Bali, Indonesia
- Feb 6
- 18 min read
Updated: Feb 7
September/October 2025
Bali, Indonesia
This past summer, I embarked on a solo pilgrimage to Bali, a lush, emerald jewel that felt both hauntingly familiar and entirely foreign. While I’ve spent months exploring Thailand, stepping onto Balinese soil after so long felt like unearthing a buried chest of memories. Indonesia is an archipelago of over 17,000 islands, yet Bali stands alone, a vibrant, predominantly Hindu outlier in a vast sea of tradition.
Families dwell in ancestral compounds, each guarded by its own intricate private temple, while every village centers around a grand communal space for festivals. This spirituality isn't just a practice; it’s an atmosphere. You see it in the architecture, feel it in the deep-seated belief in Karma, and witness it in the genuine, radiant kindness that seems to live behind every smile.
Yet, for all its beauty, Bali isn't a place I could call home. It sits just outside the boundaries of my personal comfort, a world too distinct to fully inhabit. And where the edges of the island meet the sea, the culture shifts again. The coastal towns are often “white-washed” by a wave of expats, who bring the comforts of the West to the tropical masses. I don’t resent the change, it’s the natural evolution of a place that is simply too great to remain a secret, but the result is a Bali heavily clogged with traffic and a relentless tide of people jostling to soak up their piece of paradise.
A journey full of salt spray, sacred caves and the quiet thunder of the north; this is my account of my time in Bali.
FI Freedom Retreat: A Breakthrough in Bali
I arrived in Bali and immediately was picked up by a driver who was arranged for me by the retreat I came here to be at. The retreat is called the FI Freedom Retreat. It’s a retreat of like minded early retired, financially independent people, or people working towards that path. It was the first big event in the FI (Financial Independence) space that I had ever been to. My thought in going here was to meet other like-minded people, maybe make some friends and to also get some clarity on what the next phase of my life could be like.
The retreat itself was really great. It was 4 wonderful days intentionally crafted by Amy Minkley, the creator of the event. She is a very genuine person and you can tell she’s so happy sharing her love of Bali and bringing people together which looks to be truly living her purpose. It’s inspiring when you meet people who truly are lit with goodness, and she is definitely one of them.
On day three I attended a breakout session with Dr. Jordan Grumet (Doc G), an author and hospice doctor. I had read his book recently titled, “The Purpose Code" and enjoyed it, but it didn’t hit me as hard as I was hoping. I wasn’t too sure what to expect but I was pleasantly inspired by this session and it was, for me, the highlight of the retreat. There were about 15 of us in this breakout session and he started it by explaining that he could talk with each of us individually or as a group. We all wanted the chance to have a one-on-one with him so we unanimously said, “individually please.” He said, “Sure, but only if you all stay in the room, listening to each other’s one-on-one chat as I want you to be present with each person’s story.” I was on board and was sitting right next to him, so I got to go first.
What followed was an intimate and vulnerable 10-15 minute session where he was laser focused on me and asked the most perfect, direct questions that really cut through to the core of my being. Some of what came to light for me was that I was worried I was not setting a good example for my daughter having retired early. I didn’t want to seem like I lost my spark or gusto for life. I was worried that if I did things that inspired me only, vs feeling pressure and guilt from not contributing to society, that I was throwing away my talents or living a selfish life. He asked me the simplest, direct question that hit home for me. He asked, “Say you’re on your deathbed in 30 years from now and you say to yourself, I lived a life only doing things that lit me up. How would you feel? How would your daughter feel knowing that you lived that kind of life?” Tears came to my eyes at this moment as I realized that being the person I wanted to be was already something I have been doing. I was living the life I dreamed of, being the father, husband, son and friend that I wanted to be and it was just having that permission that made the shift for me. Having the permission to be free from guilt, free from worries about what others think of the life I continue to craft and to live a life pursuing and contributing to things that excite and light me up. In turn this helps me better live my purpose of living life to the fullest and to inspire those around me to live their best life.
As the conference wrapped up, many of the folks were going to continue on to a group excursion for a few days, but I decided to spend the next week-and-a-half on a solo adventure through Bali. I had a lot of time with people on this part of the journey and now I needed some time to reflect and be with myself. I did meet some really great people on the trip, some that I continue to stay in touch with. And, although the retreat was great, I’m not sure I need to attend another FI retreat or conference in the future. I just don’t think it was the right fit for me, even though FI is a space I care very deeply and am quite passionate about. I guess it’s just more of a personal exploration and passion at this moment.
My Solo Adventure Begins
Coming out of the stillness of the retreat in Ubud, I felt a strange mix of vulnerability and openness. I was no longer part of a group; it was just me, a scooter and the vast, humid landscape of Bali. My first destination was Taman Beji Griya Waterfall, and it wasn't just a site to see—it was a cleansing ceremony that felt like a bridge between my internal work and the whole world outside.
The air there is thick with the scent of incense and damp moss. Before even reaching the water, you go through a detailed spiritual purification ceremony filled with meditations and intention. The trek felt like a hidden wonderland carved out of the stone chasms all around me as I walked alone through these tall, open caverns where light filters down in dusty ribbons. The sound is a constant, low-frequency hum of water hitting stone, sometimes as a trickle, sometimes as a roar. Towards the end of this private ceremony I came upon a walkway. My guide pointed forward and said go there. I could see a narrow chasm ahead with several gushing waterfalls. He told me that the first set of waterfalls is where I need to release my fears, insecurities and suffering and to do so by screaming as loud as I could while standing right in front of the waterfall three times. As I walked deep into this private channel roaring with the sound of water, I came to the base of the waterfall and it sprayed all around me. I took a moment to be present and think of my intention, of my fear of not being a good father, of not setting a good example for my daughter, for not being the best husband, son, friend and version of myself. Something welled up inside me and, before I knew it, I heard the sound of my own voice echo and then get swallowed up by the massive roar of the falls. Three strong explosions from the deepest core of my being escaped me and was immediately followed by a profound sense of peace. After a moment taking in this new lightness I moved slowly around the corner, still completely by myself in this awe inspiring setting, I came to the second larger waterfall. Standing under this tallest fall my instruction was to set an intention for what I want my life to be, who I want to be. Standing here I felt both small, cradled and safe. I took my time in this space and put my hands together and to my head. A deep sense of understanding that life is now, that I am the person I need to be now, to embody loving kindness always. That was my lesson and I slowly walked away with a deep sense of understanding and peace within.
As I walked away from the falls and up the steps to the top of the temple, I saw my guide there filming me. I didn’t realize he was there, and I needed a moment to just be with myself. Later I watched what he filmed and I feel very thankful to have that special moment captured so that I can look back on it at any time to remind myself of this lesson and to come back to it if I should ever lose sight.
The Jatiluwih Rice Terraces redefined my understanding of “green spaces.” Standing there at dawn, the only sound is the trickle of irrigation water and the distant chirp of tropical birds. These aren't just fields; they are a massive, UNESCO-protected testament to centuries of community and labor. I felt like a guest in a living museum, wandering the narrow paths between the stalks, the smell of fresh mud and wet grass clinging to the air. All around, looking back at the road from where I came I saw lots of hotels, buildings and restaurants. Somehow I was here by myself, but I knew this place was no secret spot. I gave thanks for being able to enjoy this incredible marvel and moved on.
Waterfalls of the North
As I drove toward the mountains, I visited Ulun Danu Beratan, the “Floating Temple.” The lake was glassy and cool, reflecting the multi-tiered shrines (meru) dedicated to the lake goddess. While it's a popular spot, the kindness of the local students who asked to take photos with me made the experience feel grounded and human.
I continued down the road and paused briefly at Handara Gate. A beautiful sculptural entrance to, here it comes, a golf course. It has become a place to take pictures and admire this incredible entrance gate. While a massive crowd waited for the “perfect”shot between the iconic stone pillars, I found that stepping to the side offered a much more honest view of the mountain backdrop, reminding me that the best views often don't require a ticket or a line.
If there is a place where you truly feel the raw power of the earth, it is Sekumpul Waterfall. It doesn't just appear; it reveals itself slowly. The trek down is a long, humid descent through a landscape that feels increasingly ancient, the air growing heavier and cooler with mist the deeper you sink into the valley. By the time I reached the bottom, I felt as though I had stepped back into a prehistoric world, one untouched by the rush of modern life.
Aside from my guide, Nyoman, I was the only person there. To have one of the world’s most spectacular landscapes entirely to myself was a humbling, almost surreal experience. I chose the "Long Trek," which weaves through the entire canyon, leading along to a hidden collection of falls that felt like a place I could find only in my dreams.
Fiji Waterfall was a magnificent triple cascade (!!!) that roared with such intensity I could barely hear my own thoughts. The sound is a physical presence, a deep, rhythmic thrumming that vibrated in my chest. Next I came to Sekumpul falls. The spray is relentless, soaking everything in seconds. I decided to swim in the pool at the base of the main fall; the water was bracingly cold, but floating there, looking up at the massive columns of water plummeting from the jungle cliffs above, was pure magic. It was exactly where I was meant to be.
After hours of exploring the "Secret" and "Hidden" falls, the journey turned upward. The climb back out is a grueling ascent of hundreds of stone stairs, a physical tax paid for the beauty seen below. But the reward at the top was a different kind of magic.
I stopped at a small, humble restaurant that seemed to hang precariously off the side of the jungle canyon. This was the only manmade structure around as far as the eye could see. Sitting there, catching my breath over a wonderful breakfast, I watched the massive Sekumpul Falls from a distance. From that height, the thunderous roar softened into a steady hum, and the sheer scale of the canyon laid out before me was perfect. It was a moment of profound quiet, just me, my watermelon smoothie and a view that felt like the very edge of the world.
That night, staying in the village of Munduk, the mountain air turned crisp and smelled of woodsmoke. I was lucky enough to receive an upgrade at my hotel, giving me a quiet sanctuary to watch the sunset over the ridges while watching Eat, Pray, Love - as I knew I was going to see some of the spots from this film and wanted to get more familiar with them. It was a moment of deep gratitude for the comfort after a day of being so exposed to the wild.
The next morning I was up early and off to the Munduk region for another day of exploring waterfalls. While Sekumpul felt like a dream, Munduk felt like a conquest. This was a "big" day of hiking, and it started with a bit of a mystery. I was using an AllTrails map to navigate a route that took me through a "back door" entrance. Finding the trailhead was a challenge in itself, but there was something incredibly rewarding about starting away from any crowd.
The beginning of the trek was a long, sweeping descent into the valley. Gravity was on my side then, and I loved the rhythm of the trail as it wound through the dense, tropical forest. But Bali has a way of balancing things out. Because I had hiked so far down to reach the first falls, I spent the rest of the day paying the price in sweat.
The circuit took me past four distinct, stunning falls, each with its own character:
Golden Valley Waterfall: Tucked away near a small eco-café, the air here was sweet and cool.
Red Coral (Munduk) Waterfall: Perhaps the most iconic of the bunch, with a sheer drop that felt like a curtain of silk against the red-tinted rock.
Labuhan Kebo: A more secluded spot where the water crashes over jagged boulders.
Melanting Waterfall: The final giant of the day.
I had a wonderful day exploring the falls. I’ll be honest; Sekumpul remains the more magical overall experience between the two places because of that prehistoric, dreamlike solitude. However, Munduk was a close second. There is a specific kind of satisfaction that comes from an exhausting day of physical labor in the jungle. Emerging at the end of that trail, legs heavy and heart pumping, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment.
Nusa Penida
After the solitude of the Munduk highlands, arriving in Sanur felt like waking up in a different world. After getting dropped off by my driver I immediately stepped out into the harbor area, I felt an immediate rush of freedom again. Sanur isn’t just a transit point; it’s a town with a very cool, modern soul.
I spent the afternoon wandering the boardwalk, where the air smells of the sea and grilled corn. Right off the water, there’s a surprisingly sleek, super-modern mall that feels like a futuristic oasis against the traditional backdrop of the harbor. I spent some time ducking into the shops, marveling at the displays of "bizarre" Balinese desserts. There was one in particular that stopped me in my tracks—a vibrant blue treat that looked almost furry. Although I didn’t try it, just seeing the creativity and strangeness of the local flavors was exciting enough.
The next morning, I woke up to a completely different energy. The harbor was a hive of activity. Even early in the day, there was a bustling line of travelers—a mix of locals with supplies and backpackers with sun hats—all vibrating with the anticipation of crossing over to Nusa Penida.
As I waited just outside the pier, I found my sanctuary: a small spot serving what I can honestly call the best smoothie bowl of my life. It was a masterpiece of tropical fruit, crunchy granola, and fresh dragon fruit, served cold enough to take the edge off the morning humidity. It was so good I didn't even look for another option; I went back again upon my return.
Sitting there on a wooden bench, watching the chaos of the ferry loading while I enjoyed every bite of my bowl, was the perfect bridge between the mountains I’d left behind and the island waiting across the water.
By the time I boarded the ferry, the salt air and the buzz of the crowd had me ready. I was leaving the mainland, heading for the rugged cliffs and potholed roads of Penida, fueled by fresh fruit and a renewed sense of adventure.
The roads on Nusa Penida are testy, bumpy, sun-scorched and lined with limestone dust—but the freedom of the wind brings a magic I just can’t get enough of.
Once I had the scooter under me on Nusa Penida, I headed toward the coast to see Broken Beach. It’s a place that humbles you with the sheer persistence of the ocean; a massive, circular cove where the land has collapsed, leaving a perfect natural bridge arching over the crashing waves. The sound here is a constant, heavy rhythm of the Indian Ocean forcing its way through the stone gateway.
Just a short walk away is Angel’s Billabong, a natural infinity pool carved into the jagged volcanic rock. It was high tide so there would be no swimming here today. Also, this is a popular spot for tourists to take photos and, although it was early in the morning, there were already quite a few people huddling around to catch a glimpse.
But the most intriguing part of the afternoon came as I looked further down the coast. In the distance, rising up from the greenery, I spotted what looked like a giant, ancient sculpture—a massive head with wild, serpentine hair that immediately made me think of Medusa. Intrigued, on foot, I navigated through some bumpy, unmarked paths and eventually hiked into areas I’m fairly certain I wasn’t supposed to be in.
I eventually found the entrance to the site and could see the massive sculpture right in front of me, but still just off in the distance. Unfortunately, a guard at the front informed me it was closed due to safety concerns. Even though I couldn't walk through the heart of it, standing as close as I could to that towering, weathered figure against the backdrop of the cliffs was a gift. No one was there but me and this guard. It felt like stumbling upon a modern ruin—a strange, beautiful secret tucked away on a remote cliffside.
Kelingking Beach is famous for its "T-Rex" shape, but standing on the spine of that cliff, looking down at the turquoise swirl of the Indian Ocean, is a dizzying experience. The hike down is a physical struggle on narrow, precarious paths. My toes took a bit of a beating on the rocks, but reaching the sand at the bottom felt earned. The water there is warm and incredibly powerful; the waves hit the shore with a thud you can feel in your chest.
To round out the Nusa Penida chapter, we have to talk about that final morning. If Kelingking is the island’s raw power, the eastern cliffs are its pure, cinematic beauty. After enjoying an incredible vegetarian meal at the top of the cliffs I jumped on my scooter and crossed to the other side of the island for the night.
The next morning, I was up long before the sun. I stayed nearly right at the entrance of Thousand Island Viewpoint. I arrived just as the horizon began to catch fire. It was the most vibrant, saturated orange sunrise I have ever witnessed—the kind of color that looks like it’s been edited, but it’s just nature doing its thing. Below me, the limestone pillars of the "thousand islands" rose out of a deep indigo sea, glowing as the light hit them.
Just a few steps away sits the Rumah Pohon Tree House. I had seen it online, but standing there in person, it feels like something out of a fairytale. Because I had arrived so early, I was there entirely by myself. There was no line, no noise—just me and this little wooden sanctuary perched on the edge of a cliff. I managed to snap one of my favorite photos of the whole trip: the rustic treehouse silhouetted against those unbelievable sunrise oranges and pinks. It was a moment of total stillness that felt like a gift for waking up early.
Next, I made the trek down to Diamond Beach, and I can say without hesitation it is the most beautiful beach I’ve ever set foot on. To get there, you descend a staircase carved directly into the side of the limestone. As you go down, the sea cliffs rise higher and higher around you, gleaming white against the turquoise water. Down on the sand, the scale is staggering. Huge, diamond-shaped rock formations jut out of the shallows, and the cliffs wrap around you like a giant, protective wall.
Of course, the ocean here has a mind of its own. I was so caught up in the magic of the place that I left my glasses on the sand for a moment, and the tide—which moves faster than you think—swept them away. It was a humbling reminder from the island: Take the memory, but leave something behind. Even with the long, steep climb back up (and the squinting I had to do on the ride back!), the beauty of Diamond Beach stayed with me. It’s a place that makes you feel tiny in the best possible way, tucked between the towering white stone and the infinite blue of the Indian Ocean.
Before heading to the dock to catch the boat back to the mainland, I made one final stop that would become the spiritual anchor of the trip: Goa Giri Putri. To reach it, you first have to ascend a long, winding staircase that hugs the side of a massive limestone mountain. At the top, there is no grand entrance—just a small, unassuming gap in the rock face that looks barely large enough for a person to fit through.
The entry is a physical act of surrender. You have to crouch low and crawl through a narrow, damp tunnel for a few meters. For a fleeting second, the darkness and the weight of the mountain above feel tight and claustrophobic. But then, the rock pulls away, and the space suddenly explodes into a massive cathedral of staggering awesomeness.
The scale is hard to capture in words. It is a cavern hundreds of feet long, with a ceiling so high it seems to disappear into the shadows. The air inside is a total shift from the tropical heat outside—it is cool, still and heavy with the grounding scents of ancient damp stone and burning sandalwood.
As I walked deeper into the cave, the silence was broken by the rhythmic, haunting sound of monks chanting and the clear, sharp ring of ceremonial bells. I realized I was walking through an active Hindu service. Because the cave is so vast, my footsteps felt small and inconsequential. I moved through the shadows as what seemed to be the only tourist there, witnessing white-robed practitioners kneeling before ornate shrines tucked into the jagged limestone walls.
The path through the temple is a one-way trek, leading deeper into the mountain’s belly until you eventually emerge out the other side. Walking past the flickering candles and religious displays, I felt a profound sense of being an accidental witness to something truly sacred. It wasn't a performance for visitors; it was a living, breathing pulse of faith. Emerging back into the blinding Balinese sunlight, the world felt a little louder and more chaotic than the one I had just left behind in the mountain’s heart.
Uluwatu
Returning to the mainland, I headed south to the limestone cliffs of the Bukit Peninsula. My time in Uluwatu was intentionally slower—a period of integration where the lessons from the FI retreat and the solitude of the waterfalls could finally sink in.
I started my first morning at Bambu Fitness for a group class. It was an absolute sweat-fest in the tropical heat; I had to literally wring my shirt out afterward. But the real highlight was the human connection. I struck up a long conversation with a guy from England who was scouting the area for a potential move. After days of solo reflection, it was refreshing to talk to someone else—to share stories and realize that the pull toward a life of purpose and "gusto" is a universal language.
Of course, not every flow was easy. On my second morning I attended a yoga class at The Space, and let’s just say the teacher wasn't exactly a fan of my 51-year-old flexibility. As I struggled to reach a pose, she came over, pushed on my back, and let out a loud grunt. "You are so stiff!" she exclaimed. For a second, I felt that old spark of judgment flare up, but I took a breath and stayed on the mat. I realized then that my journey wasn’t about being the most flexible person in the room; it was about the permission to be exactly who I am, stiffness and all.
I spent my afternoons exploring the coast. I visited Padang Padang, famous for its role in Eat Pray Love, and took a ride out to Pandawa Beach. YouTube videos had made Pandawa look like an otherworldly canyon drive, but in reality, it felt a bit staged—the "cliffs" were carved out for buses of tourists, and it lacked the raw, prehistoric energy I had found in the north. It was a good reminder that not every "must-see" destination holds the magic you’re looking for.
The true magic was found at Suluban Beach, also known as Blue Point. To get there, you have to navigate down a series of steep stairs and through narrow, damp cave openings that open up into "secret" tide pools. I spent my final sunset tucked under a massive limestone overhang as the tide began to surge in, the water swirling around the rocks. There were maybe a dozen other people there, but everyone was quiet, everyone was present. Watching the sun dip below the Indian Ocean from the mouth of that sea cave felt like a final, quiet goodbye to the island.
Bali didn't just give me beautiful photos; it gave me a sense of scale. It reminded me that whether you are screaming into a waterfall, crawling through a mountain fortress, or simply enjoying a protein smoothie on the beach, the world is much bigger than your own perspective. I’m heading home with more than just memories—I’m heading home with the permission to live a life that lights me up!
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