Navigating Bali with Elderly Parents: An Accessibility Walkthrough

We touched down at Ngurah Rai Airport on a sticky July afternoon, the humid air already thick enough to stick to the skin. The arrivals hall had a low ramp that led to the baggage claim, and a staff member in a bright batik shirt helped my mother settle her wheelchair onto the moving walkway. The air‑conditioned lobby smelled of fresh coffee and a faint hint of incense that seemed to drift in from the outdoor courtyard.

Outside, the Grab car waited, its driver waving a bright orange shirt. He lifted the luggage with practiced ease, then turned the back seat into a makeshift space for the wheelchair, securing it with a strap that felt more like a suggestion than a guarantee. The ride through the traffic‑snarled streets of Denpasar was a lesson in patience; the driver kept the windows down, letting in the roar of motorbikes and the occasional clove cigarette smoke that mixed oddly with the scent of fried tempeh from a roadside stall.

Our hotel in Seminyak sat on Jalan Kayu Aya, the stretch locals call "Eat Street" because of the endless rows of warungs and boutique cafés. The sidewalk was a patchwork of smooth concrete and uneven tiles, a relic of an old renovation that never quite finished. My dad, who relies on a cane, found the cracks a relentless obstacle, while my mother’s wheelchair bumped over the occasional raised curb that seemed placed without any thought for a person not on a scooter.

Inside the hotel, the ground‑floor suite was a small relief: the entrance was level, the bathroom had a hand‑held shower, but the sink was perched on a tiny ledge that forced my mother to lean forward uncomfortably. The balcony offered a view of the bustling street below, the neon signs flickering as dusk fell, but the narrow hallway leading to the elevator felt cramped, a reminder that many “accessible” rooms still follow a design meant for the able‑bodied.

The next morning we headed to Tanah Lot, a sea‑edge temple that many tourists photograph at sunrise. The road to the site, Jalan Raya Pantai Kediri, was surprisingly smooth for a coastal highway, but the final kilometre turned into a winding climb with a steep drop on one side. The parking lot sat at the top, and from there a short, paved path led down to the viewpoint. The path itself was level, but the steps that led to the temple shrine were a hard no‑go for a wheelchair, forcing us to admire the towering sea‑rock from the car’s open window.

Inside the temple complex, the staff pointed us to a side entrance that locals use during festivals, where a makeshift ramp of packed sand and wooden planks had been cobbled together. It was far from perfect, but it let my father get a glimpse of the inner courtyard without having to climb the main stone stairs. The smell of incense, thick and sweet, mingled with the salty sea breeze, and the distant chant of a gamelan reminded us how the island’s rituals keep moving, even when the infrastructure lags behind.

For lunch we drove to Canggu, stopping at a small warung on Jalan Pantai Berawa. The sidewalk here was a narrow strip of concrete that ran parallel to the surf, and the tables were low, perfect for a quick bite but not for someone who needs a sturdy surface for a cane. The owner offered us a seat on the floor, a practice that felt more like a cultural gesture than a practical solution, and we ate grilled fish while the ocean’s roar filled the background.

Back at the hotel, the air‑conditioner hummed, a welcome respite from the heat that had risen to a sweltering 33 °C. My mother rested, her shoulders relaxed for the first time that day, while I plotted the next leg of our trip: a day in Ubud, where the rice terraces and temples promise both beauty and a maze of steps.

The drive up Jalan Raya Ubud was a study in contrasts: on one side, sleek villas with manicured lawns, on the other, motorbikes weaving through traffic like ribbons. The driver stopped at a coffee plantation on the outskirts, letting us stretch our legs among rows of fragrant beans. The plantation had a flat, gravel‑covered path that was surprisingly wheelchair‑friendly, and the owner served us a cup of kopi luwak that tasted as earthy as the soil beneath our feet.

Ubud Palace greeted us with its towering stone walls and a courtyard paved with smooth basalt tiles. The entrance was level, and the inner garden offered shaded benches where my dad could sit without worrying about uneven ground. The palace staff had installed a handrail near the steps leading to the main hall, a small but thoughtful addition that made the climb manageable for those using a cane.

Later we visited Tirta Empul, the holy spring temple that many travelers know from guidebooks. The main entrance featured a set of stone stairs that rose steeply, a clear barrier for anyone not prepared to climb. However, a side gate—used by locals during daily offerings—had a concrete ramp that, while steep, allowed my mother’s wheelchair to roll up slowly with the help of a volunteer. Inside, the water’s surface reflected the flickering candles, and the echo of priests chanting created a reverent hush that seemed to cushion the effort of navigating the site.

Walking through the temple complex, the smell of sandalwood and the crackle of burning incense filled the air, while the rhythmic clatter of a gamelan rehearsal drifted from a nearby pavilion. My father’s cane tapped against the stone floor, a steady rhythm that matched the music, but the crowds that gathered during the afternoon offering made narrow passages feel cramped, forcing us to pause frequently to let others pass.

We tried the Campuhan Ridge Walk the following morning, hoping for a gentle stroll with a view. The trail, advertised as easy, turned out to be a narrow dirt path that rose and fell over uneven ground, clearly not designed for wheelchairs or even sturdy walking sticks. We abandoned the hike and instead drove to a viewpoint on the ridge where a small parking lot allowed us to step out onto a flat platform and watch the valley unfold, a compromise that still let us enjoy the scenery without the physical strain.

Our final day we spent in Sanur, where the promenade runs parallel to the beach on Jalan Danau Tamblingan. The boardwalk is a smooth, wide concrete slab, punctuated by low benches and occasional palm trees that cast dappled shade. My mother rolled her wheelchair along the length of the promenade with ease, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and fried banana fritters from nearby stalls. The gentle rhythm of waves and the distant laughter of families made the walk feel like a quiet celebration of the island’s slower side.

Leaving Bali, I felt a mix of admiration and frustration. The island’s natural beauty is undeniable, and the warmth of its people often bridges the gaps left by missing curb cuts or steep temple steps. Yet I still think the focus on motorbikes and narrow sidewalks leaves many travelers—especially older ones—feeling like an afterthought. The few ramps I found were often improvised, and the lack of standardized accessibility signage can turn a simple outing into a puzzle. Still, with a bit of planning, a helpful driver, and a willingness to adapt, a family holiday with elderly parents can be a rewarding, eye‑opening experience that shows both the charm and the challenges of navigating Bali’s winding roads and sacred sites.