Steve Does Bali… and Survives!

They appeared like a trio of caffeinated flamingos, already glistening with sunscreen.

“Oh my god,” one said, staring at the Scooter Girls. “Are those shorts legal?”

“I don’t think they’re wearing shorts,” another whispered.

The third was too busy applying SPF 50 to notice.

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Madame Eatalot & Sir Drinkalot

They shuffled in last, Madame Eatalot already eyeing the pastries, Sir Drinkalot cracking open his first beer of the day.

“Holiday rules,” he announced again, as if it were a sacred mantra.

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A Poolside Encounter

Later that afternoon, I found myself at the pool again, trying to read while sweating through my shirt. The Scooter Girls had taken over the sun loungers, posing for photos, adjusting their hair, and occasionally glancing at the FIFO King’s balcony.

He appeared moments later, shirtless, sunburnt, and holding two Bintangs.

“Ladies!” he called.

They waved him over.

I watched, equal parts horrified and jealous. He was loud, obnoxious, sunburnt, and utterly shameless — and yet he was living the kind of chaotic holiday people write memoirs about.

Meanwhile, I was still in Room 207, sweating into a mattress that smelled like regret.

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The Scooter Girls Make Their Move

As the sun dipped low, the Scooter Girls approached me.

“You stay here alone?” the leader asked.

“Yes,” I said cautiously.

“You want company?”

“No,” I said, perhaps too quickly.

She shrugged. “Okay. Maybe tomorrow.”

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.

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The FIFO King’s Triumph

That night, as I lay in my humid tomb of a room, I heard laughter drifting down from Room 305 — his room.

The Scooter Girls were up there.

Of course they were.

I imagined them lounging on his balcony, drinking his Bintang, admiring his ocean glimpse.

I imagined him basking in their attention, sunburnt and triumphant.

And I felt it again — that petty, irrational, deeply human emotion.

Jealousy.

Not of the girls.
Not of the man.
Not of the chaos.

But of the room.

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Bali, You Chaotic Mistress

Bali has a way of throwing people together — the entitled, the lonely, the glamorous, the desperate, the sunburnt, the delusional.

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.
Some come for scooter girls.

And some — like me — come for stories.

And Bali, as always, delivered.

…to be continued!