How a 74

Jan 26, 2024

By Elissaveta M. Brandon

The temple matches the mood of the sky: black lava stone crowned by dark storm clouds. I teeter across a narrow path along the outer edge of the temple's sacred walls, until I get to the cliff that extends behind it. The raging ocean is enthralling, so I stand watching it for a minute, until an angry wave spills its guts at my feet and ushers me back towards the entrance.

One of about 10,000 on the island, the Pura Gede Luhur Batu Ngaus temple is perched atop a rock formation on the west coast of Bali. It also marks the dramatic starting point of a 10-day, 74-mile regenerative tourism trail that kicks off on the south coast, runs through the heart of the island, and culminates on the north coast. Along with three other writers, I've embarked on a condensed version that is further shortened by unseasonal rain.

The Astungkara Trail runs through the heart of the island.

The trail is called Astungkara Way, the first word of which means "god willing." It seems fitting, then, that we begin with a prayer at the foot of the temple. I sit on the warm floor, wet from a gentle drizzle that will later grow into an epic downpour. A woven basket the size of my palm rests at my feet, containing petals in varying colors, a biscuit, and a smoldering incense stick. Known as canang sari, these little offerings are peppered all across the island, at the foot of a fountain, the entrance of a shop, in the shadow of a statue. Guided by Eci, a trail leader at Astungkara Way who is as attuned to the energy of the island as she is to the latest dances trending on TikTok, I pick up the white petals first and perform the offering ritual so integral to Balinese culture.

Squeezing ten days of walking into just a couple is an impossible task, but over the next 48 hours, I will get more than a glimpse of the real Bali, complete with monsoon rain that will take our unprepared legs wading knee-deep through cascading water.

When the skies aren't ripping open, the all-walking trail takes you on a scenic journey through quaint village roads, rice paddies, and a lush bamboo forest. Longer trails also include a traditional water purification ceremony, stops at the waterfalls and caves at Taman Beji, a bamboo weaving workshop, and a walk through a verdant jungle where the only sign of human intervention is an abandoned geothermal station. The word "trail," however, doesn't quite do the experience justice—it's closer to a farming pilgrimage, where each stop along the way offers an opportunity to reconnect with our food—and where it comes from.

A sleeping platform constructed from bamboo and set amid rice paddy fields

Astungkara Way was first dreamed up by Tim Fijal, a Canadian environmentalist who moved to the island about 12 years ago and quickly noticed the repercussions of tourism on the island. In a country that's lost 25 percent of its agricultural land over the past 25 years, the pilgrimage is an invitation to tread more lightly on the island's soil. The trail officially opened in 2020, but it's gaining traction now that Indonesia has fully reopened its borders to foreign travelers.

Before the pandemic struck, Bali was drawing over six million tourists a year, but Astungkara Way steers clear of tourist traps. "We spent about one year charting out the course for the trail," says Fijal. "They’re all existing pathways but are pieced together so that each destination has its own regenerative rationale for being included on the trail."

Experiencing the Balinese cleansing ritual of Melukat

Kaila Yu

Nicole Schnitzler

Marianna Cerini

Nicole Schnitzler

Even in the short time I spent there, I got to see what regenerative tourism really means. I learned about composting at the Jiwa Community Garden, and hugged a 700-year-old tree. I met a warmhearted dragon fruit farmer who has swapped the concrete pillars typically used to support the vining plant with a more organic framework of trimmed Kapok trees. I tasted the sweet pulp of cacao fruit at Rumah Desa, which offers cooking classes in a traditional Balinese family compound, and had dinner with Ayu and Wahyu, newlyweds who’ve started a natural farm called Sandan, complete with several rabbits whose urine they use for compost. As we sat with them under the bamboo structure that shelters travelers overnight, it dawned on me that I rarely, if ever, know where the produce on my plate comes from. Yet there we were, cross-legged around a fragrant feast that had barely traveled 100 yards to reach our plates.

It's easy to go to Bali and spend your days temple-hopping or reclining on a beach, but on the Astungkara Way trail, I found a deeper connection to the land. That's by design. "I think foreigners can often come to places like Bali and feel compelled to help, but end up doing more harm than good," says Fijal. "But this, this is really an opportunity to join forces with the local community and work on something together."

Astungkara Way's Regenerative Farming Learning Centre

Fijal recalls how, back in 2010, he was inspired by a Ted Talk given by John Hardy, the co-founder of Green School Bali, an open-air school that favors hands-on learning. He remembers one particular line from the talk that went something like: "Our kids don't learn about the rice cycle, they live the rice cycle." Today, Astungkara Way gives travelers a chance to "live" the rice cycle, while also giving back to the local community—on day three of the trail, you actually get to plant rice seeds and pull weeds using local implements.

Kaila Yu

Nicole Schnitzler

Marianna Cerini

Nicole Schnitzler

As we walk towards the Astungkara Learning Center, another bamboo structure rising amid a glistening patchwork of rice paddies, I notice two narrow trenches flanking our path. This is my first glimpse of an ancient network that was built more than 1,200 years ago. Known as a Subak, it is Bali's answer to equitable irrigation, in which water from a river or a dam is diverted into a set of man-made canals, before finally spilling into rice paddies. Each farm plot is linked by bamboo pipes, or little aqueducts that ensure the water is distributed evenly across the landscape.

Connecting with local agriculture through participation in the rice growing cycle

When we reach the learning center, I sit in a circle with the Astungkara team—half a dozen local agriculture graduates with a youthful energy that's rarer in this field. As I listen to their stories, I’m struck by their commitment to the land. I look out at the rice fields, willing the sun to break through the clouds, and wonder how many rice cycles this island has witnessed before them, and how many more it will witness, thanks to them.