From Tradition to Tourism: Bali’s Beautiful Dilemma
I remember my first few days in Bali—barefoot on the limestone cliffs of Bingin Beach, salt in my hair, the sound of crashing waves syncing with the thump of distant bass from a beachside warung. That first night, I stood on the balcony of my accommodation and watched a lightning storm roll across the Indian Ocean, each bolt illuminating the horizon like a slow exhale from the sky. It felt like a welcome, or maybe a warning. Either way, I was hooked.
A few days later, I traveled north to Ubud, and everything changed.
There, the rhythm slowed. The jungle closed in.
I was walking along a mossy path, the air thick with frangipani and incense, when I heard it: the metallic chime of gamelan echoing through the trees. Just ahead, a procession of women in intricate lace kebayas, bright pink sashes wrapped tightly around their waists, balanced towers of fruit and flowers on their heads. It looked staged—too perfect—but it wasn’t. It was a real ceremony. And I wasn’t just an observer. I was a witness.
Sacred Offerings or Photo Ops?
The Balinese carry tradition like an heirloom—handled daily, yet deeply sacred. Ceremonial processions, like the one I photographed in Nyuh Kuning, aren’t “festivals” in the Western sense. They are spiritual obligations—odes to ancestors, to cosmic order, to balance. Yet on that same day, I saw a tourist step into the middle of the road to get a better angle. She crouched low, shutter clicking, oblivious to the quiet grace of the women whose steps she interrupted.
What happens when living rituals become a backdrop?
A Culture Performing Itself
As an anthropologist and explorer, I’ve long been drawn to what Victor Turner called “social drama”—the moments where culture reveals its seams. In Bali, those seams are always showing. At a waterfall in the north, I watched many tourists swing gleefully on a rope as Balinese children bathed in the river below. Two worlds, one stage. I don’t know if the kids noticed, or cared. Maybe that’s the contradiction: what feels like a spectacle to us is just a Thursday afternoon to them.
Komang’s Villa and the Velocity of Change
Last October, my old friend Komang picked me up outside the Denpasar airport, flashing a big grin from behind the wheel of a brand-new ‘luxury’ car. “I only pick you up, Shan,” he joked. “You’re lucky.” I laughed, but a week later after spending the afternoon touring his property in Uluwatu, I understood exactly what he meant. Komang is Bali rich—like, rich rich. He doesn’t need to drive anymore, not since the villa he built with Western investors started doing so well. Now, he wants me to be the next Westerner. He showed me the pictures on his phone—architectural plans for another luxury villa he is building on the land he inherited from his grandfather. “Uluwatu is good Shan,” he said. “We’re fixing the road next year.” Honestly? If I had the money, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
I am genuinely happy for him. I’ve known Komang for years—back when his days revolved around driving tourists, and cheaper warung meals. Now, he’s a father of two, married to a woman from his village (she’s an absolute catch), and navigating life in a very different economic stratosphere. When I asked him why he decided to get married, he shrugged and said, “I had to.” He explained that the pressure came from the village elders—that in his community, settling down early and having kids is expected. “It’s just our culture,” he added with a smirk. “You’re too open.” I burst out laughing.
And that’s the thing—I love that he can say things like that to me. That we can tease each other while catching up on years of life. He asked about my boyfriend, and when I told him I was single, he looked shocked, insulted my ex, and then said, “It’s ok, Shan. It’s ok. No worries.” I’ve had many conversations on this island, but very few that blend familiarity, tradition, and transformation as candidly as the ones I have with Komang.
His story is one of upward mobility, but it’s also a reflection of how quickly the island is changing—how land passed down from a grandfather becomes a tourism empire; how cultural expectations remain, even as lifestyles shift. His success isn’t separate from the tourism boom—it’s intertwined with it. And in many ways, so is mine.
(My friend Komang showing me his awesome new car & me actively judging his backseat TV)
My Role in the Tension
And here’s the part I can’t pretend away—I’ve been part of this transformation. I’ve taught yoga in Bali, led retreats, stayed in jungle villas built where rice paddies once rippled with life. I’ve sipped turmeric lattes while writing papers on gentrification for school. The contradiction isn’t abstract—it’s personal. I love this place. I’ve also contributed to its change.
In Nyuh Kuning, the village I’ve spent the most time in, I got to know Made back in 2016. She’s the wife of the village head (at the time) and runs a small warung just down the street from where I used to live, selling juices and odds and ends to local families. Over juice one afternoon, she shared her thoughts with me about the steady wave of foreigners. Her kids were growing up surrounded by visitors and becoming fixated on phones, gadgets, and Western trends that hadn’t been part of village life before. Still, she acknowledged that not all changes were bad. A woman from California, after falling in love with the village, had funded the construction of a small hospital just five minutes away—something Made felt truly grateful for.
Tourism isn’t a monolith. It’s a mosaic—some pieces invasive, others life-giving. And navigating it ethically means holding both truths at once.
Riding Pillion Through Change
One of my favorite memories is from a motorbike ride on the outskirts of Ubud with a local friend. He cracked jokes as he drove, flashing a peace sign, while weaving through narrow roads shaded by banyan trees. “Bule love Bali,” he laughed, “but they don’t always see Bali.” His comment stayed with me. What do we really see when we travel to places shaped by our desire to experience them?
The tempo of life here has shifted. Some Balinese adapt. Others resist. And in between, the gamelan still plays.
Call to Action
If this story moved you, unsettled you, or made you reflect on your own travel habits—good. That’s what The Archive is for.
I invite you to share your own experiences of places where tradition meets transformation. Comment below, reach out to collaborate, or follow along as I continue documenting the stories, people, and contradictions that shape our world.
Let’s build an archive that doesn’t just remember the past—but wrestles with the present, together.
See you next Wednesday.
—Shan
PS. Bali dogs are the best — however, that in itself deserves its own post. Stay Tuned.
