Day One: Arrival, Evening

Immigration

The first thing I noticed when I landed in Bali was the heat. It wasn’t the pleasant tropical, welcoming heat promised by the websites and brochures, but the heat of a thousand hairdryers blowing in my face by demons who resented me being there. It hit me the moment the plane door opened and I staggered blindly onto the steps, still wet from this evening’s Big Rain. Like a wave, this was my first warning that Bali doesn’t care about deodorant.

Then came Immigration. As I approached the queue, I could see it moving with the urgency of a sloth, and everyone shuffled forward inch by inch, so the whole process looked like a Bali zombie apocalypse. Zombies that sweated and complained.

Thinking myself smart, I was trotting past them all, breathless but hopeful I’d gone the right way, clutching my passport like a talisman and hoping it hadn’t been damaged. I’d read on Bali Bogans, one of the Facebook groups I’d joined, that damage or stains would be a reason for rejection.

I kept going, smugly past the signs that all declared, “Visa on Arrival — Simple, Fast, Easy,” which is adorably ironic, like a toddler announcing they’re a dinosaur. As the queues lengthened, I was glad I’d taken the time to apply online for my e-visa-on-arrival and could go to the e-gates. I’d almost fallen into the trap of paying an agent to do it, and again for my e-customs declaration, but once more the Bali Bogans Blog had warned me and saved me unnecessary costs by pointing me to the official Immigrasi website.

Eventually, I scanned through the passport e-gates, releasing the breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding. Thankfully they were working because I’d read that sometimes they were out of action, and I dreaded the thought of returning to the queues where they’d be double by now.

Customs

When I reached the counter for customs declaration, while the queue was small, I opened my phone. I could have sworn I’d taken a screenshot of the QR code and messaged it to myself, but I couldn’t find it, only my e-visa screenshot.

Thankfully, I was early enough to spend time fumbling on my phone without being harassed by other tourists, but it didn’t have a signal. At one point I thought I was going to have to scan the QR code that was pasted on every possible surface and complete my details again.

Luckily, the passport officer looked at me with pity and asked for my passport to do a manual check. He studied me, looked at my passport again, and sighed as if I’d been the start of his day.

He stamped it like he was cancelling a gym membership.

After a quick confirmation at customs that I had nothing to declare, I was in.

Welcome to Bali.

The Carousel of Broken Dreams

The luggage carousel seemed to be a social experiment designed to test my patience as well as my faith in humanity. Bags and cases appeared in random order, at random intervals, sometimes upside down, sometimes open, sometimes looking like they’d been mauled by a Komodo dragon. After ten sweaty minutes, I checked the board to see if I was at the right carousel for my flight, but it didn’t seem to be, and I didn’t recognise anyone from my plane. In retrospect, I’m glad of that at least, as you’ll come to learn if you read on…

I went back to the taxi signs and they’d changed my flight’s carousel from 5 to 8 (it happens, I guess). I sweated my way to the correct carousel where I saw the remnants of the passengers from my flight.

My suitcase, naturally, was the last and only survivor from that flight. It looked like it had been in a fight with a surfboard and a bag of golf clubs. Clearly, it lost.

When it was finally evicted from the conveyor belt like an unwanted drunk in a bar, it was wet. I wondered why but I didn’t really want to know. I soon guessed when it came closer to me, smelling of perfume and gin. I was glad I’d put my paperbacks and puzzle books in a plastic bag in a separate, sealed compartment.

Next time I’ll bring a waterproof case.

The Taxi Gauntlet

I followed the signs for taxis and Grab services, the Bali equivalent of Uber. Stepping beyond reach of the Wi-Fi and the aircon, I regretted it immediately. The wave of heat was now joined by another wave of taxi drivers who acted like seagulls spotting a chip. I tried stepping back to find Wi-Fi coverage when I heard the gulls’ cries:

“Taxi, boss?” I wasn’t his boss and never would be.

“Where you go, I have Grab?” He certainly had a green Grab jacket. But…

“You need ride, Mister?” I do, but not with you.

“You want lady for tonight, boss?” …Really? I just landed, mate.

“You want man for tonight, boss?” OMG!

“You want both, Mister?” FFS!

Not seeing my name on any of the hundred hotel placards, Handwritten signs, names scrawled onto beer mats, I walked back inside to connect to the airport Wi-Fi.

Looking at my WhatsApp and my emails, the hotel transport I’d arranged and paid for hadn’t confirmed or cancelled my booking. This triggered the first of my out-loud mutterings of what was to become my new catchphrase: “FFS”, and I hadn’t learnt that on Bali Bogans!

So, I braved the gauntlet and looked for a suitable alternative to the one I’d paid $35 Australian for. I hadn’t even reached the barriers that held back the tsunami of sign-waving drivers when I’d been offered more services than my local shopping centre.

I always try to be polite and had learned that ‘Tidak makasih’ was the most useful phrase to learn — thanks again, Bali Bogans — and while these weren’t exactly words of power, it seemed to ward most of them off. I walked with purpose towards the Circle K shop in search of a bottle of water, hoping my Wise card would work. I’d read somewhere that shops have a minimum spend of 100,000 rupiah so I prepared myself to buy a whole carton if needed, or perhaps a 6-pack of Bintang for my room.

But those seagulls… they follow you; smiling, hopeful, relentless in their pursuit of a fare. I suspect I could have been on fire, and they’d still ask if I ‘need a ride, boss’.

Eventually, I gave in and chose a driver who looked least likely to sell my organs… And who promised me free water!

Maybe it would be sealed, maybe not. Probably water, I’d give it a try!

I gave him my hotel name. He smirked knowingly, asked if I was sure, and I sighed at that, swallowing hard.

He’d quoted fifteen dollars, half what my hotel had offered. And at least he was here now, and he had free water. Plus, he said he’d stop at an ATM on the way so I could pay him cash. Cash is king, I’d read.

“Sorry. Cash only, Boss. We stop ATM for you.” This made me utter my second FFS. The thought of stopping at an ATM made me sweat even more but Kadek’s big white Bali smile told me I could trust him.

I think.

The ATM and Hotel Trip

The trip to the ATM was a blur of scooters, horns, and near‑death experiences. My driver, Kadek, wove through traffic and side streets with the confidence of someone who’d never considered mortality. They refer to this hopeful recklessness Karma here. It took a while for me to work out that beeping the horn meant the driver had right of way. Or believed he had. Later, I’d learn there was more to this code and two beeps meant something else entirely. I also noticed that lane markings were purely optional, as were red lights at times.

He chatted to me constantly, cheerfully, and kept calling me brother as he went through the red lights, and a list of questions that I’d come to know as the fishing script… whether driver, hotel lobby, shopkeeper or waiter, these were standard fare.

First came the warm-up questions, the openers:

“Where you from?”

“Australia.”

“Oh Australly. Not far.”

I didn’t explain it had taken me best part of a day and two flights to get here from Hobart.

“First time in Bali?”

“Yes. I’m really looking forward to it. I’ve heard a lot of things about Kuta,” I said and he nodded. I’d clearly stepped beyond his vocabulary. Unless he didn’t want to burst my bubble.

“Yes Kuta, Seminyak, Legian. All the same.” Then without skipping a beat, “You married, brother?”

“No.”

“You on your own in Bali?”

“Yes”, I replied reluctantly. He’d begun deep fishing and I wondered why…

“No Family? Wife?”

I shook my head.

We pulled into the forecourt of a bank that had two ATMs in glass kiosks, the safe sort as I’d read on BB. Kadek had explained that one of these was for local bank cards only, so I popped into the one with the Visa sign. The one with the open door and no aircon. Despite the heat, I patiently counted the Monopoly money it spat out. I’d finally worked out it had a limit of 1,000,000 Rp. This was less than 100 AUD but enough till I could work out how much I’d need for the next few days. I nearly walked away without my card when I heard the machine politely cough and spit out the green WISE card. I plucked it out with relief, the process had worked (yay!) and I’d avoided any more FFS moments.

Back in the airconditioned taxi, the questions continued.

“So, you want massage, brother?”

“No.”

“You want ladies for tonight? (plural!) My sister, she very good, keep you happy. My aunt also. Dua!” He held two fingers up.

“Tidak makasih.”

“You want Vee-agra, See-alice? Give you power!” He turned to smile like this was brotherly advice.

“…Tidak makasih!” I waved a firm hand to request he stop asking me questions. It worked. For five seconds.

“You want boyfriend?”

“…Tidak.” I’d dropped the ‘Makasih’ bit.

“Okay, brother. Maybe tomorrow. I give you my WhatsApp. You call me.” He tapped my arm and laughed.

He said it with such optimism I felt guilty. But by now I was laughing with him.

He pressed his business card into my hand. And a leaflet offering real estate prices you could not believe.

I didn’t.

Late Check‑In

I arrived at my ‘hotel’. It wasn’t the hotel I remembered booking. The photos online had advertised a modern, stylish boutique resort with infinity pools and tasteful lighting. This version of reality was a concrete rectangle with a pool that looked like it had been used to drown bugs, leaves, and more.

The receptionist whose badge I read as Putu even though it was upside-down, greeted me with a smile that made me think she’d been awake since 1998. “Your room not ready, Mister Steve.”

I checked my watch. It was 10:45pm and I took responsibility because I’d let them know I might arrive as late as 11.30pm or midnight. Getting through customs and passport so early had bitten me, it seemed. But I was too tired to argue, and way too sweaty to care. The fan in reception was noisy and tired. I asked if they had aircon and she smiled and shook her head. “Sorry Mister Steve, no aircon.”

After some tapping on a keyboard that didn’t seem connected to anything, followed by Putu referring to an A4 diary, Puti handed me a plastic key card. “Room 415 not yet ready. I give you room 315 just below. Bagus. Very nice.”

That was a lie. Putu had lied.

The Very Wrong Room

Room 315 smelled like someone had tried to cook fish using a hairdryer and left a bowl of rice to ferment. The air‑conditioning was spluttering and wheezing like it had asthma and a bronchial infection. The bathroom fan had its own problems, and the tiles on the walls and floor were held together by condensation and mould. I think they were genuine authentic Bali 1970-era. The mattress on top of the wooden box that classed as a bed had the firmness of a wet sponge. An old sponge, one you’d meant to throw out a week ago.

I showered in water that alternated between Bintang-cold and kettle-hot. Then I collapsed onto (into) the mattress and sank into it so deeply I almost screamed for help.

Outside, scooters buzzed and a dog barked. Someone was singing karaoke with the confidence of a man who has never heard himself sing. I closed my eyes, exhausted and doped from the antihistamine I’d taken before my flight. It was supposed to be non-drowsy but clearly wasn’t, for which I was feeling thankful. I was a little tearful and quite overwhelmed, I began questioning every decision that had led me here.

I smiled and switched off the single dim bulb over my marshmallow-bed, finding peace for about thirty seconds… when a new sound started. It sounded like something clearing its throat or preparing to speak. I looked around the room. Nothing. Then it clicked again. Seven times. I counted.

I didn’t like it.

A flicker of movement from above caught my eye. I glanced up. A gecko was staying in my room and had probably been there long before I arrived. It duly announced its name. “Gecko.”

Seven times; I counted. I felt like it was saying ‘Welcome to Paradise, dickhead.”

Fair enough.

Somewhere beneath the aromas, the heat, the noise, the squishy mattress… I could feel it, that Bali magic. It was the promise of stories to be told at a safe distance sometime in the future, after therapy.

I felt the thrill of the unexpected, and the sense that tomorrow something beautiful, or (more likely) utterly wild, will happen. I’d made it to Bali.

I slept, too deeply, and dreamed strange dreams that carried an ominous sense of prophecy with them. At times I woke (I think) to the gecko telling me some of the things it had witnessed in room 315.

Nasty things.