A Backpacker's Bali

Savouring food, friendship, and freedom on a solo trip to Ubud and Kuta.

- Pooja Naik

I waited at the edge of a cliff that dropped straight into the Indian Ocean. A shoulder-high brick wall scaling the far ends was the only barricade that separated me from the tumbling surf below. Draped in orange sarongs, tourists gathered at the sea-facing Uluwatu Temple to witness the Kecak dance, a Balinese rendition of the Ramayana. Perched atop the southwestern tip of Bukit Peninsula, the temple welcomes all with gateways flanked by Ganesha statues. Inside, the coral-covered walls featured intricate carvings of Bali’s mythological creatures. The cherry-red sun began to dip behind the sea, as if igniting the small amphitheatre, where the stage was set for the fire dance.

“Chak, chak, chak-a, chak,” the chant reverberated as 30-odd men, wearing only checkered skirts, marched their way into the arena. The plot was the same as the Indian version of the epic. Almost hypnotic, trance-like, a masked Ravan and a doe-eyed Sita—the antagonist and protagonist—entered, commanding complete attention. Their eyes widened, expressions shifted from fear to torment. The rhythmic chants rose and fell, powering the theatrical drama. Just then, the sky grew ominously dark and the story built to a climax when Hanuman swooped in and set fire to Ravan’s castle. The burning embers at the stage centre evoked gasps from transfixed spectators, including me. As I sat at the 11th-century temple bearing witness to a nearly centuryold dance form more than 9,000 kilometres away from home, I thought back to moments in my native India when I had been rather indifferent to temple visits. Travel makes you more accepting of cultures, sometimes, even your own.

Bali is an unabashed cliché—a harmonious paradox of cultural rawness and overcooked tourists, the latter pouring in by the bucketload, just like the ice that chills their Bintang beer. They all seek a slice of paradise, whether it be forests, sea or zen.