Welcome to Bali!
The first thing I noticed when I landed in Bali was the heat. It wasn’t the pleasant tropical, brochure‑heat they promised, but the heat of a thousand hairdryers blowing in my face by demons who resented my moisturiser. It hit me the moment the plane door opened and I stepped onto the steps, still wet from this evening’s Big Rain. Like a wave, this was my first warning that Bali doesn’t care about deodorant.
Then came Immigration. The queue moved with the urgency of a sloth, and everyone shuffled forward inch by inch, like a Bali zombie apocalypse.
I was trotting past them all, breathless but hopeful I’d gone the right way, clutching my passport like a talisman and hoping it hadn’t been damaged. I’d read on Bali Bogans, one of the Facebook groups I’d joined, that damage or stains would be a reason for rejection.
I kept going, smugly past the signs that all said “Visa on Arrival — Simple, Fast, Easy,” which is adorably ironic, like a toddler announcing they’re a dinosaur.
I was glad I’d taken the time to apply online and could go to the fast gates. I’d almost fallen into the trap of paying an agent to do it, and again for my ecustoms declaration, but once more the Bali Bogans Blog had warned me and saved me unnecessary costs by pointing me to the official Immigrasi website.
Eventually, I scanned through the passport e-gates, releasing the breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding.
Then I reached the counter for customs declaration, ahead of the queues. I could have sworn I’d taken a screenshot of the QR code and DM’d it to myself, but I couldn’t find it, only my e-visa screenshot.
Thankfully, I was early enough to spend time fumbling on my phone, which didn’t have a signal. At one point I thought I was going to have to scan the QR code that was pasted on every possible surface and complete my details again.
Luckily, the passport officer looked at me with pity and asked for my passport to do a manual check. He studied me, looked at my passport again, and sighed as if I’d been the start of his day.
Then he stamped it with the enthusiasm of someone cancelling a gym membership.
A quick confirmation at customs that I had nothing to declare and I was in.
The Luggage Carousel of Broken Dreams
The luggage carousel seemed to be a social experiment designed to test my patience as well as my faith in humanity.
Bags and cases appeared in random order, at random intervals, sometimes upside down, sometimes open, sometimes looking like they’d been mauled by a Komodo dragon. After ten sweaty minutes, I checked the board to see if I was at the right carousel for my flight, but it didn’t seem to be, and I didn’t recognise anyone from my plane. In retrospect, I’m glad of that at least, as you’ll come to learn if you read on…
I went back to the signs and they’d changed my flight’s carousel from 5 to 8 (it happens, I guess). I sweated my way to the correct carousel where I saw the remnants of the passengers from my flight.
My suitcase, naturally, was the last and only survivor from that flight.
When it finally arrived, it was wet. I wondered why but I didn’t really want to know. I soon guessed when it came closer to me, smelling of perfume and gin. I was glad I’d put my paperbacks and puzzle books in a plastic bag in a waterproof compartment. Next time I’ll bring a hard case rather than a soft one.
The Taxi Gauntlet
I followed the signs for taxis, stepping beyond reach of the wifi and the aircon, and immediately regretted it. The wave of heat was now joined by another wave of taxi drivers who acted like seagulls spotting a chip. I tried stepping back to find wifi coverage when I heard the gulls’ cries:
“Taxi, boss?”
“Where you go, I have Grab?”
“You need transport, Mister?”
“You want lady for tonight, boss?”
“You want man for tonight, boss?”
“You want both, Mister?”
Not seeing my name on any of the hundred or so hotel placards, Handwritten signs, or names scrawled onto beer mats, I decided to walk back to connect to the airport wifi.
Checking my WhatsApp and my emails, I discovered my hotel transport agent hadn’t bothered to confirm or cancel my booking.
So, I braved the gauntlet and looked for a suitable alternative. I hadn’t even reached the barriers that held back the wave of sign-waving drivers when I’d been offered more services than my local shopping centre.
I always try to be polite and had learned that ‘Tidak Mekasih’ was the most useful phrase to learn — thanks again, Bali Bogans — and while these weren’t exactly words of power, it seemed to ward most of them off. I then walked with purpose towards the Circle K shop in search of a bottle of water, hoping my Wise card would work. I’d read somewhere that shops have a minimum spend of 100,000 rupiah, and prepared myself to buy a whole carton if needed.
But those seagulls… they follow you; smiling, hopeful, and relentless in their pursuit of a fare. I suspect I could have been on fire and they’d still ask if I ‘need a ride, boss’.
Eventually, I gave in and chose a driver who looked least likely to sell my organs… And who promised me free water.
I gave him my hotel name. He smirked knowingly, asked if I was sure, and I sighed at that, swallowing hard.
He’d quoted twenty five dollars, ten more than my hotel had offered. But at least he was here now, and he had free water. And he would stop off at an ATM on the way so I could pay him cash.
“Sorry. Cash only, Boss.”
The thought of stopping at an ATM made me sweat even more but his big Bali smile told me I could trust him, I think.
The Taxi Experience
The trip was a blur of scooters, horns, and near‑death experiences. My driver, Nyoman, wove through traffic and side streets with the confidence of someone who’d never considered mortality. I think they call this kind of hopeful recklessness Karma here.
He chatted to me constantly, cheerfully, and kept calling me brother.
“You married, brother?”
“No.”
“You on your own here in Bali?”
“Yes”, I replied reluctantly.
“You want ladies for tonight?” (plural!)
“Tidak Mekasih.”
“You want massage, brother?”
“No.”
“You want Viagra, Cialis? Give you power!” He turned to smile like this was brotherly advice.
“…Tidak Mekasih!” I waved a firm hand to request he stop asking me questions. It worked. For five seconds.
“You want boyfriend?”
“…Tidak.” I’d dropped the ‘Mekasih’ bit.
“Okay, brother. Maybe tomorrow.”
He said it with such optimism I almost felt guilty. By now I was laughing. He pressed his calling card into my hand. And a leaflet offering real estate prices you could not believe. Well, I didn’t.
Late Check‑In
I arrived at my ‘hotel’. It wasn’t the hotel I remembered booking. The photos online had showed a modern, stylish boutique resort with infinity pools and tasteful lighting. The reality was a concrete rectangle with a pool that looked like it had been used to drown bugs, leaves, and more.
The receptionist greeted me with a smile that made me think she’d been awake since 1998. “Your room not ready, Mister Steve.”
I checked my watch. It was now 10:45pm. My own fault for saying I might arrive between 11.30pm and midnight. Getting through customs and passport so early had bitten me. But I was too tired to argue, and way too sweaty to care.
After some tapping on a keyboard that was clearly not connected to anything, followed by referring to an A4 diary, she handed me a key. “Room 415 not yet ready. I give you room 315 just below. Very nice.”
That was a lie.
The Very Wrong Room.
Room 315 smelled like someone had attempted to cook fish using a hairdryer and left a bowl of rice on the boil. The air‑conditioning was spluttering and wheezing like it had asthma and a bronchial infection. The mattress on top of the wooden box that classed as a bed had the firmness of a wet sponge. The bathroom tiles were held together by condensation and mould.
I showered in water that alternated between Bintang cold and kettle-hot. Then I collapsed onto (into) the mattress and sank into a dip so deep I almost called out for help.
Outside, scooters buzzed and a dog barked. Someone was singing karaoke with the confidence of a man who has never heard himself sing.
I closed my eyes, exhausted and doped from the antihistamine I’d taken before my flight. A little tearful and quite overwhelmed, I began questioning every decision that had led me here.
And yet…
Somewhere beneath the chaos, the heat, the noise, the questionable mattress…
I could feel it, that Bali magic.
It was the promise of stories to be told at a safe distance sometime in the future, the thrill of the unexpected, and the sense that tomorrow something beautiful, or utterly unhinged will happen.
I smiled and switched off the light, finding peace for about thirty seconds… when a new sound began. It seemed a gecko was also staying in my room and had probably been there long before I arrived, and duly announced its name. Seven times; I counted.
But, I’d made it to Bali. I slept, maybe too deeply. At times I woke, I think, to the sound of the gecko telling me some of the things it had witnessed in room 315. They were not pleasing to hear.
Steve Does Bali... and Survives! 
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