When Paradise Turns to Dust:
My Return to a Different Bali

When I first set foot on Bali, more than twenty years ago, it truly felt like paradise. The island was alive with rice fields shimmering in the sun, dotted with water buffaloes plowing through the mud. The air smelled of frangipani and incense, and everywhere I went, the Balinese people greeted me with genuine smiles and open hearts. Life was simple then — calm, spiritual, and deeply connected to nature.

Returning years later, I barely recognized it. The rice paddies I once walked through have turned into villas, cafés, and coworking spaces. The charm of quiet villages has been replaced by traffic, concrete, and endless construction. The culture that once felt sacred now seems packaged — something to sell rather than something to live.

It’s hard not to feel heartbroken watching modern tourism change the island’s soul. The values that once made Bali special — kindness, balance, and respect for the land — seem lost beneath the noise of development and the rush for profit.

Bali is still beautiful, of course — the mountains still rise above the clouds, and the ocean still roars with the same wild power. But the spirit of the island feels fragile now, hidden beneath layers of modern ambition.

For me, Bali will always be the place where I learned to slow down, to connect, and to find beauty in simplicity. But I carry a quiet sadness for what it has become — a reminder that paradise can’t survive when we forget to protect it.

Wedding in Sumatra

I Accidentally Became the Main Attraction at a Wedding in Sumatra

Some people go to Sumatra for volcanoes, wildlife, or beaches.
I, apparently, go to crash weddings.

Well—technically I was invited. But let’s be honest: the invitation was delivered with the enthusiastic energy of someone thinking, “This will be hilarious. Let’s bring the foreigner.”

The wedding took place in a tiny traditional Muslim village, the kind where everyone knows everyone—and now, apparently, everyone knows me. The bride was just 17, dressed like a queen, glowing under layers of gold embroidery and makeup that could survive a tsunami. Early marriage is the norm here, and the whole community celebrates it with an enthusiasm that could fuel a power plant.

I, meanwhile, walked in wearing my humble traveler outfit: slightly wrinkled clothes, sandals, and the confused expression of someone who is 98% sure they’re walking into the wrong house.

But nope—this was the right place. And from the moment I stepped inside, I realized something important:

I was not just a guest. I was the entertainment.

Kids stared at me like I had just descended from a UFO.
Teenagers followed me around like I was some exotic wildlife.
Grandmothers poked each other and whispered while giving me the same look you’d give a talking goat.

Every five minutes someone wanted a selfie. At one point I swear there was an entire queue forming.

And the best part?
The bride and groom—the actual stars of the day—kept glancing at me like, “Who invited this guy, and why is he stealing our spotlight?”

Between bites of delicious mystery food (which I ate with the confidence of someone who accepts their fate), I posed for more photos than the bride. Someone even handed me a baby for a photo op. I still have no idea whose baby it was.

Despite all the attention, the warmth of the village was incredible. People made sure I was fed, seated, included, and gently bullied into dancing. The groom gave me a high-five, the bride gave me a shy smile, and the entire community made me feel like the honorary awkward cousin.

By the end of the evening, my cheeks hurt from smiling, my stomach was full, and my camera roll looked like I was running for local office.

It was chaotic. It was hilarious. It was unforgettable.

And that’s the thing about travel—sometimes you go to see the world, and sometimes the world sees you.