Now, it’s a mix of surf shops, cafes, luxury villas, and fitness facilities, connected by narrow winding pathways, with lots of roosters, dogs, monkeys, and overgrown foliage. A ripped guy in a tank top carrying a gym bag steps off the curb without looking. I swerve and almost wreck. He doesn't flinch.

I've seen this place through two very different sets of eyes. The first pair belonged to a twenty-something freshly starting a career in adventure travel. Hungry, easily triggered, convinced he was discovering something the world hadn't noticed yet. The current pair belong to a fifty-seven-year-old in the twilight of my career. More jaded, sure. But also more at peace. The first version of me wanted to consume Bali. This version just wants to sit with it.

Bali remains an enigma. I once wrote an article about Laos as the "Friendliest Place on Earth." Bali may have surpassed the Laotians. I knew this thirty years ago, but I see it differently now. The Balinese seem to exist in a deeper state of awareness and presence, so when someone is actually there with them, fully present, there's a spark of recognition. A quiet nod between frequencies. When someone is not — demanding, ordering them around, treating them like scenery — the Balinese are gentle, accommodating, and completely unbothered. They don't absorb the chaos. They let it pass through them like weather. It's brilliant to watch. Their smiles are genuine.

Mind you, there are a lot of demanding sorts all over Bali. This has always been challenging to accept. The island welcomes tourism en masse, yet I don't think the Balinese are getting a fair slice of the pie. I did some digging and it appears that roughly 85% of tourism-related businesses are foreign-owned. That includes Javanese, so some of that money stays in Indonesia. But Bali is so culturally distinct from the rest of the archipelago that it still feels off. Eighty percent of all jobs on the island are tourism-related. So the people who make Bali what it is are almost entirely dependent on an industry they barely own. That math bothers me.

It was clear in the 90s that the chaos was coming. Kuta was already spilling toward Legian and Seminyak. Aussie party-goers were everywhere and the Balinese tolerated them, welcomed them, profited where they could. Ubud drew gentler crowds but was clearly on the climb. Jimbaran and Sanur catered to the upscale set who wanted Bali without the mess.

What happened next is what happens when a culture rooted in spiritual harmony meets unchecked global tourism money. And the Balinese handled it the way they handle most things — they adapted, they accommodated, and they kept their ceremonies going regardless.

Jakarta has always treated Bali as its golden goose. Too valuable to ignore, too culturally distinct to fully understand. Tourism regulation in Indonesia has been, to put it diplomatically, inconsistent. Zoning laws exist on paper. Enforcement is a joke. For decades, the approach was basically: let the money flow, figure out the consequences later. Foreign investment poured in through nominee structures and local partnerships. Technically, foreigners can't own land in Bali. In practice, anyone with a lawyer and a willing local partner has been sidestepping that rule since the 80s. Worst-kept secret in Southeast Asian real estate.

The building boom accelerated through the 2000s and went absolutely nuclear after Eat, Pray, Love turned Ubud into a pilgrimage for every Westerner with a broken heart and a yoga mat. That book did more for Bali's real estate market than any government initiative in history. Rice paddies farmed by the same families for generations were suddenly worth more as villa plots than they'd produce in a lifetime of harvests. And the families sold. Of course they did. When someone offers you fifty years of rice farming income in a single transaction, the math isn't complicated. It's just heartbreaking in retrospect.

Canggu went from a sleepy surf village to a sprawling digital nomad colony seemingly overnight. One year it's a dirt road to Echo Beach, the next it's bumper-to-bumper scooter traffic past co-working spaces and villas stacked so close you can hear your neighbor's Zoom call. Uluwatu followed suit. Seminyak merged with Kerobokan into one continuous strip of boutiques, cocktail bars, and construction noise.

And then there's Kuta. The strip that launched a thousand Australian gap years now feels like a place time forgot. Streets that were packed in the 90s have a faded, post-party emptiness. Shops half-shuttered. Hotels that haven't seen a renovation since the bombings. The tourists didn't disappear. They just followed the Instagram algorithm somewhere else.

The pandemic blew the whole thing wide open. When tourism evaporated in 2020, the places with actual communities bounced back. Ubud had its wellness crowd, Canggu had its remote workers, Uluwatu had the surf set. Kuta had nobody. Jakarta has since started making noise about sustainability. Moratoriums on hotel permits, crackdowns on illegal villas, tourist taxes. Some of it's real. Most of it is theater.

So what did I actually find on the ground?

I spent time in both Ubud and Uluwatu on this trip. Two distinctly different places with one thing in common: a lot of foreigners calling it home for long stretches and a whole ecosystem of businesses built around them. For me and my physical healing journey, it's been perfect. Need a protein-heavy diet? Easy. Yoga, sauna, cold plunge on every corner? Yup. A café with a decent flat white and fast enough Wi-Fi to plow through work? Pick a direction and throw a rock.

The difference is the vibe. Ubud still has some Bali in it. The spiritual energy is real, not performed. Step outside the downtown tourist core and you can feel it. Nyuh Kuning in particular is a gem. Lots of local energy but enough cool shit to call it temporary home.

Uluwatu is another animal. Surf bruh and gym bro energy, with a side of instagram "look at me" that seeps into everything. Pretty people, fit bodies, the particular brand of casual arrogance that happens when surf lineup bravado meets fitness fanatic ego. I don't hate it. I've met lovely people here, and the month I spent riding jungle roads on my motorbike has been genuinely freeing. But there's a hollowness to it. A place built entirely for consumption without much connection to the culture it sits on top of. Pounding a nitro cold brew on leg day followed by steaks and an ice bath is a perfectly fine Tuesday, but you could be anywhere. You could be in Miami. And that's the problem.

I'm pulling up stakes a week early to head to Gili Air for a proper beach escape. Uluwatu's beaches are spectacular for surfing but frustrating for everything else. Reefs, cliff hikes, crowds. I need to unplug, read, swim, paddle, and decompress before heading home for the summer.

And yet. I'm still drawn to this place. This first trip back, I think I needed to get something out of my system. Thirty years of accumulated nostalgia crashing into present-day reality. There's so much more here that would fit my sensibility. Nyuh Kuning was close. Might be my place. The beauty of travel is that you keep looking, gathering experience and knowledge along the way. You don't have to solve a place on the first pass. You just show up with eyes open enough to know when something fits.

I'll find my Bali high. I'm just not done looking.