Rolling Through Bali: A Family’s Day with a Rental Stroller

I touched down at Ngurah Rai airport with a packed diaper bag, a half‑assembled travel crib and a vague idea that Bali would be a playground for my three‑year‑old. The heat hit me the moment I stepped out, a sticky reminder that any outdoor plan would need shade and a sturdy stroller.

The first stop was a modest shop tucked behind the Petitenget temple on Jalan Raya Seminyak. It was the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it: a faded sign that simply read "Baby Gear" in white letters, a row of bright‑blue buggies leaning against a wall of woven mats. The owner, a balding man with a quick smile, handed me a compact, all‑terrain stroller that felt solid despite the dented frame from previous renters.

He explained the rental terms in a mix of Bahasa and broken English: three days for a hundred thousand rupiah, a refundable deposit, and a warning that the rubber on the rear wheels would wear quickly on Bali’s uneven streets. I signed the paper, paid, and walked out onto the sidewalk that was more a patchwork of cracked concrete and stray mango trees.

Driving the rental scooter to Sanur was an eye‑opener. The main road, Jl. By Pass Ngurah Rai, is wide enough for two lanes, but the side paths are riddled with potholes that make the stroller’s wheels vibrate like a cheap speaker. I learned quickly to hug the curb where the asphalt is smoother, even if that means navigating around motorbikes that zip past like startled fish.

Sanur’s promenade, however, is a different story. The paved path runs parallel to the sea, a gentle curve of smooth concrete that welcomes a stroller without complaint. The salty breeze carries the scent of fried tempeh from a nearby warung, and the occasional clove cigarette smoke mixes with incense drifting from a small temple shrine.

We stopped at a warung on Jalan Danau for nasi campur. The plastic chairs were wobbly, but the staff slid a high chair into place without a word. My son slurped the rice, eyes wide at the bright red sambal, while I watched the tide roll in, the stroller parked neatly beside the bench.

Back at the rental shop, I discovered an extra charge for a portable rain cover that the owner claimed was “essential” during the afternoon downpour that season brings. The price was reasonable, but the lack of transparency felt like a small rip in an otherwise friendly transaction.

The next morning we headed north to Ubud, hoping to visit the Tirta Empul temple. The road to Ubud is a ribbon of green, with coffee plantations spilling over the shoulders of the highway. Traffic is a constant hum of scooters, cars, and the occasional tourist bus that lurches forward like a patient beast.

In Ubud the streets narrow dramatically. Jalan Monkey Forest is lined with stalls selling fresh fruit, but the sidewalks are uneven, and the occasional step up to a shop entrance forces me to fold the stroller and carry it like a sack. The locals, seeing my struggle, offered to hold the stroller while I crossed, a gesture that felt both generous and a reminder of how little the island is built for families on wheels.

At Tirta Empul, the temple courtyard is a maze of stone steps and low arches. The water purification pools glisten, and the air is thick with incense and the earthy smell of wet stone. My son, curious as ever, tried to climb the first set of steps, but the stroller’s wheels caught on the uneven flagstones.

I quickly folded the stroller, slung it over my shoulder, and slipped my child into a soft carrier. The ritual of sprinkling water on our foreheads felt intimate, but the experience also highlighted the temple’s lack of ramps or alternative paths for those with mobility challenges. The priest didn’t seem bothered; the flow of worshippers continued unabated, oblivious to the tiny obstacles.

Later, we visited the Tegalalang rice terraces. The famous viewpoint is reached by a steep, stone‑paved stairway that winds down into the paddies. No wheelchair ramp, no widened path. I left the stroller at the top, rented a small buggy from a nearby vendor, and pushed it down the steps with a grunt. The buggy’s tiny wheels handled the stone surprisingly well, but the effort reminded me that even “touristy” sites often forget the needs of families.

Throughout the trip I kept a mental list of what worked and what didn’t. The rental strollers are surprisingly robust, the promenade in Sanur is a blessing, but the city centre of Ubud feels like a labyrinth designed for pedestrians and scooters, not for parents with toddlers. The biggest surprise was how often locals stepped in to help without being asked – a kind smile, a hand steadying a stroller on a cracked curb, a driver who knew an alternate route that avoided a steep hill.

My final night back in Seminyak, the rental shop owner handed me the stroller with a friendly reminder to check the wheels for sand before returning it. I thanked him, feeling a mixture of relief that the gear held up and irritation that I still had to navigate a city that seems to assume everyone walks barefoot.

As I loaded the stroller onto a taxi bound for the airport, my son fell asleep, his head bobbing against the soft fabric, a faint smile on his face. The taxi pulled away, the street lights flickering over the uneven pavement, and I realized that Bali can be a place of unexpected kindness, but also of stubborn infrastructure that still needs to catch up with the families it attracts.

The image of my son’s tiny hand gripping the stroller’s handle, his eyes half‑closed, will stay with me longer than any postcard. I’m not sure if the island will ever become fully accessible, but the willingness of strangers to lend a hand makes the journey feel a little less like an obstacle course and more like a shared adventure.