My Love Affair with Bali - From 1978 to Now

My Long Love Affair with Bali — From 1978 to Now

It began back in 1978. I was a fresh-faced 18-year-old and Bali was my first trip overseas. 

Back then, Bali was paradise with a capital P. Kuta had a handful of shops, then it was jungle all the way to Legian where you’d find another little cluster of stalls. That was it. The crowd was mostly Aussie surfers with sun-bleached hair and boards in the back of bemos. 

A trip to Uluwatu? That could take all day. You’d bounce down a dirt track off the main road, park, then walk a few hours down the cliff and back up again. No phone signal, no warungs every 100 metres, just you, the heat, and the promise of a perfect wave. 

Getting to Lembongan was its own adventure. Local boat only, and only when the tides said yes. You packed all your own food, rolled with it, and stayed in a family compound. At night it was pitch black except for stars and the sound of the sea.

There were no cars. Pushbikes, bemos, and a few motorcycles — that was the traffic. You’d hear the gamelan drifting from a temple ceremony, smell clove cigarettes in the air, and just breathe it all in. 

Things have changed a lot. We all know that. Kuta’s not jungle anymore. You can get to Uluwatu in 40 minutes and order a smoothie bowl at the top of the cliff or pay to sit next to a pool at a beach club if you choose.

But some things still punch me straight in the heart. The sound of gamelan. The smell of kretek smoke. The sight of a penjor swaying above the street before Galungan. Canang sari offerings on the footpath every morning. Colourful batiks drying in the sun.

Why I Keep Going Back 

It’s the Balinese eye for artful details that did it for me. And still does. 

Art is just… everywhere. In the temple carvings. In the way fabric is folded. In the frangipani on the rim of your plate. Even the way they present food — there’s care, balance, beauty. It’s in their DNA. The colours and patterns of Bali often live in my work: temple golds, frangipani pinks, lush greens and the endless details of Balinese textiles and magic everywhere.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been back. I don’t even try to tally it anymore. 

But I know the feeling I get every single time: the plane door opens and that rush of hot, humid air hits you. The beeping horns, the chaos, the scent of incense and exhaust and frangipani all at once. That’s the moment you know — you’ve arrived. 

It feels like home

It’s the smiling faces. The haggling in the market that always ends in laughter. The way a temple ceremony can stop traffic and nobody minds. 

And yes — don’t forget the $10 massages, that’s the icing on the cake!

Bali’s changed. I’ve changed. We all have. But that thread of beauty, humour, ritual and detail? It’s still there if you look. 

For me, Bali isn’t just a holiday. It’s the place that taught 18-year-old me that the world was bigger, brighter, and more artful than I’d ever imagined. Every time I go back, I’m 18 again for a minute. Then I’m 66, grateful, and now travelling with my grandkids who have also fallen in love with The Island of the Gods.

Because that’s what a love affair does. It keeps calling you home.