Bidding farewell to Bali

Why I'm leaving Bali after five years

Last year

Yuri Bezmenov

published a farewell note entitled Escape from New York: 2023, which he described as “the longest, most emotionally taxing post I have ever written.” It’s a brilliant if rather melancholy bit of script, and one that inspired a missive of my own. I too am leaving a place, although for very different reasons than the former Soviet dissident reimagined as Substackian thought leader.

Bali, my home for the last five years, hasn’t been decimated by anti-human, second-order-effects-don’t-exist policy as NYC has. Rather, the island is being suffocated under the gelatinous folds of too many people unshackled from the office. Work from home means work from Bali, and we’re experiencing a migration of nomads on par with the California gold rush. The Island of the Gods has always been a zoo, but now it’s a zoo where rabid tigers nip at your unguarded fingers and fire-eyed monkeys yank your wallet out of jeans as soon as you’re through the turnstile.

“I used to know people around here,” my Australian friend, a Bali resident of twenty plus years, shared with me at my going away dinner. We were at a Mexican restaurant with below-average food which for inexplicable reasons the in-crowd has decided is the place to see and be seen. I looked, oh Lord how I searched, and unless the maître de had tucked her away behind a decorative plant I couldn’t clap eyes on a single woman who wasn’t magnetic to the male gaze. Gorgeous women don’t make me bitter, but I also don’t feel at home in places where the people are so aesthetically perfect. These standards do not reflect reality at large. Bali is the new Soho, and I’m more of a Williamsburg type guy; I sleep better when there’s a river between me and the socialites.

Some neighborhoods in Bali, like Ubud and Canggu, were hollowed out by the pretentious years ago. Their neighborial souls sucked dry by ten-thousand unremorseful vanity addicts, in their wake excreting swaths of wine and cheese bars and brunch specials. Boutique shops selling outfits that cost more than most Indonesians earn in a month. Tattoo parlors, restaurants with tall ceilings and inclusive cocktail lists, and shops selling nothing but hats. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

The Canggu look

Ubud or Canggu were never going to work for me. If that’s all that Bali was I never would have lived here. However, the island is vast and in June of 2019 I settled in the southernmost tip of Bali, an area we refer to as Ulu. A somewhat overlooked region, Uluwatu is known for its bold cliffs, expansive jungle and year round surf. Some of the best breaks in the world, people come from all over the world to partake in our waves.

Uluwatu cliffs

The author, enjoying the legendary Ulu surf break

My life wasn’t perfect in Ulu, when is it ever, but things were good. I’d rented a four-bedroom house and was running a thriving Airbnb operation. Five-star reviews fell into my lap like dollars at the strip club, and I discovered that I had a natural talent for being a landlord. My quest wasn’t solely monetary, however. In recognition of my social lethargy, I’d set up a scenario in which the people would come to me.

This worked fine, until it didn’t. Covid shat itself into existence, Indonesia closed their border and a month later my house was empty the bookings evaporated like an open bottle of rum. Geckos and thick-spined insects replaced the Costa Ricans, Portuguese, Russians, Irish, Indians and Americans who I’d been living with for the past six months. A lifestyle I’d carefully cultivated was shredded by policy ostensibly intended to keep the human healthy.

The good news is that I was blessed with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to surf nearly empty waves. The bad news is that I also had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to silently lose my fucking mind as I waded through monotonous weeks and months where I barely spoke five or ten words to another human being in any given day. Near perfect social isolation in a foreign country on the other side of the world. My mind went a bit daft, as it were. If I hadn’t adopted a dog I think I’d have ended up at the funny farm.

All good things must come to an end though, and in January of 2022 Indonesia opened the border. Within a month the cars on the road had doubled. Within a year the traffic had doubled again. And within these past six months the traffic has surged a final time, crescendoing now towards its ultimate form: a maddening jam of pissed off people clawing desperately for meters a minute.

This place, this thing called Uluwatu, is like a thirteen-year-old thrust into fame. The spirit is not ready for the acclaim, the long term consequences of stardom are grave. This post is a eulogy for an ecosystem that’s boldly under assault from all directions, losing a bit more of itself every time an acre of jungle is reclaimed and another person posts on Instagram about how they’ve finally made it here.

What I still like

Bali is to Indonesia what New York City is to New York State: a non-representative island with a different set of norms. Indonesia is the fourth most populous country in the world and most of that population is Muslim. Except for Bali which, thanks to a long history of exporting raw goods and importing religion, is Hindu. The Hindus are, by and large, more tolerant of debauchery than the Muslims which is a key factor in Bali’s popularity.

Indonesia is a country of ten-thousand plus islands and as any keen observer of geopolitics will tell you, archipelago nations play by different rules. For example: Indonesia is a libertarian’s wet dream. Loosely connected islands, half-hearted roads, decrepit ferries, corrupt officials, unreliable cell networks and slow internet are all effective inhibitors of government coercion.

As a dense province of four million people, Bali isn’t a mosh pit but life on the island is still a coked out frat party compared to the west. Traffic violations simply don’t exist. There are no traffic cops, meter maids, or inspectors from the central inspecting unit. Indonesians intuitively understand that nobody’s life was ever enhanced by a $50 parking ticket. Maybe the west will realize that one day, but I’m not holding out hope.

What else do I enjoy besides the libertarian ethos?

Indonesian coffee is world-class and it costs $4 a bag. I call a plumber, he’ll come over within 48 hours and the bill is going to be for $20. A mechanic did 30 minutes worth of work on my scooter and charged me $3. People smile and wave at me whenever I take my dog for a walk.

The beaches are stunning, but you already know that. The nine-year-olds driving motorcycles are cute. The food is stupid healthy, if not as delicious as what you get in Thailand. When the urge hits I enjoy catching the geckos who live behind the painting and having a bit of fun with them.

Those are the features of my lifestyle that I enjoy. Here’s what makes me less happy.

The bad

Uluwatu has gotten so rekt by lightning-speed development in the last eighteen months that the adjectives to describe its current state are no longer happy ones. Anger, despondency, resignation, melancholy, flashes of excitement, and mourning.

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique, and a swingin' hot spot

Uluwatu wasn’t a paradise when I moved in, but despite its imperfection the region was a good fit for my personality. The area self-selected for persons who chose to live in a place because of its inherit merits, not because they saw it on Instagram. One might liken Uluwatu to Colorado. When my mom was growing up in Colorado in the sixties and seventies, the state was a bunch of mountain freaks, ski bums and ranchers. On the other hand, today’s Denver, like today’s Uluwatu, is the place to be. And something is lost once the people in an area are there for the likes not for the experience.

All these arrivals means the traffic has gotten so bad that just leaving my place is like playing Russian roulette. The one exit from my housing complex is a narrow street that merges onto the main road. In years prior making the turn was a non-issue, but now that traffic has increased by 300% I’m forced to merge in front of dump trucks, hurl myself into gaps between cars, and pray for safe deliverance as I weave within inches of other motorcycles.

Man is not designed to live like this, and Uluwatu is not designed for such furious development. Greed is in the air, property prices are up 100-200% in two years, the fragrance of profits blows heavily in the breeze. This is a boom. There are many others like it, but this boom is Ulu’s. I have the photos to prove it. These were all taken along a one-mile stretch of road, and account for only about half of the ongoing development in the area. The other half I couldn’t photograph because it was too dangerous to pull over and take a picture (there aren’t many sidewalks in Uluwatu).

Property booms are not uncommon, to be sure, but they’re particularly pronounced in Bali because there is little to no regard for trivialities like building permits, traffic planning, environmental studies, commercial zoning, impact on the electric grid, or considerations of affordable housing.

The upscale housing, restaurants and day spas that are being built now cater to people from London, Sydney, New York, Berlin, Perth, Prague, Moscow, Barcelona, Miami, San Francisco, and Milan, a coterie of well-educated, above-average income, status aware humanoids who wear designer t-shirts and have strong opinions about wine pairings. These decadent dunderdorfs come for two weeks, take three-thousand photos and leave. Rinse and repeat, ad infinitum, forever. A neighborhood does not exist if everyone “living” in it has a return ticket.

Who can you blame for what’s happening? Everyone, honestly. I’m part of the problem. I moved to Bali and rented a house that some Balinese family might otherwise have had access too. I’m on the road, I’m a cog in the traffic. The developers exist because of people like me. Or, more accurately, people with my inclinations but a lot more money.

Truthfully, I’ve begun to feel like I’m taking advantage of a place. I am not, in any measurable way, making my community better. I feel ashamed that I can’t have a conversation with my neighbors, that I can’t give them friendly cups of sugar as is done all over the world. That I have no idea what’s happening in my community. This is not a healthy way to exist, although for many years I didn’t give a damn about any of that.

After I left Ukraine in 2015 I had this idea that I could find the perfect place to live. My idea of perfect being a place close to the beach, ocean view, good climate, cheap meals and even cheaper beer. I attached no importance to what country this utopic sunscape might reside in. I naively assumed that once I found the correct combination of property attributes, my soul would achieve nirvana and my petty concerns would cease to exist on the temporal plane.

In the years since I’ve undergone a de-stupidification. I’ve come to understand that people matter more, a lot more, than postcard views. After ten years of living abroad I miss my family and my culture. I miss sandwiches, Code Red Mountain Dew, highways, driving cars, family dinners, fluently conversing in my mother tongue, hot dogs on the 4th of July and turkey on Thanksgiving.

I’m over Bali, so very over it. Look at this jam! Not the worst in the world, but six months ago these roads were empty. Officials have predicted that Bali might be in perpetual gridlock by 2027. It’s only going to get worse, but I won’t be around to see it.

If you go up to Canggu, where this photo 👇 was taken (thankfully not by me), things can get really out of control!

The final chapter

I’m moving back to America in just a few days, but let’s not end on a low note. It’s been an epic ride on the Island of the Gods, and a few highlights include…

Getting into my first motorcycle accident

Learning to surf big waves

Going on a motorcycle trip

Training for a marathon

Driving the path to heaven

Learning how to free dive

Discovering this place

Making a great friend

Dating a cute lady

Starting a Substack

And adopting a dog best friend

Conclusions

My primary complaints with Bali are the heat and the traffic, neither of which are the fault of the people who live here. The Balinese, and Indonesians in general, have treated me well. Indonesians are friendly, healthy, not especially addicted to smartphones, and brutally good at negotiating. You don’t want to haggle with them, they’ll win every time.

While I have many frustrations with this environment, that shouldn’t necessarily reflect negatively on the people who live here. Many of whom also, no doubt, are pissed off at the rapid pace of development.

I lived in Bali for five years, which is the longest I’ve ever been in one place apart from the town I grew up in. Many memories, many fun adventures, but it’s time for something new.

Hello Amerika 👋 my old friend.

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