Rice Fields, Clinics, and Quiet Power: Bali 2016

I arrived in Bali in August 2016. It was my first time on the island. The land was still largely agricultural then. Rice fields stepped down hillsides with patience. Water moved slowly through canals cut generations earlier. Mornings smelled of wet earth and smoke. Nights carried insects, distant voices, and the low sound of offerings being placed on stone.

The trip was organized around two non-profit projects I was deeply involved with. The work gave the month a rhythm. Meetings in the morning. Visits in the afternoon. Long conversations at night. Nothing rushed. Everything felt earned.

I was hosted by Giacomo Maiolini, founder of Time Records. His house sat quietly in the landscape, open, generous, lived in. Maiolini had built a career discovering and supporting artists who would later define European electronic and pop music. In Bali, that same instinct translated into hospitality. He listened more than he spoke. He understood timing. He understood people.

A central part of the trip was supporting the completion of Bumi Sehat, a clinic dedicated to maternal and child health. The place was modest and precise. Clean floors. Soft voices. Mothers waiting patiently. Children held close. The goal was simple and immense at the same time. To finish building, to expand care, to give safety where it was most needed. Fundraising here did not feel abstract. You could see exactly what each contribution meant.

I met with the Rotary Club of Bali Ubud Sunset one evening. The meeting was informal but serious. People from different countries, long-term residents, locals, professionals. The discussion stayed focused on service, not optics. It reminded me that real impact often happens quietly, far from stages.

I visited many times a traditional batik workshop. Women worked side by side, hands steady, patterns emerging slowly from hot wax and dye. Many of them were rebuilding their lives after domestic violence or personal collapse. The workshop gave structure. Income. Dignity. Watching them work, you understood that craft can be a form of healing when it is respected.

There were moments of pause too. Meals that mattered. One lunch at Blanco Par Mandif, where the kitchen treated local ingredients with discipline and restraint. The food was precise. Nothing wasted. You tasted the island without embellishment.

The month passed slowly. Days of exploration through villages, temples, fields. Conversations that stayed with me. A strong spiritual pull that did not announce itself. It simply stayed present. Bali did not ask to be interpreted. It asked to be respected.