Welcome to Bali!

We've been in the taxi from the airport for perhaps five minutes, and our cabbie slows as we approach a set of stoplights. As is common in all Indonesia, a young guy is weaving his way through the stationary vehicles, selling papers.

Everywhere else in Indonesia, the paper sellers have turned tail at the sight of our Westernness.

Here, the seller whips out a pristine, plastic-covered 'Sunday Telegraph' direct from Australia. Uh-huh.

Okay, so it is Monday, but even so. I realise I haven't SEEN a paper from home in nine months now (and what a toe-rag to break the drought with!). It's sobering and exciting all at once.

So this is Bali, or one tiny aspect of it at least.

I thought I might hate it here, that it might be soulless and bereft of charm. But the road to Ubud is suffused with loveliness. Frangipanis lean over low, squat walls, while statutes sit serene with red hibiscuses tucked behind their stony ears.

We pass a stand set up in the shade of a tree where rows and rows of clear plastic bags are strung from a pole. Swollen with water, each bag contains a fat-bellied golden fish. They hang there like rows of lucky cumquats, but I suspect they must be sweltering and stressed.

We spin past temples and foodstores and dogs and bikes. So many beautifully designed shops and studios selling carved wooden furniture and impulse-buy statuary.

A tanned, grizzled Westerner scoots past on a moto. He's wearing just denim overalls, and as he slouches, I can see even his tummy is crinkled like crepe paper. He looks defiant and relaxed. He's overtaken by a Balinese dad with two glossy-haired toddlers on the back of his bike. The sun glints on our car, and on the old man's beard, and in the little girls' hair.

So this is Bali, or a few tiny aspects of it at least.