John Wheeler

The sea was calm that morning, but I could already smell the burning plastic from the roadside before I reached the beach. It’s a smell you never forget once it settles in your nostrils—sweet, sharp, toxic. I walked past a heap of garbage someone had dumped into the mangroves. Old flip-flops, water bottles, Styrofoam. None of it belonged to the island, and yet here it was, soaking in the tide like it had always been here.

I’ve lived in Bali, Indonesia, for nearly four decades now. The first time I came here from Sydney, I was just a guy chasing waves. The surf was pure then, unspoiled, the beaches wide open, with only the sound of the ocean and the occasional rooster. I found myself staying longer and longer each trip, until it no longer made sense to go back.

I turned sixty-two last month, and sometimes I wonder if I’ve stayed too long. Bali isn’t the sleepy island I fell in love with. Now, it groans under the weight of six million visitors a year. The streets in Kuta are always clogged—mopeds swarming like insects, taxis honking, drivers yelling. Seminyak’s clubs throb all night. Even Ubud, the spiritual heart, is packed with yoga mats and influencer shoots.

I rent a modest house near Gianyar now, far enough from the chaos but still close to the sea. The locals know me. I speak decent Bahasa and join temple ceremonies when invited. Last week, I helped clean the beach with a group of school kids. One of them asked if Australia had beaches too. I told him yes, but not like this—not with rice terraces behind you and volcanoes watching from a distance.

The irony? Surf and tourism brought me here, and now they’re the very things eroding what once felt like paradise. But there are still moments—when the sun hits the water just right, or a gamelan floats through the trees—that feel untouched, sacred even. I hold on to those. Maybe I’m naïve, but I believe Bali still whispers, under the concrete and the waste. You just have to listen closely.