That night, as I lay in my humid tomb of a room, I heard laughter drifting down from the upper floors — from Room 305.
His room.
My room.
The room with the balcony and the working air‑con and the ocean glimpse.
I imagined him up there, drinking Bintang, charming strangers, living his best chaotic life.
And I felt it — that petty, irrational, deeply human emotion.
Jealousy.
Not of his sunburn.
Not of his personality.
Not of his questionable life choices.
But of his room.
The Entitlement of Paradise
Bali has a way of exposing people — their desires, their delusions, their entitlement.
Some come for peace.
Some come for pleasure.
Some come for escape.
Some come for Ketut.
Some come for tanning.
Some come for pastries and beer.
And some — like the FIFO King — come to be kings.
As for me?
I came for stories.
And Bali, as always, delivered.
THE SCOOTER GIRLS
I woke on my second morning in Bali feeling like I’d been slow‑roasted overnight. Room 207’s air‑conditioning had once again given up around 3am, presumably out of spite. I peeled myself off the mattress, showered under a dribble of water that felt like it had been filtered through disappointment, and headed downstairs.
The FIFO King was already at breakfast, of course. He was holding court at a table that should have seated four but now seated one man and his ego. He waved at me with the enthusiasm of a man greeting a long‑lost brother.
“Morning, 207!” he boomed.
I nodded, resisting the urge to throw my toast at him.
The Scooter Girls Arrive
I’d barely sat down when I heard the unmistakable buzz of scooters outside — a swarm of angry bees with exhaust pipes. Three scooters pulled up in formation, like a Balinese version of Charlie’s Angels, if Charlie’s Angels wore denim shorts so small they could be mistaken for denim suggestions.
The Scooter Girls.
They strutted into the breakfast area with the confidence of women who had never once paid full price for anything in their lives. They were all long legs, glossy hair, and sunglasses the size of satellite dishes. Their helmets dangled from their wrists like fashion accessories rather than safety equipment.
They scanned the room.
They saw the FIFO King.
They smiled.
He perked up like a meerkat spotting a predator he secretly wants to mate with.
The FIFO King Meets His Match
“G’day, ladies,” he said, puffing out his chest.
One of them — the leader, clearly — tilted her head. “You have nice room, ya?”
He grinned. “Best in the hotel.”
I nearly choked on my coffee.
She leaned in. “Maybe we see later?”
He nodded so hard I feared for his neck.
I watched this exchange with a mix of horror and fascination. The Scooter Girls were a force of nature — part charm, part hustle, part chaos. They could smell weakness, loneliness, and disposable income from a kilometre away.
And the FIFO King?
He was a buffet.
The Hotel’s Supporting Cast Returns
As the Scooter Girls fluttered around the FIFO King like glamorous vultures, the rest of the hotel’s residents emerged.
The Two 60+ Ladies and Their Bali Boy
They glided into the breakfast area wearing matching kaftans, their personal Bali boy trailing behind them like a loyal but exhausted spaniel.
“Ketut, darling,” one of them said, “fetch us some watermelon. And a cappuccino. Extra foam.”
Ketut nodded, his soul leaving his body.
They eyed the Scooter Girls with thinly veiled disdain.
“Honestly,” one whispered, “the youth today.”
The other nodded. “No standards.”
This was rich coming from women who treated Ketut like a cross between a pet and a personal assistant.
Steve Does Bali... and Survives! 
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