To be honest, Bali wasn’t my first choice of last places to go on this trip. Worried about overtouristing (given its exceptional popularity), I wasn’t sure it was “sexy” enough; instead I’d considered Fiji, the Maldives, even Borneo. But, in the end, a recommendation from resident homegirl and recent Bali visitor, Alicia, won out. And for the record, AI, thank you.

Bali does have a well-established foreigner base and the biggest ex-pat community I’ve personally ever seen, but it is notably quiet here. The main reason, I’ve concluded from both personal pre-trip research and candid talks with locals since I arrived, is that this place still hasn’t recovered from the horrific bombings that shook the island so recently (in 2002 and 2005) at the hands of militant Islamic terrorists. It is an interesting dynamic, being here amongst the lingering after effects. Locals are eager to provide services and feed the economy, struggling severely from lack of tourism. Though the Kuta streets were still reeling on Saturday night — at the direct spot where the blasts took out a club and left a now-empty, weed-filled lot, no less — my other ventures have been much less intense.

I’ve spent about half of my time so far in neighboring towns Kuta, Legian and Seminyak (“KLS”) hanging out on the beach watching the anatomy of surfing, shopping and, of course, eating and meeting new friends. The locals have been extremely nice, if always trying to make a buck. I get an especially warm reception when I speak a few words in the local dialect — saying “I’m sorry” in Indonesian earned me a jolly laugh, a fist pump and a snap the other day from a shopowner. Really. I pretty much talk to everyone — store attendants, market stall ladies, internet cafe operators, security guards — anyone who will green me back with a “selamat sore!” When I don’t get a seriously reduced price on a blouse or accurate directions, I usually get a moment with someone who’s foreign to me and me to them, a little mutual ambassadorship on a small scale. It influences, manifests, the experience.

And speaking of which, my sensory experience here is overwhelmingly tactile and visual. It is uncontrollably hot; I can’t seem to stay dry. The beaches in KLS are pretty bare, the sand dark and dotted with children running with puppies, discovering ocean waves. There are more shops here than I can stand, one after another, filled with rows and rows and rows of wooden and plastic bracelets, Bintang (beer) t-shirts, beaded belts, a rainbow of necklaces, jeweled sandals, weather-perfect dresses (which, by the way, I can’t seem to stop buying)… Streets are lined with fast multi-passenger motorbikes and blue-and-white taxis, slowly honking for hire.

Though I had a little trouble understanding the transportation system at first, I’ve got it down now and easily made my way via bus from the busy KLS beach hub to the more relaxed, yet still incredibly popular, mountainous and cultural retreat of Ubud. I sleep so well here in my tiny, $12 private cottage, under a dreamlike, white mosquito net. I share my bathroom with a few little geckos, and I wake up to breakfast waiting on my veranda. It is impossibly green; the trees have leaves that are thin and bushy, thick and waxy, some shaped like iguana collars. The sun shines off of them. The rice fields are tranquil, reminiscent of years when the “warungs” weren’t contemporary and there weren’t so many, if any, tourist information centers.

After spending yesterday strolling around the town to get my bearings, this morning I forgot that I dislike spin classes, rented a “pushbike” (i.e., bicycle), and ventured into the outskirts. It was uneven and hilly terrain, sometimes so steep that I had to walk the bike uphill, and altogether unbelievably enjoyable. I rode past neighboring villages and children in uniforms on their way home from school, glassy green rice paddy fields dotted with the pointed straw hats of harvesters, brown ducks swimming in irrigation ponds, and villagers in the narrow water gully along the road bathing and, yep, brushing teeth. I passed an old man balancing his belongings on his head as he casually, melodically, flicked his wrist so that the sickle he held did a figure-8 dance.

I did make a few stops, of course. There were plenty of moments that the scenery took my breath away, and you can’t very well take a decent photograph while on a bicycle, sharing the road with motos and trucks and old ladies carrying baskets on their heads. There was the time I parked my bike to check out an old temple, and I was greeted by an old woman who promptly, happily dressed me in a sarong (as per custom in holy places) and then, instead of taking one picture like I’d asked, proceeded to turn me into America’s Next Top Model with her photographing prowess and direction.

And then there were the usual things like, you know, taking a break to chat via made-up sign language with women drying rice grains in the sun.

Seriously? The Rice Paddy Fields

Happiness

Modeling shoot. No, not really.

Rice Harvest