Why now, more than ever, an over-touristed Bali—and its visitors—need to embrace responsible tourism

A chorus of crickets whistled away, while a cuckooing cockerel attempted to out-crow them. Stood above the jungle on a deserted wooden platform, I scanned my surroundings: A jade-green sweep of dense, untamed trees, giant palm leaves blowing in the breeze.

I descended a series of steps to see the crowning glory: The Jagasatru Waterfall, an iridescent stream pouring down a rocky cliff-face. I breathed in the smell of fresh rain, soothed by the warm, humid air. There was something a little magical about it. Maybe because I was the only one here.

Welcome to Sidemen. This lush, rural region in eastern Bali sits around an hour’s drive from Ubud, but few travelers make it here. I’d navigated its twisting, pot-holed roads by moped to escape the crowds, traversing verdant rice paddies sloping into silent valleys, rustic villages tucked into the countryside and undulating roads deserted but for the occasional local family. And it was exactly the type of solitude I’d been seeking in the ‘land of peace’.

I’d gone to Ubud expecting to find just that—but I hadn’t.

Instead, I’d found a town where cars and motorbikes filled congested roads, waterfalls were surrounded by Insta-snapping tourists, and rice paddies had been turned into giant theme parks, beach-club-vibe ‘jungle clubs’ with swimming pools carved into their terraced slopes.

This once-tranquil retreat felt like an inland incarnation of the south’s busy coastal spots—a yogi-er version of the likes of Seminyak, Canggu and Kuta, whose fairy-lit restaurants, luxury resorts and fancy beach-clubs have been luring visitors in ever-increasing numbers. Ubud felt like a living emblem of the island’s problems.

I spent the next day trekking among deserted rice paddies and navigating the winding roads, passing palm-laden jungle and local farmers at work … It was the Ubud I’d pictured—perhaps the Ubud of 20 years ago, before large-scale, destructive development took hold.

Because it’s no secret; Bali is overtouristed. Fodor’s Travel justifiably put the island first on its ‘No List 2025’, citing “rapid, unchecked development spurred by overtourism […] encroaching on Bali’s natural habitats, eroding its environmental and cultural heritage, and creating a ‘plastic apocalypse’”. According to a 2018 study by the Transnational Institute, the island is losing around 1,000 hectares of agricultural land per year as a result of development.

“Bali welcomed 5.3 million international visitors in 2023, rising to 6.3 million in 2024, with a target of 6.5 million for 2025,” Fransiska Natalia told me, a Balinese local and manager of the JED network—Jaringan Ekowisata Desa which means ‘Village Ecotourism Network’ in Indonesian—a tourism initiative offering experiences led by members of its 10 village communities in lesser-visited parts of the island.

“This is almost double the local population of just 4.4 million,” she added. “Direct impacts of overtourism here include overdevelopment, disrespectful visitors violating sacred sites, competition for essential resources like water and jobs, and skyrocketing land prices.”

All of this sounded frightening, and I didn’t have to dig deep to see it for myself. The roads of Canggu, a sleepy surf village until just a few years ago, were at a standstill most of the time I was there, rivalling the busy-ness of longer-established Seminyak. Both started as quieter alternatives to commercialized Kuta, but seemed to be slowly morphing into their bigger sibling.

Was it true of the whole island, though? I wanted to find out—which is how I’d found myself at the helm of a bike, on a mission to see the side of Bali that had given the island its allure in the first place.

So I’d set off for Sidemen, staying at the locally owned Bukit Luah Sidemen Guesthouse, home to just a handful of rooms. It was the vision of tranquility I’d been seeking. I sat on a silent terrace, drinking Balinese coffee to a backdrop of terraces and billowing hills, and there wasn’t another soul in sight.

I spent the next day trekking among deserted rice paddies and navigating the winding roads, passing palm-laden jungle and local farmers at work. I ate in local warungs, informal family-owned restaurants, where friendly owners seemed only too happy to have a guest, and stopped at a handful of nearby waterfalls, including the picturesque Gembleng, where I was again the only one around. It was the Ubud I’d pictured—perhaps the Ubud of 20 years ago, before large-scale, destructive development took hold.

I had the same feeling when I drove further north, to Munduk, a small, sleepy mountain village, first established as a hill station during Dutch colonial control in the 1890s. The climate was cool and fresh, its slopes smothered in cloud and offering a welcome break from the humidity. A handful of hotels and cabins draw a small number of travelers here, but for the most part, I felt blissfully alone, meandering its empty roads as tree-carpeted peaks rose and fell around, the sprawling Lake Tamblingan glowing milky-blue between them.

I found more striking waterfalls as I drove its steep, hairpin trails, among them Banyumala, a cascading duo set amid the greenery. I traveled further north to Brahmavihara-Arama, one of Bali’s only Buddhist temples, where bell-shaped stupas and gold Buddha statues were scattered among peaceful gardens, deserted but for one other straggler.

From Munduk, I continued towards Lovina. This beach town on the northern coast turned out to be everything I’d been seeking in the south: A not-hectic main street; a handful of low-key restaurants; and a sparse, black-sand beach with a smattering of tourists sat on beanbags, watching the sun dip over the horizon as the sky turned magenta and gold.

When night fell, I wandered along the shore to find a local musician playing chilled-out acoustic songs, and ended up singing on a mic next to him for the rest of the evening to an audience of about eight; that was the vibe, and I loved it.

On the downside, the town’s dolphin tours—which essentially involve being hauled along by a boat to see dolphins underwater—are ethically controversial and have come under criticism (a combination of close approaches, high speed and erratic movement have been said to cause a stressful environment); in 2023, the Buleleng Tourism Office was said to be drafting new regulations. Beyond this, it was an idyllic spot.

“It’s common to see foreigners operating businesses in Bali’s tourism sector, shifting economic opportunities away from local communities.”

- Fransiska Natalia, manager, JED network

Lovina was rivalled only by Amed, a collection of fishing villages out on the east coast, about a three-hour drive from Lovina or 90 minutes from Sidemen. Set along an eight-mile sweep of gray-black sand, at the foot of the active Mount Agung volcano, the area is best-known for its stand-out diving and snorkeling.

I biked up and down its steep, cliff-side coastal track, stopping to snorkel at various points. Especially impressive was Lipah Beach, where giant coral formations in colors of amethyst, malachite and lemon jutted up like miniature houses, schools of tiny fish glittering and darting between them. Above the water, it was just as pretty; dramatic cliffs plunged into an expanse of vast, opal ocean, emerald volcano rising to the side.

I certainly wasn’t the only tourist, but it still felt like something of a secret compared to the south. Amed’s town center is comprised of a few quiet shops and about two bars, and I felt like everyone knew everyone.

Like Lovina, it was easy to meet local people, and I felt warmly welcomed, like I was contributing to the community in some way. I spent my money in locally owned bars and restaurants like Wayans Warung and PACA’s Reggae Bar. And if you’re diving, which I wasn’t, Amed Zen Divers and Diving with Jim are among the locally founded dive schools in the area.

Because that’s part of the problem of overtouristed Bali, according to Natalia. “It’s common to see foreigners operating businesses in Bali’s tourism sector, shifting economic opportunities away from local communities,” she told me. As far back as 2010, it was estimated that 85 percent of Bali’s tourism economy was non-Balinese-owned.

“Tourism facilities can be developed without coordination with traditional or service villages,” she said. “This leaves local communities as mere spectators, often shocked by the sudden construction of tourism infrastructure around their homes.”

So what’s to stop this happening to spots like Amed, Sidemen, Munduk and Lovina? Not much, as it stands. Last September, a moratorium that would ban the construction of new hotels, villas and nightclubs in certain areas of Bali was put forward, but this was recently rescinded; governor Wayan Koster stated “stricter control” was needed rather than an outright ban, Skift reported.

Natalia believes that if action isn’t taken, places like Amed, Lovina and the rest are at risk of succumbing to the same fate as the south: “Mass tourism is steadily expanding into rural regions, where large plots of land have already been acquired by foreign investors. At this rate, it’s only a matter of time before tourism saturates the entire island—especially with the government’s ever-increasing visitor targets.”

That prophecy might just become true, if current plans for a North Bali International Airport go ahead. These plans have been floated for several years, and resurfaced in October 2024 under Indonesia’s new administration, according to reports. It’s said construction of the airport—which would be built on an artificial island offshore in the Buleleng Regency, close to Lovina—could start as early as 2027.

It’s true that there are two sides to this. Proponents argue it could alleviate pressure in the south, bringing new opportunities for local people in one of the island’s poorest areas. On the flipside, welcoming millions of tourists to the north could pose its own issues—if it’s not managed better than the south.

“Seek out Balinese-owned properties when choosing where to stay to, and get to know your hosts. Ask them for a local guide to show you around, and book with a responsible company.”

- Stuart McDonald, Travelfish

“Tourism is really important to local people in Lovina,” says Kadek Riska, the local musician I met while in the town—also a driver and tour guide, who launched his own business wonderwall_adventure_bali to provide tours to visitors in the region. “Many of my friends work in hospitality, restaurants, tour guiding and other areas, and many families rely on the sector for their livelihoods.

“A new airport could boost the local economy and create new jobs,” he says. “But at the same time, we don’t want the area to become too busy, like the southern parts of Bali. I hope tourism and infrastructure are managed well here in the future.”

Because, as it stands, these destinations do need tourism; they just need the right kind. Boycotting Bali isn’t necessarily the solution. Handling tourism responsibly, and ensuring money goes back into the community, is.

Visitors themselves clearly have a part to play in this. As Stuart McDonald, Bali-based co-founder of travel planning site Travelfish.org, says: “Seek out Balinese-owned properties when choosing where to stay, and get to know your hosts. Ask them for a local guide to show you around, and book with a responsible company; Astungkara Way, Muntigunung Trekking and JED are among those leading the way when it comes to responsible, regenerative tourism that supports Bali’s local communities.

“When it comes to specific areas, alongside the likes of Sidemen and Munduk, upcountry Tabanan, Pupuan and parts of the north coast such as Les Village are all still relatively undiscovered, offering a more authentic Balinese experience than the southern hotspots,” he says.

It’s also down to the government to take control. Attempts have been made, but as yet not much has come to fruition. In May 2023, governor Koster proposed putting quotas on visitor numbers, but it didn’t materialize—a tourist tax of 150,000 rupiah (around USD$9) was instead introduced last February.

Time will tell whether stricter control on construction happens, but it could be a good first step. In any case, it’s clear further action is crucial if Bali is to retain at least some element of its authentic, original charm. I was lucky enough to still find that charm in the welcoming villages, the hidden waterfalls, the rustic beaches and the deserted jungles of the north and east. I fell a little bit in love with the island as a result. I can only hope these places retain their magic in the years to come, and that Bali’s fundamental essence is preserved, for the sake of both its local communities and those who come to visit.

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