November, 2015.

All of my Australian friends warned me.

“Oh, don’t go to Kuta.”
But, I was traveling alone, and Kuta was very popular among tourists. I felt like I had to take this option.

It began as a thought. What can I do with the money I’ve saved since living in the warehouse full of artists who keep sharing their food with me? I was surrounded by creatives. Dancers, a chef, a stylist and designer, a filmmaker. All of these Aussies doing what they loved for a living. And they fucking fed me, what the fuck! How was I so deserving of these friendships?

I inherited a makeshift loft from a beautiful aerial silk artist, who coincidentally was traveling to America while I was living in Australia. I saved nearly $2,000. This was before I owned a credit card. I was smarter back then. I had a concept of running out of money. I used money sparingly. I mainly ate fruits, bread and rice and beans. I was too enamored with the idea of using this money to do something big. Not something stupid, as I normally would do. Say, order a pizza at 2 am every Wednesday. (We’ll get to that). At the time, this was, in my eyes free money. (It wasn’t, they were student loans). But, I had already accepted the money as I was intended to live in a uni-student housing program.

So I thought, ok, I’m on the other side of the hemisphere. Let’s make the most of this. Should I go to New Zealand? I know I definitely want to see the Great Barrier Reef, ok, that’s set. Let me set aside $1,000 for that. Now, what can I do with the other half?

I asked around.

“Nah, New Zealand is properly done with a van and 6 months.”

“Mate, you like to surf? Go to Indo. It’s cheap. But, don’t go to Kuta. Whatever you do.”

Fuck It

First of all, when I bought my tickets I didn’t expect any volcanic activity that would prevent any Tiger Air flight from landing in Bali. It was just volcanic ash that was preventing regularly scheduled arrivals. I don’t know how I finessed the customer service lady to put me on the one flight that flew in that week, but I must have sounded angry because I was in. I missed two days because of that volcano, but fuck it I still had 9 days. The funds I had could be stretched! Off to Kuta I went. I also stopped in Seminyak, and Uluwatu, but I was mainly living it up in the busy streets of Kuta.

And the funds were indeed stretched. That’s why it’s a popular place for tourists, especially young Australians going for schoolies. Alcohol. Hostels. Lots of bad decisions. You get the idea.

I ate three meals a day. Every day. (My friends think that’s funny, but I always say if I eat three times a day, it’s a fucking good place to be).  It was amazing. I surfed, once, before I got pneumonia (Ulcerative Colitis sucks). I got catcalled EVERYWHERE I WALKED. (I once was so tired of it that I spent all day inside my room). I almost crashed a motorbike into a wall. I unplugged my phone from the wall in my hotel room because a staff member kept calling and asking me to be their girlfriend. (Shit was fucking weird). I met a friend from back home who was staying in her own private villa. We traveled to temples, shops, and walked through busy beach streets. I also visited the monkey forest. It was so exhilarating, and it was...so overwhelming.

I felt like an undeserving asshole. I was 22 years old. I had the palm of the world in my hand. I had what seemed like so much money. And I was ashamed. I was part of a rising trend. The globalism that made it possible exploit a country, one that very much needed tourism for living wages in many of the town shops. It’s a system that my mind was not quite ready for. How could I visit a country and be respectful, but nonetheless contribute to this entitlement? That wasn’t me, I wasn’t entitled? Was I?

The answer was, and is yes. I am privileged. It’s a fucking huge privilege to be able to travel to a different part of the world, see it, and know you have a bed to come back to.

This guilt I created within my mind caused me to feel extremely lonely. And as a result, I gravitated towards people I could connect with. If we held a conversation and I looked at your eyes and felt like I could trust you, I would spend the day with you. I was searching for something. I wanted to feel real.

And that’s how I met two of my friend’s in Bali. One was a man we’ll call Bryan. Bryan loved me. He asked me to marry him about 5 times. He always grabbed my hand. I was an idiot, and didn’t know how to address the situation. I would laugh and brush his hand away and change the subject. It was problematic to say the least, but still. He backed off, and said OK, OK I’m sorry I won’t bother you with that. He was just a local kid on the beach selling soft top lessons, so I took one. It was like $7 to rent his board for the whole day.

He invited me to dinner, and I said yes. I got on the back of his bike, and he took me to his house. I was keeping track of where we were, and it was daylight. I don’t talk to people about my trips when I travel alone because they inevitably get upset with me. This is why. I’ve trusted my instincts every time and known when to run away. (See Portugal.) I don’t think I would ever do this again, because I know more about the world, even though it’s only been a few years.

When we arrived, Bryan’s neighbors all walked outside to see me. I asked to use the restroom, it was communal. When I walked inside the toilet room, it was just a hole in the ground, with a makeshift curtain for the door. There must have been about 11 people in a small slab of a home with concrete rooms and makeshift doors. I walked through the hall to get to the restroom. Slowly, word spread I was there and people came out to see me. They just stared at me, one girl was incredibly embarrassed and I tried my best to smile and be low-key. Bryan had a giant smile on his face as if to say, look what I brought home and led me to his room. He wasn’t threatening to me. He showed me photos of his father. He moved here to earn a living and send money back home. It reminded me of my mom. He started crying. He told me he didn’t know if his father was going to live, but he wanted to make his last days comfortable, and send money to the rest of the family.

Would you spend your youth working hard for financial gain so you know your parent can die a comfortable death? Would you willingly leave your parents side to provide a bed and food for them to leave this earth?

Bryan and I went to go eat after that, Mie Goreng. Some dank noodles at a local spot. I can’t tell you where it is, sorry, ha. It was humid, even at night. The breeze that pushed my saltwater styled hair was gentle. I walked without purpose, many times. This is dangerous. Do not do this as a young traveler. But, I was new at the game, and I trusted the world around me. It led me to people like Bryan.

Because I can, and I will.

My second friend, she was gorgeous. And a legend. We can call her Mila. I was sitting in a bar, by myself, as young 22 year old women do late at night. It was nearing the end of the night, when Navy men eye the people left standing. I had already been sexually harassed once, by a man who asked me for a kiss forcibly kissed me after I said “no,”. I tried to find him so I could punch him in the face, but the asshole ran away. I should be writing about that, because it’s not fucking OK, but I’m in the mood to focus on Mila because she is the one worth writing about right now.

Mila was there when it happened. Everyone was just a drunk mess in Kuta passed 6pm. A fight broke out next to us, and she asked who I was here with and I said I was alone. Her eyes widened. WOW. You came to Kuta alone? Wow. Turns out, she was alone too. She was from Bali. She told me to come with her to eat. I followed. She had the sickest black motorbike outside. It was way faster than mine, and she took me to a street vendor selling fried chicken and rice. The street vendor looked at her with the sort of judgement one gives another woman when they do not approve of the amount of skin being shown. Mila stood her ground, her facial expression whispering, “try me”. She asked me why I was alone and I just explained I wanted to see the world. She smiled like she knew what I meant. Everywhere we went, people knew her. She walked into a bar, bam. Her friends hooked us up. Drink tickets, seats, what have you. She just had this smirk, one that said, here come with me, you don’t need to be with a man to lead you to safety. We’re all people. We’re all here. It was a relief. Kuta had me feeling like I was just a body, and a pretty face. One that had money, because I was a tourist. One that could handle the catcalls, the staring, the grabbing. But I was scared. And she was a sister figure in a different country. But she was also wild. I didn’t ask questions. I was just along for the ride.

There is so much I am skipping over, but this is not a regular travel blog. If you want advice on where to go, what to do, check out tripadvisor. Go to local stores, temples, nature. What I always recommend is to feel, to invite, and to share.

I do not regret going, or doing it the way I did. Not at all. I think what my Australian friends were trying to do was protect me from spending time in a place that was oversaturated with entitled tourists looking for a cheap theme park. Perhaps they wanted me to go beyond that, to travel to a more remote location, one with raw beauty, less influenced by western culture, and an experience with Indonesia that honored the people that call it home. But what does that mean? That once a part of a country is globalized, it’s not worth exploring anymore? It’s been exploited? Am I really that valuable of a traveler that I deserve to come into a community less known to tourists and demand to explore it although I do not speak the language?

What I found was a valuable lesson. I found that I am a woman in this world, and this world is a frenzy of passion, friendships, con artists, money schemes, and consumerism. The world does not always value women as people. As objects, always. You can count on it, buddy.

I found that it’s new upon old, history with context that has been buried and it is our job to rediscover it. Kuta has so much history, and I believe instead of saying a place is “ruined” because of tourism, we must think about what brought a place to that level of use and disposability. Are we actively participating in that?