How paradise is suffocating under traffic, waste, and its own global success

Bali — from a small, archaic island on the Ring of Fire, to the “Island of the Gods” discovered by tourism, to an island drifting into post-capitalist consumer chaos.

Did I make a mistake back then?

When I traveled through Southeast Asia, captivated by the beauty of its countless islands, I chose Bali as my place to live. It could just as easily have been Lombok, Flores, or an island in Thailand—but Bali scored highest on my personal scale. There was culture, a distinct spirituality, and a vibrant alternative scene in Ubud.

At the time, there was still abundant nature, little traffic, and no visible waste problem.

I lacked foresight. I made no projections about what the growing streams of tourists would eventually bring. It wasn’t only the travelers and Indonesians from other islands coming to Bali for work who turned it into one of the most densely populated places on earth. There were also people like me—foreigners who didn’t just come for a holiday, but chose to stay.

People from all over the world who saw Bali as the most attractive place to live in Asia: entrepreneurs, retirees, digital nomads, artists, healers, DJs, developers, restaurant owners. They all came seeking something—opportunity, freedom, meaning. Most stayed. And every year, more arrive.

People from all over the world saw Bali as the most attractive place to live in Asia

With this additional influx of non-Balinese residents, the island soon became overwhelmed.

The government failed to keep pace with this development. No effective systems were created to manage waste or traffic. The narrow roads are hopelessly congested. Garbage is not systematically handled—it accumulates, spilling into daily life.

So where does this lead?

Can Bali still regain control? Or is this already a lost battle—an island slowly collapsing under the weight of its own success?

And what about me? Do I have to admit that I failed to see far enough ahead? Will I one day have to leave in order to stay healthy?

I began to wonder how other expats living in Bali deal with these issues, and how deeply they are affected by traffic, waste management, and the sheer density of the population. So I asked friends who have lived here long-term how these developments are shaping their perspective on staying—or leaving.

Roswitha S., who has lived in Bali for 25 years, shared her experience:

Bali’s trash burning problem has just reached new toxic heights

“After years of suffering from locals burning plastic, rubber, and construction debris in small fires next to their homes, I was relieved when a regulation was introduced prohibiting the burning of household waste, with a fine of 50,000 rupiah. From then on, garbage collection became regular—twice a week, costing around 100,000 rupiah per month.

Only occasionally would someone refuse to pay even a small amount—around €2.50—for weekly collection and continue burning their waste. But at least there was now a system in place, and complaints could be made.
Eventually, waste collection became properly established.

But now, it has begun again.
In 2026, neighbors started burning their trash once more after the island’s main landfill was abruptly closed by government decree. The idea was that residents should separate plastic, paper, and glass for collection, while burying organic waste themselves.

A short-sighted solution.

Who, with only 100 square meters of land, has space to create a functioning compost system? And what about construction waste or materials that cannot be recycled or buried?

Rumor has it that a new shopping mall is planned next to the landfill site, and the investor did not want unpleasant odors nearby—so pressure was applied to shut it down.

Bali waste problem

At the same time, years earlier, a French company had proposed building a waste-to-energy incineration plant near Gianyar. But excessive permit fees—from both government authorities and, as is common in Bali, the local adat structures—made the project economically unviable. It would have taken over 15 years to turn a profit. The investor withdrew. The project collapsed.

And now, the situation has reached a critical point.
Hotel underground parking areas are filling up with garbage bags that are no longer being collected. Without a functioning system, the only alternatives seem to be uncontrolled burning—or worse. One begins to think, almost involuntarily, of Albert Camus and the quiet, creeping onset of a plague.

Only recently has the government begun to react. The landfill has been temporarily reopened for two months to deal with the accumulated waste.

But temporary measures are not enough.

Bali Tourist Tax 2026

Something fundamental has to change. After all, six million tourists per year now pay a €9 tourism levy—a kind of visitor tax—intended to support waste management. Surely, that should be sufficient to finally build proper infrastructure, perhaps even a modern incineration facility.”

I went on to speak with another expat, a friend from Switzerland, Cyrill, who chose Bali as his home after many years in Malaysia and Thailand, and who is deeply familiar with life in Southeast Asia.
He offered a different perspective:

“There have always been critical voices on these issues. Even back in 2000, when I was living on Koh Samui, traffic, waste, and development were exactly the same concerns. In that sense, it’s nothing entirely new.

What often changes is ourselves.
The longer you stay in one place, the more you begin to notice its downsides. And sometimes the grass on the other side suddenly looks greener. Ultimately, much in life is a compromise—and living in one place is no different. You decide what you can live with and what you cannot.

scooter traffic problem in Bali

For me, the scooter traffic here even has a certain charm—if you are willing to engage with it. These small ‘freedom rides’ give you a different connection to a place. You notice things that remain hidden when you sit in a car: smells, light, people, little scenes by the roadside.

Personally, I even appreciate a certain degree of this chaos.
Of course, waste management could be better organized—that’s obvious. But where I live, it functions reasonably well. And when I recently spent two weeks in Phuket, (Thailand), I realised it’s not that different there. In Patong, we were just as stuck in traffic as we are here in Bali.
In the end, you have a choice. You can let it frustrate you every day, or you can consciously adapt.
That doesn’t mean ignoring the problems. But for me, Bali is still a place where I feel enough freedom, movement, and inspiration to accept the compromises.

Perhaps the real question is not only how Bali is changing—but how we deal with change when a place we once idealised no longer lives up to its image.”

And yet, while these reflections weigh on me—casting grey shadows across my once bright Bali daydreams—something else happens.

Indonesian Motorbike Taxi Riders Gojek

I call a Gojek (motorbike taxi) to take me home. As if on cue, the sky opens and heavy rain begins to fall. Perfect timing. Barely have I settled onto the back of the motorbike when the driver, despite the downpour, begins to sing cheerful Indonesian songs.

And just like that, the feeling returns—that I don’t want to leave. That this is exactly where I belong. Because Bali is more than a waste problem, more than traffic, more than the visible symptoms of imbalance. These things may, somehow, be resolved.

But above all, Bali is its people—who, day after day, remind you with their warmth, humor, and spirit why you came here in the first place.

The post Bali: Paradise Overloaded appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

There is a moment, somewhere between the last view of Bali’s crowded coastline and the first outline of Lombok rising from the sea, when something inside you quiets down. Not dramatically. Not in the way travel brochures promise transformation. More like a subtle exhale. As if the island ahead is not asking for your attention—but simply offering space.

Lombok has always lived in the shadow of its louder neighbor. Less mythologized, less performed. And yet, for those who arrive—whether for a few days or a longer drift—it reveals itself in layers that feel at once familiar and distinctly its own.

The New Frontier of Short-Term Paradise

Breathtaking aerial capture of Lombok’s pristine Mandalika beach and coastline

In recent years, Lombok—especially the southern coast of Lombok Tengah—has begun to attract a different kind of visitor. Not backpackers chasing the cheapest bungalow, but short-term residents of comfort: families from the Middle East, urban travelers from Jakarta and Singapore, and an increasing number of international tourists looking for a curated escape.

Private villas now sit on hills overlooking the Indian Ocean, minimalist in design, infinity pools spilling toward the horizon. High-end compounds with staff, chefs, and drivers. At the same time, just a few bends down the dusty road, surfer hostels buzz with a completely different rhythm—shared rooms, early mornings, boards stacked against the walls, salt still in the air from yesterday’s session. It’s a coexistence that feels almost accidental, yet somehow works.

Mandalika — Vision Meets Asphalt

A stunning aerial shot of the Mandalika Circuit in Lombok

At the heart of this transformation lies Mandalika. What was once a quiet stretch of coastline has been reimagined as a flagship tourism project—wide roads, planned zones, security gates, and, most visibly, the Mandalika International Street Circuit. MotoGP has arrived, and with it, a vision of Lombok stepping onto a global stage.

The circuit itself feels like a statement carved into the landscape: ambition, speed, spectacle. And yet, just beyond its curves, the older Lombok remains. Fishermen pulling in nets. Cows grazing where engines roar just weeks before. It is this contrast that defines Mandalika—not just what has been built, but what continues to exist beside it.

The Gilis — Between Party and Stillness

Gili Trawangan, Gili Indah, North Lombok

Off Lombok’s northwest coast, the three Gili Islands—Trawangan, Air, and Meno—float like fragments of different moods.

Gili Trawangan is the extrovert. Nights that stretch into mornings, beach bars pulsing with music, travelers dancing barefoot in the sand. It is a place where time loosens its grip.

Gili Air softens the edges. A balance between movement and pause. Yoga in the morning, snorkeling in clear water where turtles glide past without urgency, dinners by candlelight.

Gili Meno, the quietest of the three, feels almost like a retreat into absence. Fewer voices, more space. The kind of silence that reminds you how loud you have been elsewhere.

Senggigi — Echoes of an Earlier Era

Senggigi Beach, West Lombok

Before Mandalika, before Kuta Lombok found its rhythm, there was Senggigi. From the 1980s to the early 2000s, this stretch of coast was Lombok’s introduction to tourism. Hotels lined the shore—some ambitious, some modest—welcoming travelers who wanted proximity to Bali, but without its intensity. Today, Senggigi carries a different energy. Slightly faded, yes—but not without charm. A place where time has not rushed forward quite as aggressively. Where older hotels still stand, telling quiet stories of an earlier wave of discovery.

Into the Interior — Where Lombok Breathes Deep

Majestic view of Mount Rinjani’s volcanic crater with turquoise lake on Lombok Island

If the coast is where Lombok meets the world, the interior is where it returns to itself. Mount Rinjani rises not just as a peak, but as an experience that demands commitment. Trekking up its slopes is not a casual undertaking. It is a slow negotiation with altitude, fatigue, and awe. Nights spent at the crater rim, tents pitched against the wind, stars stretching across a sky unpolluted by city light. Below, the crater lake rests in stillness, almost unreal.

Elsewhere, in Tetebatu, the pace shifts again. Jungle paths, waterfalls hidden behind layers of green, hot springs, small villages where daily life unfolds without performance. It is here that Lombok feels least interrupted—where the island’s rhythm predates tourism and will likely outlast it.

The Sasak — Culture in Continuity

A father and son dressed in traditional Sasak attire share a quiet moment during a village wedding in Lombok, Indonesia

At the heart of Lombok are the Sasak people. Their villages—simple, grounded, shaped by tradition—offer a glimpse into a way of life that has adapted, but not disappeared. Houses built with natural materials, communal spaces, rituals that continue not for display, but because they belong.

And yet, Lombok is also deeply Islamic. Mosques are present in every village, the call to prayer marking the day with a steady rhythm. But this is not an Islam that feels imposed on the visitor. It is, as one might call it, a Lombok Islam—practiced, present, yet accommodating.

Tourists ride motorbikes in shorts and bikinis, beach bars serve cold beer, and nightlife exists without friction. It is a balance that is neither fully explained nor formally structured—but lived.

Waves, Roads, and the Western Comfort Zone

Water buffalo on Selong Belanak beach, Lombok

For surfers, Lombok is not an alternative—it is a destination. From the breaks around Kuta to Selong Belanak, from the more remote spots in the Ekas region to well-known waves that carry names whispered with a certain respect—Desert Point, Inside Ekas, Outside Ekas—the island offers consistency, power, and space.

Back in Kuta Lombok, the infrastructure has quietly grown. Restaurants serving everything from local dishes to international cuisine, cafés with strong coffee and stronger Wi-Fi, bars with live music in the evening, small shops lining the streets. It is not Bali. Not yet. And perhaps that is precisely the point.

Between What Is and What Comes Next

Lombok travel guide beyond Bali

Lombok exists in a delicate in-between. Between development and restraint. Between global attention and local continuity. Between the desire to become—and the risk of becoming too much.

When living in Bali gets overwhelming and the future of overload has already settled in – I escape to Lombok – there I can find my type of Bali as I have loved it in the year 2000. A timeless vibrant nature, local life, that is enough in itself,  that doesn’t need performances and glamour, combined with western amenities, all the way up to high end accommodation.

For the traveler, it offers something increasingly rare: choice without total saturation. You can arrive for a week in a villa and never leave your pool. Or you can find yourself on a mountain ridge, questioning why you ever needed so much structure to begin with.

And somewhere in between, on a motorbike, moving through heat, dust, prayer calls, ocean air—you begin to understand that Lombok is not trying to be the next Bali.

It is simply becoming more of itself.

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In Bali, sound is not something you can shut out. Sound enters through the thin doors, the cracks in the wood, the spaces between walls and roof. Noise weaves itself through rafters and window frames, it clings to the walls like dupa, the incense of rituals. The soundscape is vast, without edge.

Try to keep the sound out – by closing warped wooden doors, latch windows made of little more than a thin frame and a single pane of glass. But nothing closes here completely. No seal is airtight. The house breathes—through the gentle space where light and noise slip in like wandering spirits.

In order to establish territory, roosters sing continuously.

At first, one tries to keep it out—the rooster’s crow to establish territory, the deep hammering chants of bullfrogs,
the high, metallic cry of crickets in heat, the territorial disputes of stray dogs. But nothing in Bali is built to be closed. Even the best-built houses do not block out the environment they are in, but permeate the sound of Bali.

In a “western world” far away from Bali, privacy is sacred, where the ideal home is a sealed fortress of temperature control and personal space. There, silence is built with double glazing, thick carpets, and doors that lock not just sound, but the world itself, out.

A delivery man in Bali

There, individuality is a virtue—a lifestyle, even. We cultivate solitude. We make appointments to meet. We schedule connection. Noise is disturbance, uninvited presence, a trespass on the self. Here—closer to the equator—life is a permeable membrane. Boundaries are porous.
A voice, suddenly at my door: “Hello?”

And there, already standing in the open doorway, a neighbor, a delivery man, a stranger with a question, that cannot remain unattended. And sometimes it is me who is calling my friend’s name to share a thought, but she is already gone, having slipped barefoot through the same open door that lets the world in.

Even inside your home, you are never entirely alone. You are part of something, whether you like it or not. The sound of a motorbike offers information: someone is arriving, someone is leaving

Heavy rain in Bali

The RAIN announces itself -long before it touches the earth. You hear the wall of downpour coming closer, feel it rolling in through the trees like a growing drumbeat—and then it’s upon you. It drowns out the roosters, the frogs, the dogs and even your thoughts if you let it. This rain is not a disruption. It’s the cleansing voice of the earth, reminding you: You’re not in control. Give up on your plan for the moment, or the whole day.

That’s the truth of life in this place. You cannot close the door on the world because the world is permeating. It took effort—yes. It took maybe years, to stop resisting the world as it poured in through the thin windows of my house.

Bullfrogs have a deep hammering chant

Instead, I began to listen. To the tropical, natural sounds in the distance. To the ceremonies rising in chorus from a nearby temple. To the old woman sweeping her courtyard at dawn, rhythmically, patiently, as if brushing yesterday from the earth.

In the tropics, life is a shared event. Sound is a companion.

Not all of it pleasant, but all of it is shared.

Bali is not only full of people, it is brimming—overflowing—with sound

A noisy ceremony

There is no mute button.

There is no pause.

It took effort to stop fighting, and start listening.

That process is similar to refining the musical senses, the ear for tones and overtones, .

By listening to the spaces in between notes we hear sounds that are present. Not produced by instruments (or by roosters and street sellers) – but are part of the brimming ever-present sound of the island.

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Being asked often by foreigners and by locals alike: “What do you see as the most drastic change during the past 35 years?”, my answer is free of doubt: The most drastic transformation in Bali over that time span may not be the tourist villas or the traffic jams — but globalization.

Bali local palm wine (tuak)

Before the year 2000, people spent their evenings in small groups, gathering at the balai (public gazebos). The young played cards, listened to music, drank local palm wine (tuak), or sat on the beach. They talked — mostly small talk or village gossip — but they were engaging with one another. They wore sarongs and T-shirts. No one thought about followers or Photoshop for Instagram posts. There were no selfies and no online updates, because there was no internet to update. Girls only wore makeup during temple ceremonies, along with their ceremonial kebaya and golden sashes.

Today, in 2026, every woman and girl wears expensive makeup, follows global fashion, and clutches her smartphone — even while riding a motorbike, scrambling across rocks at the beach, going to bed, or sitting on the toilet.

Some clutch their smartphone even while riding a motorbike

Their vision is locked at 30 cm, both thumbs endlessly scrolling. Men and women drive with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a phone—even if they’re not making a call. Construction workers keep their phones in their back pockets or next to the cement mixer, playing pop music while hammering and drilling.

The information flowing from these devices is a steady stream of global topics, global tastes, global marketing for global products. What people see on TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, or local apps isn’t very Balinese, nor even distinctly Indonesian. It may be in the Indonesian language—but the content and message are global.

That is the biggest influence. The greatest change.

People are being shaped by what they see and hear every day.

The people of Bali have become global citizens

Deep in their hearts, they may still hold on to superstition, religion, belief in fate, black magic, and moral consequences—but in their lifestyle, they’re losing something sacred: the serenity and quiet dignity of the Balinese spirit.

The people of Bali became global citizens, or to put it more correct: global consumers in a huge global Mega Mall. The unique Bali culture is still engraved. Social conditioning in how to do things and how not to do is still present, but the layer gets thinner and the ‘global citizen’ is a challenge and a distant longing.

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Indonesia is an archipelago of roughly 17,500 islands. Any one of them is worth visiting. Not that I have seen them all—but what I mean by “worth visiting” is quite simple: they are tropical, green, and fertile. Some are wrapped in dense jungle, others open into scrub and prairie. All of them stretch in a long, loose chain from west to east, mostly south of the equator—though islands like Kalimantan and Sulawesi reach a little north, leaning toward Vietnam and the Philippines.

Lombok travel guide – Photo: Orion f.b.

Any of the less densely populated islands east of Java are worth the journey. Their beauty is often untouched, and their nature powerful. People come here to hike, dive, snorkel, or move their bodies—on land, water, or somewhere in between.
After the vast human landscape of Java, with its 70 million inhabitants, there’s Bali—the first island to the east—home to four or five million people, depending on the day, the season, and the presence of foreign workers or tourists.
And then, just beyond Bali, lies Lombok—the second island to the east.
Between the two sits a small chain of islands—the Gilis. Little dots in the sea that have grown into their own reputations: party nights on Gili Trawangan, quiet beach days on Gili Meno and Gili Air. “Gili,” in the local language, simply means “island”—and around Lombok, there are many more of them, each offering its own version of stillness.

Lombok amazing nature

These are places for retreats, barefoot walks, or afternoons drifting through fields of rice, corn, or grass, where water buffalo move slowly—as if time itself is less hurried here.

Lombok, like most Indonesian islands, has its native people and its own language. With that come stories—about beginnings, about why we are here, and where we go after death. These older layers are now gently covered by a more recent one: modern, mostly moderate Islam.

Fun in the rolling hills of Lombok – Photo: Orion f.b.

The main inhabitants are the Sasak people. On the west coast, facing Bali—clearly within sight—there are also Balinese communities, carrying their distinct Hindu culture across the water.
Arriving in Lombok—whether by ferry or plane—you first land on what seems like an endless flat plain. Fertile land stretches toward the horizon: rice paddies, vegetables, watermelons, cornfields—all nourished by irrigation from the mountains.
But don’t be fooled.

The island is, in essence, one massive mountain.At its heart rises Mount Rinjani, reaching 3,726 meters into the sky. From there, everything slopes downward—toward the sea, every beach, bay, and cliff, and every perfect surfer’s wave.

Fishing boats on a Lombok beach

Imagine seeing Lombok from above—either from a bird’s eye view or an ultralight aircraft—circling outward from Rinjani’s crater lakes, waterfalls, and dense jungle slopes. The island would appear as a single, enormous mountain, continuing deep beneath the surface of the ocean.
That perspective offers a certain clarity. You are walking on a volcano—a pearl in a long volcanic necklace known as the Ring of Fire.
Development began on the west coast. Here, you find harbors connecting Lombok to Java, Sumatra, and beyond; the capital, Mataram, with its universities and agricultural trade; and Senggigi, the island’s first modest step into tourism. There was also the original domestic airport, now replaced by a modern international airport.

a scene on a Lombok street

In the early 2000s, travelers—followed, inevitably, by tourists—discovered the south. The fishing village of Kuta slowly transformed into a destination, while nearby Praya became home to an international airport. A two-lane highway now leads straight to the beaches of Central Lombok.
And yes—the roads. I take quiet pleasure in mentioning Lombok’s roads: wide, well-maintained, often straight, and lined with tall trees offering shade, as if by design. Roads you rarely find on Bali. And, perhaps even more remarkably, roads with traffic that actually flows—no long frustrating pauses behind a line of motorbikes unless you wait until late at night in Bali to “get somewhere.”
When I want to drive—really drive—I take my car or motorbike on the ferry to Lombok. Windows open, wind moving through the cabin, or helmet on, leaning into the curves. A biker’s adventure or a car driver’s luxury.

Lombok villagers

The people—farmers, traders, fishermen—are friendly, grounded, and quietly hospitable. They don’t ask too many questions. They let travelers be travelers—whether in search of adventure or simply a place to rest.
I greet them with a warm Assalamualaikum. I sit for tea with families. I eat freshly grilled fish on the beach, cooked over wood fires with fishermen. Over the years, friendships have grown.
And there is a certain freedom here: a freedom to take off my clothes and swim at a remote beach or waterfall without raised eyebrows. A freedom to sit in a beach bar at night, listening to live music, drinking a beer. A freedom to talk—laugh, even flirt—with women in shops or on the roadside in front of their family homes, without tension or disapproval.
Sometimes I hear travelers praise Lombok’s beauty, only to follow it with a slight tightening of the lips: “Yes, but it’s Muslim.”

Stunning Landscape of Mount Rinjani, Indonesia

It is true—there are mosques, Ramadan, and the rhythm of daily prayer. But never have I, or anyone I know, been pressured into participation or judged for living differently.
Living in Bali for so long, I have often heard a different phrase: “You don’t do that here.”Instructions, corrections, well-meaning reminders about what is appropriate, what is not, what should be said, and what should be left unsaid.
The climate differs too. It is a little drier than Bali, with some Australian flora and fauna. There are open plains, dense jungles, and a beautiful chain of mountains running parallel to the southern coast—shaping its dramatic bays and beaches, adding beauty to the turquoise blue waters.
Lombok is gentle where it is cultivated, especially in the central south. It turns wilder along the coastal mountains and toward the east.And around Mount Rinjani, it becomes something else entirely—raw, unpredictable, and challenging for the adventurous.

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