Before Bali was a nomad address, it was two short vacations while I still lived on Singapore time — employed, packing light, treating the island like a long weekend with temples. This is that prequel: first trip as adrenaline, second as healing. The career break and the August 2025 base camp come later.
First crossing: November 2022
Changi to Ngurah Rai on a crisp November morning — soup breakfast, train nap, crowded terminal, three hours of beach-vibe playlists building hype. Ngurah Rai greeted me with Balinese gates and SIM-card math: how many days, how many gigabytes, how much rupiah for a stranger who wants to ride at night.
Kuta first: Grab through G20 summit traffic, hotel near Kartika Plaza, jet lag beaten by hunger for the street. Motorbike rented from friendly locals who also sold bracelets and tattoo appointments; Kuta beach at dusk; satay back to the room for almost nothing. The southwest coast was velocity — Jalan Legian packed, Bintang by the pool, Pantai Jerman at dawn, long ride Kuta → Legian → Seminyak with coconut water against equatorial sun.
That trip compressed Bali into three days: Garuda tattoo on chest at nine p.m. after stencil and sizing in a professional studio; nightlife on Legian with sore ink; Bajra Sandhi monument for history and skyline; Sanur east coast for e-bike along the promenade, live music, bakso for dinner, family-quiet where Kuta performs chaos. Last day: Uluwatu — ulu, lands end; watu, rock — cliff temple and wind that saves you from heat. Then airport, three hours home, Singapore again. I was still a tourist with a return ticket and a fresh emblem on skin.
Second crossing: December 2023
One trip was not enough, but the second would be slower — five days, Eat Pray Love as permission slip, rupiahs exchanged, backpack and small luggage. Seminyak night one; Legian beach at morning light; Tanah Lot at sunset, temple on rock, pilgrims and photographers sharing the same gold hour. I was not rushing the coast this time.
Ubud was the centre: Christmas in the interior, jungle hotel between rice and forest, Bebek betutu near Monkey Forest, Tegalalang terraces trekked in rain until shirt and mood were equally soaked. Bali Swing and temples as afternoon punctuation; meditation when heat made the room the only sane place. Christmas Eve at a Monkey Forest bar — live music, strangers, a lost traveller on the back of my motorbike at six a.m. through empty hill roads, wind as cheap therapy.
Tegenungan waterfall and Omma day club for a full-day cleanse; Sanur again because east-coast calm had stayed in memory from 2022 — homestay with noisy student neighbours, morning swim, conversation with another solo traveller, pina colada instead of GWK statue because departure math is also spirituality. I did not find love like the movie; I found eat, pray, and a slower affection for one island.
What the prequel left
By the end of 2023 I knew Bali's menu in tourist portions: southwest surf and chaos, Ubud for inward turns, Sanur for breath, Uluwatu and Tanah Lot for horizon. Garuda on my chest; rice terrace rain on my shirt; no remote standups yet, no storage locker in Sanur, no sabbatical spreadsheet. That version of me still clocked into an office somewhere north of the equator.
Two years later — after Saigon monsoon and a career break in full swing — the island would become work address, not holiday. The nomad season is the next chapter.
Continue:The Bali-Bound: Garuda on my chest — August through October 2025, when Bali became a base.