Some weeks in Bali run on yoga mats and green juice. Mine spun itself on motorbikes, babi guling, and a string of moments that made the island feel brand new.
It began with a ride due north. Wiwin, pronounced “we win” and yes, she really does - working exclusively with solo female travelers. She points out corners no guidebook ever lingers on, explains temples with the ease of someone raised inside them, and makes sure no one forgets to eat. The road curled up to Ulan Danu Beratan, a temple floating like watercolor on the lake and immortalized on the fifty-thousand rupiah note. On the way back we veered into the Sangeh Monkey Forest, the quiet one, no buses or tour groups, no selfie sticks, just macaques staring us down with the swagger of nightclub bouncers. By the time we rolled south again there was only one option: babi guling, roast pig with skin that shatters like glass, spiced with lemongrass and turmeric, sambal hitting at full volume.
The week kept changing shape. One night landed at BiDesign House in Babakan, where a long dinner table glowed and conversation grew louder than the cicadas. Around me sat a Balinese-British event planner just back from London, a glam mother and daughter from Singapore, Indonesian magazine editors, and our hosts, an Australian-Argentine couple who built what so many dream about, a boutique hotel with their stamp on every detail. It felt like stepping into a film where the set, cast, and script was perfectly chosen.
Elsewhere in the mix, a morning sweat at Udara, ecstatic dance in an underground temple, a writhing, laughing blur of strangers-turned-spirit guides at ten a.m. That evening, the tide pulled me to OThree Beach Bar, where the owner spun tracks into the surf and the horizon turned pink, purple and gold.
Rex, my thirteen-year-old pug, decided a simple walk was beneath him. What should have been a stroll through the rice fields became an odyssey. He shuffled, stalled, sniffed, and staged a protest with all the stubborn glory of age. I pleaded, I waited. In my ears, Desert Island Discs saved me, with superstar Venezuelan LA/NY conductor Gustavo Dudamel playing Astor Piazzolla and Nina Simone, so good I forgave Rex his refusal to move.
Nothing tidy about it, not coherent, just a tumble of motorbikes, temples, sambal, strangers, music, and one pug who seems convinced he runs the island. Random, joyful, exactly the kind of week I love in Bali.
This is Robinson & Roam at its core, creating travel that is stitched from chaos and magic, meaningful in a world that too often offers the generic.
A good read for those interested the Indonesian archipelago, adventure, exploration, the spice trade…
