• After working remotely from Bali for two months, Sonya Moore was craving peace and quiet.
• She traveled with a friend to the neighboring island of Sumba.
• The natural beauty, lack of traffic, and smaller number of tourists made for a great getaway.

In March, I decided to take advantage of my flexible schedule and spend two months in Bali, working remotely and exploring the island.

I had already visited Bali many times, and I'm a big fan. But over the years, as its fame has spread, it has become busier. Bali's iconic charm and unique energy are still there, but they now coexist with big crowds and heavy traffic.

During my time there, I relished much of what Bali has to offer: yoga, massages, sound baths, authentic spiritual traditions, gorgeous style, and delicious food. I found pockets away from the crowds in the less-developed regions of Bangli and Sidemen. But after a few weeks in Ubud and south Bali, I found myself craving peace and quiet — specifically, a break from the ever-present sound of motorbike engines.

Luckily, I had planned to wrap up my time in Indonesia with a weeklong side trip to the nearby island of Sumba with a friend.

Overpopulation was no longer a problem

Sumba is a 90-minute direct flight from Denpasar International Airport. It's about twice the size of Bali, has one-sixth of Bali's population, and a fraction of its tourists.

It's also known for limited WiFi and cell service across large swaths of its undeveloped territory. There's no signage on the main roads indicating the island's scenic spots, making it hard for visitors to find them without a local guide. We hired a guide my friend found through Facebook, and we're glad we did.

Sumba's natural beauty lived up to our expectations. The rock-framed sandy coves, the turquoise lagoon, the landscapes of velvety green hills, and the waterfalls left my friend and me in awe. We were charmed by goats lounging by the side of the road and by horses meandering across expanses of golden savannah.

And most of the time, we had the sights all to ourselves. Sometimes, groups of local kids would come over to talk to us. The roads were free of traffic.

Along with the absence of tourists and traffic came the absence of extensive food and massage options, which we had grown accustomed to in Bali. I never found wine or cocktails anywhere in Sumba, though I imagine they're available at the handful of 5-star hotels on the island.

Most people in Sumba didn't speak much English, including our guide, so we needed translation apps to communicate most of the time. When there was no cell service, we had to resort to hand gestures.

And punctuality? We found out that it's not a thing in Sumba. Our driver tended to show up 15 to 20 minutes after our agreed departure time, then order himself a coffee before we left, then stop to pick up his breakfast at a roadside shop or get gas. He was an excellent drone videographer and photographer, though, which helped make up for his relaxed sense of time.

A true mental reset

Our four-day guided Sumba road trip covered a lot of ground.

After the road trip, we spent three nights at a boutique hotel on a deserted stretch of white sand beach in East Sumba, about an hour from the airport, and it was there that we found total relaxation.

Shaded by tall cemara trees, the temperature was perfect both day and night. We were lulled to sleep every night by the sound of gentle ocean waves lapping the shore.

Our hotel, Cemara Beachfront Suite, was $80 per night and came with great service. The staff brought us tea with little desserts every afternoon and were always ready to provide any extras we asked for to make our stay more enjoyable. Except wine. Next time, I'd bring a bottle or two in my suitcase, along with a good book.

The attentive care of the staff and the idyllic setting allowed us to completely unwind and fully enjoy just being there. We could have happily stayed much longer.

Sumba's wild beauty and serene relaxation provided the perfect complement to Bali.

• Lester V. Ledesma is a photographer and has been traveling across Southeast Asia for almost 30 years.
• He says places like Bali have struggled with overtourism, while Myanmar has faced political turmoil.
• But there are three cities — Siem Reap, Ipoh, and Hanoi — that he feels have improved over the years.

I've spent nearly 30 years traveling around Southeast Asia, long enough to witness just how much the region has transformed.

Over the years, I've watched destinations rise and fall. Some began as exotic tourism gems, but now struggle with overtourism — Bali is a good example of this.

Other cities, like Bangkok, remain perennial tourist magnets, managing to thrive thanks to careful resource management. Then there are the places that showed great promise when they opened to the world — I'm looking at you, Myanmar — only to become no-go zones due to political turmoil.

Nonetheless, there are a few special spots in Southeast Asia that I often revisit. Like well-made coconut wine, these three seem to get better as the years go by.

1. Siem Reap, Cambodia

When I first visited Siem Reap in 2003, it was something of a cowboy town, with more bicycles than cars. "Lara Croft: Tomb Raider," starring Angelina Jolie, had been released a few years earlier, with scenes filmed at Angkor Wat, but the city still wasn't a common feature on the average bucket list.

Back then, its main landmark was Psar Chas — the old market — and the soon-to-be-renamed Pub Street was still just a jumble of guesthouses and restaurants that serviced mostly budget travelers.

Marijuana-laced "happy pizza" was a common item on menus, and there were even places that delivered straight to your room.

Two decades later, the hippie backpacker vibe has been greatly diminished, replaced by a more cosmopolitan collection of chic boutique hotels standing beside wine bars, hipster cafés, and restaurants boasting cuisine from all over the world.

These days, Siem Reap is basking in the glow of a post-COVID era facelift that widened the main roads and beautified the city's parks. To the east, the recently built Siem Reap-Angkor International Airport — which opened in October 2023 — has replaced the smaller landing strip that stood close to the city.

Despite more tourists, Angkor's UNESCO World Heritage sites are also managed better with an online booking app that lets you buy entrance passes without having to join the long lines. There's also more effective crowd control, especially in popular spots like Angkor Wat and the Bayon.

Clearly marked walkways and "no entry" signs help keep visitors from getting lost. Angkor may no longer offer the "lost jungle ruin" experience of decades past, but stricter regulations help ensure the preservation.

2. Ipoh, Malaysia

I remember when Lonely Planet's "Southeast Asia on a Shoestring" edition described Ipoh — a city in Malaysia about 120 miles north of Kuala Lumpur — as "so seedy you're unlikely to linger." Decades ago, I walked through the old quarter of this city and found little more than crumbling shophouses set alongside grand-but-aging colonial-era buildings.

Still reeling from the collapse of its industry in the '80s, this once-affluent tin mining community didn't seem to be doing too well. In fact, it had a hint of seediness that kept me from lingering too long.

Thankfully, much has improved since then. Renewed interest in local heritage sparked an urban revival that restored the city's venerable old structures. Colorful street murals added a quirky charm, making Ipoh an essential stopover for travelers in Malaysia on the Malacca-Kuala Lumpur-Penang route.

Nowadays, the city's rediscovered nostalgia is everywhere on display, from stylish B&Bs like the Sekeping Kong Heng — built on top of a still-operating vintage coffeeshop — to the ever-busy Concubine Lane where antique shophouses play host to numerous craft and souvenir stores.

And one of Malaysia's oldest bars — the 94-year-old Sinhalese Bar — still keeps its after-work crowd despite being surrounded by newfangled, IG-friendly espresso bars and watering holes. Ipoh's growing tourism industry has so far remained manageable, and I'm thankful that this picturesque heritage city has kept its soul.

3. Hanoi, Vietnam

When I first visited in 2007, I struggled to like Hanoi. At that point, it had not yet become a mainstream tourist destination.

Sure, it had interesting neighborhoods and a vibrant street scene, but I found locals in Vietnam's capital to be cold and indifferent toward outsiders. At times, it felt like everyone — taxi drivers, market vendors, even public toilet attendants — was just waiting to make a quick buck off me.

Maybe my not-so-great first impression had something to do with Vietnam's tough postwar years, when the country had to fend for itself.

But fast-forward 18 years, and the city feels completely different.

Hanoi has not lost any of its timeless character, and its ancient corner temples and ornate French colonial-era mansions still proudly display their patina.

Motorbikes continue to zoom recklessly, and conical hat-wearing vendors still roam the streets with their merchandise on their shoulders. But today's Hanoi seems to have put on a friendlier face.

Since my first visit, the city has upgraded its infrastructure and services to a more international standard. A new metro now provides a direct connection to the countryside, while price-regulated taxis and regular buses now transport travelers from the airport.

Young Hanoians come across to me as more welcoming, offering more smiles and fewer scowls. In fact, during recent trips, I've had random folks help me navigate fish-out-of-water situations. Like when a local customer scolded a noodle vendor who was trying to rip me off. There was also a friendly couple at a dessert stall who proudly taught me how to order ca phe in Vietnamese.

Friendly interactions like these — a quick translation, a helpful tip, or even a friendly chat — now color my view of the storied and beautiful city.

• Last year, Sarah Khan, 33, and her husband moved out and became digital nomads.
• So far, they've worked from Bali, Rome, Tuscany, Bangkok, Phuket, and Alicante.
• Bali has been her favorite place to work.

The Mediterranean sparkles to my left as I type from a foldable desk on the terrace of a cozy home in a quiet coastal town in Spain. Rolling green hills stretch to my right, framing the space that will be home for the next three months, until we pack up and move again.

It's been 12 months since my husband and I embarked on a nomadic life. We sold everything, ended our four-year apartment lease in Singapore, and boarded a one-way flight to Bali. Since then, we've worked from Bali, Rome, Tuscany, Bangkok, Phuket, and now the coast of Alicante in Spain.

Friends and fellow travelers often ask, "Where's your favorite place to work?" I'm sometimes hesitant to answer because it's so subjective. Choosing a base as a nomad involves a different set of criteria than picking a vacation spot. For me, factors like community, longer-stay visas, reliable WiFi, easy access to nature, and a vibrant wellness scene are at the top of the checklist.

Still, if I had to choose, the place that stands out— and one I'd happily return to — is Bali.

I felt at home

Bali was my first port of call as a digital nomad, and I spent a happy four months working and living there.

Despite internet discourse about how "overrun" parts of the island have become, it remains my favourite place to work remotely to this day. Perhaps I'm biased — with my Indonesian roots and years of vacationing there, I feel instantly at home.

My husband and I chose Berawa as our base, a laidback neighbourhood just outside the buzz of Canggu. Located on Bali's southern coast, Canggu has transformed from a sleepy surf village into the island's hippest enclave, packed with trendy cafés and black sand beaches that draw yogis and surfers in equal measure.

This was my first time staying in Berawa, and it turned out to be the ideal spot for an extended stay. You get proximity to the action of Canggu without actually living in the thick of it. My two-bedroom villa, tucked down a quiet lane off a main road, placed me less than 10 minutes from central Canggu.

Bali's cost of living has crept up in recent years, but it still offered value for our longer stay. Our villa rent was $1,800 a month, which included a pool, fast WiFi, and weekly cleaning — less than half of what I'd paid for my apartment in Singapore.

A remote worker's dream setup

Bali was an easy place to get started on my nomad life. The island is exceptionally well-equipped for long stays: the WiFi is generally reliable, there are plenty of supermarkets and pharmacies available for daily necessities, and ride-hailing apps are affordable and convenient.

After a year on the road, I've come to appreciate how rare this combination is.

The island also boasts one of the best remote work ecosystems I've experienced, from coworking spaces like Outpost and BWork to laptop-friendly cafés. I rotated through a few favourites: the workspace upstairs at Woods, Zin Cafe, and Lighthouse, a coworking café with beautiful rice field views and its own on-site podcast and video studio.

It's also easy to stay active and healthy in Bali. Gyms, yoga studios, and affordable massages are aplenty, especially around Berawa. And food options are great: from warungs serving fragrant local dishes to health-forward cafés and world-class restaurants.

When work felt overwhelming and I needed a break, I could hop on a scooter and be at the beach in minutes. There were also many options for weekend escapes: We managed trips to the pristine Nusa Lembongan and Ceningan islands, a day trip to serene Sidemen, and explored the east coast's slower-paced beach towns like Amed and Candidasa.

These experiences revealed a quieter, more soulful side of Bali — one I'd missed on past short trips.

The downsides

Of course, no place is perfect. Traffic in Canggu can be chaotic, and the island's infrastructure is still catching up with its tourism growth. There's also a digital nomad community that, at times, can feel like a bubble and disconnected from authentic local life.

But once you find your rhythm and favourite nooks, it's easy to tune out the noise and settle into Bali's slower, softer pace.

I made it a point to skip the touristy spots, stay just outside the main areas, and design my life and routine around the kind of experience I wanted.

A year into nomadic living, I've felt uprooted, disoriented, and occasionally exhausted. But in Bali, I found a version of myself I liked: Focused, centered, and rested.

• Lester V. Ledesma, 50, started backpacking across Southeast Asia in the '90s and never stopped.
• He says that back then, travelers were able to let curiosity, not the internet, lead the way.
• These days, he says smartphones and social media make it harder to connect with locals and discover places on your own.

I began traveling across Southeast Asia in the late '90s. After college, with just a backpack, a camera, and a sense of adventure, I set out to explore the Philippines — my country of birth.

That early journey sparked my career as a travel writer and photographer and led me to move to Singapore a few years later, where the rest of the region was just a flight away from Changi Airport.

Since then, I've collected travel stories that range from simple to sublime and downright strange.

In my 20s, during my first trip to Cambodia, I spent a hilarious evening of "cultural exchange" with a group of tuk-tuk drivers — we taught each other the harshest cuss words that our native languages had to offer.

A decade later, during the Thingyan Festival — Myanmar's New Year celebration — I found myself on a trishaw as it rode through a gauntlet of cheering, cross-dressing revelers who drenched me with water hoses and planted playful, hairy kisses on my cheeks.

The following year in Bali, I stood in the middle of a perang api — a ritual fire war between groups of villagers who hurled glowing hunks of coal at each other.

None of those adventures had been inspired by a TikTok, and I hadn't been led there using GPS on my phone.

Back then, backpacking involved hands-on research — often lugging around a thick copy of "Lonely Planet." I had to make landline phone calls or write emails at internet cafés to reserve rooms. Flights were more expensive, so I often got around by commuting overland (or sea, as the case may be).

I was on the road so much that I would often arrive at a destination without any plans or bookings.

These days, backpacking's a breeze with everything online — Google Maps shows us where to go, and sites like Expedia and Booking.com let us plan every detail beforehand. It's all super convenient — maybe too convenient.

As a salty old road warrior, I'd say we've lost something in this hyper-connected, instant-gratification era. Backpacking in Southeast Asia just isn't what it used to be. Here's what we're missing.

The gains of serendipity

Getting lost to find oneself was part of why backpacking was so much fun. But with navigation apps now available on everyone's phone, does anyone still ever really get lost?

Transformative travel is no longer the norm these days, replaced by must-see, must-eat, and must-do lists that bombard our social media feeds. Indeed, looking at long lines of people waiting to take the exact same photo at so-called selfie spots, you'd think the whole point of traveling is to feed the all-important 'Gram.

For all their game-changing functionality, Google Maps and Street View have diminished the joys of discovery on even the simplest neighborhood walks.

My journeys back then felt raw and unfiltered. Since the world was still largely offline, we old-school backpackers let our curiosity (and our printed maps) show us the way.

Connecting with the locals

There are plenty of crowd-sourced and influencer-approved travel tips on your phone, and they often guarantee the same experience as everyone else.

Of course, some would say that's a modern blessing — especially if you have FOMO — but there's nothing like a touch of kindness from a friendly local to make an experience unique.

Over the years, I've shared impromptu meals, received generous rides, witnessed proud displays of skill, and even been welcomed into intimate occasions. It was all because I dared to reach out and engage with the locals.

The cold efficiency of online booking, navigation, and even ride-hailing apps has lessened the opportunities to make meaningful connections. I remember when all it took me was a smile and a curious question to break the ice.

Getting away from it all

In this day and age, we can still travel solo, but constant connectivity means that we are never alone. Not too long ago, backpacking was all about immersion in a place, and oftentimes, it was easy to just fall off the grid.

Nowadays, travelers are more likely to update their Facebook, Instagram, or TikTok accounts in real time than keep a handwritten journal.

There are also those amusing vloggers who walk around while talking to their streaming, selfie stick-mounted phones. Despite some travelers being physically far from everyone and everything we know, our cellphones are always pinging with text messages, emails, and social media updates.

Being part of a community

Once upon a time, independent travel was a shared experience among a loose community of fellow backpackers. We'd cross paths on the road, and then later meet up in traveler hubs like Bangkok's Khao San Road or Saigon's Pham Ngu Lao Street. Here we would swap travel stories over cheap beer, and trade dog-eared guidebooks at secondhand bookshops.

Occasionally, we'd leave messages for newfound friends at guesthouse bulletin boards, before pushing onward to the next destination. Formerly a source of so much camaraderie, this IRL culture has largely dissolved into the realm of social media.

These days, we might find our travel friends online, but the things that drove our journeys back then — a sense of adventure, a willingness to connect, and curiosity about different cultures — are values today's generation of net-savvy, card-carrying travelers seem to be missing out on.