When I visit my usual hangouts in Bali, I feel out of place. The faces and the ethnic makeup have changed drastically. Around the turn of the millennium, I went to an event in Ubud and saw exactly the kind of guys and girls I’d gone to school with. Not literally, but their faces always reminded me of someone I knew from back then. Sometimes I could even picture myself sitting there: long blonde hair, blue eyes, dressed in flared pants—tight on the legs but wide and flowing at the bottom—paired with long-sleeved, colorful linen shirts or hand-painted T-shirts.

The guys with full beards, brown or blond, like Vikings; the girls in “Christian Community”- style blouses, oversized linen shirts, and long skirts, like flamenco dancers. They chatted about trivial things, told jokes, debated, and talked about relationship problems while eating nasi goreng and a salad and drinking a glass of fruit juice. Some smoked “kretek” cigarettes—the Indonesian specialty with clove powder mixed into the tobacco.

Not that I miss that lifestyle—but: When I go to an event or a gathering today—people don’t talk much anymore; instead, they stare at their screens. The beards are jet-black, as are the eyebrows and the hair, most of which is “gone”—shaved upward on all sides, leaving a “crown” on top. Noses have become “Middle Eastern”—long and curved—and Indian or Mongolian facial features predominate.

The girls wear yoga bras and tight, stretchy pants that reveal every indentation and crease on the skin beneath the tight, stretchy yoga pants. Skin tones range from ethnic brown to sun-kissed brown. The predominant accents that come through the “Traveler English” are: Eastern European, Slavic/Russian, and ASEAN countries.

Suddenly, the “Aussies”—who at the time were so FAR removed from my cultural background (after all, they’re “Down Under”)—offer a sense of relief when, amid the crowd of “multicultural” people, you spot a Caucasian, blond person of Irish or German descent. But that’s becoming increasingly rare. Australia, too, is being flooded by waves of Asian and Russian immigrants.

Last night, a man who looked as if he’d come straight from Ali Baba’s Baghdad approached me to thank me for playing Sufi music. I wondered which tribe in which desert he’d come from to Bali. His answer was: “Lebnen.” Well, I’m not particularly skilled at understanding Arabic accents, so I asked back: “Which country?” He repeated it, visibly annoyed that I didn’t know his culture—the cradle of humanity, that beautiful, vast land everyone is talking about these days—until it dawned on me that he had omitted the vowel “A”—so important to me—and turned the “O” into an “e.” Then, of course, I would have understood that he was saying “LebAnon.”

The two men spoke an interesting kind of bazaar English, somewhere between Istanbul and Kandahar. At first I enjoyed listening to them, but it also wore me out trying to understand their abbreviations, because their vocabulary focuses on verbs and who they’re talking about—that is, names and activities. Adjectives and grammar are missing and are simply left out.

We’re familiar with this in German: “Then Sergei comes—I say ‘shit’—too late. He comes around the corner, new car, no chance, but try tomorrow with Mahmat…”

I feel out of place among this mix of people, like a relic from another time. It seems as though fewer fair-skinned, blond people are being born every year—people who look like my contemporaries from my youth—and fewer and fewer of them are coming to Bali. I belong, so to speak, to a dying breed.

Musicians these days are either Black—and by that I mean African Black—or they’re South American mixed-race people like:

Lebanese + Colombian DNA (Shakira),

Nigerian + English: Sade.

Jhene Aiko—Japanese + African American + German + Indian.

Bruno Mars: Puerto Rican + Filipino + Spanish + Ashkenazi.

Alicia Keys—African American + Irish, Scottish, and Italian

Freddie Mercury—born in Zanzibar to Indian-Parsi parents….

I sip my caffé latte, look back at the past, and try to guess the future…

I don’t feel old myself—neither when it comes to music, nor art, nor interesting conversations, nor physically—but when I look around (in Bali), I feel like a dinosaur that has made it into the next millennium. The locals are in a class of their own. Fairly dark skin, full lips, aesthetically pleasing features, healthy, thick blue-black hair, and a smile on their lips and in their eyes. Of course, I’m painfully aware that I’m not “one of them,” but interestingly, I feel as if I am.

I feel closer to the Balinese than to many of the ethnic groups that show up in Bali these days. Starting from my self-perception as a “foreigner”—when I first arrived in Bali—I now feel closer to the waiters, cooks, shop owners, and taxi drivers than to the “tourists.” To maintain this feeling, I speak to them in their language in restaurants or shops whenever I feel like a dying breed.

My buddy in Bali was born in Iran but is a U.S. citizen from the East Coast. With him, I get both worlds in one package. We joke and laugh and imitate accents when we’re together. I’m sure he doesn’t just see me as a Caucasian white man on a dying branch, but recognizes the diversity within me—the cultures I’ve lived in and from which I’ve adopted traits and words. He doesn’t stop at reading my appearance like a swatch book and reducing me to (or projecting onto me) a rare species; with him, I can be Turkish, sing Sufi songs with him, and be a Native American—with all my heart.

I just feel lonely sometimes when I’m sitting in a packed vegan wellness and event venue, teeming with Gen Z vegans and yoga instructors (who’ve never seen a Himalayan yogi in their lives) who project their own ideas onto me… I don’t know what. Maybe a Swiss farmer on vacation, craving a piece of beef. And yes, sometimes I actually have a craving for a piece of organic Swiss beef, freshly marinated, with a sip of Italian red wine, just like a Swiss farmer would 🙂

But what isn’t evident from my clothes or my lack of tattoos—that I practice yoga and qigong, do breathing exercises, take ice baths, and go jogging… every day, and play music from fifty different cultures and understand a hundred dialects (if I listen closely). That I’ve recited more Hindu mantras and Native American songs in my life than many of the people in yoga clothes with sun wheel tattoos and eagles on their biceps.

But then again—I don’t need to be recognized “at first glance.” I don’t have to sell myself or promote myself; I don’t crave followers; I don’t “influence” others; I rarely post on Instagram. It’s enough if a few people can see beyond the Alpine hiker, the Caucasian retiree, the “tourist”—on an island where they’re the tourists and I’m the local. Funny.

Satya’s book on his journey through Time and Space, discovering South East Asia in the 1980s and settling in Bali in 1990 through a roller coaster of events, tides of bliss and remorse and deeply experiencing Indonesian cultures from within. The book leads through thirty five years of life on the island – up to 2025.

The post Feeling out of place in Bali appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

Among the pearls of the Andaman, roses of the north, diamonds here, sapphires there, and while we’re at it, let’s also add a few Purple Roses of Cairo—these are all titles that have been attributed, perhaps rightly so, to the main tourist destinations around the world. Yet, there is one that lacks any redundant nickname but perhaps deserves it more than many others. Yes, because in the end, Laos appears as a hidden gem whose sparkle, seemingly not very vivid, cannot help but enchant all those travelers who, with an innate instinct for thievery, manage to catch its glimmer and seize the many moments of beauty that the country has to offer. A reflection that seems to ignite thanks to its enchanting nature, which frames its cultural richness, at the heart of which lie ethnic roots that have permeated its society, giving rise to a woven tapestry of customs and traditions.

It is like a crown whose main jewel is represented by the Lao people, surrounded by many small equally precious gems that are nothing more than the numerous ethnicities that make up the population.

Behind the scenes, almost dispersed, in rural villages and remote communities—whether they are nestled along more or less rugged mountain roads, leaving little room for a normal life, or whether they are villages that develop along waterways, first and foremost the Mekong, where access to transportation and other “amenities” is far greater—behind the scenes of the majestic hills covered in dense vegetation and the banks of rivers from every region, communities grow, mostly agrarian, whose roots run deep into the culture of the land, hiding unique stories that are just waiting to be whispered into the ears of those who wish to listen.
These are the stories of diverse ethnicities, which, when read together, contribute to weaving that intricate and vibrant fabric that is Laos.

Laos is home to over 80 ethnic groups, each with its own history, language, and beliefs. Ethnic roots that, when combined, offer a testament to the history of this country, made up of migrations mostly influenced by historical, political, and economic factors, as well as cultural exchanges and external influences that have in some way shaped its history. Cultural intertwining can be seen in almost every aspect of daily life, which does not remain isolated but mixes together, creating a vibrant and multifaceted cultural and human landscape where traditions, practices, and customs blend and influence each other.

In the remote mountainous regions and river valleys, communities continue to preserve their millennia-old traditions and live in harmony with the surrounding nature. The stories of the different communities transport us back in time, revealing the importance of ties to the land, respect for ancestors, and love for simple living.
The ethnic groups of Laos, such as the Hmong, Khamu, Tai, and many others, have traversed centuries of history and maintained their unique identities despite social changes and external influences. They are vibrant communities with traditions passed down orally. Each community has its own voices, manifested through songs, dances, ceremonies, and stories handed down from generation to generation. Voices of diversity that resonate in the rhythms of drums, the melodies of flutes, and the harmonious intertwining of incomprehensible languages and dialects, sometimes even for the Lao themselves. It is through these voices that we can understand the depth of wisdom and experience that the different communities have to offer, and it is in this ethnic mosaic that the Hmong population stands out, having a long history that has been discussed in more recent times, but also possessing a culture, distinctive customs, and traditional practices that continue to fascinate and attract the attention of those who immerse themselves in their reality.

The Hmong are an ethnic group originating from the mountainous regions of southern China, particularly the provinces of Guizhou, Yunnan, and Sichuan. Over the centuries, the Hmong have migrated towards Vietnam, Thailand, and, of course, Laos, where they represent one of the largest ethnic minorities in the country, with an estimated population of over 450,000 people.
Their migration to Laos dates back to around the 19th century, when the Qing dynasty ruled China and was reportedly responsible for persecutions against the Hmong, causing the political tensions that led to their movement towards the mountainous regions of northern and central Laos.

Traditionally, the Hmong people are farmers dedicated to cultivating crops such as rice, corn, and vegetables, which they grow, not without effort, in the mountainous regions of Southeast Asia where they live.

An elderly Hmong woman

They also have a history of cultivating opium poppies, used to produce heroin and other illegal drugs, which was encouraged by the CIA during the so-called “dirty war,” when the American agency unsuccessfully exploited the Hmong people to fight against the communist forces of the Pathet Lao. The Hmong were trained and equipped by the United States and provided with air support to carry out their operations against the forces opposing the government in power, supported by the Americans, becoming involved in intelligence gathering, counter-insurgency operations, and rescue missions for downed American pilots, in addition to actions aimed at limiting the use of the Ho Chi Minh trail by Vietnamese forces. A role fraught with danger and significant consequences for the Hmong minority, which, in addition to suffering heavy losses, is estimated to have seen up to 30,000 Hmong fighters and civilians lose their lives during the conflict, not to mention the wounded or displaced, who faced harsh persecution and repression from the Laotian government after the war.

New political tensions in their land, therefore, and a new diaspora that scattered them among refugee camps in neighboring Thailand and asylum in France and the United States of America, which, at least this time, did not forget those who had helped them at such a high price.

In the years immediately following the war, the Hmong who remained in Laos faced significant discrimination, including limited access to education and healthcare, a kind of retribution for their position taken during the war, to which they responded with new episodes of violence and terrorist attacks.

Such as in 2007, a few months before my first visit to Laos, when rebel groups based in the jungles of northern Laos carried out several attacks against government targets, including military outposts and police stations, but also targeted tourists visiting that region. One particular incident was recounted to me during the bus ride from Vientiane to Luang Prabang, when a young Lao, sitting not far from me, attempted to awkwardly hide an AK-47 beneath a worn jacket, awakening, needless to say, my curiosity. When I asked, I was told it was a form of protection for travelers after a group of Hmong rebels had attacked a tourist bus, killing a Chinese citizen and injuring several others.

The Laotian government responded to the rebels’ hostilities with a crackdown that lasted several years, causing loss of life and further suffering to the population until it sought to establish lasting peace with the Hmong people by beginning to address some of the causes that fueled the rebellion.

One of the fundamental steps taken by the Laotian government was the establishment of a program to resettle and integrate Hmong refugees who had fled to Thailand during the conflict. Thanks to this program, tens of thousands of refugees were resettled in Laos and provided with housing, education, and other forms of assistance.
Additionally, the Laotian government has undertaken actions to improve the economic and social conditions of the Hmong people, seeking to promote their identity and protect their cultural heritage. For example, the government has supported the development of Hmong language and culture programs, provided funding for infrastructure projects in villages, and promoted the participation of members of that ethnicity in local government decisions.

Significant efforts have also been made to encourage the Hmong to abandon opium production in the region by providing alternative livelihoods for farmers.

In addition to agriculture, the Hmong are also traditionally known for their skills in weaving and embroidery. Hmong women have a long tradition of producing intricate textiles and embroideries using techniques passed down from generation to generation, and there has been no Hmong village we visited where we did not find women bent over looms or engaged in embroidery, surrounded by more or less primitive tools and threads or “beads” of all colors.
Yes, the Hmong women… we met some who appeared disheveled, in tattered clothes, but who behind a neglect born from a life of hard work and pregnancies hide a beauty that is unexpected. A simple, almost natural beauty, and then they have that smile that seems to be half of Asia’s secret weapon.
Not all have been able to choose their husbands, nor have all been chosen by their families, because among the Hmong there is also a practice that we could define as “bride kidnapping.”
I had already heard about it in the mountainous tribal regions of Vietnam in the far north, where it was common to abduct a woman solely for the purpose of marrying her.

In her home, in a village we visited, a 23-year-old girl, currently engaged in weaving with a newborn sleeping on a hammock shielded from the world’s eyes by the dim light, calmly told us how, following her “kidnapping” by the man who would become her husband, she had been living this new life for about a year, in a village unknown to her and among equally unknown people, and to a specific question, she replied that she was happy with her new situation.

I certainly did not expect that she would confess the opposite to strangers.

Regardless of the positive or negative effects on women, it’s important to note that this practice is illegal and that the Laotian government has recently made efforts to educate young Hmong about the negative consequences of this practice and promote safer and consensual ways to find a partner.

We focused only on the Hmong because they provided us with some insights and curiosities, but every ethnic group has stories to tell, interwoven with moments of joy, pain, and resilience. Every story that emerges from the ethnic communities of Laos is a precious piece in the cultural mosaic of the country. Stories that offer a window into both material poverty and the cultural richness and diversity of Laos, allowing us to immerse ourselves in the social and human context of different communities. And during this journey we undertook, we had the opportunity to meet these simple people, we sensed the smell of dignified poverty and the warmth of smiles, the weight of daily struggles, and the sense of belonging; we listened attentively to the stories, tales, and superstitions of a country with a thousand faces that tries to move toward its future, difficult to reach but inevitable to pursue.
The Laotian government has adopted policies to protect and promote the cultural diversity of the country by recognizing citizenship to minority groups and guaranteeing them, as citizens, the same rights and protections provided by law. However, there are still signs of discrimination, especially in access to economic opportunities, but above all, there are still challenges and difficulties that ethnic minorities must face. For example, many ethnic groups have been forced to leave their ancestral lands to make way for large development projects, such as the construction of hydroelectric dams.

Cultural intertwining, contradictions, and the poverty that seems to resist acceptance make Laos, through encounters with the various ethnic groups that comprise it, a fascinating place to explore and understand, teaching us the importance of preserving and valuing cultural diversity here as well as everywhere else in the world.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

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