When I first arrived in Bali, I wasn’t expecting to be greeted by brunch menus and billboards. Canggu felt like a tropical outpost of Bondi. Australian-owned cafes and coffee spots on every corner, influencers with their tripods and matchas, abandoned construction sites on one side of the street, and sleek spas on the next. It was both chaotic and glossy. Like someone hit fast forward on gentrification and forgot to press pause.

Although chaotic, it’s easy to see why people stay. It’s the social hub of Bali with a strong sense of community. World-class gyms, top-notch restaurants, and Pilates classes on every corner. It’s a place where expats come to build something, whether that’s a business or a dream body.

It certainly comes across as the dream life, but it’s bittersweet. A full meal might cost an expat the equivalent of £2 (the price you’d pay for a bottle of water in a restaurant in the UK), while local Gojek drivers earn around £16 a day after a ten-hour shift. Expats often earn in their home currencies, living cheaply in paradise, while many locals navigate a widening economic gap. Some Indonesians welcome the buzz, the money flowing in, and the new job opportunities. Others mourn the speed at which everything changed. Local character has been replaced with billboards and the kind of gentrification that quietly asks, sometimes too late, what’s being lost in the rush of it all?

When I arrived in Ulawatu, which is in the Southern part of the island, it was a different kind of energy. Ungasan, where I’ve been staying for the past four weeks, is a little out of the way. It gives you that rural feel: cows in the fields, roadside warungs, people selling fruit and veg outside their homes. It still feels like Bali, but you’re only 15 minutes away from all the action. Don’t get me wrong, Ulawatu is still gentrified. Head down to the Pecatu area and you’ll see what I mean. Western cafes lining the streets, boutiques, and day clubs pumping house music.

Ungasan has given me a different kind of appreciation for the island. But even here, gentrification is quietly laying its foundations. I’ve passed numerous ‘freehold for sale’ signs tacked onto plots of land, caught passing conversations of American investors sizing up lots, and seen entire resorts mid-construction rising next to modest Indo homes. I can’t help but wonder how different Ungasan will look in the next four years.

Bali has transformed both immensely and rapidly over the past decade. Places like Canggu have become almost entirely westernised. What was once a sleepy coastal village is now a thriving tourist engine. Many Balinese people are being bought out of their ancestral land. Families that once grew rice and lived communally are now watching their environment drastically change.

Entire areas are now privately owned, and what used to be public, such as rivers, are now fenced off, visible only to those who can afford to stay in the luxury resorts built atop them. In places like Ubud, these rivers aren’t just aesthetic features; they’re regarded as spiritual entities, part of the sacred balance between the people and Ibu Pertiwi (Mother Earth).

One Balinese elder noted, “The village people no longer think about the harmony of nature and the land; they only think about making money and tourists.” The ever-growing expansion of development means sacred spots now sit shoulder to shoulder with neon-lit beach clubs. The traditional spiritual rhythm of Bali is being replaced by something much louder, faster, and more transactional.

Of course, gentrification is complex. There are obvious benefits: better infrastructure, more jobs, and increasing visibility for local business owners. Indonesian citizens still technically have priority over job opportunities in Bali, and the tourism industry is one of the island's primary sources of income, contributing over 50% of its GDP. The café boom in Canggu, for example, has created a demand for kitchen staff, baristas, and hosts; however, the imbalance is still there. As more Westerners relocate to Bali on a long-term basis, they’re seeking employment or launching a business, undercutting locals in a job market already stretched thin.

This irony isn’t lost when you consider how constant immigration debates unfold in the West. In the UK, the US, and Australia, anti-immigration rhetoric is often centred around the fear that “they’re taking our jobs,” usually from people who haven’t taken a single second out of their day to understand why someone might flee a developing country in search of opportunity.

Though in Bali, the roles are reversed. People from stable, often privileged backgrounds are moving to developing islands, seeking a slower, cheaper, and more meaningful life. It’s important to note that gentrification isn’t the same as immigration. Gentrifiers are not fleeing economic devastation or conflict. They’re often opting out of capitalism and burnout, which is completely understandable, but it’s as if they’ve reimported a softer version of it into” paradise”. But then comes the question, what really is paradise? Pristine beaches and acai bowls, or something deeper and more rooted in the culture of local life? I guess paradise is in the eye of the beholder; we all have different definitions of what it truly is.

Gentrification isn’t unique to Bali, though. It follows a global pattern: in East London and Brooklyn, for example, areas once considered no-go zones due to poverty and high crime rates have been transformed into hipster hubs filled with matcha latte spots, vintage furniture shops, and quirky bars. Towering buildings stand opposite council estates and housing projects. By definition, gentrification is the process of wealthier individuals moving into and transforming low-income areas, often displacing long-standing local communities and reshaping everything. The culture, therefore, becomes commodified. What was once all about community becomes extortionate for locals. The same thing is happening now in Bali, where farmland and rice fields are being replaced with infinity pools and five-star hotels.

Over in Bingin Beach, changes are unfolding quickly. Several warungs and locally owned businesses have been cleared to make way for new developments, including high-end resorts set along the cliffs. For many who worked there, the beach was their livelihood, built over years of connection to the community and land. The process has stirred a lot of emotion, especially with little notice in some cases.

Still, the other side of the story is that Bali's economy relies heavily on tourism, and these new resorts promise to create new jobs and boost infrastructure. It’s a delicate balance, and a controversial topic, one that reflects the broader conversation about progress and preservation across the island. What is deemed as more important? Can there be a balance between the two?

Maybe the harder question is whether this is just the way life is going. A global tide where profit and consumerism dominate, even in places once rooted in slower, more spiritual ways of living. While older generations in Bali worry about the loss of connection to ceremony, land, and heritage, many younger Balinese are growing up in a new reality. One where living alongside westerners is a norm, and passing boujee restaurants, gym-bro protein spots, and luxury villa construction is just a part of everyday life.

It’s actually shaping new aspirations. For many, the idea of managing a resort or landing a stable hotel job feels more desirable than working the land or selling produce outside their family’s home. There is nothing wrong with that line of work, as we’re all on different paths and destined for different things. But it does make you wonder, as the drive to build and modernise spreads, not just specifically in Bali, but everywhere in the world, what becomes of old ways? Of offerings placed daily at doorsteps, or the deep respect for sacred sites, Balinese ceremonies, and the belief in maintaining harmony with Ibu Pertiwi (Mother Nature)? Will these practices live on, or quietly fade beneath the sound of zooming scooters, smoothie blenders, and house music?

Of course, it’s not entirely a one-way street. Since being in Bali, I’ve seen many young people deeply rooted in their heritage. Maybe it’s possible to have a splash of both, the old and the new. Teenagers may be hanging out at the newest Bali hotspots alongside westerners, as well as helping place canang sari (daily offerings) outside their homes or taking part in temple ceremonies dressed in traditional attire. There is a powerful sense of cultural pride that runs deep, and for some, preserving the islands’ spiritual identity is non-negotiable. Not just for the sake of Bali, but because it’s what sets the island apart from other societies in the world.

To be completely honest, humans like nice things; that’s undeniable, and I am in no way immune to the tourist traps; few of us are. I can’t pretend I haven’t indulged in the cliffside beach clubs, the aesthetic coffee shops, and the Pilates classes taught by expats. But what I’ve truly loved about Bali hasn’t been luxury, it’s been the slow days at Melasti Beach, exploring different corners, eating at a family-run warung. It’s watching Indonesian kids fly kites against the sky and taking a yoga class with a Balinese teacher who’s been sharing his practice for 20 years. The balance between indulging in comfort and respecting the culture is a fine one, and I am still figuring out where I land.

To witness this moment in Bali feels inevitable and a little unsettling. You can’t help but feel torn. On one hand, tourism keeps the island's economy afloat. It brings jobs, opportunities, and global attention. On the other hand, it raises difficult questions about what gets lost in the name of progress. The road to development is rarely a straightforward one, and the contrast is often right there in front of you, an upscale beach club on one side, a Gojek driver waiting for a 50p fare on the other.

Maybe that’s just the reality of the world we live in. A place of contrast and contradiction. One person’s escape is another’s livelihood. One generation mourns what’s fading, while another is prosperous in what’s coming.

At its core, gentrification is not just about coffee shops or new villas; it’s about power, belonging, and memory. It’s the redrawing of a place’s soul, often without the consent of those who helped shape it. In Bali, like elsewhere, it forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth that privilege has a postcode. Perhaps the most aggravating thing about gentrification is not how quickly things change, but how quietly the change is accepted, until what once was no longer is, and we only notice its absence when it's too late to preserve.