Steve Does Bali… and Survives!

You can tell exactly what kind of trip each passenger is planning just by looking at them: There’s the FIFO bloke in hi‑vis who cracked his first beer even before take‑off. The yoga girl who’s wearing a dress so white and transparent it’s practically a dare. The female digital nomad whose laptop is plastered in stickers that say things like Girl Boss, Hustle Harder, and Be Your Own CEO. And then there’s the family with three children who are already sticky for reasons no one understands.

You settle into your seat, buckle up, and prepare for the slow descent into madness.

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The Flight: A Study in Human Decline

The first hour is fine. People watch movies. Babies cry, babies sleep. The FIFO bloke orders another beer. And a Jim Beam. Three likely lads with mullets and dyed feeble moustaches attempt to chat up the female cabin crew.

By hour three, the cabin has transformed into a floating petri dish of impatience and body odour. Yoga girl is doing stretches in the aisle, keenly observed by the man in the adjacent seat who was goven a seatbelt extension ‘for your own comfort’.

The digital nomad is loudly explaining cryptocurrency to a grey-haired man who clearly thought he’d booked a quiet seat.

The babies have all taken turns at embarrassing their mothers while their fathers slept, and the older kids have entered a sugar dimension. While the male teens are having all-out wars on their digital devices, their female counterpart teens are gluing strange white plastic pads to their cheeks.

Meanwhile, the air stewards (3 females, one very camp male) look like they need a holiday

And then — the turbulence. Not the gentle, “ooh, that was a bump” turbulence. No. This is the kind that makes you reconsider your will. The kind that makes the flight attendants grip the overhead bins like they’re holding onto the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

The FIFO bloke cheers, raising his rapidly swirling glass of Jim Beam around.
The yoga girl whispers affirmations.
You grip your armrest and promise the universe you’ll be a better person if you survive.

Eventually, the plane stabilises. Everyone pretends they weren’t terrified.
FIFO bloke orders another Bintang. And a Jim Beam.
You order a Bintang. And a Jim Beam.
FIFO man cheers you from across the aisle.

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Arrival: The Descent Into Heat

The moment the plane door opens, the heat hits you like a wet mattress hurled by an angry god. It’s thick, heavy, and smells faintly of jet fuel and incense.

Passengers shuffle off the plane in a daze, blinking like moles emerging from underground. The kids have finally come down from their sugar highs and are being sleepily bundled or carried by their exhausted parents.

Passport Control: The Theatre of Suffering

The immigration hall is a cavern of fluorescent lighting and despair. The queue snakes back and forth like a punishment designed by a bored demon.

And then you see it — the fast‑track line.

A mysterious, shimmering queue of people who glide past immigration like royalty. Who are they? VIPs? Influencers? People who paid extra? People who know someone? People who are someone?

You’ll never know.

You join the normal line — the line for mortals — and immediately regret every life choice that led you here.

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You inch forward, observing your fellow travellers:

• The FIFO bloke is sweating like a man being interrogated.
• The yoga girl is fanning herself with her passport, her white dress now transparent with perspiration and you pretend not to notice her lack of underwear.
• The digital nomad is trying to hotspot his phone, which is adorable.
• The children are now feral and making a mockery of the lines, the barriers, and the security guards.

Every few minutes, someone from the fast‑track line breezes past, escorted by a staff member who looks like they’ve seen too much.

You consider pretending to faint just to get attention, and wonder if suddenly develping a limp might get you through faster, all the time wishing you’d done the e-Visa online.

Finally, you reach the counter just as the immigration officers all stand and leave their posts. Some time later, which feels longer than it probably is, the next shift arrives and they eventually settle into their seats ready to do their job. Your immigration officer waves you forward and you suddenly feel guilty. He looks at your passport, looks at you, then sighs as if you’ve personally ruined his weekend. Unconvinced of your right to enter, it seems, he quizzes you more than eberybody else (even the FIFO man!), and when you can’t find evidence of your return flight because you can’t get a Wifi signal and didn’t get a SIM card, he points to his colleague to come and speak with you. Eventually you find a copy of yuor flight itinerary in your email and he begrudgingly stamps your passport with the enthusiasm of a man cancelling a gym membership.

You’re in.

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The Luggage Carousel of Broken Dreams

The luggage carousel is already spinning, mocking you. Bags appear in random order, like a raffle where the prize is disappointment.

Some bags are wrapped in cling film. Some are held together with duct tape. One looks like it’s been mauled by a Komodo dragon.

Your bag, naturally, is last.

When it finally arrives, it’s damp. You don’t ask why. You don’t want to know.

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Where Is My Driver?

You booked a driver. A reliable driver. A driver who confirmed twice and sent you a thumbs‑up emoji.

He is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, you are greeted by a wall of men holding signs with names that are not yours:

• Mr. Johnson
• Mrs. Smith
• Baby Charlotte
• Mr. Sexy Time

You wait. You pace. You check your phone. No messages.

You begin to wonder if your driver has:

• Fallen asleep
• Been abducted
• Run off with someone named Mr. Sexy Time
• Decided you’re not worth the petrol

After twenty minutes, you give up and brave the taxi gauntlet.

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The Taxi Gauntlet

The moment you step outside, you are swarmed.

“Taxi, Mister?”
“Where you go, Mister?”
“You need transport, Mister?”
“You want lady for tonight?”
“You want man for tonight?”
“You want both, Mister?”
“You want mushroom?”
“You want boyfriend?”
“You want girlfriend?”
“You want massage?”
“You want tattoo?”
“You want SIM card?”
“You want baby goat?”

You haven’t even reached the curb.

You choose a driver who looks the least likely to sell your organs.

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The Journey to the Hotel

Your driver weaves through traffic with the confidence of a man who has never once considered mortality. Scooters buzz past like angry insects. Dogs wander across the road with the casual indifference of creatures who know they are immortal.

Your driver chats cheerfully.

“You married, Mister?”
“No.”
“You want lady for tonight?”
“No.”
“You want massage?”
“No.”
“You want mushroom?”
“…Still no.”
“Okay, Mister. Maybe tomorrow.”

He says this with such optimism you almost feel guilty.

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Late Check‑In: The Ritual

You arrive at your hotel. It is not the hotel you remember booking. The photos online showed a modern, stylish boutique resort with infinity pools and tasteful lighting.

The reality is a concrete rectangle with a pool that looks like it’s been used to drown secrets.

The receptionist greets you with a smile that suggests she’s been awake since 1998.

“Your room not ready, Mister.”

You check your watch. It’s 12:40am.

You are too tired to argue. Too sweaty to care. Too polite to scream.

After some tapping on a keyboard that is clearly not connected to anything, she hands you a key.

“Room 207. Very nice.”

This is a lie.

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The Wrong Accommodation

Room 207 smells like someone once attempted to cook fish using only a hairdryer and regret. The air‑conditioning wheezes like an asthmatic pensioner. The bed has the structural integrity of a wet sponge. The bathroom tiles are held together by hope.

You drop your bags, collapse onto the mattress, and immediately sink into a dip so deep you briefly consider calling for rescue.

Outside, scooters buzz. Dogs bark. Someone is singing karaoke with the confidence of a man who has never heard himself.

You close your eyes.

You are exhausted.
You are overwhelmed.
You are questioning every decision that led you here.

And yet…

Somewhere beneath the chaos, the heat, the noise, the questionable mattress…
you feel it.

That Bali magic.

The promise of stories.
The thrill of the unexpected.
The sense that tomorrow — or even later tonight — something ridiculous, beautiful, or utterly unhinged will happen.

You smile.

You’re back.

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