The Setup: A Fateful Nasi Goreng
I was supposed to be alone. That was the whole plan. Book a quiet villa, spend two weeks writing about Ubud's rice terraces, maybe attend a silent meditation retreat if I felt virtuous. Instead, I found myself in a warung at 11 PM, covered in sambel, negotiating a group trip with four absolute strangers.
It started innocently enough. I was at the bar of some backpacker joint in Seminyak—purely for the wifi, I told myself—when a Scottish woman named Isla accidentally knocked my tea into my laptop. Standard chaos. We got to talking. She was there with her girlfriend Sam (English, buttoned-up accountant type who turned out to be wonderfully weird). Two stools down sat Marcus, a German photographer who'd overstayed his visa so many times he'd basically become a Balinese citizen, and Kenji, a Japanese architect on a three-month sabbatical who hadn't told his company yet.
One minute we were making small talk. The next, Isla was saying, "Fuck it, let's book something together." The tea incident had bonded us in that inexplicable way travel does.
I should have gone home. I'm the type who enjoys her own company, who books private tours specifically to avoid talking to people. But something about the four of them—their shambling enthusiasm, the way Marcus kept making terrible jokes—made me think: why not?
We spent the next two hours planning. By midnight, we'd committed to five days of absolute madness.
Day One: Ubud's Best Kept Secrets
Our guide, Wayan, picked us up at 7 AM in an air-conditioned van that smelled like vanilla and disappointment. We'd booked the Private Ubud Sightseeing Tour Private Ubud Sightseeing Tour, and Wayan had the exhausted demeanour of a man who'd driven ten thousand tourists through the same eight-hour loop.
What saved the day was us. We were insufferable. Not in a loud way—we were respectful enough—but we couldn't stop riffing on each other. When Wayan mentioned that the monkeys at the Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary "sometimes steal sunglasses," Sam immediately said, "They should steal Marcus's, it's a public service." When we swung through the jungle canopy (genuinely terrifying, by the way), Kenji started making ape sounds that made the actual guides stare at us like we'd escaped from somewhere.
The Tegalalang rice terraces looked like someone had photoshopped a screensaver into reality. Those perfect, stepped green pyramids stretching toward jungle-clad hills. We walked among them in the late-morning heat, and for about five minutes, nobody spoke. Even Isla went quiet. Then the moment broke and we were back to absolute nonsense, but it felt earned somehow.
Tirta Empul—the temple springs—was where Sam had a minor breakdown. Not a sad one. She just stood in the holy water and started laughing about her corporate job, about spreadsheets and meetings and KPIs, about how insane it was that she'd flown 6,000 miles and was now soaking in a Balinese temple pool at 2 PM on a Thursday. Kenji put his arm around her. Marcus took photographs. Isla and I looked at each other and knew we'd made the right call.
By evening, we were back at the hostel sharing a bottle of cheap wine and comparing sunburns.
Day Two: Underwater Fever
Nusa Penida was supposed to be the "adventure" day. We were out on a boat at 7 AM, still half-asleep, as the Premium All Inclusive Nusa Penida Full Day Tour Premium All Inclusive Nusa Penida Full Day Tour from Bali captain briefed us on manta ray spotting.
None of us were strong swimmers. This is the part I'll admit we glossed over when booking.
The snorkelling sites were jaw-dropping—coral gardens so vivid they looked digitally enhanced, fish in every colour the universe bothers to make. But the real magic was the manta rays. We didn't just see them. We swam above them. These impossible, graceful creatures, wingspan like bedsheets, undulating through the blue. Sam screamed so hard she inhaled seawater. Kenji came up with tears behind his snorkel mask. I honestly don't know if I breathed for the full ten minutes.
Marcus got the footage. We watched it later and still couldn't believe we were in it.
The journey back included a stop at Kelingking Cliff—that absurd limestone sea stack that looks like a stegosaurus and is already showing up in everyone's Instagram feed. We were exhausted, sunburned, salty, deliriously happy. The private vessel felt more like we were in a friend's boat than on a tour. By the time we got back to Bali, we'd collectively decided we might be in love with each other. Or at least in that travel-induced state that mimics it.
Day Three: Temples and Fire
The Private Uluwatu Sunset Tour with Kecak Dance and Dinner Private Uluwatu Sunset Tour with Kecak Dance and Dinner required us to look presentable, which felt like betraying our newfound feral energy. But we cleaned up. Isla actually wore makeup. Sam borrowed a sarong from reception. We felt like we were playing dress-up.
Uluwatu Temple is built on a clifftop so dramatic it seems impossible. The Indian Ocean drops away below you like a threat. We walked the temple grounds with our guide and I found myself actually listening—which never happens on group tours. But there's something about experiencing a place with people you genuinely like. You stop performing.
Then came the Kecak and Fire Dance. For forty-five minutes, we watched men in traditional dress perform acrobatics while making these rhythmic, hypnotic sounds—not quite chanting, not quite music. They breathed fire. They jumped through flames. The sunset turned the ocean pink and gold and we sat in stunned silence.
Dinner was overlooking the temple, overlooking the sea, overlooking everything. Sam ordered something with a name she couldn't pronounce. Marcus spilled red sauce on his white shirt and announced he'd wear it like a badge of honour. Kenji asked us all what we'd want as tombstone inscriptions. Isla said, "Here lies a woman who made excellent decisions," and everyone knew she meant this trip.
Day Four: Waterfalls and Wellness
We were falling apart by day four. Sunburned, exhausted, emotionally raw from four days of intensity. So we split up and reconvened.
Marcus and Kenji did the Best of Bali Waterfalls tour Best of Bali Waterfalls: Tibumana, Tukad Cepung and Tegenungan, chasing Tibumana, Tukad Cepung, and Tegenungan through lush river valleys. They came back soaked, babbling about hidden gorges and cold water and a monkey who'd followed them for an hour.
Isla, Sam, and I went the opposite direction: the Body Massage Experience in Ubud Traditional Spa Body Massage Experience in Ubud Traditional Spa. We each had our own therapist, but we were in adjoining rooms. For seventy-five minutes, someone unknotted my shoulders, my neck, my general anxiety about my life. When we emerged, we were soft in a way we hadn't been since arrival.
We met the boys for dinner—properly ate something instead of just snacking—and nobody said much. We were too tired and too happy.
The Bit Where We Have to Leave
It's been six months. We're in a group chat. Marcus and Kenji both extended their stay and are still in Southeast Asia. Isla and Sam are planning to meet them in Thailand next month. I've been invited. I'll go.
The thing about travel—the real thing, not the Instagram version—is that it strips away your defences. You show up as yourself. And if you're lucky, you find four other people doing the same thing, also terrified, also exhilarated, also willing to book a tour with strangers based on a nasi goreng accident.
We took the worst group selfie ever made at the airport. We cried. We promised to stay in touch. And we meant it.
I came to Bali to be alone. I left with four people I'd move mountains for. Turns out that's the real adventure.
Practicals
Book everything ahead. Tours fill up. Get travel insurance that covers diving. Bring sunscreen like your life depends on it (it does). And if a stranger invites you on a group tour? Say yes. You never know when tea will change your life.
