I arrived in Buleleng just as the sun slipped behind the dry northern hills. From the dusty window of the car, the empty roads looked nothing like the frantic chaos of Kuta or Canggu. It felt as if I had stepped into the last quiet chapter of a book—a chapter I wanted to read slowly. This was exactly why I came: to practice slow travel, to breathe a little deeper, to let a place unfold on its own terms.
My homestay in Pemuteran was small and simple—a bamboo room with a frangipani tree blooming outside the door. The owner, Pak Wayan, welcomed me with hot tea and stories about how the sea sometimes turned silver in the afternoon light.
The next morning, I walked to the beach. No music, no crowds. Just the soft hiss of small waves and a handful of fishermen mending their nets. When I entered the water to snorkel, I moved slowly, almost in sync with the sea’s breathing. The Biorock reefs below me looked like living sculptures, with young corals clinging to their metal frames and fish darting between them as if guarding treasure.
Every few minutes I stopped—not to take photos, but just to float and watch sunlight stream down through the surface. Time stretched thin out here. It felt wonderful.
Later that afternoon, I sat in a tiny warung with two women preparing lawar. We talked about weather, harvest seasons, and how quiet the village had been during the pandemic. My meal came slowly, but for once, waiting felt like a gift.
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Where the Mist Teaches Stillness
Leaving the coast, I drove up into the misty hills of Munduk—a village wrapped in the scent of coffee blossoms and cloves. The air was cooler, gentler, and carried a faint sweetness.
One morning, I followed a coffee farmer named Ketut through his sloping plantation. He showed me cherries that were ready for picking and those that needed more sun. “Pelan-pelan,” he said—slowly in Indonesia language—as if sensing the city pace still clinging to my steps.
In a small hut overlooking the valley, we brewed coffee from his own harvest. It was earthy, bitter, comforting—the kind of coffee that makes you want to stay a while, with no agenda and no rush.
Munduk is known for its waterfalls, but I visited just one: Munduk Waterfall. The trail descended steeply, the kind of path that forces you to focus on each step. When I reached the base, I sat on a damp rock and let the spray land on my face. I barely took out my camera. I just listened to the roar of falling water and the rustling leaves around me.
A Journey that Rewards Patience
The next day I made my way to Sekumpul, often called the most beautiful waterfall in Bali. I arrived early—not to beat the crowds, but because morning always feels like the best time to meet a forest.
The trek was long and sometimes slippery, winding through jungle, rice fields, and stone steps that seemed to go on forever. But that was part of its magic. Slow travel is not about checking sights off a list—it’s about allowing the journey to become the experience itself.
As I approached the viewpoint, the roar of water grew louder, and then suddenly, there it was: seven streams of water plunging from a lush cliff like giant curtains. Mist swirled in the air. Sunlight broke through the canopy. I felt small and astonishingly alive.
I sat there for a long time—long enough for my clothes to dry in the sun and then grow damp again from the waterfall’s mist. In that moment, I realized why Buleleng feels different: here, beauty reveals itself slowly, and only if you’re willing to stop and watch.
When the Sea Moves Lovina at a Softer Pace
Lovina greeted me with an orange sky and a shoreline dotted with resting wooden boats. There was no rush to do anything. A gentle breeze, a glass of fresh coconut water, and children running barefoot on the sand were enough to fill my evening.
People offered dolphin tours, but I declined—fast trips didn’t fit the rhythm I wanted. Instead, I simply walked along the water and watched small waves roll over the black sand.
In the early morning, I returned to the beach—again not to chase anything, but just to witness the day begin. And then, as if by coincidence, a small pod of dolphins appeared far in the distance. Not close. Not performing. Just passing by. And it was perfect—because slow travel teaches you that not everything needs to be captured. Some moments just need to be felt.
My time in Buleleng wasn’t defined by how many places I visited but by how deeply I experienced each one: the smell of coffee in the mountains, the calm breath of the sea, the patient walk to hidden waterfalls, and the gentle conversations with locals who made me feel at home.
Here, I learned that slowing down isn’t about doing less—it’s about feeling more. Buleleng isn’t just a quieter version of Bali; it’s a place where you can return to the simple act of being present.
And sometimes, that’s the journey we need the most. (Wage Erlangga)
