Island dreams

Connecting locally

A number of long-term Bali residents Anindya spoke with, many of whom have lived here for nearly 20 years, could still vividly recall their early years on the island, fueled by a new lust for life.

"This island opened up a whole new world to me," said Puji Siswanti, who moved to Bali from Bandung in 2005.

But Puji hit rock bottom in 2014, losing both her family and her business. "I was buried under the ashes of years spent building a successful jewelry business and a family in Bali," she said.

What was once the island of her dreams had turned into a gaping void.

She continued working numerous gigs to survive on the island, including being a driver, where she met "visitors who later became my best friends", Puji said. This marked a turning point in her life.

"I had been on the island for a decade. I built a jewelry business here, worked with many local artisans, breathed its air, drank its water, but I don't think I had a spiritual connection with the island. We're not bound by spirits," Puji said. "It felt like a contract. Transactional."

"I thought to myself, you want to live in Bali, right? You don't want to go back to Bandung, right? So how can you connect more with the island?" Puji said.

"It took me years to fully accept Bali as it is, including the way people work here."

This fighting spirit seems to be common among those committed to island life, and not just in Bali. It is a fire they continue to fan, which is almost ironic, considering that the island dream is portrayed as an easy, breezy lifestyle.

But perhaps to truly make the island your home, there is no escaping these questions: Why are you here? Why this place? What does the island mean to you? How can you contribute to it?

When an island fills you with a natural high, that kind of selfless rumination often comes last. And rarely do we ever need to put a place — or an island — so central in our existence that thinking about our relationship to that place becomes a natural, if not necessary, question.

Sometimes, this contribution can be more practical, as simple as spotting what is missing in a city and turning that into a business opportunity.

"I had to think: what are some of the biggest commodities coming out of Flores?" said Krisman Lyberty, a geographer who moved to Labuan Bajo in 2017 and stayed through the pandemic.

Like many other islands, Labuan Bajo's burgeoning industry is hospitality and Krisman fashioned himself a tour guide after moving to the islands. But when the pandemic struck, he had to quickly pivot to other occupations, including trading coffee and even farming pigs. "I didn't want to move back to Jakarta."

It did not bother him much, considering he has mastered the art of building a social network across islands.

"I have known many coffee farmers in Flores since 2018. A year later, a friend of mine came from Malang, and we decided to open a roastery there," he recounted.

It turned out to be a saving grace during the pandemic. "During those two years, I just traded coffee across Flores and sent it to our roastery in Malang."

The fishing town itself is relatively small, with less than 10,000 residents. Life is quiet in the town, but it does not matter. Now working again as a tour guide, Krisman is away traveling most of the month and occasionally sails on a local phinisi-style boat across East Nusa Tenggara in Indonesia. That easily beats sitting in gridlock for hours.