I went in search of the Indonesia I saw on Instagram. The reality was tragically different
It was on the second night that I'd begun to notice it. We were on the isle of Gili Trawangan, between Bali and Lombok, and had, until then, been wandering around this fascinating new place in a haze of tropical euphoria.
But as night fell, the island had begun to morph into a darker, altogether more sinister place. It was quiet, mostly empty, with a few people lurking around trying to sell us mushrooms or marijuana. As we hurried to our hostel arm in arm, we started, for the first time, to become truly aware of our surroundings.
The skeletal horses chained to carriages stared out like ghosts. Their necks were contorted into unnatural positions, and looking at them – as one living thing to another – made me sick to my stomach. At 2am, the poor creatures stood shackled – skin and bones – waiting to pick up the drunk tourists who couldn't be bothered to walk five minutes back to their hostel.
My friend Sara, who lives in Bali, had told us the day before that the horses looked better than they had the year before. When we asked what she meant, she said: 'It looks like they're being fed now, they were like sticks last time I was here – but I think people started complaining.'
When I asked some locals about it the next day, they explained that a local mafia was in control and there was nothing that could be done. They ran the island, making money – mostly from tourists – by selling drugs, sex and profiting from animal cruelty. It was an open secret, but no one spoke up.
After that second eye-opening evening, our moods shifted. Though neither of us could bring ourselves to say it out loud, we were both suddenly seeing the island as it was: walking through the sewage and mud that flooded the streets; the buildings windowless and stacked high with rubbish; abandoned washing machines and decades-old furniture dotting the roadside.
We also became suddenly aware of how filthy we were. The ocean was full of rubbish. Ally had even spotted a raw chicken foot floating in the sea, and the flooded streets had covered our legs in goodness-knows-what.
It was after one such walk – days later, after we had rushed back to the hostel to scrub ourselves clean – that we'd ended up on the floor of the hostel bathroom, and it had all come spilling out.
We realised we had fallen for the oldest trick in the book – we had been seduced by pretty pictures; duped by Instagram.
We had travelled across the world in search of a picturesque paradise, and though we'd found something quite different, it hadn't stopped us sharing our own social media posts along the way – of dreamy sunsets, tropical waterfalls, the two of us bikini-clad and smiling – feeding the very illusion we had bought into. Friends messaged to say how jealous they were, and that our trip looked beautiful.
We hoped things might improve once we reached mainland Bali, but they didn't. The overcrowding was particularly awful – and there was no escaping it, especially when riding around on mopeds.
Whenever I drove anywhere, I'd return covered in thick soot, and the traffic was horrendous: we were told by other travellers that they had seen people fall off bikes and their heads 'explode like watermelons'.
At one point I saw a man carrying a guitar fall from his bike in the midst of the traffic: the guitar smashed to pieces, but no one stopped to help him.
Since returning, I've reflected a lot on my trip, and while there were moments of fun and beauty, ultimately it remains a sobering experience.
In particular, I feel guilt for the impact that I had, not just on the environment, but on the local community. The average Indonesian person in Bali makes just £140 per month, while tourists like me take advantage of the low prices and cheap accommodation.
Even the rate of road accidents has been exacerbated by the tourist boom – with travellers hiring mopeds, as we did, contributing to the dangerous overcrowding.
Last year, nearly 550 people died in motorbike accidents in Bali, making up over 80 per cent of all road accidents in the area.
How Bali came to this, I'm not sure – but, as is the case with so many once-idyllic destinations suffering under the weight of over-tourism, I suspect social media has a lot to answer for.
There is hope for Bali, but change must come from the tourists themselves. The power lies in the Instagram feeds of those passing through, and until tourists are brave – braver than I was – and start posting the truth about what they see, I fear nothing will change, and this once-beautiful place will be lost forever.
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