Set out to explore the area we live in (Seminyak), got caught in a heavy rain —classic rainy season in Bali. Our beach, Seminyak, had “no swimming” signs up, which, to be fair, was a bit annoying even though Bali isn’t exactly brimming with family-friendly beaches (contrary to popular belief).
Lunch became a DIY project after a supermarket run, where we were surrounded by fellow foreigners. The contrast with Jakarta is striking; over there, we could count the foreigners we saw on one hand, while here, it’s an international melting pot.
Another stark difference? Hardly any hijabs, and alcohol is flowing like it’s Oktoberfest. Bali feels like Indonesia’s rebellious cousin—Jersey Shore on steroids, but with an ocean you can’t actually swim in.
Then there’s the hard selling—constant, persistent, and occasionally baffling. Offers range from motorbike rides (how they plan to fit three of us on one is beyond me) to massages and mystery merchandise. The hustle never stops, and it’s exhausting. Feels like the Philippines 2.0—except with better sidewalks.
Round two of our walking the area—this time, Mother Nature took pity on us and hit pause on the downpour. Victory!
