Adrian Barich: Bali is a different place for my daughter than when I visited in my 20s but some truths remain

West Australian

12-07-2025

There was a time — and yes, I'll admit I'm going back a bit — when I could walk down Poppies Lane with a Bintang in my hand, sunburn on my shoulders, and a sense that I was almost bulletproof.
Remember your 20s? That feeling of being almost invincible; untouchable, even. Twenty-somethings are supposed to make mistakes, aren't they? And I may have made a few in WA's favourite island hideaway of Bali.
Nobody likes you when you're 23 anyway, as Blink-182 once said.
That time was 1984 and onwards for me, and Bali was different then. There were no beach clubs serving cocktails, no infinity pools on Instagram, and the only influencer was a bloke called Joey from Cannington, a cashed-up bogan who could barter a fake Rolex Oyster down to five bucks.
I've been to Bali more than 20 times over the years. I've seen it grow up, glam up, and be GPS-ed into submission.
And now, my daughter goes with her friends, while I stay home checking the Find My iPhone app every 15 minutes and trying not to imagine her on the back of a scooter sans helmet with some bloke nicknamed 'Big Dog'.
The circle of life isn't always lions and Elton John songs. Sometimes, it's your daughter posting from a pool party in Seminyak, while you're at your kitchen bench in Perth muttering things like 'I know what goes on over there . . .'.
When I first went to Bali, you didn't 'curate content'. You lost your thongs, your traveller's cheques, and occasionally your mates and your dignity. There were nights in Kuta that defied the laws of physics. There were mornings that began with you wandering out of someone else's hotel desperate to make the breakfast buffet at your own accommodation.
Some of my wild mates even got tattoos in Legian at 2am. From 'Dr Needlez' no less: the fella's moniker is surely a warning that getting 'inked' was a bad idea. Maybe it was the free shot of arak as anaesthetic that sucked in the boys.
Needless to say that tattoo, which was supposed to be a dragon but looked more like a sock puppet, is long gone from the arm of this well-known Perth stockbroker, courtesy of laser removal.
And now, all these years later, my daughter is making her own pilgrimage, drawn by the same magnet that pulled us there: cheap everything, tropical sunsets, and that glorious illusion of being just a little bit cooler than we actually were. The Balinese people were another attraction: in my opinion, some of the nicest hosts in the world.
As for my daughter? Well, I trust her implicitly. She's smart, capable, and she knows how to say no. But still, Bali is seductive. It's a tropical cocktail of fun, freedom and foolishness . . . and there's always chaos.
I gave her warnings she didn't need. I told her to be careful about scooters, about dodgy drinks, about monkey forests (they will steal your sunnies), about currency exchange scams and emotional entanglements with guys who wear beads and call themselves 'soul travellers'.
Barra's tips for beating 'Bali belly' were also given a run: no ice cubes in drinks, avoid salads and if you accidentally swallow some water in the shower or when brushing your teeth? Well, spend three days praying to the porcelain gods.
Pack light. Laugh hard. Respect the locals. And never trust a drink that glows in the dark.
She smiles and says, 'Dad, I'll be fine'.
She posts pics from Uluwatu that look like a Vogue spread; I once took a disposable camera into a nightclub and waited a couple of days for some very ordinary photos to be developed.
And that, my friends, is what Bali teaches you. It laughs with you, not at you. It breaks you down, builds you back up, and sends you home with stories, scars and the eternal wisdom of never trusting street cart food after midnight.
'Eat. Pray. Imodium.' Long may Bali humble us all.
And guess what? My daughter is back now and she's fine, because while Bali still holds its wild heart, today's generation travels smarter.
I'm not sure she used the same accent I adopted when talking to the locals, or discovered that most Balinese men have one of four first names: Wayan, Made, Nyoman or Ketut.
But I still gave her the benefit of my wisdom.
And now, I sit back and watch her make her own memories. She danced where I once danced, ate at places I still can't pronounce, and laughed under the same stars we used to stare at, lying on beanbags on the beach (although I don't think she ventured near the runway at Denpasar Airport to watch jumbos land).
There's something about sipping cocktails at Potato Head Beach Club that makes you realise you deserve better.
Yes, my generation once felt like the kings of Bali.
And now we're just dads who foot the bill and wait for a text that says, 'Landed safe x'.
And you know what? That's OK.
Because kings don't last forever. But worried dads? We reign for life.