Canggu

Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Chaos

Hello,

Thanks for the kind feedback on the first post, that meant a lot <3

Nick and I are in Bali, enjoying the first couple of weeks of our travels. We’re alive and well.

Here’s a new post about our first week in Canggu - I hope you enjoy it! xo

The girl was posing for a photograph in front of Desa Kitsune, a new luxury hospitality concept opened earlier in the year by the fashion brand Maison Kitsune. She looked flawless in a short dress, her long black hair draped perfectly over one shoulder, seemingly immune to the tropical humidity. It had rained earlier—it was the wet season—and she stood in sandals, ankle-deep in what smelled like a torrent of sewage. I stared in horror at her feet, fully immersed in the brown stream, likely teeming with E. coli. I wondered what she’d choose as her Instagram caption for this photo. Le shit c’est chic? 

We were in Canggu, Bali.

Canggu is a bit like “off the beaten path,” except completely the opposite. After leaving L.A., we had spent two wonderful weeks visiting Nick’s family in Sydney. Indonesia’s proximity made it an obvious first stop on our itinerary. We intentionally chose Bali as a tourist-friendly place to acclimate.

I’d heard polarizing feedback about Bali, always framed with superlatives. Some people said it was utterly disgusting—Australians with Southern Cross tattoos partying in Kuta, beaches so polluted everyone caught traveler’s diarrhea or some rare tropical fungus. Others swore it was the best place on earth—beautiful beaches, affordable resorts, and the warmth and spirituality of Balinese culture.

Canggu was recommended by a friend who loved Bali. He described it as a hipster surfer’s paradise, and that seemed like a good fit for us.

The taxi ride from the airport was overwhelming in the usual Southeast Asia way: bumper-to-bumper traffic, swarms of motorbikes zigzagging between cars and hopping on sidewalks. Many carried entire families, including toddlers perched on their parents’ laps, sunglasses on, unfazed. (Why are Balinese toddlers cooler than me…?) But something different soon caught my attention: foreigners riding scooters just like locals, only faster and more recklessly. Barefoot, helmetless, sometimes with a dog at their feet, one hand steering, the other texting. The closer we got to Canggu, the more I saw this. I soon realized they weren’t exactly foreigners. They were digital nomads or expats. People who lived here.

Located just north of overdeveloped Kuta and Seminyak, Canggu was the latest hotspot for tourists and expats alike. It was the Williamsburg of Bali (everywhere has one now.) What used to be paddy fields and coconut groves had become a Disneyland for adults: cafés serving acai bowls, boutique stores, and villas designed for foreigners. It wasn’t where we’d learn about traditional Balinese life.

But Canggu taught me something unexpected: I worried too much.

We arrived wearing hiking boots, long pants, long sleeves, sunglasses, hats, and SPF 50 mineral sunscreen, prepared for both skin cancer and mosquito-borne diseases. Everyone else was in board shorts or bikinis, barefoot under the blazing sun or moonlight. I ordered only cooked food, paranoid about “Bali belly,” while others sipped raw smoothies. I avoided the adorable stray dogs because I’d read there was a rabies epidemic in Bali and it could spread from a lick. Other people petted them freely. My caution extended to the surf. I watched a girl paddle out from the beach through the current from a “river” mouth—basically sewage—emanating such a strong stench I had to cover my nose.

I walked around town feeling overwhelmed and conspicuously out of place, as if wearing a neon sign: I’m not from here, and I have no idea how anything works.

My alienation peaked when I glanced at my ChatGPT history:

• “Overheating in Bali Tips”

• “UV Intensity Comparison Bali vs. LA”

• “Acai Bowl Safety Indo”

• “Seasonal Allergies in Southeast Asia”

• “Protein and Moisture Balance for Low Porosity Curls.”

(If you don’t know what that last one means, congratulations on not being a psychopath.)

My Chat GPT history had become a mirror of my subconscious—a highlight reel of my deepest fears. And it wasn’t pretty.

Meanwhile, people in Canggu didn’t seem to give a shit.

Pedro, surfing all day without sunscreen, didn’t seem to give a flying fuck about cancer or vitamin deficiencies. Anton, lifting weights in a non-AC gym, probably didn’t lose sleep over electrolyte imbalances. Jessica, zigzagging on her scooter while sipping matcha, didn’t strike me as someone who rereads emails three times before hitting send. And Amber, paddling away in sewage, her sun-bleached hair trailing behind—damn, she probably doesn’t even send emails.

It struck me that Canggu offered me a growth opportunity: a chance to try to chill out more.

My sister Lola had shared with me a podcast by a backpacker who progressively lightened his load during his travels by letting go of his fears. He explained that every time he discarded an item, it was because he was letting go of a “what if.” It reminded me that I wasn’t as worried backpacking through Thailand fifteen years ago. And nothing bad happened. And I had a lot of fun.

What had changed since then? Did growing up mean worrying more—creating an elaborate system of control to manage risk and optimize for comfort?

A friend recently sent me a voice note to share personal news. She also mentioned fears about Trump getting reelected. She was driving and her voice note was punctuated by screams when she'd nearly hit a deer—which added to the dramatic effect and made me think that living in the Hamptons was not as serene as I imagined it to be. My friend was really worried—about her children, about the planet, about everything. You could hear the anxiety in her voice, and it wasn’t just because of the deer. And I was worried too. But as I escaped the U.S. and this election became increasingly a distant matter, it made me wonder if the point of worrying was just about turning a bad day into a worse one.

So, I decided to re-frame my thinking from "What's the worst that can happen?” to “What’s the best that can happen?”

I started by going surfing, something familiar. I walked to the nearby Echo Beach barefoot, ignoring what I might step in. I rented a shortboard for $4 and went to paddle away in the sewage, holding my head high and my mouth closed. I caught a few good waves and soon I was having too much fun to care about bacteria. In the meantime, Nick hit the local no-AC gym. For $3.50, he embraced lifting weights in what felt like a sauna.

One day we decided to do a day trip to Uluwatu—known for its world class wave and one of the most significant Hindu temples of the island. It was a 1.5h drive and the most scenic way to get there was to rent a scooter, so we did. What I expected to be nerve-racking ended up being the opposite. Some roads were small and with no clear traffic rules, so I initially clenched my fists. But soon my shoulders relaxed and I rode confidently like everyone else. We navigated crossroads where we all had to play chicken to get through. We followed others as we jumped on and off sidewalks to get around heavy traffic. We went through deep pools created by flash floods on sections of the road, temporarily feeling like we were riding jet skis. The experience was strangely cathartic. I found some lightness in scootering among locals—like locals. It was like moving to New York and figuring out how to ride the subway—swiping your MetroCard fast and knowing you had to catch a train north to go south.

It occurred to me that once you've become part of the chaos, you no longer fear it.

We rode through the yellow smog and stopped at several beaches on our way, but Uluwatu beach, our destination, was the most stunning of all. We bathed in crystal blue water beneath towering cliffs while watching skilled surfers catch huge waves in the background reef. There were quite a few people around and one of them struck a conversation with us. She introduced herself as Asia. She had long beautiful black curly hair, a pretty face and gigantic boobs. She said she was a spiritual advisor from Oklahoma. She came to Bali for a yoga camp three months ago, and had extended her stay ever since. I was trying to catch a glimpse of the surfers but Asia was eager to talk. Nick said we were on a sabbatical, an escape from the nine to five. She explained she was re-branding as a healer for corporate burnouts and we all agreed it was going to be a lucrative angle. I thought to myself that she wasn’t about to be back in Oklahoma anytime soon. She was the first digital nomad we met and there was some irony in this girl funding her Indian Ocean dream from people who were struggling on the other side. Was she helping them or exploiting them?

The highlight of that week was Tanah Lot. This Hindu temple was a short scooter ride away from the bustle and hustle, tucked on a rock by the ocean. It means “Land in the Sea,” and its main deity is a sea god. The soundtrack is made of waves crashing around. Despite being a popular tourist spot, the temple grounds were so serene that we felt we could finally relax properly. The ocean felt soothing. Afterwards, we went to a nearby cafe where I found an old copy of Locals Only, a surfing magazine. I read an article explaining that the ocean water mostly comes from comets. They say that's why surfing is a cosmic experience. I chose not to fact check this information, I liked the idea too much.

Tanah Lot, Bali, Indonesia

On the last evening in Canggu, I walked to Echo Beach to watch the sunset. I sat on a big log beached on the sand somewhere in the back, isolated from other tourists. There were only a few stray dogs around, which I avoided like death-threats. I listened to some house music while watching surfers ripping in the descending sun. There were a few clouds and the breeze on my skin offered a much needed relief from the heat. As I enjoyed this cosmic spectacle, I felt a warm liquid going down my leg and noticed, only too late, a stray dog urinating on me. I watched in disgust, too afraid to make a quick movement for fear he'd bite me. When he was done, he threw some sand on me with his back legs and left. Like that girl posing in front of Kitsune, I was experiencing the Bali contrast of sheer beauty sprinkled with the dirty.

Suddenly, a thought crept in: Can you get rabies from being peed on? The question consumed me, but I fought the urge to consult Chat GPT. Instead, I stayed put, watching the surfers, willing myself to let the worry drift away with the tide.

It was progress.