(A continuation of “Welcome to Bali”)
I woke the next morning in Room 207 — the room that smelled faintly of boiled fish and broken promises — feeling like I’d been lightly embalmed. The air‑conditioning had given up sometime around 3am, leaving me to marinate in my own sweat like a slow‑cooked pork shoulder.
I staggered downstairs in search of coffee, dignity, and possibly a refund.
That’s when I saw him.
The FIFO King.
He was standing at reception, shirtless, sunburnt, and radiating the kind of confidence only found in men who believe Bali exists solely for their pleasure. He had a beer in one hand, a Bintang singlet in the other, and a grin that suggested he’d already made several questionable decisions before breakfast.
And somehow — impossibly — he was being handed the key to Room 305, the room I had booked. The room with the balcony. The room with the working air‑con. The room with the “ocean glimpse” (which, let’s be honest, was probably a sliver of blue between two power lines, but still).
“Wait,” I said, pointing at him like an outraged librarian. “That’s my room.”
The receptionist smiled serenely. “No, Mister. You have 207. Very nice.”
The FIFO King winked at me. “Bad luck, mate. Should’ve checked in earlier.”
I considered explaining that I had checked in earlier, but I’d been too exhausted to fight. He didn’t care. He was already swaggering toward the lift, dragging a suitcase plastered with mining stickers and the faint smell of diesel.
I disliked him instantly.
Breakfast With the Damned
The hotel’s breakfast buffet was a crime scene. The scrambled eggs looked like they’d been poured from a carton labelled “Egg‑Adjacent Product.” The bacon was a philosophical concept. The fruit was sweating.
But the characters — oh, the characters.
The Two 60+ Ladies With Their Personal Bali Boy
They sat at a corner table like tropical dowagers, each wearing oversized sunglasses and kaftans that could double as parachutes. Between them stood a young Balinese man — early twenties, handsome, nervous — holding their handbags like ceremonial offerings.
“Ketut, darling,” one of them said, “be a dear and fetch us more papaya.”
He nodded obediently and scurried off.
The other woman sighed. “He’s such a treasure. So attentive.”
I wasn’t sure if Ketut was being paid, adopted, or held hostage.
The Three Female Students
Then there were the students — three young women with zero body fat, matching bikinis, and an obsession with sunscreen so intense it bordered on religious.
They were applying SPF 50 like they were frosting a cake.
“I can’t get uneven,” one said.
“I need a base tan,” said another.
“I read UV in Bali is, like, lethal,” said the third, as if she’d discovered gravity.
They moved as a unit, like a glossy, coconut‑scented cult.
Madame Eatalot & Sir Drinkalot
At the far end of the buffet sat a couple who looked like they’d been on holiday since 1987.
Madame Eatalot was piling her plate with pastries as if preparing for a siege. Sir Drinkalot was already on his second beer, despite it being 8:15am.
“Holiday rules,” he announced to no one.
The FIFO King Returns
Just as I was contemplating whether the fruit was safe to eat, the FIFO King strutted into the dining area wearing nothing but board shorts and a grin.
“Morning, lads and ladies!” he boomed, as if he owned the place.
He slapped Ketut on the back. “Good on ya, mate. Keepin’ the ladies happy?”
Ketut smiled weakly.
He winked at the students. “G’day, girls.”
They recoiled like he’d offered them a used Band‑Aid.
Then he spotted me.
“Hey! Room 207!” he called across the room. “How’d you sleep, mate?”
“Like a corpse,” I muttered.
He laughed. “Should’ve booked a better room!”
I wanted to tell him I had booked a better room. I wanted to tell him he’d stolen it. I wanted to tell him his sunburn made him look like a boiled ham.
Instead, I smiled politely and stabbed my fruit with unnecessary force.
Poolside Intrigue
Later that afternoon, I found myself by the pool, trying to read while sweating through my shirt. The students were tanning in formation. Madame Eatalot was eating something that looked like a croissant stuffed with noodles. Sir Drinkalot was asleep, snoring like a malfunctioning leaf blower.
The bald man and his young companion were in the shallow end, the boy floating listlessly while the man took selfies.
And then — of course — the FIFO King appeared.
He cannonballed into the pool, drenching everyone within a five‑metre radius.
The students shrieked.
Madame Eatalot clutched her pastry.
Sir Drinkalot woke up swinging.
The bald man shouted something about respect.
Ketut appeared from nowhere with towels, looking traumatised.
The FIFO King surfaced, triumphant.
“Bloody beautiful!” he roared.
I watched him, equal parts horrified and jealous. He was loud, obnoxious, sunburnt, and utterly shameless.
And yet…
He was having the time of his life.
Meanwhile, I was in Room 207, sweating into a mattress that smelled like regret.
…more adventures to follow…
Steve Does Bali... and Survives! 
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