Observations from a short stay on the Island of the Gods.
What can you say about Bali in 2019?
The whole world is there. The whole world wants to surf. The whole world doesn’t just want to surf but to drink cheap beer and smoke cheap cigarettes and take selfies while the sun sets into the Indian Ocean and a DJ blasts beats from the ancient cliffs.
Everyone is on scooters. Everyone has a story about a crash or a near-crash. Many of these stories are told with pride and bravado and include hilarious details about how wasted the person was when the crash or near-crash occurred.
The line-up is a wild place. The ride of your life awaits you but so too does the burning of your life or the snaking of your life or the entanglement to end all entanglements. More likely is a quiet sense of frustration at the underwhelming amount of waves you were able to catch. Sit out there and listen and you’ll probably hear five or six languages being spoken at once.
Canggu is on everyone’s lips. Kuta is a dirty word. That’s where the non-surfers go. The tourists. Canggu is where you head if you surf. Not that you’ll be doing much surfing.
An Aussie with an embarrassed girl on the back might pull over and ask you for a condom.
A cocktail at Single Fin will cost you fifty bucks.
Magic mushrooms are as easy to get as ever.
It’s the Wild West. Very western, in fact. The East remade in a more convenient style.
Convenience stores now double as cheap places to get pissed.
Everyone comes there. Some don’t ever leave. Some wish they didn’t have to. Others can’t get out of there quick enough.
I was there for four days on the way back from somewhere else.
I’m back in Australia now. It’s good to be home.