WELCOME TO BALI
The first thing you notice when you land in Bali is the heat. Not the pleasant, tropical, brochure‑heat they promise in travel ads. No. This is the heat of a thousand hairdryers pointed directly at your face by demons who resent your moisturiser. It hits you the moment the plane door opens — a slap, a warning, a reminder that Bali does not care about your deodorant.
Then comes Immigration.
The queue moves with the urgency of a sloth on Valium. You shuffle forward, inch by inch, clutching your passport like a talisman. The signs all say “Visa on Arrival — Simple, Fast, Easy” which is adorable, like a toddler announcing they’re a dinosaur. You know it’s not true, but you smile anyway.
Eventually, you reach the counter. The officer looks at your passport, looks at you, looks at your passport again, and sighs as if you’ve personally ruined his day. He stamps it with the enthusiasm of a man cancelling a gym membership.
You’re in.
Welcome to Bali, Mister.
The Luggage Carousel of Broken Dreams
The luggage carousel is a social experiment designed to test your faith in humanity. Bags appear in random order, at random intervals, sometimes upside down, sometimes open, sometimes looking like they’ve been mauled by a Komodo dragon.
Your bag, naturally, is last.
When it finally arrives, it’s wet. You don’t ask why. You don’t want to know.
The Taxi Gauntlet
You step outside and immediately regret it. The heat is now joined by a chorus of taxi drivers who descend upon you like seagulls spotting a chip.
“Taxi, Mister?”
“Where you go, Mister?”
“You need transport, Mister?”
“You want lady for tonight, Mister?”
“You want man for tonight, Mister?”
“You want both, Mister?”
You haven’t even reached the curb and already you’ve been offered more services than your local shopping centre.
You try to be polite. You try to say no. You try to walk with purpose. But they follow you, smiling, hopeful, relentless. You could be on fire and they’d still ask if you needed a ride.
Eventually, you give in and choose a driver who looks the least likely to sell your organs.
The Journey to the Hotel
The drive is a blur of scooters, horns, and near‑death experiences. Your driver weaves through traffic with the confidence of a man who has never once considered mortality.
He chats cheerfully.
“You married, Mister?”
“No.”
“You want lady for tonight?”
“No.”
“You want massage?”
“No.”
“You want mushroom?”
“…No.”
“You want boyfriend?”
“…Still no.”
“Okay, Mister. Maybe tomorrow.”
He says this with such optimism you almost feel guilty.
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 11:45pm.
You are too tired to argue. You are too sweaty to care. You are 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.
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.
Steve Does Bali... and Survives! 
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