I’ve travelled all over the world, but every year I go back to Bali

When I was 12, my best friend invited me on her family holiday to Bali. Little did I know that I would be living there 22 years later. I was utterly oblivious at the time that her family name Zecha (of Aman luxury hotels fame) was well-known beyond the classroom. We met while at the same international school in Malaysia, and I soon realised that her family holidays were quite different to the camping trips I was accustomed to growing up in the suburbs of Canberra.

We stayed at her uncle Adrian’s museum-like beachfront estate in Sanur, and spent the days white-water rafting and swimming at hotels I’d never heard of. All I knew was that Uncle Adrian owned them and they seemed pretty fancy. We shopped for trinkets at the markets and packed our school formal dresses to wear on a chaperoned night out to a local nightclub one evening. Most nights we’d sneak cigarettes in our bathroom in the villa while everyone was sleeping.

Until this point, my holidays had mostly consisted of Aussie beaches, camping, fishing, skiing, as well as the odd road trip in Malaysia, where my family was living. Resort life was relatively new territory, and I took to it like a duck to water.

The next year, I was invited back to holiday with the Zecha family at Amanpuri in Thailand. You could say that I peaked too soon. But I suspect these early experiences in South-East Asia propelled my urge to pursue a career as a travel writer.

Since that somewhat surreal introduction to Bali, I’ve been returning to the island in different phases of my life. It’s been my one constant destination. For me, Bali has always been about the people; their warm, richly layered culture and joyous, open way of being. The island will always meet you where you are, whether you’re 24 or 64. There’s a Bali for every stage of life. And in a way, it feels like the island has been a witness to mine.

On a girls’ trip to Bali in my early 20s, we booked a beachfront hotel with old-school Balinese architecture in Legian and had satay food fights in the bathroom. The year was 2005, and Bali was a very different beast. At a bar in Kuta, we drank vodka concoctions and giggled until we cried. Halfway through that trip, the boys invaded and persuaded us to leave our creature comforts behind. So we ditched our hotel and followed them to the then-undeveloped surf beach of Dreamland on the Bukit Peninsula.

It was the highlight of the holiday. We slept in barely there beachfront accommodation on top of a warung for just $8 a night (with no airconditioning) and became friends with two American surfers. This was before the age of Instagram, and I dream of those Bali days where it was as simple as waking up, eating banana pancakes, watching the surf until sunset, drinking Bintangs and playing cards.

Seven years later, it was Bali I chose for my 30th birthday, with friends flying in to spend a week together in a villa. We dined at upscale restaurants such as Sardine, Sarong and Ku De Ta and got massages on the beach. I dipped in and out of Bali in the years after that until eventually, after a short stint in NYC and Jakarta, I rented a two-bedroom villa in Umalas and moved to Bali in 2016, where I lived on and off for five years.

After an initial adjustment period, I eventually got into a groove. I’d head to yoga each morning, write poolside by day and meet friends for sunset each night. After a year of ordering Gojeks to get around, I took scooter lessons with a local Gojek driver and rented my own wheels. Being confidently able to get around on my own felt like such an achievement.

Living on the island also meant the opportunity to explore Indonesia. I’ve watched orangutans from a river cruise in Indonesian Borneo, swam in a pitch-black cave in Raja Ampat and visited the island of Run that the Dutch famously traded for Manhattan in the Spice Islands. I attended the horseback battle-style Pasola Festival in megalithic Sumba and spent many a weekend on the beach in Lombok.

In the years since I left Bali, I’ve seen it grapple with overtourism and have naturally become more curious about its places unknown. On my last visit earlier this year, I drove the circumference of the island, returning to West Bali National Park, the village of Pemuteran in the north and my favourite, most tranquil places in the east.

I still return to Bali at least once a year, and some days long for my former island life. In Balinese culture, a Tridatu bracelet made with red, white and black strands is tied to your wrist after a blessing. Cutting them off is bad luck; the idea is that they will fray off naturally when the time is right. I’ve lost count of how many of these bracelets I’ve had over the years. The latest came off a week ago. I feel naked without it.