Hello hello,
We’re currently staying at Kubu D’uma, a charming little homestay near the rice fields of Jatiluwih, Bali. After a delicious breakfast that may or may not have contributed to my future Bali Belly, John and I decided to scooter about an hour away to Mount Batukaru, home to the Ulun Danu Beratan Temple.
The temple is primarily devoted to Dewi Danu, the Balinese Hindu goddess of lakes, rivers, and water. She’s one of the most important deities here—her water nourishes the rice fields, which are central to Balinese life. Perched on the edge of Lake Beratan, the temple appears to float when the water levels rise, making it a favorite for both tourists and photographers. Ceremonies and offerings for the goddess still take place there, often in private or roped-off sections of the temple.
When we arrived in the Bedugul Highlands, where the lake is located, we hit the worst traffic we’ve seen in Bali so far. The roads were narrow and winding, and the traffic turned into a chaotic double-lane mess of cars and scooters trying to outmaneuver each other. The yellow dividing line seemed more like a polite suggestion for local scooterers; they weaved through any gap they could find, including oncoming traffic.
John was driving, and it was easily the most intense scooter traffic he’s ever navigated. Cars in front of us, scooters beside us, people weaving everywhere—it was total madness, but he handled it like a champ.
Everyone who was anyone seemed to be heading to the temple. We got stuck in the jam for a solid five minutes—which doesn’t sound long, but after an hour on a scooter, your body’s just begging to stretch. Strangely, there weren’t many honks. If we were in Vietnam, it would’ve been a full-blown honk symphony.
Eventually, we made our way around the final winding stretch and into the small village where the temple sits. John glanced at the GPS and said, “Alright, it says we’re here,” and we started looking for a place to park.
We passed the main candi bentar—a classic Balinese split stone gate symbolizing the transition from the everyday world into sacred space. There were three guards in front waving people away, along with two pop-up signs featuring a red circle and a horizontal line: Do Not Enter. So, we continued onward.
John pulled over in front of a convenience store where a man happened to be walking. “I’m going to ask him for directions,” he said. I nodded—then realized he probably couldn’t see me very well. Ah well.
“Excuse me, where do we park?” he asked, gesturing toward the temple.
The man told us scooters could park just inside the main gate—it was only full for cars. I got off the bike so John could turn it around, and then this legend of a man walked right into oncoming traffic, raised his hand, and stopped it so we could rejoin the lane. Absolute hero.
This time, when we pulled up to the guards and asked, “Can we park here?” one of them nodded and pointed us through the gate and to the left. Just as we were about to enter, a massive tour bus rounded the corner and began slowly exiting. It barely looked like it would fit through the gate—but somehow, it did. We waited off to the side until it cleared the candi bentar, then rolled on through.
There was a three-lane ticket entrance to the parking lot: one for buses, one for cars, and one—adorably narrow—for scooters. We pulled up to the scooter lane, and I pressed the button, prompting the machine to spit out a little slip with a QR code.
Then, we turned left into the stone-bordered section of the lot meant for scooters—but it was completely full. A stone path that looked pedestrian-only ran alongside some buildings, but scooters were parked all along it, so we figured it was fair game. We bumped along it until we eventually snagged a spot at the very end, just before the exit lane.
I hopped off while John carefully repositioned the bike so it wouldn’t block anyone trying to get out. Then, like the scooter newbies we are, we hung our helmets upside down on the handlebars and set off to find the temple ticketing area.
We’ve been loving the variety of temples across Vietnam, Thailand, and now Indonesia. Bali, being the only predominantly Hindu island in a majority-Muslim country, has a unique architectural style. Temples here are open-air and expansive, with plenty of room to walk between merus—multi-tiered shrines with thatched, pagoda-style roofs.
Ulun Danu Beratan is especially stunning because the lake sits high in the mountains. Clouds roll in fast and hover low over the water, giving the whole place a dreamlike, misty atmosphere.
Surprisingly, there are paddle boats for rent, koi fish to feed along a constructed lilypad path, and an abundance of fake logs surrounding flower beds—which gave it a bit of a waterpark vibe. As a major photo-op spot, the temple was packed with tourists, and we had to dodge tripods and groups posing as we explored.
When we wanted a photo in front of the lake, John spotted a kind-looking woman in a hijab with her boyfriend.
“Hello, could you take a photo of us?” he asked, handing her his phone.
She nodded, and as John rejoined me, we squished together for the shot. She smiled and said, “One, two, three, cheeeeeese,” and snapped the photo. Then again, “One, two, three, cheeeeese.” It made me smile—so sweet that she knew that phrase.
She returned the phone to John and said, “I took two.”
“Thank you so much,” we said. Then I offered, “Would you like me to take one of you two?”
They looked slightly surprised but agreed. Her boyfriend handed me his phone, and I took a bunch of photos of them standing by the lake. I handed the phone back and waved, “Thank you! Bye-bye!”
Toward the end of our visit—and a few underwhelming chicken nuggets from the temple café later—it started to rain. We ducked under the outdoor seating area of a nearby restaurant and perched on the edge of the platform, unsure if we could use the chairs since we hadn’t bought anything. A passing waiter smiled and said, “You can sit. It’s okay.”
Grateful, we pulled out the wooden chairs and sat down, watching as people scurried past with every kind of improvised rain gear imaginable—trays, trash bags, pulled-up shirts, actual umbrellas—all trying to get down the mountain before the storm got worse.
“We left our helmets upside down on the bike,” I suddenly realized.
“Damn, you’re right,” John said, looking mildly panicked.
We weighed our options—stay put, go to the Bali Strawberry Farm & Resto for lunch, or just head home. Once we settled on a plan, we made a break for it through the rain.
As we crossed the lot, we noticed every other helmet had been placed upright, allowing the rain to run right off. It turned into a game of spot the tourists—and sure enough, when we reached our scooter, ours were the only helmets serving as tiny rainwater reservoirs.
I turned my helmet over to pour out the standing water, then felt the foam inside. “Not too bad,” I said to John, relieved that my head wasn’t about to get completely soaked.
“Yeah, not too bad,” he echoed absentmindedly, focused on getting the scooter ready for our rainy ride.
He clipped his phone into the holder for GPS, rolled the scooter out of the parking spot, and told me to hop on. The Balinese couple next to us was still prepping—unfazed, they pulled full rain gear from the storage compartment under their seat. As we pulled away, I glanced back and saw them tugging on rain pants, zipping up jackets, and cinching their hoods tightly around their faces like seasoned pros. Luckily, John had remembered to pack his rain jacket so at least he had some defense against the rain. I, on the other hand, didn’t, but sitting behind John gave me a little shield from the worst of it. Unfortunately, raindrops kept sneaking behind my glasses and stinging my eyes—thanks, physics.
We rode through the rain for about nine minutes until we reached our safe haven: Bali Strawberry Farm & Resto. This charming mountainside farm also doubles as a restaurant, with seating spread across a few slightly staggered levels of the slope.
This time, we brought our helmets with us—no way were we leaving them out to collect more water—and ducked under the awning of the main building. Behind a wooden counter stood a man and woman, with menus and leaflets spread out in front of them.
“Two, please,” we said, dripping wet.
“Yes, that way is protected. It has umbrellas,” they replied, gesturing toward the next level of the restaurant. We started to head down the stairs into the rain, but they suddenly called out, “No no, we have umbrella!”
Another staff member appeared and began opening a large silver umbrella just for us—clearly, they were well-prepared for weather like this. We laughed, took the umbrella, and made our way down to find a dry seat.
We passed a cute family of three sitting comfortably at a table just out of the rain. We ended up at an outdoor table under a roof, tucked near the edge of their strawberry fields. Once we were out of the rain, it felt like we could finally breathe again.
I unclipped the backpack I’d been designated to carry and started dabbing myself off with some tissues. It was a bit chilly up in the mountains, but drying off helped warm me up a bit.
Suddenly, John realized he’d left his phone on the bike and ran back up to grab it—without even taking the umbrella. With my phone MIA, at least one of us needed to have a functioning device. Thankfully, he retrieved it, and it still worked fine.
We sat under the roof in wicker chairs, listening to the rain splash rhythmically against the metal above us. It was cozy—albeit not exactly ideal conditions for scooter travel. Across the way, the whole valley was veiled in clouds. Everything was a lush, vibrant green, and through the haze, we could make out the soft outlines of rice fields in the distance.
John spent some time mentally preparing himself for the ride back in the rain. Then, the waiter appeared, strolling over under his umbrella with menus for us. Wanting to limit his time in the rain, he waited patiently while we scanned the options and placed our order: strawberry pancakes, strawberry smoothies, Gado-Gado, and a chicken teriyaki rice bowl (with strawberries). Can you guess who ordered what?
We stayed at the restaurant until the rain finally began to ease and the clouds drifted out of the valley. It was the perfect spot to wait out a mountain storm.
When the weather gave us a window, we began the ride back—an intermittently rainy journey down the winding roads. As we descended into the lower towns, the rain let up and the air grew warmer, drying us out a bit.
We only had to stop a few times for John to wipe his glasses. He’s a real hero for getting us home safely—soaked, a little jittery, but alive and well. Grateful we didn’t die that day.
Until next time,
-W