No, you’re not going to ‘find yourself’ in Bali

Your spiritual journey is not a matcha in Sarawak

Growing up in South East Asia, I became accustomed to the annual influx of American, European and Australian tourists in the summer as they flocked to vacation destinations across the region. Though living in Singapore had somewhat desensitized me to the appeal of vacationing in 80% humidity, I understood that the distinct change in scenery was hugely attractive to foreigners from other continents. In conversations with tourists, Singapore was often just one stop on a lengthy itinerary of places to visit. Amidst a jumble of tropical locations, one destination continues to remain prevalent on everybody’s bucket list: Bali — a small island off the coast of Indonesia.

The “Jet Age” of the 1950s and ‘60s made air travel considerably more accessible across the Western world. As post-colonial economic growth supported the development of new airports across South East Asia, commercial airlines expanded accordingly to offer flights to these new tropical destinations. The democratization of air travel alongside the rise of the counter-culture movement culminated in the emergence of a modern-day pilgrimage — white, Western tourists who routinely venture to these destinations aiming to experience the “rich and vibrant culture” promised by tour guide pamphlets and travel books.

Bali is home to a unique sect of Hinduism, which satisfies the Western fascination with South Asian religion and spiritual practice. The beauty of Balinese Hinduism against the backdrop of a tropical paradise led to its rise as one of the most popular holiday spots for solo travellers, surfers and families. However, over the last few decades, Bali has become inundated with new age spiritualists hoping to “find themselves” in the tropics, which has led to mass gentrification and the erosion of indigenous culture.

As the number of visitors on the island steadily increases, the local economy shifts towards prioritizing the development of tourist industries. Resorts replace rice fields and trash accumulates on beaches, posing a growing threat to the Balinese way of life. Currently, over half of Bali’s water is allocated to the tourism industry, putting Indigenous Balinese people at risk of food shortages.

As an island, Bali relies on groundwater wells and an ancient canal system called “Subak” to supply water around the island. Subak was developed in the 9th century through the framework of Indigenous Balinese connection to the human and spiritual realms. Ironically, the mass influx of tourists continues to threaten the indigenous systems built by the same spiritual philosophies many travellers seek to understand. An island reliant on tourism is an ouroboros — the economy relies on profit from tourism, and the industry imparts mass environmental destruction, eroding the natural beauty that once attracted tourists.

While Bali remains a case study on the oversaturation of tourism, this phenomenon is universal across all of South East Asia. The Philippines, Vietnam and Thailand are also hugely popular spots for tourists hoping to embark on a spiritual journey of sorts. I’ve encountered tourists who enthusiastically share their plan to “do Malaysia next,” as though these places exist for consumption, rather than experience. Beyond the frustrating implication of the statement, it reveals how tourism has become yet another opportunity for overconsumption.

As influencers share perfectly curated experiences online and recent expats open pilates studios next to temples, tourists carve exclusive spaces to cater to foreign demand. Instead of earnestly pursuing spiritual enlightenment in the malaria-ridden depths of the rainforest, you can simply book a 10-day silent meditation retreat run by a French couple in Vietnam.

The oversaturation of tourism is diametrically opposed to the pursuit of whatever spiritual truths exist in a mangrove forest. Gentrification erodes indigenous culture and distorts local economies, displacing locals and pushing them out of spaces co-opted by tourists. The very spiritual practices romanticized by Western orientalism are threatened by the suffocating commodification of South East Asian culture.

While my experiences are inverse to that of the tourists in South East Asia, I understand how it feels to be stagnant — bored with the quotidian motions of everyday life. In my experience, the romantic notion of “leaving it all behind” in search of some philosophical truth is a superficial solution to persistent discontent.

When I first moved to the United States, I had this expectation that my life would undergo some profound change. I was under the illusion that by radically changing my environment, my old patterns would break and I could better embody who I aspired to be. What I failed to realize was that no matter where I went, there I was. The past isn’t something you can escape by simply leaving, you’re just dragging it to another continent.

If you’re searching for spirituality, I’d recommend starting where you are. Although harder to see, there is beauty in what you might consider mundane. If you’re looking for universal esoteric spirituality (whatever that means), look to the rustling of the grass, the vastness of the night sky, the birds and the people. There is beauty to be found in sleepy towns, crowded cities and on cattle ranches. I’d encourage anyone to travel if you feel the urge to leave your life and experience the world. But you have to begin to accept yourself wherever you are — because I guarantee that if you run away to Bali, you’ll still be there.

Written by: Anjali Iyer — amiyer@ucdavis.edu

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