Bali blog.

Should we go on a girl’s trip to Bali? The idea is floated in the group chat.

Absolutely not, my anxiety interrupts in before my adventurous side gets a word in. Bali, adventurous side ponders; the peaceful, but chaotic happy Hindu-Buddhist Island of the Gods. Yes, but don’t forget about the Bali bombings my anxiety confirms. Ah, yes but the ceremony of it all, the wellness and cool surfy vibe that is Bail. Think White Lotus spiritual Southeast Asia vibes, and not to mention the backdrop of my favourite book ever; Eat Pray Love. In fact, adventurous reminds me; I myself wrote a whole book on how to deal with anxiety based on Buddhist values. Couldn’t you shelve anxiety for a few days and let adventurous roam free?

Hmmm. Too many people go to relax in third world countries without the appropriate infrastructure to withstand it anxiety squawks. Bali belly? Undrinkable water, Scooter incidents? Methanol poisonings, dangerous tides? Dengue fever and Malaria carrying Mosquitos, dogs and monkeys carrying rabies? Level 2 travel warning?

Yes, anxiety I know anything else? “Well now that you’ve asked, don’t you remember the boogie board case of Shabelle Corby?”. “How would you like 9 years in a hot hellhole of a prison”? “That won’t happen” I reassure anxiety. I will have my bag locked (Adventurous however forgot to lock her suitcase.) She also forgot her travel documents and her passport on the way home, but that’s for another blog depicting the story of me; type B traveling with my type A friend who organises everything for me. Funnily enough adventurous, whom I actually think should be called ADHD reminds me, that the risk always reduces of course in the minds of those who are 7 cosmopolitans deep at El Kabron beach club. That will shut up anxiety, for now.

She will be back with vengeance the day after any beach clubbing.

Let’s just remember this is a mum’s trip, and mums away from their kids know how to pocket maximum fun into a short amount of time better than anyone. But let’s take it back to the beginning.

I love the way a mum’s trip has that meeting of the minds upon arrival at the airport. None of us need to say anything, we all have the same deflated but excited smirk. The apodeictic struggle it was for each and every one of us. The arduous organisation and preparation needed to arrive here. The timetables, the guilt, the lists, the promises, the sports games, the parties, the party presents we forgot to buy, and all the crap our kids want us to buy. The early morning trainings, nap times, lunchboxes, nappies and bottles. How ever old our children are it all has to be dutifully delegated, while the last few hours of the day before are then allocated for any beauty needs’ and packing our own bags at about 9pm that night.

Adventurous always allows me to pack my bag late the night before a trip; under pressure, we get shit done. If you know you know. Anxiety questions the attire and demands modest outfits in accordance with religious customs and reduced chance of mosquito bites. Adventurous chucks in a couple of bikinis and cover ups. There are only two seasons in Bali: wet and dry. Anxiety has something to say. In Bali the babies aren’t allowed to touch the ground until they are 6 months old and adolescence children have their teeth filed down as to appear less animalistic. Rituals and religion are everything. Be respectful anxiety demands.

Apparently, you get what you need from Bali, not what you want. I wanted an ancient spiritual experience, led by mantra, all magical and mystical, being one with the jungle, chanting, seeking suffering, contemplating life. Think Piper vibes off White Lotus. I however got a mix between all the other characters experience…

I also got a lot of laughter, maybe that is what I needed from Bali. I didn’t need gratitude or reflection about my life, I didn’t need to face suffering, to get sick, or expel any demons, I had spent the last year and a half battling a chronic illness. I needed the frivolous, silliness of a girl’s trip where you gather inside jokes from day one and then everything surrounding these become funnier than the next. I’ve had enough spiritual awakenings, spent enough time reflecting and healing and digging deep. I just needed a complete and utter ridiculous, uproarious, jolly old time. Banter instead of Buddhism. Noble suffering can wait. Nirvana will come, universal truths I’m sure will reveal themselves. I won’t shame myself for not stepping foot in one of their 20,000 temples on the island in my continued quest for God in my life. Don’t take life so seriously, I think. In Bali astrology is determined by what day you are born. Surely that is a mnemonic for living in the present.

God gave me what I needed, a week of mad fun.

I also didn’t have to do anything. It felt awfully colonial having a butler at our every beck and call. But brilliant for a parent that spends all day doing laundry, making food and doing dishes. It was a strange culture divide that he asked me what I was doing all the time. “Mate” I’m thinking; “I’m from the West on holiday. I’m going to spend my day floating around with absolutely no fucking idea what I’m doing.” But I know in Bali its custom to always know where you’re going and what you’re doing, otherwise you have no meaning in life, so indigently I jumble some sort of half arsed plan together”.

I jump on a scooter and take myself into town. My daughter has a long list of items she would like me to retrieve for her that are most definitely authentic. I choose nits and sweat over brain injury and helmet up. The Balinese women embarrass me by riding past side saddling, child on the front, dog on the bag, basket on her head weaving in and out of traffic. Ther are no clear lanes, just first into the gap first alive.

Haggling. I know its custom. But I suck. It’s all theatre and usually I love a little drama, but not when I’m shopping. Can’t I just pay a morbidly obscene price for something and leave in shameful peace? No, my husband’s words ring in my head “only pay a fifth of what they are asking, get to the point where you are walking out, and they are begging for you back.”. I pile six items on the counter and say all of this for 100,000 rupiah please (100nzd) “maam that is ridiculous, that is insulting one of these items costs that no way no way”. I have to put my argument to the forefront like the teasing Aussies girls in front of me are, laughing back and forth. I have no charm. I negotiate too hard and boldy exit the store. Goddam it they don’t stop me. I really wanted those bright orange H slides for my girls. What use has my law degree got me if I can’t use it to negotiate a deal buying knock offs? Why must I embarrass myself for a bargain? Excruciatingly I enter back into the store. Everything is a game, and I don’t want to play. Hesitantly I try again “oh not you I am tired of you!” I am yelled at. Oh gosh really was I that annoying that even the hustler is annoyed by me? “Come on man I need these slides for my girls, it’s my girl’s birthday, I buy more you give me good price? WHO AM I?

We spend another 20 minutes wrestling over price in which we finally come to an agreement. By this time all the other shop workers were over joining in with the original guy saying “you got good price, now leave.” Hmmm I wonder if I still got tucked. Oh well at least I gave it a shot and it’s so outside my comfort zone to argue over money. I will friendly jibe with my friends and banter so hard with my family that one of us ends up in tears, but arguing over money, with a stranger! Well, it all seems so foreign to me.

We head out for a nice dinner. To be fair, the restaurants we went to in Bali were a crazy high standard of food. Often owned by Aussies or Kiwis; it is clear they understand the assignment of feeding tourists; but also, sadly monetizing and westernising a beautiful island. This was the best Carbonara I’ve ever had, and I’ve been to Italy more than once. The people we are dining with tell us a lot of the politicians are here. There’s a group of 3 white men and 3 young Balinese girls (not the politicians) I lock eyes with one of the white men in his sixties. I kind of give him that “I know you’ve come here to southeast Asia to feel powerful and seek a submissive poor vulnerable young woman because you sucked in your real-life” kind of look. He knows what I’m thinking, and I know he knows what I’m thinking. After an uncomfortably long time the stare breaks. Colonisers, I think, ruining this beautiful country. Tourists, like me. The beautiful but humble villages where all the workers live, hours away where they ride home every night. How do they stand us? I can’t even. But unfortunately, they need us.

Bali will humble you either way. If you think you are good looking, go to a beach club there. If you think you are brave, drink the water, drive a scooter or eat street food. Bali contains a lot of risks and the most fit people on earth all looking for their wee slice of the cesspool that is online fame. I’m going home feeling very uncultured but fulfilled, ugly and happy. What a bloody riot of a week.

We all need a girl’s trip every now and then to remember not to take life too seriously at all.

Bali experience 5 stars. Would go again.

oh no, now to face jet lag anxiety.