The dilapidated truck bounces down the narrow mountain road in the dark. 

The whine and creak of its engine give away its age.  

Wrapped in a thin shawl to ward off the damp cold, the old Balinese woman keeps a close eye on her precious cargo.  

Fragrant bundles of bright yellow marigolds and blue and white hortensias fill the truck. Hand-picked yesterday afternoon on a small subsistence farm, they have been kept fresh in Munduk’s cool mountain streams.  

Today, they travel to Bali’s traditional markets for inclusion in Canang Sari, the daily woven basket offering central to Balinese Hinduism.  

Prepared every morning by the Balinese, the offerings are an expression of gratitude to the Divine.  

Blue blooms for the North and Vishnu, yellow blooms for the West and Mahadeva. Other flowers represent the broader pantheon and the remaining points of the compass. Finally, something small and material – a cracker, a coffee perhaps, lovingly shared and intended to provide balance in a world of chaos.  

Each Canang Sari is only replaced the next morning, a poignant reminder of the island’s devotion, the significance of which is often overlooked by tourists to the island. 

Bali’s moniker as “The Island of the Gods” is, however, well earned. Here, more than anywhere, the veil between the corporeal and spirit world is thin. 

 Here in Munduk, the heavy hand of tourism is still absent.  

Local Balinese live a quieter, more pastoral life in the highlands where they tend small crops of coffee, clove, vanilla, and flowers in the rich volcanic soil nourished by regular rainfall. At 1,200 meters, the climate differs from that of the island's coastal areas. 

“It’s elephant grass,” replies our guide, Sumi, when I enquire about the loads of grass being transported daily up the mountainous roads, “for the cows. My uncle delivers it on the scooter every day.”  

He is not alone. From our vantage point, we see many such scooters, either carrying the nutrient-rich grass to the highland cows tethered in family homes, or perhaps children with a chicken for the pot. 

Scooters that in the South of Bali carry tourists and surfboards are put to industrious use here. Everyone does something to provide for their families with quiet dignity.  

I had come to Munduk to visit the many waterfalls in the Balinese highlands, but I had discovered far more - a quieter, dignified way of life amidst the cool mountain air. Tradition is tightly embraced, with small lots of farmland being worked for coffee, cloves, banana, mangoes, and rice.  

A hard life, certainly, but one the locals are proud to share. 

The cyclical nature of pastoral life is evident in the mountains. Mangoes and banana trees provide shade for the coffee trees. Elephant grass provides for the cows, and the manure, in turn fertilises the marigolds and hortensias.  

For the few tourists prepared to make the effort, dazzling waterfalls cascade in the valleys. 

This isn’t the Bali I know. 

“We must be there at 6:45 am. No later.” Sumi admonished me over WhatsApp on my last night. “Otherwise, we will miss it.” 

I find him waiting for me at dawn to make sure I am not late.  

Sleepy and without coffee, we stumble carefully down the rough path to the waterfall.  

Anxiously, I wonder if I will have enough light for the photograph. 

As first light touches the valley, I watch, spellbound, as the priest makes his way silently down the path to the waterfall. Incense burns as he gently carries his Canang Sari to the shrine before making his offering to his gods.  

I realise that this too is Bali, maybe an older version, but no less real.  

Perhaps more balanced. And certainly calmer.