Eating in Bali: Food, Ritual, and the Tourism Gaze - 3

 I have always believed that the truest introduction to a place is not through its monuments or museums but through its kitchens. In Bali, this belief solidified: the island’s cuisine doesn’t merely feed—it narrates. Food here is never just sustenance. It is ritual, economy, memory, and now, under the pressures of tourism, commodity.

When I first arrived, it was the markets that drew me in. The soundscape of vendors calling out prices, the sight of turmeric roots staining fingers bright orange, the weight of galangal, ginger, and lemongrass filling cloth bags. The smells hit all at once: cloves, coffee beans roasting, dried fish stacked in pyramids. This was not a curated “farmers’ market” experience for the Instagram crowd; it was daily life. Mothers buying vegetables, men haggling over eels in buckets, young women arranging offerings made of banana leaves and flowers.

It reminded me that in Bali, food is woven into cycles of ritual as much as into cycles of hunger. Every morning, families prepare canang sari—small palm-leaf baskets filled with rice, flowers, and incense—to place outside their homes and businesses. Before a single bite is taken, food goes to the gods. This gesture reframes eating: consumption is never only personal but always communal, part of an exchange between humans, nature, and the divine.

📌 Food Trivia: Offerings First

In many Balinese homes, even the simplest meal cannot begin until a portion of rice and food is placed in a small basket as an offering. Eating is always preceded by giving.

Food and its shifts under tourism

Yet I couldn’t ignore the contradictions. Dishes that once belonged exclusively to ceremonies now appear on tourist menus, stripped of their sacred context. Babi guling, the roasted suckling pig marinated in turmeric and coriander, was once reserved for temple feasts. Today, you can order it daily in Ubud. The skin still shatters when bitten, the spice rub still seeps into the flesh, but I wondered: what happens when ritual food becomes restaurant food?

The subak system—Bali’s intricate, centuries-old irrigation network, managed collectively by farmers and sanctified by temple rites—was not designed for tourists’ rice terrace selfies. And yet, tourism has reshaped these landscapes into spectacle. What happens when labour meant for feeding families is aestheticized for outsiders? When farmers’ livelihoods become backdrops?

These tensions sit on every plate. And as a visitor, you cannot escape complicity.

📌 Did You Know?

The subak irrigation system, recognised by UNESCO, dates back to the 9th century. It is both a farming method and a religious philosophy, managed through water temples.

 The five dishes that speak volumes

When people ask me what to eat in Bali, I hesitate to make a “must-try” list, because every suggestion risks flattening complex traditions into a checklist. Still, some foods carry stories that newcomers should encounter—not as trophies, but as texts.

1. Babi Guling (Suckling Pig): Once ceremonial, now common. The pig is rubbed with turmeric, coriander, lemongrass, garlic, and galangal, then roasted over wood until the skin blisters. Eating it forces you to consider how ritual survives—or doesn’t—under constant demand.

2. Bebek Betutu (Slow-cooked Duck): Duck marinated in a spice paste called bumbu genep—shallots, garlic, ginger, nutmeg, chilies—then wrapped in banana leaves and smoked in embers for up to 24 hours. The process resists the pace of industrial food systems; it insists on slowness.

3. Lawar (Spiced Salad): A mixture of vegetables, grated coconut, herbs, and sometimes minced meat or fresh pig’s blood. Lawar is never made by one person; its preparation demands many hands, reflecting a social contract embedded in food.

4. Nasi Campur (Mixed Rice Plate): At its centre is rice—always rice—surrounded by whatever the cook has available: satay, peanuts, vegetables, tempeh, sambal. It resists uniformity and celebrates improvisation, a quiet democracy on a plate.

5. Sate Lilit (Minced Satay): Fish mixed with coconut, lime leaves, and chili, moulded around lemongrass stalks instead of skewers. Here, plants are not garnish but structural—lemongrass becomes utensil, flavour, and ritual all at once.

📌 Food Trivia: Tempeh in Bali

Although tempeh is often associated with Java, it is a staple in Bali too—fermented soybean cakes fried or braised, cheap yet packed with protein, and now celebrated globally as a “superfood.”

Food as lens, food as mirror

What unsettled me most in Bali wasn’t overeating on chili sambal or sipping too much sweet kopi Bali. It was the recognition that as a traveller, I am implicated in the very transformations I critique. The food I seek out is already curated for me. The warung offering babi guling every day is doing so because visitors like me expect it, demand it.

Alicia Kennedy often writes that to eat is to make a political choice, whether we acknowledge it or not. In Bali, this truth feels amplified. To eat rice here is to acknowledge a collective irrigation system now pressured by climate change and global economics. To eat duck or pig is to participate in traditions once sacred but now commodified. To eat at all is to participate in an economy where culture is both preserved and reshaped under tourism.

And yet, to abstain would be another kind of violence: a refusal to engage with the very people whose lives are sustained by this work.

📌 Did You Know?

Balinese cooking uses a base spice paste called bumbu genep, made from more than a dozen ingredients. It appears in everything from soups to grilled meats and is considered the “soul” of Balinese cuisine.

The paradox of culinary travel

So what does responsible eating look like in Bali? Perhaps it begins with slowness—asking questions before devouring. It means recognising that when you photograph a plate of nasi campur, you are documenting not just food but centuries of agricultural practice, ritual sacrifice, and shifting economies. It means noticing who cooks, who serves, and who eats.

Eating in Bali taught me that food is not neutral. It is never simply “local flavour.” It is a stage where power, ritual, and survival play out daily. To chew is to participate, whether or not we admit it.

The question then is not “What should I eat in Bali?” but “What does my eating mean here?”

Bali, souvenir shopping - 2

 

When we travel, we often bring back trinkets, magnets, and keychains. But I’ve realized the most meaningful souvenirs aren’t just decorative—they’re living reminders of culture, craftsmanship, and the human connections we make along the way.

On my last trip to Bali, I wandered through Ubud’s bustling markets and sleepy artisan villages, searching not just for keepsakes but for stories. And what I carried back home was far richer than I expected.

Here are five souvenirs from Bali that are worth more than their price tag—because they hold the soul of the island:

1️⃣ Batik & Ikat Textiles

I still remember watching a woman in a tiny workshop in Tenganan, her fingers dipped in wax as she worked on a batik cloth. Each stroke wasn’t random—it carried centuries of symbolism, from floral patterns to mythical creatures.

📌 Did you know? Batik is recognized by UNESCO as a Masterpiece of Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.

These textiles are wearable art, and when you wrap one around your shoulders, you’re literally carrying a fragment of Bali’s heritage.

2️⃣ Silver Jewelry from Celuk

In Celuk village, silver isn’t just metal—it’s a language. Generations of families have hammered, twisted, and carved it into intricate jewelry that reflects their devotion to both art and spirituality.

📌 Fact: Celuk has been the heart of Bali’s silversmithing tradition since the 17th century.

I bought a simple silver ring, but every time I wear it, I’m reminded of the craftsman who smiled and said: “This is not mine anymore. It’s yours. Take Bali with you.”

3️⃣ Wood Carvings with Stories

Balinese woodcarvers are storytellers in disguise. Whether it’s a Barong mask or a small figurine, every carving echoes myths, epics, and village folklore.

📌 Trivia: The Barong, often carved in wood, is a symbol of protection and the eternal battle between good and evil in Balinese mythology.

Mine was a Garuda figure. It sits on my desk, and on tough days, I look at it and remember that resilience is universal—whether in a Balinese village or in my own daily grind.

4️⃣ Kopi Luwak & Bali Spices

Travel memories fade, but flavors linger. Bali’s coffee plantations offered me not just a cup, but a ritual—slow sipping, earthy aromas, and long conversations with farmers.

📌 Fun fact: Kopi Luwak is one of the world’s most expensive coffees, and Bali produces some of the best (though always check for ethical sourcing).

Alongside the coffee, I packed vanilla pods, cloves, and nutmeg. Weeks later, when I sprinkled Balinese cinnamon into my morning tea, it felt like a postcard from the island had arrived in my kitchen.

5️⃣ Natural Beauty Products & Essential Oils

Bali smells like frangipani at dawn, sandalwood at dusk, and lemongrass in between. Many local wellness brands bottle these scents into oils, scrubs, and balms.

📌 Fact: The Balinese spa tradition, known as Boreh, has been practiced for centuries using herbal scrubs and oils for healing.

I brought home coconut oil infused with hibiscus—and suddenly my rushed weekday showers turned into tiny Balinese spa sessions. It wasn’t indulgence; it was memory made tangible.

✨ What struck me was this: every souvenir became less about “buying” and more about “belonging.” They were not just objects, but bridges—between me and the people who made them, between me and the island’s rhythm, between the moment of travel and the memory of it.

💭 It made me wonder—when we travel, do we collect things, or do we collect stories?

For me, Bali will always live in the silver ring I wear, the spices I cook with, and the batik cloth draped across my chair. And maybe that’s the true beauty of souvenirs: they don’t just remind us of where we’ve been—they remind us of who we were when we were there.

Bali, between volcano and ocean - 1

 

Note: Our magazine is coming soon! It will be free for our blog readers.

The first thing you notice in Bali isn’t the beach clubs or infinity pools. It’s the smell — sweet incense drifting from canang sari, daily offerings placed outside homes, temples, and even shops. If you’re traveling to Bali from India or the US, prepare to be greeted not just by postcard beaches, but by a living culture of prayer and ritual.

Mount Agung and the Temples of Bali

Rising above the island, Mount Agung is more than a volcano — it’s considered sacred, the home of gods. A visit to Besakih Temple, the “Mother Temple” on its slopes, is one of the best things to do in Bali.P

Pilgrims in white sarongs walk barefoot carrying fruit baskets, while tourists marvel at panoramic views. Agung’s soil feeds the lush rice terraces below, a reminder of how destruction and fertility coexist in Bali.

Bali’s Rice Terraces and the Subak System

No Bali travel guide is complete without mentioning its famous rice terraces. From Tegalalang near Ubud to Jatiluwih (a UNESCO site), these green staircases are more than scenic—they are part of the Subak irrigation system, a unique community-based practice that blends farming and spirituality.

Walking through Ubud’s paddies, I stumbled along the narrow ridges until a farmer laughed and said, “One more step and you plant yourself, not rice.” In Bali, humour runs as richly as water.

Daily Life and Rituals in Bali

Traveling in Bali means witnessing spirituality woven into everyday chaos. Scooters weave through Kuta traffic, yet roadside shrines are refreshed with flowers every morning.

Caught in a sudden rain near Seminyak, a shopkeeper told me the drizzle was “the tears of Barong,” the mythical lion protector. She handed me ginger tea, proving that Bali’s hospitality is as warm as its climate.

Folklore and Traditions by the Bali Sea

In the fishing villages of Amed and Sanur, boats have painted eyes to “see” danger at sea. Women prepare offerings for the ocean goddess, Dewi Danu, and children dive for shells as effortlessly as fish.

Plan your trip around Nyepi, Bali’s Day of Silence. On this day, the entire island shuts down — no flights, no lights, no movement. Imagine a tourist destination that pauses completely, inviting even demons to pass unnoticed. For Indian and US travelers used to constant motion, Nyepi offers a rare lesson in stillness.

Bali Tourism and Modern Contrasts

Yes, you’ll see yoga retreats, beach clubs, and Instagram-famous spots like Lempuyang Temple (the Gate of Heaven). But behind the staged photos, Bali’s essence survives. Rituals continue, volcanoes brood, and rice still feeds the island.

For travelers from India, Bali feels both familiar and foreign — Hindu rituals with a distinct island identity. For US visitors, it’s a tropical paradise layered with culture far beyond the beach.

Best Places to Visit in Bali (Quick Guide)

• Ubud – Rice terraces, yoga, and cultural performances
• Seminyak & Kuta – Shopping, nightlife, and surfing
• Besakih Temple & Mount Agung – Sacred temple complex
• Tanah Lot & Uluwatu Temples – Cliffside and seaside temples
• Amed – Black sand beaches, diving, and local fishing culture
• Jatiluwih Rice Terraces – UNESCO World Heritage site

A memoir of Darjeeling

The first thing you must know about Darjeeling is that you will not see it all at once. It is not a destination that reveals itself in a grand, sweeping vista upon arrival. No, Darjeeling is a coquette, a place that prefers to unveil itself layer by layer, through the tendrils of mist that cling to ancient rhododendrons and the slow, steamy sigh of a first cup of tea.

My journey began not on the hills, but in the belly of the toy train from New Jalpaiguri. The Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, a UNESCO World Heritage site, is less a mode of transport and more a slow-motion time machine. Its tiny, blue steam engine, the 'B-Class', chuffed and wheezed with a determined gentleness, pulling us up the precipitous mountainside on tracks that seemed no wider than a child’s imagination. We passed women picking tea on slopes so steep they appeared to defy physics, their brightly coloured skirts vivid brushstrokes against the emerald canvas of the plantations. The air, once thick with the humid breath of the plains, began to cool, carrying the clean, mineral scent of high altitude and the occasional, intoxicating perfume of wild jasmine.

A Town Woven from Mist and Memory

Arriving in Darjeeling town is like stepping into a faded, beautiful postcard. Colonial-era buildings—the Raj-era Planter’s Club, the Gothic architecture of St. Andrew’s Church—stand as weathered sentinels to a complex history, their facades now harmoniously tangled with vibrant prayer flags strung between balconies. The air is a symphony of sounds: the distant, melodic chant from a Buddhist monastery, the cheerful cacophony of the bazaar, and the constant, gentle hum of conversation in Nepali, Hindi, and Tibetan.

I spent my first afternoon lost in the maze of the Chowk Bazaar. This is where Darjeeling’s heart beats loudest. The sensory overload is glorious and profound. The sharp, acrid smell of momo* broth steaming in large pots mingles with the sweet, spiced aroma of chaat and the earthy, profound fragrance of raw tea, sold in great burlap sacks. My fingers brushed over piles of soft, hand-woven pashmina shawls and the cool, smooth surface of hand-hammered brass singing bowls. Here, a Gurkha shopkeeper proudly showed me his traditional 'kukri' knife; there, a Tibetan refugee sold exquisite 'thangka' paintings, each one a meticulous meditation in colour and gold leaf.

The Golden Elixir and a Pre-Dawn Pilgrimage

To understand Darjeeling is to understand its tea. A visit to a working estate, like the Happy Valley Tea Estate, is a lesson in patience and craft. Walking between the perfectly manicured rows of bushes, my guide, an elderly planter with hands like weathered bark, explained the delicate art of the flush. “It is all in the timing,” he said, plucking two leaves and a bud with a precise pinch. “First flush, after the spring rains, is light, floral, like a memory. Second flush, in summer, is stronger, muscatel. It is the story of the sun and the soil in your cup.” In the factory, the air was thick with a humid, grassy, and slightly fermented scent—the smell of transformation. Witnessing the withering, rolling, oxidizing, and drying process made my subsequent cup of tea taste profoundly different. It was no longer a beverage; it was a narrative of a place, distilled.

But the narrative of Darjeeling reaches its climax before dawn. At 4 a.m., in the biting cold, I joined the quiet procession of pilgrims heading to Tiger Hill. We stood in the dark, a huddled mass of anticipation, our breath frosting in the air. As the first sliver of sun breached the horizon, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The sky bled from indigo to violet, then tangerine to gold. And then, emerging from the darkness, was the impossible, breathtaking silhouette of Kangchenjunga, the world’s third-highest peak. It didn’t look like a mountain; it looked like a raw piece of the planet’s core, a jagged white fang against the fiery dawn. For those few, silent minutes, the world held its breath. The mist that so often hides Darjeeling’s majesty had parted, offering a perfect, fleeting glimpse of the sublime.

The Authentic Thread

The true magic of Darjeeling, however, wasn't found on Tiger Hill or in a teacup, but in a small, steamy kitchen. I had befriended a local family who invited me for a meal. We sat on low stools as the grandmother, her face a roadmap of smile lines, taught me how to pinch the perfect 'momo' dumpling. We ate them with a fiery tomato 'achar' (pickle) , our fingers burning, laughing as I failed spectacularly to eat them without spilling the broth. It was a simple, profound moment of connection, far removed from any guidebook itinerary.

Leaving Darjeeling, the mist rolled back in, swallowing the town whole as the toy train began its descent. I realized its nature isn't one of hiding, but of protecting. It guards the slow, deep rhythm of life there—the patience of the tea leaves, the enduring faith in the monasteries, the warmth of its people's smiles. Darjeeling doesn’t give you a postcard; it gives you a feeling. A feeling that lingers like the taste of a fine second flush, long after the last photograph has been taken and the last of the mountain mist has evaporated from your clothes. It is a feeling that calls you back, long before you’ve even left.