Holy shit. My third week in Bali is coming to an end and I’ve just realized that since my arrival I’ve produced nothing creative whatsoever, unless you count some pretty epic Face Swaps from my first weekend and a bit of Pollock-like explosive diarrhea. I’ve paused my writing deadlines and sadly I’ve yet to find any comedy scene here on this paradise island, so here we are and lucky you, you’re getting a blog.
For those of you who may not know, I’m in Bali for work until the end of June. I’m busy, I’m stressed, but somehow it’s nothing like the stress and business of Sri Lanka. Bali is easy. I can see why people pack up in their thousands each year and head here, but I’m still wondering why people choose this as a legit spiritual destination with the Starbucks round the corner and the McDonald’s up the road.
If you ask me, it’s lazy spirituality. With a crowded notice board on every corner advertising everything from chakra cleansing to connecting with your dead twin (apparently 1 in 8 of us lost a twin in the womb. Yikes.) Everything is on offer here and I plan to partake in as much as possible over my remaining 8 weeks. I want to see if I can reach spiritual enlightenment by sampling the wares of every guru and priestess going, or do I have to do things the old fashioned way and commit to changing my lifestyle and seeking out that which is bigger than myself and can not be produced or harnessed by my fellow puny humans and certainly not explained on an A5 flyer? Either way I’ll let you know.
Bali is not a threatening place. Everyone is wearing linen fisherman pants and at least ¼ of people you pass on the street are white with dreadlocks, which makes them cunts, but not dangerous. In fact, the only fear I’ve felt since being here is when I attempted to join the rest of the population, both foreign and domestic, by riding a motorbike through the incredibly narrow, steeply inclined, winding streets.
Let it be known that upon attempting to earn my scooter license in the UK pre-Bali departure, I was turfed out of the course early and not even let on the road. My instructor professed I was a “danger on two wheels.” As a result I’ve lacked the confidence to drive myself and been glued to my friend’s back like an overgrown tumor or her conjoined (not deceased) twin and have been using the usually flawless scooter taxi service, Go-Jek.
However, this past Thursday my roomie headed to Singapore and some software updates to the Go-Jek app meant that I was stranded without a way to get into work in the morning. The motorbike taxi boys tried to charge me 100,000rps (£5) for a 2-mile journey and I’ve now been here long enough for my inner Jewess to sniff a rip-off, so what could I do? I strapped on my big girl vagina and draped it across the seat of my Scoopy scooter and tore off down the road wobbling away to the sound the taxi boys’ pissing their pants with laughter. Moments later I imagined my funeral where the words, “she died for a fiver” were engraved on my headstone.
I reached my destination unscathed and have since been lost for hours on the sidewalk-like streets with semi trucks barreling towards me at an alarming speed. But fuck it, YOLO right? I’ll be back shortly to tell you about my time at Women’s Circle and Bangarang Bollywood Dancing. About the characters I’ve met and those I’m skillfully avoiding. About my surrender to leggings and the trauma of having almost all of the crotches disintegrate in my linen trousers. Until then, please enjoy this photo of me reluctantly drinking an unpleasant stool sample.