Ubud, Indonesia: where déjà vu doesn’t catch you – 01/17/2024 – Zeca Camargo

Brazil? Skin! Rivellino! Zico! This was the inevitable reaction I received when I started visiting the East, in the 1980s. In the following decade, the answer was different: Romário!

In the 2000s, inevitably, the names that people I met in India, Indonesia or Thailand mentioned were different: Ronaldo, Ronaldinho. Nowadays, of course: Neymar, but with a dubious raise of eyebrows.

Traveling far from Brazil, especially to countries where the natives know how to locate our land on the map as much as most Brazilians can locate their homeland (think Laos), our football idols have always been a reference.

What changes, of course, is the generation of these stars.

I reflect on this upon arriving once again in Bali, one of my current vacation destinations. Or, as I expressed in our last column, an extreme vacation. This text today is a precious concession to my general disconnection.

I write from a balcony looking at a vertiginous forest, an Iguaçu of green. Without exaggeration, from up here I can’t even see the base of these palm trees or the beautiful seven canopies.

From the hotel door outwards, the relatively peaceful city of Ubud awaits me for another reconnaissance tour. Since 1986, my first time here, I like to go out and map the surroundings.

Just like our famous players, Ubud’s design has changed a lot. Almost 40 years ago, it could still be called a village. A community of artisans, that’s how they introduced me to the region.

And in fact, in that month that I initially spent here, in a straw hut in front of a small river, I felt far from everything. From decade to decade, Ubud grew and today, still far from being overpopulated, it is already a real small city.

ATMs, convenience stores, luxury hotels and satay chicken shops line the sidewalks. But it only takes about ten minutes of walking off the main street to reconnect with the disconcerting nature here.

Even in a place like the one I am in now, which I describe as a marriage between Paulo Mendes da Rocha and the virgin forest.

I recognize several corners of Ubud, like the first cantina where I ate gado gado or the studio of an incredible artist called Fachrudin Malik, who has the message on the window: “Open every day, if I’m not tired.”

(I had to go to Bali three times to find his studio open, and even so, when I walked in, I found Malik sleeping behind the counter – and then I was able to buy his work!).

But the changes are stark. Handmade batiks are rare, vagrants abound – as do mass-produced handicrafts. Luxury cars share the narrow streets with precarious motorcycles with three on the back.

None of this, however, takes away my joy of being in Ubud once again. Every time I arrive, the ghost of déjà vu seems to want to come and haunt me. Uselessly.

There is something about these paths that I trace here, that even in this modest chaos, brings me peace of mind. It’s as if I can hear the sarongs brush against my legs. And forget about everything.

In the coming days, I will certainly explore other corners of Bali. Volcanoes, lakes, rice fields – how can you miss all of this? But Ubud, in any version, will always be my axis.

I connect with this destiny as those passionate about our football with the geniuses who put our sport on the world map. It’s pure passion.

Even though every time I come back here I look at all this beauty, all this greenery, all this peace and I can’t resist raising a dubious eyebrow.

LINK PRESENT: Did you like this text? Subscribers can access five free accesses from any link per day. Just click the blue F below.