In Bali, glimpses of solitude

The jungle was coming alive.

As twilight deepened over Bali a chorus of insects and animals began to crescendo in the dense tropical forest covering Mount Batukaru, an extinct volcano in the Indonesian island’s central highlands.

Trekking to the 2,276-meter summit, the second-tallest in Bali, had taken much longer than expected. It was early May, and the trail was slick with mud, a remnant of the recent rainy season. The muck and a punishing slope littered with wet, gnarled tree roots made for tough — and slow — hiking.

Our guide, Vion, said the Balinese often wonder why tourists would opt to spend their vacations in the jungle, thinking such people crazy.

The jungle covering Bali’s Mount Batukaru.

Far from Denpasar, Bali’s humming capital, and busy tourist hubs of the south, I could see the appeal: total solitude. Without crowds or distraction, it was easy to appreciate the surroundings: Throughout the day, errant rays of sunlight would break through the leafy canopy, illuminating draping vines and tree trunks thick with moss and ferns. Lush green seemed to stretch to infinity, and clouds that blanketed parts of the forest imbued it with a dreamy haze. It all felt like an ancient secret unspoiled by human presence — aside from the steady, tired footsteps and labored breathing of myself and seven companions. 

As night settled in, that backdrop faded to black. We cut through the dark, muddy and bruised, armed with headlamps and flashlights and growing slightly unsettled by the cacophony of creatures swelling around us. 

The discomfort was a minor price to pay to experience an off-the-beaten-path side of Bali, a destination that’s become almost synonymous with overtourism. 

From top to bottom: The cascading rice paddies of Tegalalang Rice Terrace, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and a rice farmer. Temples and their statutes in Ubud.

Bali, known as the Island of the Gods, is decidedly beautiful, vibrant both visually and culturally. The Indonesian archipelago, an expansive chain of more than 17,000 islands, has the largest Muslim population in the world. But Bali is an outlier: About 90% of its residents are Hindu. (Bali, in fact, means “offering,” a reference to the island’s distinct brand of Hinduism.)

The air here is thick with the sweet smell of burning incense; the fragrant sticks are often laid atop beds of sewn palm leaves and arrangements of white, red, yellow and blue flowers, garnished with morsels of food like rice or fruit. Such offerings, made three times a day as tokens of gratitude to the gods, coat sidewalks, streets, storefronts and temples, of which there are more than 20,000 across the island; their pointed spires are omnipresent, rising above the walls of private houses and public spaces like ornate architectural art displays, while stone carvings of deities sit like weathered, watchful protectors at their doorstep. 

Scenes from Mount Agung, Bali’s highest peak: At top, Besakih Temple at the foot of Agung is the largest and holiest temple of Balinese Hinduism. At middle, a monkey holds a prayer offering left by a hiker. At bottom, sunrise illuminates Rinjani, Indonesia’s second-tallest mountain, in the distance on neighboring Lombok island.

Just outside of Ubud, a popular district north of the capital, all evidence of urban sprawl melts away to a tropical paradise of rolling green rice terraces dotted with palm trees, yielding to thickly forested volcanic mountains and the occasional “warung,” modest roadside eateries serving up fresh coconuts and local dishes like nasi goreng.

Indonesia is the world’s third-largest rice producer; its tiered rice fields, a postcard of pastoral serenity, are carved into the hills and cascade down them in big flat steps. The Jatiluwih rice terrace on Mount Batukaru’s southern slopes is Bali’s largest, a UNESCO World Heritage site stretching across almost 1,500 acres. Life here feels slow, a relic of a past age; “subak,” a cooperative water management system linked to temple culture and which underpins the region’s agricultural productivity, dates to the 9th century.

From top to bottom: Uluwatu Temple sits at the edge of steep cliffs along the Indian Ocean; a mountaintop pokes through dense clouds on Mount Rinjani; sunset at Suluban Beach.

This isn’t the Bali most people see, though. Many linger in the island’s southern reaches, lazing on the never-ending beaches of Kuta, strolling the seaside cliffs of Uluwatu, or perhaps visiting Ubud’s monkey forest, a sanctuary of long-tailed macaques — all worthy endeavors, to be sure, but which sadly miss treasures further afield. 

City traffic on the many narrow, one-lane roads can be epically snarled and quasi-lawless; hordes of motorbikes cruise the streets like gangs, endlessly weaving in and out of cars and pedestrians, while drivers perpetually edge over the line into oncoming traffic to look for passing opportunities. There’s a hive mind to the chaos, a fluid choreography not unlike the rhythms of schools of fish.

Even amid that craziness were fleeting moments that stuck with me: Smiling mothers ferrying their kids home on the backs of mopeds, or vendors with bushels of palm fronds strapped to their bumpers like oversized porcupines. In the bustling Legian area, following twisting alleys off main drags can lead to tranquil, residential pockets devoid of honking or pushy shop owners eager to make a sale.

From top to bottom: The narrow streets of Legian; a gray long-tailed macaque at Uluwatu Temple; masks and elaborate costumes are an important component of Balinese dance rituals.

For those willing (and able) to put in the work, hiking can be transcendent. Sometimes all it takes is two legs and a little sweat (or, in Bali’s case, a lot of it) to transport you far from civilization. Perhaps that’s why the forest climbing Mount Batukaru was a standout: It felt like nature had crafted an oasis just for me.

There can be limitations, however. Trekking through the early morning darkness to see sunrise from the summits of Mount Agung and Mount Rinjani (on neighboring Lombok island) proved to be crowded affairs, a constant jockeying for position on small peaks with scores of hikers seeking Instagram-worthy selfies. 

Scenes from Mount Rinjani on Lombok. At top, sunrise as seen from the summit. At bottom, the summit as seen from our campsite at twilight.

More than the cosmetic nuisance of crowds, however, there’s a more pressing and insidious risk travelers should consider: By visiting certain heavily touristed places, do we actively, though perhaps unconsciously, do harm?

In Bali, sustainability has grown into a chief concern. An influx of visitors has stretched local resources like water and contributed to an acute trash problem. Seeing the scale of plastic waste firsthand was at times appalling and deeply troubling: I saw otherwise pristine sections of mountainside littered with food packaging, wild monkeys chewing on discarded plastic wrappings, piles of water and soda bottles strewn at the edge of forests.

I do think there’s a happy medium, whereby travelers can engage with vulnerable places as informed consumers. What that looks like may vary from place to place. There are some principles that are generally applicable, though, such as using water consciously and disposing of trash properly. (Essentially, try to leave a place as you found it.) In areas like Bali where the tap water isn’t safe to drink, consider buying a reusable water purifier or water purification tablets to cut down on waste from single-use plastic bottles. (Here’s the one I used in Bali, which worked perfectly.)

We owe it to the areas we visit — and their inhabitants — to recreate responsibly by leaving as small a footprint as possible. Otherwise, we collectively risk irreparable damage to the beautiful places that bring us so much joy.