My wife and I are sitting in the departure lounge at I Gusti Ngurah Rai, Bali’s international airport (named after a hero of the Indonesian independence movement and an exemplar of Balinese culture and sacrifice).
We are enjoying a few minutes of stillness, though not exactly quiet, the end of a well-oiled routine that unfolds over a few days — mentally preparing to leave, savouring the rice fields by day and by night, packing the suitcases, checking the online departures board, being driven to the airport, checking in, navigating the scanners and the smart gates, then the waiting.
It’s all very familiar (we’ve done this many times over the last decade or so) but it still feels surreal — leaving the bubble that is Bali and preparing to return to Perth. Or, as I’ve come to call it, “preparing to re-enter the Earth’s atmosphere”.
For Bali is not just another country; it’s another world.
There are, admittedly, two Balis — Tourist Bali and Old Bali. We try our best to avoid the former — the coastal resorts, the shopping malls and the endless street markets flogging cheap clothing and footwear, and a hundred varieties of penis-shaped bottle openers. But we are smitten by the latter — the rice fields, the ducks, the unhurried rhythms of village life and the Balinese people.
I read somewhere that the difference between a tourist and a pilgrim is that the tourist passes through the land whereas the land passes through the pilgrim. This lush fertile land. These glistening rice-fields. That UNESCO-recognised Subak irrigation system, over 1000 years old.
There is something enchanting about the endless cycles of irrigating, planting, watching the rice grow, watching the teams of men and women harvesting, then the ducks foraging for insects, the draining of the fields, the burning of the stalks, and finally the brief period where the land lies fallow before replanting. Three crops each year, year-in year-out. Each farmer out there at dawn on his own, quietly tending his crop. Then a hundred or so ducks, the stars of the show as far as we’re concerned, moving as one at the direction of the duck-herder.
And these people. These gentle welcoming people who survived the Dutch invaders of the last century and maintain their Hindu-Buddhist culture in predominantly Muslim Indonesia, their greatest threat now being the onslaught of Western commercialism.
Tourism is now the main driver of their economy, but somehow Old Bali (ceremony, ritual and tradition) survives, and it’s what draws pilgrims from all over the world. Walk down the main street of Ubud for 50 metres and you’re likely to hear several different languages. Stand on the edge of a village ceremony and you’re likely to see dozens of Westerners sitting cross-legged on the ground in their sarongs, next to their Balinese hosts, spellbound.
How come? I’m no anthropologist but it seems to me that there are some obvious things about this place, and these people, worth noting.
The first thing you see, if you look closely at village life, is that life there is “all of a piece”. The individual, the family, the extended family, and then the village, are like a set of Russian dolls. Each component fits within a larger context. Everyone knows where they belong and with whom they belong.
At the heart of this is their religious observance. They think nothing of stopping the traffic (or at the very least re-routing it) for the sake of a village ceremony, and a ceremonial procession is a sight to behold — men, women and children in temple costumes, with drums and percussion leading the way and the women’s heads laden with temple offerings. And, on a smaller scale, family compounds typically house three or four generations around a family temple, and religious ritual is central to their shared life.
This social cohesion is evident at every level of village life and it contrasts starkly with our own social fragmentation. It even shows up in how they conduct themselves on the road. Somehow, they manage to meld and weave seamlessly, and they are unfailingly courteous and patient. Even the toot of a horn is gentle and more often for safety’s sake than to insist on right-of-way.
The other main thing you notice is that what matters most to the Balinese is not acquiring more stuff or seeking more status, but being grateful for what they have. Many of them are quite enterprising, but it’s typically for the common good and for the next generation. It is a world where enough is truly enough and they freely share whatever they have.
But not all visitors see this. Most don’t sit still long enough to notice. Some go to Bali and hardly leave their resort. Or, if they do venture out, they can’t see past the broken pavement or the open drains or the traffic jams. You either love Bali or you hate it. It either draws you in, or spits you out.
The Balinese have their challenges, of course, like every culture. In some areas, rice fields are contracting as locals realise they can make more money from building and letting out villas than from farming. But, somehow, something of Old Bali still survives, and the foreigners keep coming.
My wife calls Bali her upside-down world, a place where Western values and ways of doing things is tipped on its head. Everything we take for granted in the West — rules, regulations, efficiencies and entitlements — do not apply. Instead, they operate on basic principles of simplicity, courtesy, goodwill and the common good. They have a fundamental connection to nature and a deep acceptance of their circumstances.
Admittedly not all villages are the same. Some seem to be happier and more welcoming than others. We base ourselves in Penestanan (at Devi’s Place, a collective of villas), about 10 minutes west of Ubud, overlooking the Sayan rice fields, and from there we venture out on day trips and road trips. Despite the congestion of downtown Ubud, it is still the cultural and spiritual heart of Bali, and the surrounding villages are each steeped in the arts. I wasn’t surprised when I learnt that the name Ubud means “place of healing”.
Having the same home-base each time means that we settle in fairly quickly and reconnect regularly with Balinese friends and our favourite restaurants. It also means we are readily invited into ceremonies, weddings and funerals. And yet, after doing this for many years, we still feel like we’ve hardly scratched the surface of Bali.
A few days before we left to come home to Perth, we were sitting outside having a late afternoon drink. High in the sky we noticed black shapes ducking and diving. My wife counted 19 kites which means that on the end of those strings were at least 19 Balinese boys and girls, watching their kites dance, zoned-out like us for an hour or so, hypnotised by the invisible magic of wind.
That night, after dinner, we sat out there again and gazed at the night sky. The more I gazed, the more I saw — sprays of light, clusters and lone stars, bright and dim. Another hour of so of “doing nothing” but really doing something we hardly ever do at home — savouring the silence and the mystery of what lies out there.
A quiet melancholy descends on us each time we leave Bali — that simple unhurried world and those warm welcoming people. The flight home is about three and a half hours, just long enough to know that you’ve been somewhere different but not so long that you arrive home exhausted. It’s a kind of liminal space between the world we’ve just left and the one that awaits us.
On the plane, I often glance out the window at the endless sea and the different cloud formations, then the changes in the landscape — the arid north of WA, then the outline of vast pastoral stations, then smaller greener farms, the Avon Valley and the hills, then suburbia and the giant sheds near the airport, and then the landing lights. I love the feeling of the wheels hitting the tarmac and those amazing brakes that suck you forward. Home!
Coming home is still my favourite part of travelling. With every safe landing something in me lets out a sigh of relief and deep gratitude. But just as it takes a few days to really “land” in Bali and begin to adjust to life there, the process of re-entering life in Perth also takes a few days, or more.
Beyond the familiar routines of unpacking, washing clothes, getting organised and picking up your life where you left off, there is a lingering feeling in the heart that takes longer to fade. It’s hard to put into words, but I would say it’s the taste of something deeply good and deeply simple.
Perth is our home, and I take none of it for granted. I’m a fifth generation Western Australian, and I know how lucky I am to live here. But lately I’ve realised that this is Home #1, and over recent years we’ve been gifted with what I now call Home #2, Bali.
Only a few hours away, but really a world away.
Noel Giblett
Editor’s note
Subak is a democratic co-operative water management system. Based on the Tri Hita Karana philosophy, Subak balances the requirements of people, nature and the divine.
A network of temples manages the watershed and priests decide how water should be distributed through canals.
Rice growers collectively manage and share water rather than owning it individually. This ensures its equitable distribution.
Terraces prevent soil erosion. Heavy machinery and fossil-fuel derived chemicals are not needed.
Stephen Scourfield
