I woke on day three — my second morning in Bali — feeling like I’d been slow‑roasted overnight. Room 315’s air‑conditioning had once again given up after 3am, seemingly out of spite.
I know because the gecko in my room was talking to me. With a Scouse accent, for some reason. I’d recognised the impossibility of that and put it down to the dodgy fish balls I’d eaten which I’d acquired from a street vendor. That didn’t stop the gecko from hopping onto my pillow and serenading me in Latin like some reptilian Dean Martin.
When 7:30 finally came, l forced both eyes open and looked around. My gecko friend had stopped crooning and must have been in hiding. No doubt he was embarrassed. I peeled myself off the sunken, sweat-sodden mattress, showered under a dribble of water that felt like it had been filtered through disappointment, and headed downstairs for an early breakfast before the characters from yesterday could arrive.
Unbelievably, the FIFO king was already at breakfast and 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, 315!” he boomed.
I nodded a forced smile, resisting the urge to throw my soggy toast at him —poached egg and all.
The Scooter Girls Arrive
I’d barely sat down at the only remaining breakfast table when I heard the unmistakable buzz of scooters outside. It sounded like a swarm of angry bees with exhaust pipes. Three scooters pulled up in formation. Removing their helmets and freeing their hair, it was like a Balinese version of Charlie’s Angels, if Charlie’s Angels wore denim shorts so small they could be mistaken for denim shadows.
They strutted into the breakfast area with the confidence of women who’d 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 and locked onto the FIFO king. They smiled and waved, and he perked up like a meerkat spotting a predator it secretly wanted to mate with.
“G’day, ladies,” FIFO King said, puffing out his tattooed chest.
One of them, their leader, clearly, tilted her head. “You have the 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. I was sure they could smell weakness, loneliness, and disposable income from a kilometre away. And the FIFO king? I felt sure he was going to be their buffet.
The Supporting Cast Returns
As the Scooter Girls fluttered around the FIFO King like glamorous vultures, more 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 latte. Extra foam.”
“You know she likes it creamy,” the other laughed. “I’ll take mine black… as usual.” At this, they both howled like the soulless.
Ketut nodded, his own soul appearing to leave his body. He looked smaller than yesterday. Diminished, it seemed.
The two women eyed the Scooter Girls with thinly veiled disdain. “Honestly,” one whispered, “young women of today.”
The other nodded. “No class.”
This was rich coming from two middle-aged women who treated Ketut like a cross between a pet and a personal assistant.
The Three Suntanning Students
While I was trying to swallow the rest of my breakfast Bali coffee, they appeared — a trio of caffeinated flamingos, already glistening with sunscreen.
“Oh my god,” one said, staring at the Scooter Girls. “Are those shorts even legal?”
“I don’t think they’re wearin’ any shorts,” another whispered.
The third was too busy applying Factor 50 to notice. “I don’t even wanna look,” she muttered while moisturising parts of herself I didn’t want to see but couldn’t help glancing at.
Madame Eatalot & Sir Drinkalot
I couldn’t believe my eyes when the cruisers shuffled into breakfast last. Madame Eatalot was already eyeing the pastries, and Sir Drinkalot was cracking open his first/ second/ next beer of the day.
“Holiday rules,” he announced again, as though uttering a sacred mantra.
“I hope they’ve topped up the fruit,” he belched toward me. “It was full of flies when we came down early for first breakfast.”
It made more sense now. They weren’t late for breakfast but early for a free lunch.
A Poolside Encounter
Later that afternoon, unwilling to venture into the chaos of the jalan (street) outside, I found myself at the pool again, trying to read while sweating through my shirt.
The three female students had taken their glistening selves and their sparkling bikinis to the beach. Each carried an armful I couldn’t pretend to understand.
The Scooter Girls had taken over their sun loungers, posing for photos, adjusting their hair over and over, occasionally glancing at FIFO King’s balcony.
He appeared moments later, as if summoned, shirtless, sunburnt, and holding four Bintangs.
“Ladies!” he called.
They waved him over and spoke in Bahasa to each other. I’m sure one licked her lips.
I watched as he approached to take up a sunlounger they’d saved for him. I was equal parts horrified and jealous. He was loud, obnoxious, sunburnt, and utterly shameless. But he was living the kind of chaotic holiday that people write memoirs about.
By the time the pool has fallen into shade, I couldn’t count the number of empty Bintang bottles he’d amassed. But he was snoozing despite the scooter girls’ concerted efforts to get an invite to his room.
Meanwhile, I was nursing my second glass of the local red wine. I’d ordered their only bottle of the cheap ($20) Aga red that had been chilled to icy cold but soon warmed to a drinkable temperature and had now become more of a green-tea-warm.
It wasn’t how I’d wanted to spend the afternoon but I was avoiding the suffering room 315 would hold in store if I’d gone for a snooze… I’d be sweating into a mattress that smelled like regret.
The Scooter Girls Make Their Move
As the sun dipped low, giving up on the sleeping FIFO king, the Scooter Girls dressed and one approached me. I’d begun to think of her as their leader.
“You stay here alone?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said cautiously.
“You want company?”
“Tidak, makasih,” I said — perhaps too quickly.
She shrugged. “Okay. Maybe when we come back later.”
She said it with the same optimism my taxi driver had used the night before.
Then they zipped off on their scooters, leaving a cloud of dust and coconut‑scented perfume.
The FIFO King’s Triumph
That night, as I lay in my humid tomb of a room, I heard laughter drifting down from above — his room.
The Scooter Girls had wrangled an invitation and I imagined them lounging on his balcony, drinking his Bintang, admiring his ocean glimpse. I could almost see him basking in their attention, sunburnt and triumphant.
And I felt it again, that petty, irrational, deeply human emotion: jealousy. Not of the girls or the tattooed, sunburnt, chaotic man. Just the room. I still thought of room 415 as my room.
The gecko agreed. After three nights, I was beginning to accept my hallucinatory friend.
Bali, I was discovering, has a way of removing the masks — exposing people’s hidden desires, their delusions, and their sense of entitlement. While some come for peace, some simply seek pleasure. Some come for escape, while others, I was beginning to realise, come for a Ketut of their own. And there are those who come for tanning, and quite a few, it seems, come for pastries and beer. But the rarities like the FIFO king come to be kings. As for me? I came for stories like these, troubling as they might seem at times. And Bali, as I’d been promised, was certainly delivering.
Steve Does Bali... and Survives! 
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