I have been in Bali for nearly six weeks and here’s the thing: I’ve barely met an Aussie, let alone been inundated by the Aussie accent usually so familiar in these parts.

Escape

I’ve met a Japanese-Belgium family, three or four Brits, a Korean, two Canadians and many Indonesians, but the dearth of Australians is noticeable.

According to Angga, a Balinese guy who works at the awesome rolled ice-cream shop (it’s a thing) around the corner from my villa, there are very few “Aussie Aussie Aussie oi oi oi’s” (as he calls them) in Kuta, in particular, because everything has been shut down. “Even the ice cream shop where I work is closed,” he laments.

I’d like to set eyes on Kuta without the hordes of Aussie tourists, but I can only take Angga’s word for it. Bali’s current lockdown (which began on July 3, 2021 and has been extended until tomorrow) has restricted travelling around the island with roadblocks popping up on major roads. Carrying a vaccine certificate, passport and evidence of a recent PCR test is a good idea.

It’s not exactly the perfect antidote to 2020 i’d been dreaming about when this plan was hatched during Melbourne’s second lockdown. The idea was to enrol the kids at the well-known Green School with its huge socially distanced jungle campus, outdoorsy curriculum and sustainability focus, while i enjoyed the spoils of a year living sarong-clad on the Island of the Gods. That my partner, working from home during Melbourne’s lockdown, could now work from anywhere, sealed the deal. But things are a little different to expectation. School is due to start two weeks later than expected (fingers-crossed) and a new home is a quieter version of its former self – tranquil and deserted in equal measure.

Essential services are permitted to open, but tourism, hospitality and retail have taken a hit. Surf shops and fashion boutiques have pulled the shutters down. Some cafes and restaurants remain open but unfurled umbrellas, stacked chairs and bored staff are a reminder that services are limited. Motorbikes buzz around, but it’s not the same volume of traffic that it was pre-Covid (an upside that’s proving ideal for novice motorbike riders like myself).

Perhaps, the most notable sign that Bali is closed for business is the ban on visiting beaches. In Sanur, where I quarantined on arrival, there’s a marked difference. The popular pedestrian footpath extending along the beachfront is usually alive with tinny music, restaurants patrons planting their feet in the sand, and tourists lazing around resort swimming pools. Now, sagging beach hammocks, unkept bamboo recliners and circling stray dogs are the norm.

Here in Canggu, every beach access road has the same familiar welcome – officious no-entry signs, yellow security tape strung haphazardly between plastic chairs and umbrellas, a makeshift hand sanitiser station.

As lockdown continues, more and more surfers are braving the government regulations to catch a wave. Others, on scooters with tellingly empty surf board brackets, pull up to look wistfully at the stretches of empty sand and perfect peeling left- and right-handers.

But there are other worthy outdoor activities. In the blue skies above, dozens of gigantic Balinese kites, some measuring five or six metres across, catch the seasonal offshore breezes common between June and August. You could stare at them all day.

Not far from my house, the paths and trails are busy with walkers, cyclists and motorbike riders enjoying the temperate climes and the scenery: tiered rice paddies, temples offering a whiff of sandalwood incense on passing, palm trees heavy with big yellow coconuts.

Bali might be closed for business, but it remains a little paradise on Earth.