Steve Does Bali… and Survives!

The receptionist was still holding my ruined room key between her fingers like it was a biological hazard when she cleared her throat.

i turned from the FIFO King, grateful I wouldn’t need to be reminded of last night, or how well his morning bintangs had been going.

“Sir… there is also another matter regarding your room.”

Of course there was.
Of course there bloody was.

Nothing in Bali ever ends with just one problem. Problems here travel in packs, like street dogs or hen’s parties.

She placed the redundant soggy key down on a small square of tissue — the kind they use for jewellery, or in this case, evidence.

“Last night,” she began, “there was… an incident.”

I braced myself.

In Bali, “incident” can mean anything from a gecko in the minibar to a small electrical fire caused by someone attempting to wash (or dry!) their underwear with the kettle.

“What kind of incident?” I asked, already regretting the question.

She gave me a sympathetic smile — the kind reserved for people who have clearly suffered enough.

“Well,” she said, “at approximately 3.15 a.m., security reported unusual activity near your room.”

I blinked.
Unusual activity.
That could mean anything.
Given the night I’d had, it could mean everything.

She continued.

“A guest matching the description of… ah…”
She checked her notes.
“…a young man with moisturised skin and a very confident walk… was seen attempting to open your door.”

Bali Boy.
Of course it was Bali Boy.

“He said he was performing a magic trick,” she added gently.

I closed my eyes.

She went on.

“He told security he was trying to ‘make the door disappear’.”

I opened my eyes again.

“And did he?” I asked.

“No, sir. But he did make the door alarm go off.” Clearly I hadn’t heard him.

But yes. Of course he did.

She tapped her keyboard.

“Additionally, housekeeping reported that your ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was missing.”

I frowned. “Missing?”

“Yes. They found it floating in the pool this morning.”

I pictured it: my poor sign, drifting next to the flamingo like two survivors of the same shipwreck.

“And finally,” she said, lowering her voice, “there is a small charge on your account for… damages.”

“Damages?” I repeated.

“Yes, sir. The door frame was slightly bent.”

“Bent?”

“Yes. Security believes the young man attempted to open your door using… interpretive dance.”

I stared at her.

She stared back, professionally.

Somewhere outside, FIFO King shouted “YEAH BOY!” at a volume that suggested he had already consumed three isotonic Bintangs.

I sighed.

“So what do I need to do?” I asked.

She slid a form toward me.

“Just sign here to acknowledge the incident,” she said. “And please… try to keep this new key away from magic tricks.”

I nodded solemnly.

“I’ll do my best.”

As I walked away, new key in hand, I heard her murmur to her colleague:

“That one needs a holiday from his holiday.”

She wasn’t wrong.