Tourism's thirst drains Bali's ancient water-sharing system

Putu Partayasa crouches at the edge of his rice terrace and pushes his fingers into the soil. They come up dry. His field still has water—he is fortunate enough to sit high in the irrigation system—but his neighbour's plot is parched. The 52-year-old farmer, known as Parta, has worked this land his entire life. Fifteen years ago, he says, water flowed every day. Now it arrives in fragments, and he knows where the rest has gone. "Companies take our water," he says, gesturing down at the terraces below, a patchwork of green and brown that was once entirely green. "They bring it to the tourism places."

Parta earns about 1.5 million Indonesian rupiah a month—roughly £62—and belongs to a subak, a water-sharing cooperative that has governed Balinese irrigation since the ninth century. These are not mere bureaucracies. They are part temple council, part farming guild, part philosophy. Members gather in temple courtyards to decide when water flows, who receives it, and in what order. Offerings are made to Dewi Danu, the water goddess, and water itself is not viewed as a resource to be extracted but as a gift to be shared among the community. UNESCO recognised the system as a world heritage site in 2012. For more than a thousand years it has linked springs to field to family. That chain is now breaking.

In the past five years, Bali has lost more than 6,500 hectares of rice fields—a decline of more than 9 percent. A 2018 report estimated the island had already shed nearly a quarter of its agricultural land as tourism grew by 330 percent over the previous 25 years. Rice fields are not simply a source of income. They are water infrastructure. A paddy slows runoff, stores water, and recharges the aquifer below. When it is sealed under concrete, that function vanishes permanently. Many of Parta's neighbours have already sold their land. His children have no interest in farming.

Twenty miles south, in Canggu, the transformation is faster and more complete. The Canggu Shortcut, a lane cut between rice paddies and barely wide enough for one car, is gridlocked with hundreds of scooters moving in both directions. Balinese tourism workers share the road with digital nomads carrying laptops, influencers in yoga pants, and fitness enthusiasts heading to gyms with padel courts and infinity pools. Rice fields that stood here not long ago are now concrete, lined with tattoo studios, co-working spaces, and restaurants. Bali recorded more than 16 million tourists in 2024—four times its permanent population. While tourism is a significant part of Bali's economy, that volume of visitors has fundamentally altered the island's relationship to water. Tourism now consumes over 65 percent of Bali's fresh water.

In southern Bali, where development is concentrated, groundwater extraction has pushed aquifers beyond sustainable levels in many areas. Coastal wells are turning brackish as seawater moves inland to fill the void left by over-extraction. The IDEP Foundation, a Bali-based NGO focused on community resilience, declared Bali to be in water crisis in 2018. It has since found seawater intrusion in at least six of the island's nine districts. Kadek Siska, 35, and her mother live in Uluwatu, one of Bali's most photographed clifftop sites. Many mornings begin with the same question: is there water today? Their house is connected to the government's public water network, PDAM. On a good day, water moves through the pipes for an hour. "My mom leaves the taps on so we can hear it," Siska says. "And then we stand by and fill everything we have." If the station runs dry, they call numbers painted on the backs of water trucks that pass through Uluwatu every day. A 5,000-litre delivery costs about 350,000 rupiah. Drinking water is bought separately by the jug, and water can consume a tenth of the household's income.

Meanwhile, a luxury resort a few minutes' drive away receives its first water delivery before most guests wake. Then the trucks keep coming: eight to ten a day, according to a security guard who asked to remain anonymous. Each carries about 5,000 litres, meaning up to 50,000 litres can be delivered to a single property daily—enough to supply Siska's household for nearly a year. IDEP estimates that a tourist in a resort uses 2,000 to 4,000 litres a day for pools, gardens, laundry, and hotel operations, while the average Balinese resident survives on 30 to 50 litres. Following the water trucks leads to Jimbaran, where in the backyard of a family compound sits a borewell sunk deep into the ground. A pump pulls water up through a pipe and into dozens of waiting tank trucks idling in the narrow lane. The owner holds a government permit from Jakarta. An operator buys the water wholesale and resells it by the truckload to hotels and villas. No one is responsible for what happens to the aquifer below. The operation has been running for 15 years. IDEP staff estimate there are about 10,000 water businesses in Bali, roughly half of which operate illegally or without proper permits.

Niluh Djelantik, a shoe designer, social media influencer, and senator for Bali in Indonesia's regional representative council, wants a moratorium on new hotel construction and enforcement of groundwater extraction rules. What dismantled the protections, she says, was replacing community consultation with a national online permitting system that lets investors apply remotely. "In the past, before you start, you need to ask your neighbours," she says. "Now developers can build right next to your house without asking." In Canggu, farmland has declined by 60 percent while land development has increased by 69 percent.

Northwards, in the hills above Munduk, Rudi Pak, 49, rises before dawn to make his offerings—flowers, rice, a small cup of coffee set aside for God. He is a water priest, responsible for a waterfall and guardian of Tri Hita Karana, the Balinese-Hindu philosophy describing the relationship between humans, God, and nature. Developers have offered to buy his land for 1 billion rupiah per 100 square metres, from the waterfall up the steep hills to his family's home. His land is considered particularly valuable because of its vast, unobstructed views. His daughter Tarisa translates his refusal: "We will not sell it because we want to preserve it for the next generation. We already live here as the fourth generation. We will keep this for the next." Rudi looks out across the hills. "Because this is my land," he says. "This is still green."