I woke the next morning in room 315, my substitute room that smelled faintly of boiled fish and broken rice bowls. I felt like I’d been lightly embalmed and was thankful the allegedly non-drowsy antihistamine I’d taken for my flight wasn’t non-drowsy at all. The air‑conditioning had been threatening to check out all night and finally gave up the ghost shortly after 3am, leaving me to marinate in my own sweat like a slow‑cooked babi gulung.
I staggered downstairs after 10am in search of coffee, dignity, and whispering the word tolong (please) over and over on my breath, hoping they’d agrees to a refund.
That’s when I saw him:
The FIFO King.
He was checking in at reception, shirtless unless you count the almost complete tattoo coverage on his torso and arms. He was sunburnt despite only just arriving, and radiating with a 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 wore a grin that suggested he’d made several questionable decisions before he’d even arrived at the hotel.
The worst thing, though, was that he was being handed the key to room 415, what should have been my room, the one I’d booked. It was the room with a balcony directly above my own balcony-free, aircon-broken room 315.
FIFO King was being given the room I’d been assured by the hotel via Whatsapp had working air‑con. This was the room which promised an “ocean glimpse”.
Now, let’s be honest, it was probably a sliver of blue between two power lines, but still… better than a view of the pool umbrellas and the ramshackle staff accommodation.
“Wait,” I said, pointing at him and looking at the receptionist like an outraged librarian. “That’s my room.”
The receptionist smiled serenely. “No, Mister Steve You have room 315. Very nice.”
The FIFO King winked at me. “Bad luck, mate. Should’ve checked in earlier. You snooze you lose,” he grinned.
I considered explaining that I had checked in earlier, the night before he’d arrived in fact, but I was too exhausted to argue. He didn’t care. He was already swaggering toward the lift, dragging a small hard case plastered with mining stickers and trailing a faint smell of diesel.
I disliked him instantly, despite how likeable he’d probably seem to everyone else.
Breakfast With the Damned
The hotel’s ‘breakfast buffet’ was like a crime scene. The scrambled eggs looked like they’d been poured from a carton labelled “Simulated Egg Product.” The bacon was a philosophical concept. The fruit was sweating, and the flies loved it.
But there were characters still at breakfast despite the lateness and the leftover carnage… And oh, what characters.
The Two 60+ Ladies with their personal Bali boy
They sat at a corner table like tropical dowagers, wearing oversized genuine fake sunglasses and kaftans that could double as parachutes. Between them stood a young Balinese man — perhaps early twenties, handsome, nervous — holding their handbags like ceremonial offerings.
“Ketut, darling,” one of the dowagers said, “be a dear and fetch us more mango.”
He nodded obediently and scurried off.
The other woman sighed. “He’s such a treasure. So attentive.” Two pairs of eyes followed his progress to the buffet like he was part of it.
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 sparkly striped bikinis (where there was enough material to sparkle), and an obsession with sunscreen so intense it bordered on religious mania.
They were applying SPF 50 like they were icing a cake. “I don’t want to get uneven,” one said in a North English accent that stood out so clearly after listening to all the Aussies on my flight.
“I need a base tan, like now,” said another, confirming they must be from Merseyside at least, if not Liverpool itself.
“I read somewhere that UV in Bali is, like, lethal,” said the third, as if she’d just discovered gravity.
“Didn’t know you could read, Emma,” the first quipped so quickly I wondered if it had been rehearsed.
They moved, squirting and applying suncream to themselves and each other like a trained unit, and I wondered if they were part of some glossy, coconut‑scented cult, or whether more of their scouser squad would arrive as the day wore on.
Madame Eatalot & Sir Drinkalot
At the far end of the buffet sat a couple who looked like they’d mistaken the hotel for a cruise ship.
Madame Eatalot was piling one of her plates with pastries as if preparing for a siege.
Sir Drinkalot was finishing his second Bintang, despite it being just after 10am. “Holiday rules,” he announced to no one.
The FIFO King Returns
As I was contemplating whether the fruit would be safe to eat once I’d shooed away the flies, the FIFO King strutted into the dining area wearing nothing but board shorts, those tattoos that signalled ‘Bali frequent flyer’, and a grin that showed his dental work had cost more than my flights.
“Morning, ladies!” he boomed, as if he owned the place. “And gentlemen,” he added almost like an afterthought, and smiled cheekily, winking at me again.
He slapped Ketut the Bali boy on the back, almost toppling the pile of sliced mango he’d piled up. “Good on ya, mate. Keepin’ the ladies happy?”
Ketut smiled weakly.
“I bet you are, mate.”
He turned and beamed his ever-bright smile at the three scousers. “G’day, girls. Nice tatts…” he grinned and pointed at the one they’d called Emma. She blushed and moved her hand to cover the delicate smattering of butterfly tattoos on her left breast. The trio recoiled like he’d offered them a used Band‑Aid.
Then he spotted me. “Hey! Room 315!” he called across the dining tables. “How’d you manage to sleep in that room, mate? They tried to give it to me but I’d read the reviews.”
“Like a corpse,” I muttered.
He laughed. “Should’ve booked a better room or had them swap ’em like I did.”
I wanted to tell him I had booked a better room, that he’d stolen it. I wanted to tell him his sunburn and tattoos made him look like a boiled ham. Instead, I smiled politely and stabbed my fruit with unnecessary force.
Day Two: Afternoon
Later that afternoon, I found myself by the pool, trying to read while sweating through my shirt.
The three sparkly students from Liverpool 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.
A bald man and his young companion had joined the hotel’s cast of characters and were both in the shallow end — the boy floating listlessly while the man took selfies.
And then, as I guessed he would, the FIFO King made his pool entrance. He cannonballed into the pool, drenching everyone within a three‑metre radius and soaking my puzzle book.
The students shrieked, and Madame Eatalot clutched her pastry protectively. Sir Drinkalot woke up swinging, and the bald man shouted something about respect.
Ketut appeared from nowhere with fresh pool towels, looking traumatised.
The FIFO King surfaced, triumphant. “Bloody beautiful!” he roared.
I studied 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 still going to be stuck in room 315, sweating into a mattress that smelled like it had recently been vacated by a fisherman and his catch of mahi-mahi.
Day Two: Evening
That night, as I lay in my humid tomb of a room, I heard laughter drifting down from the upper floors — from room 415, I guessed. His room.
My room, the room with the balcony and the working air‑con and the glimpse of the ocean, but not the smell of it.
I imagined him up there, drinking Bintang, charming the pants off women he’s just met, living his best chaotic life. And I felt it, that petty, irrational, deeply human emotion, jealousy. I didn’t envy his sunburn or his tattoos, or even his personality.
I felt nothing like envy of his questionable life choices. But his room? Yes. That, I envied.
Steve Does Bali... and Survives! 
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