Life in the Caldera: What the Road Less Traveled Reveals

Today, I was reminded—again—why it’s worth taking the long way home.

What began as a simple drive around Mount Batur became an unexpected homecoming of sorts—into mystery, resilience, and reverence. We ignored Google’s persistent nudges to return to the main road and followed our instincts instead, letting the mountain guide us.

And what we discovered was nothing short of astonishing.

Tucked within the vast caldera of Mount Batur were entire communities—people living, farming, raising families inside the sleeping mouth of this sacred volcano. Smoke drifted from small hearths. Fields of vegetables stretched across the dark, volcanic soil. Children waved as we passed, utterly at home in a place that once erupted with fire.

To the Balinese people, Mount Batur is more than a mountain—it is a living deity. It is the manifestation of Dewi Danu, the goddess of Lake Batur, who provides the island with water, fertility, and abundance. The lake cradled within the caldera is her sacred temple, and the mountain is revered as one of the most spiritually potent places in Bali. Offerings are made, ceremonies held, prayers whispered to honour her presence. Living near—or within—this space is not taken lightly. It is a sacred coexistence.

And I felt it.

There was something indescribably humbling about being inside that caldera. The crater walls stood like ancient sentinels around us, holding both the memory of eruption and the quiet miracle of renewal. This land has burned and bloomed—again and again. And the people who live here seem to carry that wisdom in their bones.

We often speak of adventure as escape, but sometimes it is return—return to the truth that life is both fragile and fierce, ordinary and holy. That what erupts can also nourish. That fear and reverence are not opposites, but companions.

I kept thinking: what does it mean to live inside a volcano?

Maybe it means accepting that we are never fully in control. That life is unpredictable, and beauty often emerges from the very places we’re taught to avoid. Maybe it means choosing presence over safety. Ceremony over convenience. Maybe it means trusting that the Earth remembers how to hold us, even in her wildest places.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see a GPS reroute the way my spirit was rerouted today.

But I do know this: the road less traveled doesn’t just lead us to new places—it returns us to ancient truths.