Matt Hryciw
We were checking in beneath the vast, open-air reception pavilion of Puri Wulandari – a resort clinging, much like the jungle, to the sides of Bali’s Ayung River gorge – when I heard it.
“Shhh,” I said to my partner Fabio, as the distant thrumming rose and fell, drifting over on the breeze across the jungle valley below. “Listen. You can hear that, right? Are those cicadas?”
“I think they sound more like drums. Wait, no… are they gongs?” he said, puzzled.
It turned out that, in fact, all of the above was true.
We had timed our trip for the end of March especially to witness the beguiling annual Hindu New Year festival of Nyepi – known in English as the “Day of Silence”. Arriving on the eve of the big day itself, it was the traditional afternoon of entrancing percussion – provided by Bali’s gamelan music troupes and rising from every village – that we could hear, its noise intended to drive away the island’s evil spirits. According to Hindu belief, the following “Day of Silence” is just that: complete absence of noise with no traffic, fire or lights, and all travel forbidden.
In Bali, the roads, the international airport, and even the street lights, are shut down for 24 hours – and so, too, are the gates to Puri Wulandari. Witnessing this fascinating period had seemed like a unique way to experience this best-known part of Indonesia in a more authentic light. Nevertheless, in a place known for its strict edicts – and which recently made headlines after enacting new tourist guidelines which forbade causing disturbances, being rude to locals, and even swearing in public – we were unsure what the following day, imprisoned in our silent resort, would bring.
Indeed, our nail-biting taxi ride there from the airport had given us a taste of the impending restrictions – like something out of Race Across the World, road after road was shut just in front of us, barricades popping up out of nowhere as holy-looking men in sarongs and bandanas redirected traffic to allow Bali’s Hindu worshippers to pray silently in the streets, holding sticks of lit incense, while others began hoisting huge monster-like effigies called Ogoh-ogoh on their bamboo frames into the streets for parades that evening. There was no doubt that Bali’s ancient traditions were alive and well.
We were shown around the resort: its tranquil indoor-outdoor spa, infinity poolside terrace restaurant, and then – descending a great sweeping stone staircase – the 34 palm-roofed villas, all sunken bathtubs and sprawling jungle views, one of which was to be our home for the next two days. There were certainly worse places to hunker down than in this little haven of relaxation tucked into the hillside.
Nyepi itself begins at 6am – this year starting on March 29 – and lasts for exactly 24 hours. Waking at dawn and stepping outside, the volcanic peaks of Mount Bratan towering in the distance, we realised that something in the air had changed. It was the sound – or, rather, the lack of it. Not total silence of course, but a sense of how this place might have sounded thousands of years ago: only tropical birds, the whitewater of the river far below, and the occasional ping of a gecko. And as the temperature started to rise, so too did those cicadas – without the drumming this time and, more importantly, without the revving of motorbikes, or any engine at all, not even the distant roar of a plane overhead. We switched our mobile phones to airplane mode; our 24 hours of disconnect had begun.
Bali’s government permits hotel staff to work on Nyepi, but since streets and cars are off-limits, employees have no choice but to join paying guests for a night at the hotels where they work. We were greeted for breakfast warmly and with subtly softer voices, the earthy Balinese coffee bringing the starlings swooping above the pool into sharper focus.
Everywhere, things seemed to move at a slightly slower pace. A morning walk through the rising mist around the property brought clouds of butterflies and tropical fruits I’d never seen – or even heard of – growing right beside the path. We spent lazy hours back at our villa by the edge of the pool, drinking in the wall of jungle across the gorge. A gift of Balinese Zalacca fruit – a giant garlic-like bulb covered in dragon-like skin – was left on our bedside table for us to taste for the first time.
“Wish you were here” postcards were written under Bali’s tropical sun between moments of shade and a snooze in the poolside gazebo – all without the distraction of an incoming text or the pressure to capture a holiday photo to fire off to friends. The only contact we had with the outside world was a midday delivery of ice-cold local Bintang beers. All around us, nature seemed to understand that modern life had been temporarily paused, the boundary of noise and industry lowered for a brief spell. Undaunted, a passing butterfly even landed on me as I stood in the villa’s outdoor shower.
At last, we emerged for dinner – at 4.45pm, a consequence of the restaurant having to close at sunset, because (as the information packet politely left in our room had advised) the “lighting of any fire or lamp is forbidden on Nyepi as they are both symbolic of mental and physical obstacles”.
Hungry or not, we didn’t mind a bit. There was something truly special about the feeling of everyone on the island being united by the experience that made each of these little sacrifices, little changes to the usual routine, enjoyable. Along with the temporary ban on light and fire, local Hindus are forbidden to work, to do anything physical (key to meditation), to leave home, or to engage in any entertainment – all in the name of purifying the mind and soul.
As Nyepi and its rules apply to everyone, Balinese Hindu or not, I found myself reminded of the strange bright spots that came along with Covid lockdowns – the pressure to make plans and worries about “missing out” brushed aside, replaced with a sort of simple contentment. I felt, too, a deeper connection to Bali. On any other day, we would have lost ourselves in the cultural wonders of Ubud, its streets lined with craft shops and buzzing restaurants.
But doing as the locals were doing, abiding by the same restrictions, we were experiencing the same peace and stillness. With the absence of electricity and technology, life grinds to a halt in blissful isolation, allowing you to engage more fully with simple pleasures – floating alone in a tranquil jungle pool, and watching the starlings and herons go about their jungly business.
Once night fell, where there might usually have been TVs and smartphones glowing, there was instead the sparkle of a thousand fireflies glinting over the canyon’s silhouette – untroubled by light pollution either from the island’s street lamps or the hotel. Without our electronics – and without light in our villa – it was amazing how early a deep natural sleep fell over us both, tucked in not long after 8pm.
Only once did we wake – just after midnight, to be greeted by the Milky Way, the skies an inky black unrecognisable from the nights before above the blacked-out island. Together we stood, listening, just listening. And without the sound of horns or motors or life, there’s so much more to hear than you’d think.
Essentials
Puri Wulandari has one-bedroom villas with private pools from £260 per night.
Various airlines, including Qatar, Cathay Pacific and Emirates, fly from the UK to Bali (connecting via Hong Kong, Doha or Dubai) from around £800 return.
