The Real Bali

The motorcycle chugs past rice paddy after rice paddy, and then rounds corners into small villages full of the traditional temple-like Balinese houses with open courtyard entrances. Jalhang (daily offerings to spirits) litter the road and chickens snap up the leftover crumbs.

Ketut is taking me on a motorcycle tour to see all of the neighboring sights. He's a keen informant and deliberately steers the motorcycle along the winding village paths so that I can see "the real Bail".

To be honest, I think that the tourist-saturated Kuta is as much "the real Bali" as the cultural bombardment in the centre. I felt like a tourist in both places. On Kuta beach surfers bob lazily off the shore waiting for the big waves to come along; when they do come it's in spectacular glassy curls. There are also rip-off merchants everywhere. You need to try and chill out a bit. March forward and ignore the people calling "you want sunglasses? bag? massage? magic mushrooms? wooden penis bottle opener!?" Go and have a facial and drink a cocktail and talk to some Australians. Because there are loads of them in Kuta.

But then by contrast you have Ubud; surrounded by mountains and massive spectacular shrines and traditional dance. Oh and French people. And hippies.

As I sleepily watch an early-morning completely bat-shit crazy 'Barong' dance performance, I can feel the sleazy claw of tourism over everything. The lion costume is spectacular- covered in flowers, tiny mirrors, shaggy fur and fluffy pom poms, all topped off with a snapping wooden mask.

But this wouldn't be here, performed everyday for what is in Indonesia an extortionate fee, without the tourists, who are as much a part of 'the real Bali as Barong and Jalhang and surfing.