Day Two: Morning

Awakening

I woke the next morning in room 315, my substitute room that smelled faintly of grilled fish and temple offerings. The bathroom was the most pungent. This wasn’t the traditional outdoor type bathrooms I’d seen advertised in traditional bungalows. It was a rectangular block with a shower producing warmth barely above skin temperature.

The act of showering soaked the toilet, the scummy excess meandering its way across the broken tiled floor of the bathroom. Eventually, some of it found — without design or intent — a partly clogged, hairy metal grate. But first, the puddle had flooded over the tiny raised step I’d pranged my toe against following a night visit to the loo. From here, it was absorbed by a small, torn, grey towel. After saturating that it pooled into the bedroom.

I waded to my bed to get dressed.

The gecko called to me — geckoed to me? — the whole time I was dressing. It sounded like warnings.

The smell of fish and rice wasn’t the drains, thankfully, but had wafted in through the open vented windows at the top of the external wall, which was also where the mosquitos checked in, doubtless to the delight of my bug-eating friend. From these vents I could hear the chatter of Balinese voices and the god-awful sound of men — presumably men — clearing their throats and spitting.

My guess was the owner’s family lived right behind room 315.

By the time I was dressed, I felt like I’d been lightly embalmed, and was thankful the non-drowsy antihistamine tablet I’d taken for my flight wasn’t non-drowsy after all. It wasn’t the jet lag or the tablet that made me a zombie — it was the torture device on the wall posing as air‑conditioning. It 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 9am in search of coffee, dignity, and whispering the word tolong (please) over and over on my breath like a prayer, hoping they’d agree to a refund.

That’s when I saw him. The guy who was destined to make me whisper my FFS catchphrase on repeat…

The FIFO King

He was checking in at reception, shirtless unless you count the almost complete tattoo coverage of his bare torso and arms. Sunburnt despite only just arriving, and radiating with a confidence of those 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. There was something about him that said ‘entitlement,’ yet I also pitied him.

The thing that stung was he was being handed the key to room 415, what should have been my room, the one I’d booked specifically because I’d read good reviews about it. It was the room with a balcony directly above my own balcony-free, aircon-broken room 315. Now, FFS, he was being given the room I’d been assured by the hotel — via WhatsApp — had good air‑con. I’d even asked them to clean it prior to my arrival. It was also the only room that promised an “ocean glimpse”. Now, I realise that this was probably a sliver of blue between two power lines, but still… better than a view of the broken pool umbrellas and the ramshackle huts that passed as staff toilets and accommodation.

“Wait,” I said, pointing at FIFO king’s card key and looking at the male receptionist — also called Putu unless they simply shared the badge — 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 wanted to shout 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 that somehow drew my attention: “FIFO: Fly In, Fade Out (On Bintang)”, “2 Weeks On, 1 Week Off, Zero Regrets!”, and “Digging Holes, Drinking Goals”. He left trailing a faint smell of diesel. I guessed people would find him likeable.

I disliked him instantly.

The Others

The hotel’s ‘free breakfast buffet’ was still being served in the hotel’s own little warung next to the reception. By now the dining area looked like a crime scene. The scrambled eggs looked abandoned in the Baine-marie, and looked like they’d been poured from a carton labelled “Artificial Egg Product.” The bacon was a philosophical concept, certainly unlike any bacon I’d ever seen. The fruit was sweating and the flies were loving it. The toast looked like two slices of dough had been wafted close to a blowtorch to give a vague impression of brown. The free juice was glowing like it had shipped from Chernobyl.

Some of the hotel’s guests were still at breakfast despite the lateness and the leftover carnage… And oh, what characters. With only half a dozen tables to choose from, I picked one that would offer me most space between me and ‘The others’ — hardly in the spirit of international travel, I know… but still. Holidays were supposed to be about meeting strangers, sharing life stories, becoming tolerant.

For me, it was enforced socialising.

The Bald Man and his Companion

They shared a large plate of fruit brought to them by the waiting staff, and ate silently, separated from the others at a corner table I’d have chosen had they not claimed residency. Their lack of conversation and comfortable posture suggested it was their spot. I guessed they’d been together for some time. The bald man put on his cowboy hat as the sun reached the glowing dome of his head. His Asian friend handed him the sun cream with a gesture that seemed more like an instruction. They gazed at each other, at their phones, at the pool; anything to avoid eye contact with the rest of us.

For them, I was one of ‘The Others’.

The Two Aunties

They sat at a corner table like tropical dowagers, proudly wearing oversized, sparkling, genuine fake sunglasses, and draped in kaftans that could double as parachutes. At their feet were several shopping bags overflowing with hats, sarongs, and whatever else they’d bought while I’d been recovering in my room. Between them sat 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 the best part of it. I wasn’t sure if Ketut was being paid, had been adopted, or being held hostage.

Perhaps all three.

The Three Students

Then there were the suntan students — three young women with zero body fat and matching, sparkly striped bikinis — where there was enough material to sparkle. They were obsessed with sunscreen so intensely 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. “I’m wobbly enough after two margaritas,” she laughed.

“I need a base tan, like now,” said another, confirming they were from Merseyside at least, if not Liverpool itself.

“I read somewhere that UV in Bali is different. It’s like, lethal,” said the third, as if she’d just discovered gravity.

“I didn’t know you could read, Emma,” the first quipped so quickly I wondered if it had been rehearsed.

They moved like everyone was watching, 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 squad would arrive as the day wore on.

A squadron of scousers.

Madame Eatalot & Sir Drinkalot

Closest to 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 opening his second Bintang. It was turned 10am, but as his shirt said, “It’s always beer o’clock somewhere.”

“Holiday rules,” he announced to no one.

Return of the FIFO King

While I was wondering if the fruit would be safe to eat once I’d shooed away the flies, FIFO King strutted into the dining area wearing nothing but board shorts and tattoos that signalled ‘Bali frequent flyer.’ He had a grin that told me his dental work had cost more than my flights.

“Morning, ladies!” he boomed, as if he owned the place. “And gentlemen,” he added the 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 stacked. “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 Liverpool students. “G’day, girls. Nice tatts…” He grinned brightly and pointed at the one called Emma. She blushed and moved her hand to cover the delicate smattering of tattooed butterflies 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 and sent them a WhatsApp to switch my room.”

“I slept like a corpse,” I muttered “Or more like a zombie.”

He laughed. “Should’ve booked a better room or had them swap it 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 reached for my plate of fruit, disturbing the last of the flies.

I stabbed at it with more force than was necessary.