Ubud

My first morning in Bali, I woke without my luggage.

No toothbrush. No clean clothes. No swimmers. Just yesterday’s airline outfit clinging damply to my skin and the vague reassurance from airport staff that my bag had been “located” somewhere between Melbourne and Denpasar.

But outside my bedroom window, the rice fields were already wide awake. Men moved steadily through knee-deep mud beneath the morning sun, bent low planting rice by hand while others harvested in slow rhythmic motions. Water shimmered around their legs. Water birds skimmed low across the paddies. It struck me, still groggy with travel, that this wasn’t some curated tourist scene. This was simply their workday. Their ordinary morning continuing while mine felt mildly catastrophic over a missing suitcase.

Thankfully last night Kat took one look at me still wearing stale airline clothes and quietly started pulling things from her own suitcase.

“Here,” she said casually, handing me some comfy pants. Then another clean top this morning.

Such a simple kindness, but when you’ve arrived in another country feeling dishevelled and unanchored, generosity lands differently. I remember standing there in borrowed clothes feeling suddenly human again.

The room itself felt old in the most beautiful way. Worn luxury. Marble floors softened with age, heavy carved stone walls, Balinese paintings in gold frames, and a giant bed wrapped in mosquito nets that billowed gently beneath the ceiling fan.

And the humidity. God, the humidity. The kind that wraps itself around you instantly. Thick tropical air settling against your skin before you’ve even properly opened your eyes. The kind that settles on your skin instantly. Thick, warm air that makes you surrender almost immediately to moving slower.

The airport told us the luggage would arrive in Bali by 11am and be couriered to the hotel soon after, so naturally we did what seemed most reasonable in light of the situation.

We wandered into the streets of Ubud. Into sensory overload, in the most intoxicating way. Scooters buzzed past constantly, sometimes so close I’d instinctively pull my elbows in to avoid being clipped by mirrors. Traffic moved in flowing near-collisions that somehow never quite became accidents. Taxi drivers called out from every corner.

“Taxi, miss?”

The footpaths were uneven and crumbling, forcing you to watch every step while simultaneously dodging tourists, stray dogs, market stalls, delivery trucks and motorbikes mounting the curb without warning.

Incense drifted from tiny daily offerings placed directly on the pavement amongst wilted flowers, cigarette butts and melted candle wax. The air smelled like petrol fumes, frangipani, sweat, clove cigarettes and frying garlic all at once.

Every shop seemed to spill onto the street. Linen dresses swaying from hangers, silver jewellery catching the light, wooden carvings stacked precariously beside woven bags and fake designer perfumes. The same stalls repeating over and over until the whole town began to feel dreamlike, almost looping in on itself.

And everywhere, people. Sunburnt tourists in elephant pants clutching smoothies. Women balancing baskets on their heads effortlessly weaving through traffic. Yogis drifting barefoot between classes at The Yoga Barn looking serene despite the heat and chaos pressing in from every direction. The humidity wrapped around all of it like another layer entirely.

By midday my borrowed shirt clung permanently to my back and even slow walking felt faintly exhausting. And yet somehow, beneath all the noise and movement, Ubud carried this strange undercurrent of softness too.

We made our way to a spa that was recommended to Kat by a friend. I chose a pedicure and full body massage mostly because I had no idea what else to do with myself. Everything felt absurdly cheap compared to home. Women moved quietly around us with bowls of warm water and practiced hands while ceiling fans spun lazily overhead. By the time we walked back onto the street, I felt half asleep, dreamlike and loose limbed from it all.

We drifted through markets after that. Stall after stall spilling over with woven bags, carved wooden statues, linen dresses, fake designer perfumes, bracelets, sarongs. The same things repeated endlessly and yet somehow I still wanted to look at all of them.

Lunch was nasi goreng eaten slowly in the heat, followed later by coconut ice cream melting faster than we could eat it.

Still no luggage.

Eventually I gave up waiting and swam in the hotel pool wearing a crop top and underwear. Honestly? Worth it.

The next few days in Ubud passed in a humid blur of yoga classes, wandering streets, massages, fruit smoothies, coconut ice cream and regular check-ins with the hotel reception desk asking whether my suitcase had arrived yet.

Each time, not yet.

At The Yoga Barn, we rolled out mats beneath softly whirring fans while geckos clicked somewhere in the rafters. Then one afternoon, through a yin class, live cello music began drifting through the room.

Cellomano. An artist I’d listened to countless times at home while teaching yoga classes suddenly standing there in front of us playing live as we folded quietly into poses. It felt surreal in the way travel sometimes does, when parts of your inner world suddenly appear physically in front of you.

My luggage finally arrived on Sunday morning after what felt like endless check-ins with reception staff.

My own clothes at last.

It’s strange how quickly ordinary things become luxurious once they’re gone. Clean pyjamas. Fresh underwear. A proper toothbrush. Things I barely notice at home suddenly felt absurdly comforting. I was ridiculously happy to see that suitcase.

After two and a half days in Ubud, it was time to leave. We packed ourselves into a car and headed north toward Gaia Oasis, winding past volcanoes, jungle, tiny roadside shrines, and glimpses of the ocean near Tejakula.

Further into the rainforest. Further away from the version of life I left behind at home. Ready for all that Bali has to offer.