Bali, between volcano and ocean - 1

 

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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.