Blog by Charlie Uldahl Christensen, written November 2025, about a trek across Bali undertaken in September 2025. For Loow stories.
Background
My girlfriend and I have been living in Bali for the past six months. I had attempted to raise funding for a documentary series intended to focus on the biodiversity crisis and local actors with innovative initiatives to combat it. Unfortunately, I didn't succeed in securing the funding, but I decided to set out on a trek anyway to visit some local passionate souls who, in their own ways, are working to improve biodiversity on the Island of the Gods—on land, at sea, and in the air.
At the same time, this trip was to serve as a warm-up before I embark on a trek of roughly 6,000 km from the D.R. Congo to Tanzania this summer. I have previously walked the 15,000 km from Denmark to the Congo over two stages, but it had been a while since I had been out walking long distances, and it was going to be interesting to see if I still had it in me.
The Island of the Dead
First day. My starting point for the trek was Trunyan Village, one of the few remaining Bali Aga villages on the island. The Bali Aga people are considered the original Balinese, descendants of a pre-Hindu culture that has lived in isolated mountain areas around Lake Batur for millennia. They speak their own language, follow their own animist rituals, and practice traditions that differ significantly from the rest of Bali, of which most tourists only see the surface.
The Trunyan people are particularly known for not burying or cremating their dead, as is the custom elsewhere in Bali. Instead, the bodies are placed under a sacred tree, Taru Menyan, a massive banyan-like tree said to emit a natural scent that neutralizes the smell of decay. It is this tree that has given the village its name: Taru (tree) and Menyan (scent). Locals say the tree is so old and sacred that its spirit has guarded the village since before Hinduism came to Bali over a thousand years ago.
Trunyan Cemetery lies isolated on the eastern side of the lake, accessible only by boat. According to tradition, bodies may only be placed here if the deceased died a peaceful and natural death. Deaths caused by war, accidents, or suicide are handled elsewhere. At the burial site, bamboo cages are set up over the dead to protect the remains from wild animals, while skulls and bones are gathered in small piles to make room for new bodies. It is one of the most unique death rituals in the world—a relic of a pre-Hindu, animist belief where the spirits of the wind and stars were central deities.
When I arrived at Trunyan Village late in the afternoon, the lake was perfectly still, and Mount Batur loomed over the opposite shore like a black shadow against the sky. A handful of local men offered to sail me out to the sacred tree for a fee. We negotiated but couldn't agree on the price, and in the end, I decided to postpone the visit until the next day and instead begin the ascent towards the mountains to find a place to set up camp.
However, I ended up walking several hours up the mountain before finding a suitable spot to camp—it turned out not to be so straightforward to find a good spot for the hammock on the steep mountain slope, and it got dark before I found a usable place.
Here, I realized that I would hardly be making the trip back down the mountain and up again the following day—meaning I missed out on seeing the bodies under the tree in Trunyan, which annoyed me. A reminder that I sometimes need to be better at seizing the chance when it arises, instead of postponing things to save a few pennies, otherwise one risks missing out entirely.
Lost in the Mountains
Second day. I didn’t sleep fantastically in my hammock that first night. I had only brought a thin liner bag for my hammock, as I hadn't been prepared for how cold it would get once I reached higher altitudes, so I was actually freezing quite a bit. Fortunately, I could layer up with several of Loow’s merino wool t-shirts, which ensured me sufficient warmth.
It also began to rain during the night, which I hadn't accounted for either, so I ended up having to get up in the middle of the night to set up the rain cover.
The next morning, I continued up and down the mountains along winding roads north of Lake Batur. I had counted on using my GPS to navigate, but the signal vanished in the mountains, and many of the mapped roads turned out not to exist; several times I found myself walking down a road that ended blindly at private homes.
The locals in this area speak as little English as I speak Indonesian, so communication options were limited. As the day wore on, I had to admit that I was lost. I had long since moved away from the trafficked roads onto small mountain paths across ridges to reach what looked like a road on my map, but which I found to be non-existent.
The poor night's sleep, the heat under the sun, and the weight of the backpack on my shoulders began to take their toll. I hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours. I had expected to find shops along the way but found none, and my strength slowly dwindled, as did my water supplies, as the day progressed. I am used to walking with a stroller, which allows me to carry larger quantities of water at a time. When I have to haul everything in my backpack, I am naturally limited to carrying less.
The breaks became more frequent, but the intervals between the breaks where I allowed myself to drink became longer. To my horror, I discovered that I had lost my last water bottle. I could have cursed myself to hell and back. But what good would that do? Self-reproach wouldn't help me out of this mess—only clarity and determination would.
I had to make a decision, set a direction, and move forward. I knew which compass direction I needed to head to hit a road, but to get there, I had to pass a mountain ridge.
I pressed myself along cliff walls and climbed from plateau to plateau up the mountainside. My foot slipped in the porous sand, and the bush I pulled myself up by couldn't bear my weight and ripped out at the root. I managed to find a foothold on a rock just in time, saved from falling into the abyss. I looked down. Phew, I was lucky there—if I had fallen here, it could have ended with a broken neck... well, or just a broken leg, which would have led to the same outcome. How long would I be able to survive out here in the wilderness without a signal, without water, and without the ability to move forward?
After further struggle through dense brush, I finally reached a path that led to a road and eventually to Kintamani at the foot of Mount Batur. Here, I rented a cheap room with breakfast at a homestay. I got a much-needed meal, a bath, and hung my wet rain cover from the previous night out to dry.
I had only been on the road for a single day and was already pushed to the limit. Embarrassing. Have I become too old for this? Even more embarrassing... Most of today's challenges I could have planned my way out of. Rookie mistake upon rookie mistake, which an experienced hiker like me shouldn't be making.
My lack of worry and eternal belief that everything will work out is an important quality and prerequisite for being at ease in the lifestyle I subject myself to, but today was a reminder not to become too foolhardy—otherwise, what looks like a manageable stroll can, in the worst case, have fatal consequences.
Lord of the Fireflies
Third day. A good night's rest had worked wonders. Today my destination was the village of Taro, a day's walk to the south. Here, I was to visit Wayan from the organization Bring Back the Light, an initiative with the goal of saving fireflies from extinction.
The day's route was beautiful, with Lake Batur on my left and the volcano on my right. A little outside Kintamani, I walked through an area known as the Lava Forest, completely enveloped in black lava rocks from Mount Batur's eruption in 1888.
It puzzled me, as I had actually always believed that soil around volcanoes was particularly fertile, but 1888 is, of course, also relatively recent in a geological perspective. This currently barren land will probably be particularly fertile sometime in the future.
In the area surrounding the lava forest, there was indeed bustling activity on the small farms, where diligent and always smiling Balinese bent over the furrows of the fields in the shade of characteristic oriental straw hats. Above all, rice is planted here, but also vegetables, exotic fruits, and marigolds, which all families and businesses, small and large, consume daily in their offerings to the spirit world.
Although Indonesia is predominantly Muslim and home to the largest Muslim population in the world, the Balinese are mainly Hindus, which shines through everywhere you go. Even in the smallest villages I walk through, there are beautiful temples with massive stone statues and beautifully hand-carved doors featuring figures from Balinese Hinduism. In particular, the monkey god Hanuman and the noble Rama with his bow appear in many places, but also more fearsome figures like the demon queen, the child-eating Rangda with her pointed nails and long tongue, are seen frequently. They serve as reminders that the universe and everything within it is a balance between good and evil, light and darkness, life and death—a cosmic balance commonly known as Rwa Bhineda, a spirituality that runs deep in the Balinese people.
In the early evening, I arrived at Taro Village, where Wayan welcomed me. I kicked off my boots and was lodged in one of the permanent tents he has on the family property, which was originally a lodge but has been converted over the last few years into a research and breeding center for fireflies.
We ordered food from a local warung, and Wayan told his story: “When I was a child and grew up here on the property, there were masses of fireflies everywhere. There were so many that we could collect them and put them in jam jars, which we used as lanterns to find our way at night. Today they are a rare sight. Artificial lighting and pesticides in agriculture have made their living conditions difficult.
I thought it was sad to think that my children and their children might grow up in a world without fireflies. Besides their place in the ecosystem and beneficial role as pollinators, they also have an important spiritual role in Balinese culture. It is said that fireflies are the guides of souls. If you see a firefly in your home, it is quite certainly a deceased ancestor paying a visit.”
Wayan originally worked in the tourism industry and started his research on fireflies as a hobby, but since then it has taken off, and today he works full-time researching, fundraising, and communicating about the living conditions of fireflies in Bali.
Wayan is helped by a small dedicated team of volunteer biologists and often has groups of students staying who contribute to the research. The research that exists on fireflies in the area is very limited, so it is exciting how much new knowledge the center can bring to the table with relatively small means.
In addition to research, Wayan's mission is based on educating farmers in the area. He teaches them how to use alternatives to pesticides in their farming and even compensates them for the potential losses they might incur if they switch to organic farming.
Not least, Wayan has a breeding program in his small laboratory, where fireflies are hatched and matched under safe conditions, and their offspring are then released into nature when they are ready. It can take almost two years for a firefly to go through the stages of egg, larva, and pupa before reaching the final stage as a fully grown and sexually mature firefly. From there, they have, at best, merely two months to reproduce before they die of natural causes.
It may seem hopeless to nurse every single egg and larva in petri dishes to ensure the survival of the species, but all change starts small and with the decision to take action.
Wayan has achieved great international recognition for his initiative and has managed to create increased awareness of the insects that not very many of us take an interest in, but which nevertheless have an effect on us all and our living conditions—just as we have an effect on them and their living conditions with the consumption patterns we have and the choices we make.
Roosters and Rats
Fourth day. The following morning, Wayan accompanied me to the outskirts of the village, and here we passed, among other things, a large permanent pavilion with room for several hundred spectators around a small square arena in the middle, like a sort of boxing ring.
“That is an arena for cockfighting,” Wayan told me. I have seen smaller, more primitive arenas in villages before, but it was the first time I had seen a construction of this size dedicated to what is formally an illegal activity.
Although cockfighting is prohibited by law, it is such an ingrained practice in the culture that the authorities mostly turn a blind eye—unless, of course, they have something at stake themselves. Originally, cockfighting was connected with spirituality and was used in certain rituals where the spirits demanded blood. But today, it is above all a magnet for gamblers.
The fight itself takes place by tying metal spurs to the legs of two roosters bred for the purpose and letting them loose on each other. The audience places their bets and wins or loses money depending on the outcome, just like any other sport you can bet on.
I am personally a vegetarian and am repulsed by all forms of animal cruelty, but when we go out into the world, it is always easy to point out the things they do differently than us and label it as wrong. But if we look inward a little—and we probably should—I hardly think that life as a fighting cock in Bali is worse than life as a battery hen in Denmark; quite the contrary.
At the arena's gate, I waved goodbye to Wayan and continued my trek south. At nightfall, I reached Ubud, one of the island's most popular and touristy towns, full of shops, delicious restaurants, and juice bars. Here, I couldn't resist the temptation and spent far too long in the shade at several establishments.
I had my dinner at a vegetarian buffet restaurant, which offered delicious, cheap food, cozy decor, and dim lighting—perfect for ending a long day of hiking. 5 out of 5 stars... right until I spotted something moving around among the dishes in the buffet. A corn-fed rat with a twinkle in its eye. Thanks for the meal and thanks for today.
Toenails and Life Choices
Fifth day. The fifth day's trek went east to Padangbai on the coast. Here, I had arranged to meet Leah from Living Seas to hear about the organization's work to restore coral reefs.
The trekking day itself passed without any particularly noteworthy experiences. I must admit that I had found the first couple of days unusually hard, and I had just managed to get a little worried about whether age had caught up with me. Therefore, it was also a relief to feel, here on the fourth day, that my body was getting back into the rhythm.
It had certainly also helped to get my toenails cut the day before. for some inscrutable reason, I had neglected to trim my claws before the first day of hiking, which had resulted in open wounds on several of my toes. Pretty stupid and actually also a bit embarrassing to have so little control over one's personal hygiene. But now I mention it anyway, so you, dear reader, avoid making the same mistake.
It was dark before I reached Padangbai. Here I met with Leah at a cozy restaurant, possibly without rats, where we shared a couple of well-deserved beers and a good meal while exchanging anecdotes and observations.
Leah herself was just 22 years old and from Germany. She was a passionate diver and enjoyed life in Bali, where she had already worked for Living Seas on a modest salary for a number of years. She was in no rush to move on. Here, she could spend several hours under the ocean's surface every single day, surrounded by corals, fish, and turtles, and here she could make a tangible contribution to meaningful work for a mission she truly burns for and has influence on in her daily work.
We talked about diving, about hiking, about traveling and living, about turning one's passion into one's livelihood, about expectations, education, career, choices, and sacrifices. Despite her young age, Leah struck me as a wise person. A person who had realized early on what really matters in this life, who used her time and focus on that, and didn't let herself get stressed by all the other noise.
We agreed to meet early the next morning at the dive center by the beach and then went our separate ways.
I actually mostly wanted to just book a cheap room, but this was meant as a preparatory trip for my trek in Africa—not just physically, but above all mentally—and in Africa, wild camping becomes a condition. So I convinced myself that I better find a place to set up my hammock so it wouldn't be too unfamiliar to me when sleeping outdoors in foreign lands becomes everyday life again this summer.
After some wandering around aimlessly without luck finding suitable trees with appropriate spacing, shielded from view from the road, I found a wantilan, a kind of permanent pavilion, behind a public toilet by a temple overlooking the bay. Here I set up my hammock between two massive stone pillars and settled down for the night.
Oh, Monkey
When I woke up in my hammock, it was to a quite lovely view over the bay at Padangbai, where traditional colorful outrigger fishing boats bob rhythmically in the turquoise blue water that outlines the white sandy beach between the trees. I could easily lie here and laze for a couple of hours. Just waking up slowly while I...
Wait, what was that? A face looking at me there between the leaves. It wasn't long from spotting the first monkey until I saw the second, the third, the fourth. And now that I was awake, I seemed to become more interesting to them too.
A couple of brave, curious males hopped from the trees onto the railing encircling the pavilion and set a course directly towards me and my belongings. The monkeys down here steal with both hands and feet, and they can get pretty aggressive if they get hold of something and you try to take it back. Fortunately, they have respect for my walking stick, so when I banged it against the railing a bit, they turned back.
However, not many minutes passed before the two young scouts returned with reinforcements, and before I knew it, there were suddenly monkeys of varying sizes everywhere around me—yes, even above me, where some had taken position on the crossbeams under the roof and began howling and throwing things.
I could see pretty clearly that it was high time I packed up my gear and high-tailed it out of there if I wasn't to end up being kidnapped by a monkey gang like some Mowgli in The Jungle Book.
They luckily still respected the walking stick, but I had only just managed to get the hammock crumpled up and stuffed into the bag before a large male lunged at me, baring his teeth, and I slammed the walking stick so hard into the ground to scare him that it snapped in the middle.
From there, getting away happened pretty fast. Fortunately, they didn't chase after me. But up from the street, I could see monkeys streaming in from the surrounding trees, and before long, the entire wantilan was covered in fur.
Underwater
Relieved not to have ended up as monkey food, I set a course for the beach and the dive center where I was to meet Leah. We changed and sailed out to a spot in the bay where Living Seas is restoring coral reefs. Wearing diving goggles and snorkels, we swam around the water's edge with our gaze fixed on the seabed.
The sight was disheartening. A desolate landscape of dead coral reefs. You could sense how this place had once buzzed with life and color, but everything that remained now resembled the ruins of a bombed-out city.
“It is estimated that by 2050, 70–90% of the world's coral reefs will look like this,” Leah explained, dejected. “It is due to global warming and nitrogen discharge, among other things, but also unsustainable fishing, for example with bottom trawling.”
For many of the reefs around Padangbai, the damage is not only the result of global ocean warming and pollution, but of direct physical destruction by, for example, boat anchors tearing the corals apart.
And when corals die, the rest dies with them. Over a quarter of all life in the ocean is dependent on coral reefs—as a nursery, as shelter, as hunting grounds. If you lose the reef, you lose the entire ecosystem around it. And it’s not just the fish that suffer. The reef also protects coasts against erosion and creates food for millions of people.
We swam on, and suddenly the underwater landscape changed. From gray to colors. From dead to living.
Below us, rows of metal skeletons came into view like small underwater gardens. On them, Living Seas had attached small coral fragments, taken from healthy donor reefs nearby. Leah explained that it resembles cuttings in a potted plant: If you take a small piece of a healthy coral and give it something stable to grow on, it can turn into a whole colony.
Leah told me that Living Seas has now planted over 320,000 coral fragments, restored more than 6,500 m² of seabed, and deployed over 7,600 so-called Reef Stars, and that life around them has exploded: 15x more coral growth, 10x more fish, and correspondingly more invertebrates.
I dove down and saw it up close: small pink and yellow corals strapped to the metal skeletons with cable ties.
It was easy to see the difference in how long the frames had been there. On the newest ones, the metal skeletons were still visible, and you could see small signs with the names of those who had donated them. But the longer the frames had stood, the more covered they were with growth, and the more activity and movement from fish and other sea creatures there was around and between them.
“They grow faster than people think,” she said. “We plant them, tend them, but it is nature that does the rest. We just have to give it a little help.”
If you want, you can also help nature along a bit by supporting the fantastic work of Living Seas and Bring Back the Light on their respective websites: https://bringbackthelight.org https://www.livingseasfoundation.org
The snorkeling trip with Leah marked the end of my journey on foot through Bali. It had been a tough, beautiful, and educational journey. I had knocked the rust off my hiking boots and gained an insight into Bali's fantastic culture and nature—also outside the tourist areas.
I had felt my own fragility in the mountains and had met two fantastic passionate souls with their own important projects, who both reminded me that nature has a fantastic restorative power, even though we challenge it severely with our way of life.
The question is not whether the planet will survive us—it most certainly will.
The question is rather how long we will survive ourselves if we keep working against the nature we all live in and off. We all play a role in the great cosmic balance, and we all choose ourselves—every day—with the choices we make and the actions we take, whether we want to make the world a little bit better or worse to live in, for ourselves and for the people, animals, and nature around us.
