I was once fortunate enough to live in two worlds: Central Europe and Southeast Asia. Moving back and forth between them, comparing their rhythms and expectations, I eventually grew tired of Europe’s social corsets and economic gravity. The constant pressure to perform, to optimise, to justify one’s existence through productivity. Bali, by contrast, appeared to offer an antidote: kindness, serenity, human warmth, a slower pulse.
So I moved to Bali.
At first, everything confirmed the fantasy. Life on Bali felt like an uninterrupted invitation. Smiles were abundant, help was always offered, and enthusiasm flowed generously in all directions. I was welcomed into family gatherings, ceremonies, temple festivals, Melasti processions by the sea. The island opened itself like a stage set designed to reassure the Western soul that it had finally arrived somewhere meaningful. I felt like a benevolent pasha in a tropical fairy tale.
The illusion reached its ceremonial peak when I married a Balinese woman — and, more importantly, her family. Because in Bali, marriage is not a romantic union between two individuals. It is an administrative, financial, spiritual, and social merger with an entire ecosystem.
From that day on, I was economically demanded. I stepped into the role of head of the family, a position that comes with very tangible expectations. A monthly minimum income needs to be efforted; it is the invisible thread holding together a web of obligations. The immediate family, the extended family, the neighbourhood, the banjar, the temple, the state — and, of course, the ancestors — all depend on that thread remaining intact.
From that moment, I was no longer a tourist. No longer the charming foreign guest who brings foreign currency and is rewarded with sweet smiles and harmless hospitality. I had entered a third category.
The third group consists of people who are no longer impressed, but urgently interested. Interested in extracting value. Interested in proximity to the foreigner who dared to step fully into local life.
This is where the tone subtly changes. People appear from nowhere, offering their services — not because they possess skills, but because you are assumed to possess money. The underlying slogan is simple: “Let me work for you.” When you ask what they can actually do, the answer is often refreshingly honest: “Anything. It doesn’t matter. I just need a salary.”
Skills, reliability, or accountability are optional accessories.
Without actively trying, you become an employer. You hire cleaners, handymen, electricians, plumbers, village officials, temple priests. Each interaction comes with an unspoken hierarchy of expectation. You are now responsible — not just for payment, but for livelihoods, moods, and social equilibrium.
Ironically, I found myself trapped in a new version of dependency. I had fled Europe to escape rigid systems and economic entanglements, only to become enmeshed in a cultural structure with its own dense web of obligations — one that values harmony over efficiency, appearances over outcomes, and improvisation over consistency.
Daily life introduced me to widespread corruption, unreliable accounting, and small-scale deception. Nothing dramatic. Just persistent, low-level erosion of trust. Receipts that don’t add up. Work that remains unfinished. Promises that dissolve quietly without confrontation.
Motivation, as understood in the Western sense, is largely absent. Work exists not as a calling or a responsibility, but as a temporary state between ceremonies.
Eventually, I needed another exit.
The only viable solution was radical simplification: stepping out of the employer role entirely. Reducing dependencies. Returning, paradoxically, to the safest position a foreigner can occupy on Bali — the tourist.
Divorce, and separation from my wife’s family, made that possible.
Today, I enjoy Southeast Asia again. With distance. With clarity. Without illusion. But with acceptance of a very different approach to life.
Bali is a magnificent place to visit. As a guest, you are adored. As a resident who must earn, organize, and depend on others, you enter a far less forgiving reality. This island is not unreliable out of malice, but out of cultural design. Stability, consistency, and work motivation are not universal values — they are cultural preferences or neglected.
You encounter a very different island — one governed by cultural patterns that prize flexibility over reliability and ritual over responsibility.
Understand that, and Bali can remain beautiful.
Ignore it, and paradise becomes a long-term negotiation.
