Is Bali losing its soul to the Digital Nomad Dream? A look at the island’s identity crisis

I’m sitting in a chic café in Canggu, sipping on an oat-milk latte while remote workers around me tap at MacBooks. Outside, offerings of flower petals and rice – a daily Balinese Hindu ritual – lie on the sidewalk as motorbikes whiz past. 

This is the new Bali, where an ancient culture of gods and temples collides with a modern influx of digital nomads chasing their work-from-paradise dream. 

As a Californian millennial and psychology writer who once sought my own “Eat, Pray, Laptop” experience here, I’ve witnessed first-hand the tensions brewing on this Island of the Gods. 

Bali is in the midst of an identity crisis: Can it remain a spiritual sanctuary and community for its people and a playground for the world’s remote workers? Or will the very digital nomad dream it’s selling become the island’s undoing? It’s a question that weighs on me as I navigate conversations with locals and expats alike in this supposed paradise.

Cultural tensions in paradise

“Our hospitality has been taken for granted,” Niluh Djelantik, a Balinese entrepreneur and activist, told The Guardian​. Her words echo the sentiment of many locals who feel their culture is being disrespected amid the foreign influx. 

Bali earned its nickname “Island of the Gods” for its rich Hindu traditions – intricate temple ceremonies, sacred forests, a communal way of life. Yet lately, headlines about tourists posing nude on holy sites and disregarding local customs have enraged residents​. Street murals and social media vigilantes now warn misbehaving “bules” (foreigners) to show respect or face the consequences.

As a guest here, I’ve felt the awkward tension of this cultural clash. At a recent temple festival in Ubud, I watched Balinese elders in ceremonial dress walk by a group of oblivious remote workers taking Instagram selfies in crop tops. The juxtaposition of sacred and superficial was jarring. 

Locals like Niluh – who has campaigned to deport rule-breaking tourists – are saying enough is enough: If you wouldn’t do it at home, don’t do it in Bali​. Some Balinese feel they’re becoming extras in a Western influencers’ theme park built on “content creator” culture, rather than respected hosts of their ancestral land. Words like neo-colonialism even get thrown around by critics to describe how outsiders come to exploit local charm for personal gain​. That might sound extreme, but it shows how deeply this cuts into the island’s psyche. Bali’s famed friendliness isn’t infinite, and there’s growing pushback to prove it.

Yet, not all is resentment. Many Balinese I’ve met are proud that others admire their culture – provided that admiration comes with humility. The island has long welcomed surfers, yogis, and soul-searchers; openness is part of its identity. The challenge now is scale and respect. When a trickle of mindful travelers swells to a flood of Instagrammers and remote workers on motorbikes, the cultural balance tips. A local friend explained it to me simply: We expect guests to respect our home.

That means understanding there’s more to Bali than yoga studios and smoothie bowls – real people live here, with values and norms honed over centuries. The island’s culture has weathered many storms (colonialism, mass tourism, even a bombing and pandemic), but this digital nomad era feels different. It’s testing whether Bali’s identity can bend without breaking.

Economic tradeoffs for Balinese locals

The economic story of Bali’s nomad boom is a double-edged kris (the traditional dagger). 

On one side, remote workers bring in money and spur business. Uber-cool co-working spaces, vegan bistros, and villa rentals are booming. Tourism – broadly defined – makes up the largest share of Bali’s economy, so welcoming foreign spenders seems like a no-brainer for growth.

During the pandemic, when Bali’s visitor numbers flatlined, the economic pain was severe; everyone from beach-hut owners to taxi drivers felt it. Now in 2025, the island’s rebound is well underway, thanks in part to a wave of digital nomads staying months at a time and spreading their dollars (or euros, yuan, rupees) around.

But here’s the catch: how much of that money truly benefits the average Balinese local? Walk into the trendy cafes of Seminyak or Ubud, and you’ll notice most patrons are foreigners and the prices geared to match. 

For example, researchers note that “AU$5 for a coffee in a trendy café popular with nomads… is too high for locals earning a minimum daily wage of around $10”. In other words, many native Balinese simply can’t afford to participate in the boutique economy that’s sprung up on their island. 

The result is a kind of soft segregation: expats dine on avocado toast while locals might stick to warungs (street eateries) where a meal costs 1/10th of that. I’ve had local friends in their 20s joke that they feel like foreigners in parts of Canggu now – spots that used to be their hangouts are overrun by remote workers and priced accordingly.

The cost of living in Bali has risen in popular areas. Rents in nomad hotspots like Canggu and Uluwatu have reportedly doubled or tripled in the last few years, as villa owners realize a YouTuber from California or a startup team from Sydney will pay far more than a local family. Landlords often prefer Airbnb-style short leases in dollars over long-term rentals in rupiah.

This fuels income inequality: a minority of locals (those with property or businesses serving tourists) earn a windfall, while others – say, a Balinese rice farmer or an artisan – see their expenses rise without a proportional income boost. The global middle class has effectively moved in next door, with their global middle-class salaries​, creating a widening gap between those who can profit from Bali’s popularity and those getting priced out.

There’s also the question of dependency. Bali learned the hard way in 2020 what over-reliance on tourism can do; when the flights stopped, so did much of the economy. Now, by courting digital nomads, the island hopes to diversify “tourism” into a more steady, year-round stream of remote workers. 

But are digital nomads any less fickle? They too can pack up at the drop of a hat when a new hotspot trends on YouTube or if visas tighten. As a specialist in decision-making psychology, I see a classic short-term vs long-term tradeoff here: quick economic gains can blind decision makers to future risks.

Bali’s leaders face the dilemma of balancing immediate prosperity with sustainable, inclusive growth. The money flowing in looks tempting, but if it undermines locals’ ability to afford homes or maintain their way of life, the golden goose might turn into a Trojan horse.

Local business owners have mixed feelings. One Balinese surf school owner told me he’s grateful that nomads brought life back to the island post-COVID, keeping his business afloat. Yet he also worries about unfair competition – foreigners setting up unlicensed surf camps or yoga schools “under the table,” cutting into local livelihoods​. It’s great if they create jobs for locals, he said, but not if they take away opportunities by doing things off the books. 

That sentiment captures the economic tightrope Bali is walking: foreign talent and capital can enrich the island, but only if channeled in a way that uplifts the local community rather than displacing it.

Paradise under environmental pressure

Bali’s natural beauty – emerald rice terraces, pristine beaches, cascading waterfalls in the jungle – is what drew many of us here in the first place. Ironically, the surge of people flocking to experience this paradise is putting it at risk.

When I first visited Bali a decade ago, the beaches in Kuta were powdery white. Now, especially in high season, some stretches are littered with plastic waste (much of it washing in from the sea, but compounded by local trash and overwhelmed infrastructure).

The roads that once led through quiet paddies are often choked with traffic jams of scooters and SUVs shuttling remote workers between co-working hubs and sunset bars. Over-tourism has real environmental fallout, and locals often bear the brunt.

Water is a prime example. I was shocked to learn that over 65% of Bali’s fresh water supply is funneled toward tourism needs – pools, hotels, cafes, and yes, those infinity pool villas so popular on Instagram​.

This has contributed to water shortages in some communities. Some locals in South Bali have to dig ever deeper wells or even buy water, as the booming hospitality industry guzzles this precious resource during drought seasons. 

Energy and waste management systems are similarly strained. Bali’s trash collection and sewage treatment have struggled to keep up with the sheer volume of output from millions of visitors and long-term expats. The island’s fragile ecosystems – coral reefs, mangroves, volcanic lakes – are under significant stress from development and increased human activity.

Every additional person on the island, whether a one-week tourist or a six-month digital nomad, adds to the environmental load: more trash, more traffic, more carbon emissions and resource consumption. 

Digital nomads often pride themselves on being “slow travelers” who integrate into a place rather than quick-hit tourists. That might be true individually – one person working remotely in Bali for a year arguably has a lower footprint than 20 package tourists flying in for a week each. 

But the aggregate impact of thousands of nomads is now impossible to ignore. Bali’s roads weren’t built for Los Angeles-level traffic, yet parts of the island now endure LA-like congestion at rush hour. The air in bustling areas isn’t as pristine as up in Ubud’s mountains; exhaust from so many motorbikes and cars has become a part of daily life.

This environmental strain is not lost on locals or authorities. I’ve heard Balinese temple priests expressing concern that polluted rivers offend the water goddess, and surfers lamenting how reef breaks are suffering from bleaching and overuse. The island’s carrying capacity is not infinite – a fact that both the community and government are grappling with. 

Can Bali’s natural charms survive the onslaught of popularity? The question has become urgent. When paradise gets overcrowded, it risks becoming exactly the opposite of what drew people in. In psychology, we sometimes talk about the “tragedy of the commons” – individuals acting in self-interest deplete a shared resource. Bali’s environment is the commons here, and without stronger safeguards, the tragedy scenario looms large.

The local government responds

Bali’s leaders are not turning a blind eye to these challenges. In fact, the provincial and national governments have started to implement new policies to manage the digital nomad influx and its side effects.

One of the buzzed-about measures has been the idea of a “Bali Digital Nomad Visa.” In 2022, Indonesia announced plans for a five-year visa to entice remote workers – essentially saying, “Come work from our paradise, and if your income is from abroad, you won’t be taxed here”. This bold proposal was aimed at attracting high-earning professionals to bolster the economy. 

As of early 2025, the five-year nomad visa still hasn’t materialized, but Indonesia did roll out a one-year Remote Worker Visa (index code E33G) in 2024. That visa requires proof of a sizeable income (around $60,000 annual), signaling that the government wants “quality over quantity” – in other words, remote workers who will spend and invest generously, not shoestring backpackers. For shorter stays, many nomads continue to use the B211A six-month tourist visas, a loophole that Bali is now scrutinizing because it let thousands of foreigners live here tax-free for years.

Beyond visas, Bali’s government under Governor Wayan Koster has introduced strict new guidelines to rein in unruly behavior and protect local customs. In March 2025, right before the sacred Nyepi holiday, officials announced rules mandating that tourists respect religious sites, dress modestly, and even pay a new “tourist levy” fee​. 

Tourists will need to use licensed local guides in temples and are banned from certain activities without permission (for instance, no entering holy areas during menstruation, a rule rooted in Balinese belief). 

The message is clear: “We expect respect.” If visitors flout these rules – say, by climbing a sacred banyan tree for a photo or ignoring traffic laws on a scooter – they could face fines, deportation, or other legal action. 

Essentially, Bali is codifying common sense and cultural respect into law. As someone who’s lived under these rules, I can say they’re not asking for anything outrageous – mostly to behave like a decent human being and honor local ways.

Perhaps most striking is Bali’s stance on curbing overdevelopment. Sandiaga Uno, Indonesia’s Minister of Tourism, recently pushed for a moratorium on new hotel and resort construction in Bali​. This is a big deal. It means no more endless paving over of rice fields to build yet another villa complex – at least for now. 

The policy aims to preserve what remains of Bali’s green spaces and rice paddies, which are not just tourist eye candy but the living heritage and livelihood of many Balinese. By halting the conversion of agricultural land to tourism use, officials want to prevent “overcrowding that will create an unsafe and uncomfortable situation” on the island. 

In plainer terms: they know Bali is bursting at the seams in some areas, and they’re hitting the brakes on unchecked growth. This is a bold, arguably necessary, move to save Bali from being loved to death.

Additionally, local authorities are tightening enforcement. Immigration offices have stepped up raids on foreigners misusing visas to work illegally, and there’s talk of limiting foreigners from renting motorbikes without a proper license (a response to the many accidents involving tourists). 

Bali’s leaders walk a fine line: they crave the economic benefits of international visitors and remote workers, yet they must also answer to local constituents who demand that Bali not lose its soul. It reminds me of a parent setting ground rules for an unruly houseguest – please enjoy our hospitality, but don’t trash the place or overstay your welcome. 

Through visa programs and reforms, the government is effectively trying to cherry-pick the good that digital nomads and tourists bring (spending, cultural exchange) while minimizing the bad (cultural disrespect, congestion, inequality). It’s an evolving experiment in policy: can Bali have its cake and eat it too?

Perspectives from locals and nomads

To really grasp Bali’s identity struggle, you have to listen to voices on the ground – both Balinese and foreign. Over countless conversations (often over a cup of Bali coffee or a cold Bintang beer), I’ve heard a spectrum of perspectives that illustrate just how complex this is.

From the Balinese perspective, there’s no single voice, but a chorus of varied experiences. For instance, I spoke with Made, a local driver in his 40s who makes a living ferrying tourists and remote workers around. He was frank: “I’m glad they’re here – no tourists, no money for my family,” he said, acknowledging the economic lifeline tourism provides. 

But in the next breath he sighed, “Traffic jam every day now. Bali not like before.” Made’s income depends on the very people causing the congestion he loathes – a bittersweet reality for him. 

Then there’s Wayan, a young woman who rents out two rooms in her family compound on Airbnb. She appreciates the extra income and has befriended guests from around the world, improving her English and widening her horizons. “I learn new things from them, and I teach them about Balinese culture,” she told me with a smile. 

Yet, she also mentioned sometimes feeling looked down upon by a few foreigners, as if she were just “the help” in her own home, which bruises her pride. 

Local sentiments range from welcoming and entrepreneurial to wary and protective. They are proud of Bali’s global appeal but demand that visitors value the island beyond a cheap lifestyle upgrade.

The digital nomads and expats I’ve encountered are equally nuanced. Take Sarah, a graphic designer from the UK who’s been living in Ubud for a year. She gushes about how Bali changed her life – “I finally found work-life balance. I surf at dawn, design from a co-working space by day, and attend temple ceremonies with local friends on weekends,” she says. 

Sarah strives to integrate: she’s learning Indonesian, she dresses modestly, she even learned to make offerings. For her, Bali is a supportive community and a refuge from the high stress back home. 

On the other hand, I met Alex, a software developer from the US, who is candid about living in a “bubble.” He spends most of his time with other expats at familiar spots. “I know I’m not experiencing the real Bali,” he admits, “but I’m here for the weather and cost of living.” 

Alex has faced hostility online when locals blasted nomads like him for driving up prices. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m just living my life,” he told me, sounding a bit defensive and a bit remorseful. 

Then there’s someone like Olumide Gbenro, a well-known nomad entrepreneur, who after several years in Bali publicly voiced that the island had become “overly polluted, congested, and commercialized” – so much so that he decided to leave​. His story made waves because it captured a sentiment that Bali’s charm can wear thin when the negatives stack up.

What’s clear from both sides is a shared love for Bali, coupled with differing visions of what Bali should be. Both locals and nomads talk about wanting the best for the island – they just may define “best” differently.

 A local might say the best thing is preserving culture and improving local welfare, even if it means fewer tourists; a nomad might say it’s keeping Bali open and welcoming because of the personal growth and opportunities it provides, while finding ways to mitigate the downsides. 

These perspectives aren’t irreconcilable, but bridging them requires real conversation and empathy. I’ve seen some encouraging initiatives: community town halls where local residents and foreign freelancers sit together and air grievances, cultural workshops where expats learn about Balinese values, and local NGOs inviting nomads to contribute their skills to community projects. 

Every now and then, a success story emerges – like a remote worker who started a coding class for Balinese kids, or a village that partnered with foreign volunteers to revive a coral reef.

Hearing these voices has taught me that Bali’s crisis is not about villains and victims; it’s about neighbors figuring out how to live together. The digital nomad dream and the Balinese way of life don’t have to be mutually exclusive. But it will take effort from both communities to ensure that the dream doesn’t steamroll the reality of those who call this place home. 

As one local elder told me over a cup of ginger tea: “We Balinese are adaptable. We’ve welcomed people for a long time. But the guests must adapt too, not only us.” 

That, in essence, sums it up. The island can remain a paradise for many – if those many make a conscious effort to honor the island and its people.

Global remote work meets local identity

What’s happening in Bali is not an isolated case. In many ways, Bali is a microcosm of a larger global trend: the rise of remote work and the migration of the “global laptop class” to places that offer a high quality of life at a lower cost. 

From Mexico City to Lisbon, Chiang Mai to Medellín, communities around the world are grappling with similar dynamics. Post-pandemic, the number of digital nomads exploded – one report noted a 131% increase globally in just a year or two after 2020​. 

Suddenly, work was no longer tethered to Silicon Valley or London; it could be done from a rice terrace or a beach shack with decent WiFi. Governments saw an opportunity: over 40 countries (and counting) have launched digital nomad visas or tax incentives, effectively competing to attract these footloose professionals​. It’s a 21st-century gold rush, but the gold is human capital.

However, as Bali illustrates, with great inflows come great responsibilities (and repercussions). Cities like Barcelona and Lisbon have seen pushback against remote workers who drive up rents and transform neighborhoods​. In Mexico City, local activists have plastered signs telling foreigners their presence is gentrifying the area. It’s a curious reversal of globalization: instead of talent flocking to where jobs are (big corporate hubs), the jobs have become untethered and the talent is flocking to where life is enjoyable – often in developing regions or smaller cities. 

This can be beneficial, spreading wealth and ideas beyond traditional centers, but it also exports the challenges of gentrification to new locales. One academic likened some digital nomads to “latter-day colonialists” (a loaded term) because they inadvertently prioritize global middle-class interests over local needs. They don’t carry flags or claim territory, but by virtue of economic power, they can reshape a place in their image – English signs, Western menus, higher prices, etc., much like expatriates of old.

Bali’s identity crisis, then, is part of a broader reckoning: How do we integrate a more fluid, mobile world population in a way that doesn’t erode the identities and social fabric of host communities? It’s a question that touches on urban planning, economic policy, and cultural preservation across the globe. 

Some places are responding by limiting numbers (think of how Amsterdam or Venice talk about capping tourists, or how some countries impose tourist taxes). Others, like Bali now, are focusing on “quality tourism” – attracting visitors who spend more and respect more, rather than sheer quantity. 

There’s also the aspect of global identity: remote workers often form a kind of floating culture of their own – you’ll find similar co-working spaces, health food cafés, and startup talk whether you’re in Bali, Budapest, or Bogotá. 

This can lead to a feeling that certain neighborhoods around the world are becoming homogenous “international zones” detached from their home context. That’s part of the identity crisis too – will Bali’s unique character be diluted into the generic global nomad lifestyle?

Yet, globalization is not a one-way street. Locals aren’t passive in this process – they adapt and assert influence as well. In Bali, we see locals learning foreign languages, starting businesses that cater to new demands, and using social media to broadcast what behavior they expect from guests. 

Around the world, communities are negotiating how to maintain a sense of self amid change. In some ways, it’s a tale as old as time – cities have always evolved with migration and new residents – but the speed and scale of today’s nomad movement is unprecedented. Technology enabled this (Zoom and Slack don’t care if you’re in San Francisco or Ubud), and now society is catching up.

The takeaway for me is that Bali’s struggle is emblematic of a new normal. Remote work isn’t going away; if anything, more people will gain the freedom to live where they love, not just where they earn. That’s a wonderful freedom – I cherish it myself – but it comes with a social responsibility that we’re only beginning to understand. 

We need new norms and maybe new ethical codes for being a digital nomad: how to engage with local communities respectfully, how to offset our footprint (environmental and cultural), and how to contribute rather than just consume. Places like Bali are the testing ground for these global citizenship questions. 

The world is watching how Bali navigates its identity crisis, because many other “paradise” destinations may face the same test soon. This island’s ability to survive its own dream could inform how the dream is pursued elsewhere.