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Bali is the Island of the Gods, the Morning of the World. Bali
is magical. Bali is where you can fall asleep to the wondrous clang of a
gamelan orchestra playing in the next courtyard. Bali is where you can awaken
to the smell of charcoal stoves, their smoke wafting in the distance, and where
you can climb a hill into an untouristed village where children shyly peer at
you from behind a red brick wall, then come to greet you, and where their
mothers eventually invite you in for tea.
Bali is an island of exquisite temples, of a religion expressed
through art, of villages where various crafts are practiced—painting in
Ubud, woodcarving in Mas, stonecarving in Batubulan, gold- and silverwork in
Celuk. Bali is a land of dance—from stylized, formal dance performed by
very young girls to the bawdy delights of the Barong and Kris Dance to the
mysterious chanting of the Kecak, or Monkey, Dance.
Bali is where carved guardian demons stand at the entrances to
family compounds, at the four corners of bridges, and the Balinese make
offerings to them every day, pungent with incense. Bali is a mystical place
where cremations are joyous celebrations. Bali is home to mountains and
volcanoes, to white herons, to monkeys, to food and flower markets, to the
spicy smell of cloves. Bali is an island where rice terraces reflect the sky.
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