journal | team | miscellany | podcast | home

You Do You

Ivan Terrence

In Bali you get off the plane, expecting warmth—and it is perfect. Slightly overcast and balmy. Already you hear the tropical sounds of crickets, distant motos, the singsong Indonesian language. Enjoy, say the smiling stewards as you pass them by. Then you are collecting your bags and gliding through customs, then immigration, like the rich western tourist you are.

Outside you hail a taxi-van and the driver can’t wipe the grin off his face: four tall white girls, young but not too young, one of them drunk. His job is to convey you thirty-odd minutes away to the villa without being a creep. Thankfully the van is massive and the luggage can fit in the back while the four of you sit in the middle; no one up front.

After a month of misery, the trip has come at a good time. Booze, friends, Tinder—these have been your crutches.Plus a little pocket vibrator called Goldfinger. You have blocked Kurt on all social media. Four years together, including final year of high school. All the girls know and like him—but they are loyal to you like a pack of hounds. Except for Izzy; Izzy might get drunk enough, now she’s single, to accidentally fall onto his dick one time. This might be harsh: you have fallen onto one or two dicks yourself over the past couple of weeks.

You are in the tourist zone. Out the window has been a stop-start slideshow of highways, cars, motos—beeping! beeping! beeping!—but now it is a slowburn of cafes, restaurants and stores. And white people. White people in flip-flops. White people in flip-flops and singlets and tattoos, beers in hand. You study history and wonder what Bali was like before all the tourists, the highways, the ten-story resorts. You make a mental note to find out. The van has ducked, dived, woven and apparently you are at Saba Villas.

You get out, check in, take the keys and—wow! any reservations washed away in an instant! A fully-enclosed, very expansive, private Balinese villa; outdoor kitchen, bamboo structures, massive elegant bedrooms. A pool with tropical foliage. How is this only $60 a night per person? Is it proof of something right or wrong in the world? You and Alice peel off into a room—a microaggression, because rooming has not yet been discussed – and already you are in your daggy flip-flops, your denim cut-off shorts, your breezy understated singlet. Beneath your clothes you wear a bikini top and bottom. You apply sunscreen to Alice’s back and she to yours. Alice is quiet, sensible—though no wowser. Red hair, doe eyes, big lacy lashes. You have openly had a girl-crush on her since she arrived at Willagee High School in Year Seven. True, when she came out you did have to tone down the whole ‘girl crush’ thing.

▪

‘LET’S GO FOR A WALK,’ Raquel says. You all know what that means. You check yourselves in the mirror, collect your bags, then strut outside to do what you do best: go shopping.

Outside the villa you walk left up a sidestreet, hoping you don’t get swiped by a moto—bzzzzzzzzzzzzz!—or fall sidelong into a water channel. Okay. Then you hit the main road: low-hanging powerlines, moto drivers in fluoro vests petitioning you for a ride. No thankyou. Izzy is in a short evocative skirt. Raquel is in a light summery dress. Alice is in pastel leisurewear. You pass cafes, restaurants, internet places—then see stalls. A market. Shopping! You are in there, you all are, peeling apart and following your noses and it is so cheap, so wild.

You buy some glasses—Ray Banditos—bartering the avuncular man down to six dollars. You know the Banditos will only last a week—but now the seller can feed his family. You also buy some Havi Anna’s (seven dollars, same prognosis). Now you permit yourself to drift around the market. Its narrow winding paths. Its deep dimlit pockets. Its vivid colours and fragrant smells. You see the lady with the crooked teeth—haven’t you passed her already? The colourful hanging handicrafts—is this the same vendor as before?

You are lost.

Kurt was your life since high school.

Now you are alone in the world.

Suddenly everything is shit and you feel it in your stomach: a bottomed-out, wholping feeling. Who are you? What are you doing? Everywhere you look—the smiling vendors, the cheesy fridge magnets, the cheap hanging curtains—is anxiety. You can’t stop feeling your heartbeat – too rapid, too quick. You need a moment. A drink. A mate. Then Izzy swings around the corner with a shit-eating grin, legs to the heavens and beautifully-sculpted timber penis in hand—apparently to do with Hindu Virility Gods.

Ha.

You check out the beach: perfect. Grab a drink at a cafe: refreshing. Go back to the villa and splash about in the pool: ridiculous. That night you all half-dress up and go out for dinner, then drinks: nasi goreng, then Singapore Sling, Espresso Martini, Squashed Frog. At one stage you recall prancing around, in the dark, with the girls, singing: For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good felllllllllowwwwww—and so say all of us! You’ve no idea what prompted it, or who you’re singing about. Tomorrow is going to be rough.

▪

RINGING ALARM. Buzzsaw to the head. Snooze once, toss and turn, then rise. At 9 a.m. you have a private driver to Ubud. Already Alice is up, somehow looking radiant, when you emerge into the communal area after your shower. She hands you a water bottle and says, ‘Fruit salad in the fridge.’

Raquel and Izzy drip out of their bedroom as you finish your fruit salad. You throw them a couple of water bottles. They gulp and gurgle on the sweet liquid nectar—Izzy burping—before the three of you share a fraught look. Must we really go? Then Alice’s voice: ‘Car’s out front!’You pile into the SUV, again thankful there is enough room for you girls to be partitioned together in the back. The driver, Edy, explains it will take an hour to get to Monkey Forest. If the girls want a coffee or snack on the way, let him know and he’ll pull over.

The itinerary, discussed and booked yesterday during a gap in proceedings, revolves around a daytrip to Ubud and its surrounds. Monkey Forest, then lunch, then water temple and paddies. At first the drive is slow, stop-start stop-start. But once beyond the tourist zone, the land opens up: hills and mountains, rivers and streams. Even a volcano—Mount Agung! Now you breathe easier. Your hangover is loosening its grip. ‘This is nice,’ you say, but the others are too hungover to grok. ‘Bali girls trip,’ you clarify.

The others agree and soon it is real-talk, heart-to-heart, bolstered by the zero-fucks effect of a mild hangover. Raquel confirms she’ll be going rural next year—her first posting as a nurse—in spite of the protestations of her boyfriend. Alice adds she, too, might be moving away. Her girlfriend, Jessy, is an artist – so why not move to Melbourne? You already knew of Raquel’s situation – but Alice’s comes as a surprise. You are further rattled when Alice says if she sees a nice ring in Bali, she’ll buy it. A ring-ring? ‘A ring-ring,’ Alice confirms. You all know she and Jessy are solid—but Jessy’s older and they’ve only been together a year, and, and, and… ‘Exciting,’ you say, feeling gloomy. ‘What’s your news?’ Alice says to Izzy. Izzy is lumpen in the corner with her sunglasses on. ‘Mum and Dad are getting separated,’ Izzy says. Fuck, everyone thinks, before saying it. ‘Just buy me a drink,’ Izzy says. ‘I don’t want your sympathy.’ No one asks you what your news is because either they’re too shellshocked, too hungover—or Matilda, they think, she is a self-reliant rock. She’ll be fine.

▪

MONKEY FOREST IS PSYCHOTIC. You see the monkeys forensically groom one another’s butts; a monkey steal an obnoxious, photo-taking tourist’s phone. But it turns serious when you hear a mixture of animal and human screeches and turn to see a child cradling its arm—bitten. Suddenly you yearn for the inhuman caging of a zoo. The animals are roaming, marauding, they are outnumbering you and you are in their forest and you say ‘Let’s go’ and the girls agree.

You drive into town and Edy recommends a spot: ‘Five stars Trip Advisor.’ You are skeptical but yep, upon arrival: wow. A restaurant stilted over a meadow with a view of magnificent rice paddies. Everyone is fiending: coffee, juice, curries, noodles. Everything so cheap, so delicious. You buy Edy a meal. He sits on the edge of the table and tells you he has four children whose names, to you, all sound the same. He has been driving for eight years. You tell him the driving has been very good—so far!

Next is the water temple, fifteen minutes out of Ubud. ‘A Hindu place, very spiritual,’ Edy says. ‘Must follow rules.’ You get there and it is a beautiful Balinese construct, an outdoor pool supposedly fed by holy water. This is the protocol: pay for a sarong and put it on; enter the water and say three prayers; ‘drink’ water, say three more prayers; then wet your head with water. Really you don’t have to drink the water, Edy says—you can just pretend to. So the four of you put on some colourful silken sarongs and now you all look like Charlie’s Angels: sleek, slender, somehow menacing as a pack. That’s why the notion of Raquel and Alice leaving bothers you so much. It’s half your pack gone, plus Kurt. That’s sixty per cent of your inner circle—poof, gone.

You follow the process and it is invigorating, if not restorative. Sparkling clean water over your body, your hair—over something much deeper. You try and think of an analogue back home: the pool? a spa? a sauna? There is nothing. And what do you pray for three times, then three times again?

To abide.

Half an hour later you are in the countryside, peering over a magnificent maze and valley of rice paddies. The sun is getting lazy, wispy, late-afternoon, and the effect upon the paddies, terrace after undulating terrace of them, is poetic. Fifty shades of green. It is very touristy, very busy, so you walk down a path and pass by some German tourists, a vendor in the middle of the paddies, and before you know it you are down in the gully, whence the view upwards isn’t half as good. There are actual farmers down here and they give you a friendly toothless smile. No—this doesn’t feel right, you decide, leading your gals back up the trail, past the store and now some Russian tourists, all the way back to Edy, who is snoozing in the car. ‘Home time,’ you say to him, before all four of you sleep in the car on the way back yourselves.

▪

SOMEHOW YOU ARE READY in time for sunset drinks, down on the beach with Joe. This is his portion of Canggu—Joe’s lot—where he provides deckchairs and drinks while other locals come and sell things to tourists. You girls are all being sports, downing a Bintang each, the sun refracting through the bottle so its contents look faintly mystical. Suddenly you see the four of you as a passerby would: feet up, fake sunnies, Bintangs in hand.You plough straight through the shame of it.

Beers finished and sun down—it was nice but you were talking throughout—you skip up the road in search of food. Peckish does not begin to describe your hunger. There are so many places and you’ve planned nothing so you just look at menus, check out the crowds and cuisines, eventually settling on a fusion place on the main strip. The interior is white and blue, Greek Mediterranean, with tropical plants and Irish wait-staff. You order the pasta, Raquel orders the oysters, Alice orders the curry and Izzy the souvlaki. You all order a cocktail, even though you should not be mixing drinks. At seven dollars a piece, who can resist? The food is in your bellies and the booze has you seeing everything sweetly, loosely, opportunistically.

Bar-hopping? Why not!

First you are at a cheesy Pirate-themed place where you are forced to wear an eye patch; then you are at a karaoke place where you are forced to sing on stage; next you are in a small classy place where you are forced to behave. But you don’t behave—none of you do—because you are four drinks in and tomorrow is a rest day and YOLO FOMO etc. On the way out Izzy gives the establishment, its patrons and its staff – the whole damned enterprise – two fat middle fingers, before leading you all to the beach, the Sand Bar, the big gross late-night open-air club which you read about online.

▪

10 P.M.. People are chilling upstairs and downstairs, inside and outside, at the bamboo bar and on the bamboo tables. The music is happening but not overwhelmingly; somewhere is a DJ but you cannot spot them. Izzy knows she owes you all for dragging you here so she buys and distributes a round of seltzers. You all stand there, drinking, observing. The crowd is a mixture of laidback locals, laidback tourists and tourists ready to party. A couple of wound-up tourists—shirts off—drift nearby and start eyeing you off. Alice is closest and practically feels their shadow. ‘No thanks,’ she says, but they are insistent. She gives them a look and they are gone.

Already it is midnight and you are dancing, Havi Anna’s off, on the beachside sand. Turns out the DJ is upstairs on the bamboo balcony, beside the tattoo station. Tattoo station? Now you see how people might do it: booze and tattoos, dancing and swimming, eating and romancing, year after year in a villa with mates. A tug on your shirt—Alice. ‘I’m leaving,’ she says. You hesitate. ‘Can I walk you back?’ you say. ‘I’ll text you when I’m there,’ she says. You hug it out and watch her go, then feel relief and wonder why? Because you don’t want to leave the party, is why.

Alice is gone and your edges are blurry and you are smiling at strangers in a platonic fashion. Mostly a platonic fashion. Someone pinches your arse and you hope it’s a guy but it’s not, it’s Izzy with two burly guys, Raquel standing behind them. Drunkenly you crunch the numbers: two single girls, you and Izzy, plus two muscular guys. ‘I’m Tom,’ the tan one says. ‘I’m Steve,’ the younger one says. British accents—brothers? ‘G’day mate!’ you blurt out, for some reason faux-occa, shaking their hands with feminine might.

Raquel is brooding over something, but anyway you get a round of drinks and dance to the hits. Drake. Dua Lipa. Cardi B. Before you know it you are moving suggestively with Steve, or is it Tom? You don’t want this. How did it get here? You excuse yourself and go to the toilet, get a drink of water, wander upstairs and check out the view. The steps are hard—you need the railings. You lean on the balcony and though blurry, with tracers, the moon casts a cosmic light over the ocean’s whitecaps, people partying below. The DJ plays an Enya remix. If you tumbled off this balcony, would the crowd catch you? Would the moon sail you away? Someone pulls you back and you thank them, kiss them—a local guy, maybe staff?—before making your way downstairs to the dancefloor, where Izzy and Raquel and are kissing Tom and Steve respectively.

▪

IN THE COMMUNAL AREA you get a drink of water and shake. Another drink. The villa is dead. The sun is up. What time is it? Where is your phone? On the table you see a note: Gone to yoga, Alice x  Earlier you threw up. And again? No—this time your reflex holds. You stagger to Izzy and Raquel’s room, bumping into things along the way. The teak doors are shut. You peep in—one body in bed. Brunette. Raquel. And Izzy? The door creaks shut and you need your phone. You check under your bed. In your bag. In the bathroom. It is in the fridge.

On a cold phone you message Izzy: Where u? Then again: U ok? And again: *me vomiting*  You are on the cusp of retiring to bed when Raquel stumbles out, looking like Nosferatu: yesterday’s makeup smeared over a crumpled hangover face. ‘Where’s Izzy?’ she says. ‘I just texted her,’ you say. ‘I was with her,’ Raquel says. ‘Then I wasn’t.’ She scratches her head, goes into her room and emerges on her phone. ‘Izzy, it’s Raquel. You good? We’re at the villa. Let us know where you are.’ Voicemail. ‘What happened?’ you say. Raquel says: ‘We were with these guys—then, I don’t know.’

Raquel excuses herself—vomits in the toilet—then you sit at the table with her, panicked and lost. Normally Izzy can handle herself. But this is different. You are overseas. She was spectacularly drunk. Waves of anxiety come over you and it is everything: your cells, the heat, Izzy. Kurt. History. The future. ‘Usually she’s good at staying in touch,’ Raquel says. Both of you look at your phones—nothing. A swim, some fruit and lifetimes of mindless scrolling later—still no sign of Izzy.

You show reception a photo. They call the worker on night-shift last night. No one has seen anyone of Izzy’s description. ‘Alone—drunk?’ the twenty-something clerk says, concern in his voice. You nod. ‘Sometimes—bad man.’ Things have escalated – the clerk is on the phone in Indonesian. Blah-blah-blah polisi. Blah-blah-blah turis. Police? You and Raquel share a look. Raquel visibly puffs her cheeks out, holding-suppressing a vomit. The man hangs up and the police are coming.

Not long after they arrive—jeep and military fatigues—you spot a couple of girls walking in the distance. Leisurewear? And a short, short skirt. It is Alice and Izzy. Your heart exhales and your brain riles up and while Raquel explains to the police they’ll no longer be required, you say to Izzy, ‘Where the fuck were you – how about a message?’ Izzy, actively drunk, just giggles. Alice is carrying bags full of food. ‘I lost my phone in Bali,’ Izzy sniggers to herself. Then she holds up three fingers and makes a show of wiggling them about.

You apologise to the clerk—he seems very nice—and sit at the communal table in the middle of the villa. Alice unpacks a thoughtful spread of noodles, cakes, prawn crackers and fried rice. Izzy skols water out of the tap—straight from it—before you all shout at her to Get some bottled water from the fridge! She gets two. You all wait while she skols them in their entirety, burping.

‘I went back to those guys’ villa,’ Izzy says. ‘They’re not brothers—they’re cousins. Their place is around the corner. We kicked on. Had a swim. Played some music. I was very drunk.’

Her lips curl up.

‘One thing led to another.’

‘Cousins?’ Raquel says.

‘British,’ Izzy says—missing the point.

She still has her glasses on. Faking sobriety, Izzy leans over and takes your hand. ‘I honestly lost my phone,’ she says. ‘And I’m honestly sorry.’ With that you all attempt the food, ask Alice how yoga was, and pry more and more sordid details out of Izzy’s menage a trois.

After food it is time for a shower, vomit and nap. Those cells. At war with what you consider to be yourself. You have the entire space of the bed because Alice is a grown-up and did not disrespect herself last night. Are you asleep or not? You are shaking, tossing, turning—poisoned. Hot. Cold. ‘History.’ It’s an idea—not a job. The other girls have things lined up for next year: nursing, occupational therapy, chef. Your Mum and Dad want you to teach history, to go and do a year of education so you can teach history. But the thought is enough to have you puke—you remember the tone of history classes at Willagee.

Restive.

Kurt. Breaking up with you in bed on a Saturday morning. All his weaselly words going straight over your head, until: ‘I need some space to myself.’Himself? That meant he didn’t need you! You toss. You turn. You writhe. You are on the bed on the morning of the breakup; you are on the bed in Bali. You see Kurt; you see the clerk of the villa. Finally you hear, ‘Massage, massage?’ and startle to see the others as they grin and coax you out of bed.

The massage parlour does makes sense: self-care after a night of destruction. But viscerally, how will this pan out? You are lying sidelong on beds, in your bikinis, maroon towels draped over your backs, fragrant oils being applied by buttersoft hands. All is silent except for traditional Indonesian music playing at an easy volume. ‘How we all doing?’ Izzy says, maybe on drugs. The rest of you grunt. Some of the touch is good—calf, arms, lower back. But some of it—feet, butt, neck – feels edgy. When the masseuse gets to your scalp and it feels like you’ve been lying there, fighting a civil war, for what seems like decades, you excuse yourself very urgently to the toilet. You’ve nothing left to project – yet there it is. A pathetic watery dribble. Your anxieties, your worries, your fears. Kurt. History. White people. You look down and the bowl is swirling. Everything vivid: the empty bowl, the space between you and the bowl, the hollow feeling inside of you.

Your entire life is a void.

▪

THE DAY AFTER. You booked something because without the structure, the accountability, last night could have become another blowout. ‘Tubing,’ you agreed upon. But a surprise: Izzy is up early and as you get ready she calls you together and asks, most beseeching voice, if you mind if Tom and Steve come? They’re just around the corner, she says. They’ll fit in the car and pay their way. A polite silence because it is awkward—this is meant to be a Girls Trip. Then Raquel says, ‘Fine by me.’ You shoot her a look, but she avoids it.

The commute is weird because the van is full and cramped; the new bodies big and oafish. Tom and Steve are dressed for Ibiza—mandals, shorts, open-collared shirts, designer sunnies and bumbags. They look like…cousins. Steve is in the front, next to Edy, who you all greeted with a warm familiarity. The van edges through the usual  stop-start stop-start of the tourist zone. In the back Tom and Izzy are already having mysterious private conversations. You, Raquel and Alice sit side-by-side in the middle, from where you can smell the faint B.O. of the boys, mixed with cheap deodorant, and it reminds you of nuzzling up to Kurt on the weekend, on the couch or in bed, right up into his warm purring armpit, burying your snout into his fur.

Outside the township and already these cousins, who dress alike and fuck together, are showing their true canine spirit. Steve is in the front, vaping with the window up, peppering Edy with questions. ‘Four kids?’ he says. ‘Ahhhhh— mistress?’ Edy doesn’t understand. ‘Two women,’ Steve says, jokingly. That’s when you know, for sure, this is all a big mistake. Alice pinches you on the leg, to acknowledge the toxicity in the car. Oh, you love her.

Something comes over the back and it is a forearm, holding something. A flask? You wave it away, as do Alice and Raquel. Then you smell something—fruity and pungent—alongside the B.O. and deodorant. Whisky? It’s 9:30 a.m. The destination is an hour away. Then a few hours tubing, an hour back. You are fuming. A rat in a  cage. Hostage on your own holiday. You hear Izzy giggle and you will not acknowledge her. You will not acknowledge her whispers, her heavy breathing or the slippery wet sounds coming from behind you all the way to Aurung River.

At the destination, a jungle platform looking down a bunch of steps to a narrow, smooth-flowing river, you are given instructions and divided into groups. Lifevests on. Keep hands inside tubing. Valuables into a watertight pouch. The tubes are all two-person. Izzy and Tom team up. The rest of you all look at one another. ‘You two go together,’ Raquel says to you and Alice. ‘I’ll go with Steve.’ It is a shock but you sense where Raquel—three long years with her boyfriend, Hayden—is taking this. The instructor, a man named Wayan, will paddle with you. Edy will meet you at the end of the course.

▪

AS THE RIVER LAGUIDLY LEADS YOU, Alice points out different kinds of vegetation. Banyan trees, lianas, orchids, ferns. The soundscape is stereosonic—trinkling water, murmuring humans, quipping insects. Wind. And birds! Singing birds. Dancing birds. Playing and cajoling and tittering birds. A buffalo—right there in the clearing!

Next you see a little scoopy nook on the riverside—with esky, plastic stools, a trail back through the jungle. Pit-stop. Everyone pulls over. Your instructor opens the esky and Tom and Steve take a Bintang and down it. Izzy has one too. The rest of you drink water. Tom and Steve get an idea: let’s party with the instructor! They pull out a beer and foist it upon Wayan. Wayan looks uncomfortable and says, ‘No—I’m Moslem.’ ‘We’re Christian!’ Tom says. ‘Cheers!’ How did you end up with these dickheads? They continue pushing it on Wayan and he gives in, he gives in just to shut up these louts.

The next stretch remains beautiful but tainted. You drift and drift and drift, and suddenly there is commotion. The boys are leaning overboard—flicking water at one another. Soon Raquel and Steve’s tube is upturned and they are free-floating, banging into rocks; Wayan has to power ahead and save them. Later you pass the back of a village where a group of children are playing. Rahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Steve says, terrifying them all. You reach another bend with a rope hanging from a high-up tree branch. ‘Photo,’ Wayan says. So you dock on the bank and a few of you get out your phones, handing them to Wayan.

You and Alice aren’t keen. So Izzy goes first.

Woooooooooooooooooooo.

Then Tom.

Woooooooooooooooooooo.

Then Raquel—who pauses. A spasm—then a splash. Steve has pushed her off the ledge, sans rope.

Jesus.

Now Steve comes through, looking baby-white and pure. Is he naked? He is naked. He jumps into the water, shorts in hand, white tackle flapping beneath his  yellow lifevest, having just pushed Raquel into the water without consent.

Wayan gets a photo.

▪

LUNCH IS LATE AND THE RESTARAUNT—hillside, roadside, riverside—overlooks more picaresque rice paddies. Indignation eats at you—these jackarses, these buffoons. Clearly they are half-cut, now using their hands to eat lunch and going shirtless in the restaurant. ‘What’s your problem?’ you say to Tom. The flask is empty and he has ordered another beer. ‘What do you mean?’ he says, mouthful of food and eyes glazing over. ‘Generally,’ you say. You know he is aware—you are determined to have him acknowledge his behaviour. ‘I’m having a  good time in Bali,’ he says. ‘You?’

There are other people in the restaurant and you are aware of it. ‘I’m trying to have a good time,’ you hiss. ‘I don’t know—you seem uptight to me,’ Tom says. Izzy punches him in the arm. ‘You’re in a tropical paradise,’ Tom says. ‘Enjoy it!’ That big mouth of his; always eating, talking, French-kissing. ‘You’re disrespecting it,’ you say. ‘Disrespecting it?’ he says. ‘I am friendly and smile. I tip everyone I meet. It’s my fifth time to Bali and I’m learning the language. I sent money to my driver during COVID!’ Steve is a snake, who slithers in with: ‘Convict mentality.’ All you girls roll your eyes. ‘How’s your dead Queen going mate?’ Izzy says, suddenly alive. ‘Do you mean, your dead Queen?’ Steve says. ‘Look guys, I didn’t come here to argue,’ Raquel says. ‘Yeah,’ Alice says. And with that it is apparently over.

The drive back is splintered and awkward. When you return it is mid-afternoon and you dump your bags and give Alice a look and the two of you excuse yourselves ‘to get some air,’ before going for a walk. ‘Those guys suck,’ Alice says. ‘I can’t believe Izzy and Raquel,’ you say. ‘Raquel, anyway,’ Alice says. And you laugh, but it is not evil.

The air is good. It gives you and Alice a chance to talk; in spite of sharing a room, you haven’t had a chance to talk. ‘Melbourne?’ you say. You are walking along a long, gently winding street, peppered with craft stores, travel agents and an embarrassment of natural foliage. ‘Something like that,’ Alice says. ‘You don’t sound very confident.’ ‘I’m not,’ Alice says. ‘But I love Jessy—I know that much.’ You hit a T-junction and walk left, under a thicket of powerlines and past a walled-up pub or pool club, down toward the ocean. ‘How are you going?’ Alice says, looking at you. You could kiss her; it’s not just the doe-eyes, the maturity, the innocence—but she actually cares.

‘How am I goinggggggggggggg?’ you italicise, drawing it out. ‘Ohhhhhhhhhhhh,’ she says, twigging. You can’t believe your Havi Anna’s have held up this long, over footpaths and bitumen and tiles and sand. You stop. Alice stops. On the street, in the heat, she hugs you. Motos toot. A cheer in the distance. You hang on, maybe for too long. Then continue walking. ‘What you gonna do?’ Alice says. ‘Take a break?’ you speculate, wiping a tear from your eye. ‘From uni?’ Alice says. ‘From everything,’ you say. ‘But you’ve almost graduated.’ It’s more urgent than that, you want to say, but a ceremony is happening on the beach and now  you’re both looking at it.

Locals in folk attire at the footing of an open-air pavilion. Waiting. Clapping. There are musicians in the pavillion, playing local instruments: woodwinds, flutes. You and Alice walk over and watch from a respectful distance. Other tourists do the same. Children emerge—primary-schoolers, boys and girls. They channel into the pavilion in a practiced line, moving in spirited, fluid, dancelike ways. ‘I love Bali,’ Alice says. You smile. At the back of the line a dragon emerges, two kids under a puppet-dragon, moving elaborately. The crowd laps it up. The rest of the kids have settled into two rows in the pavilion, waiting for the dragon and chanting. They are so cute it hurts. This is beautiful. And authentic. For all the plans and tours and costs, you stumbled into this one practically blind.

▪

AFTER THE FESTIVITIES—which a local lady tells you is a school performance—Alice asks, ‘Do you want kids?’ ‘I’m not up to that part yet,’ you say. And it’s true. Kids are abstract. You’re open to it. Not yes, not no. You get a sunset drink on the way home, promise to stay in touch once Alice’s moved to Melbourne, then head back to the villa.

Music is pumping from behind your gate. Splashing in the pool. You go to let yourself in—then pause. ‘Do you want this?’ you say to Alice. She shakes her head. So you go back out the way you came in—you have everything you need—and bump into the clerk who helped you when Izzy was missing the other day. ‘Lost friend?’ he quips. You smile. ‘Where are you going?’ he continues. You look at Alice. ‘Food,’ she says. ‘Me too,’ he says. ‘Come.’

▪

YOU ARE AT A LITTLE PLACE down a modest alleyway sitting on low plastic stools with twenty Balinese locals. Budi, the clerk, has promised you cheap authentic food. Now here it is. You didn’t even order anything. Budi just said, ‘Do you like chicken? Beef? Rice?’ A teenager brings out the food, dish by staggered dish, placing it on a little metal table between the three of you.

Hungrier than you thought, you sink your teeth into the chicken—barbecued, fluffy, delightful. Attack the beef—tender, tangy, delicious. Wash it all down with an iced fruit drink – refreshing, zesty, alive. I could live in Bali; work at a hotel, learn the language, live within my means.Hinduism fascinates you. The tropics intoxicate you. People. Sounds. Landscapes. Motos!

Budi can tell you’re enjoying it. With his perfect Balinese jaw he smiles, gnawing away on a chicken bone. ‘Sorakan,’ he says. ‘Cheers—in Balinese.’ ‘Sorakan!’ you and Alice say. Sorakan! Sorakan! Sorakan! You can imagine falling in with this unassuming man, assimilating, rearing his children, wearing a sarong and hosting Alice once a year as you drift away from the others. ‘I must go soon,’ Budi says. ‘To my family.’ ‘How many people in your family?’ you say, expecting parents and siblings. ‘One wife and two babies,’ Budi says.

▪

IT’S THE LAST DAY AND AGAIN, Izzy and Raquel are hungover in bed until late. You presume and hope the Brits have left. Alice and you are fresh and want to make the most of it; the flight home is tomorrow morning. Self-care, you decide. Let’s go and look after ourselves.

Alice takes you to the yoga place after a snap breakfast of eggs, toast and juice. Though no expert, you are familiar with yoga. In the chic beachside space run by a beaming Balinese woman—apparently married to an Aussie, whose macrame warung is next door—you salute the sun, down the dog, pose the mountain, the warrior, the tree. Thankfully the studio is without mirrors. Regardless, you steal glimpses of Alice’s form out the corner of your eyes and yes, clearly she does a lot of yoga. You look away and focus on yourself. Last night you were spooning her but had the wrong idea—your hand wandered under her top. She removed it. You tried again. She moaned, removed it, then said: ‘We can’t.’ Then there were pillows between you.

In the morning she was fine—she’s above it, that’s why you love her—and now you are rolling up your yoga mats and moving onto the massage place. You pay for an hour. Again you are side-by-side with Alice, face-down to start with, and you wonder if she thinks of you as much as you think of her. And in what ways? You flip onto your back and now the masseuse, a young short local lady with tied-back hair, is rubbing your legs with oil, your inner thighs. It is very sensuous. Especially after yoga. You want her to keep rubbing—higher, higher, higher.

You calm down for the facial. Such a physical morning. A brief bit of meditation at yoga and perhaps you should fit more of it in, the mental stuff, the spiritual. You’re too smart not to realise everyone has their shit, but in Bali they all or mostly seem to be gentle people. Peaceable. Even the kids —the way they play with animals, one another. Your face is minty cool and you feel your personhood actively replenishing. Nails next. You couldn’t give a damn about nails—but sitting next to your mate, light and horns drifting in from outside, incense and music on the inside, you realise you are feeling … good?

▪

ALICE WANTS TO GO BACK but there is something telling you No. It’s the last day but you want to be alone, explore, not compromise with the others. ‘They’re our friends,’ Alice says. But you can’t, you can’t, you simply cannot. Alice goes back and honestly, you have no plans —so you just drift. Up the road, to the beach. Down the beach, to the temple. Around the temple, to the market. Through the market, to the hotel area.

You get a text, expecting it to be the girls—spurned, passive-aggressive—but it is from a random number. Kurt? It says ‘I miss you,’ and you delete it and audibly chortle. Noodles, on the side of the road, streetside vendor. It was his idea to break up, then not to talk. And here he is, dribbling back! You slurp your noodles fiercely, extra chilly. The pompous sook. Allergic to everything: chilli, fur, grass. Even Bali was too wild, apparently, for him to consider visiting. You look around and wonder, what next, what next?

You get out your phone and research ‘deferment’ at uni. One-year maximum, the website states. And you need a good reason: illness, mourning etc. Are you ill? Certainly you could claim it. Lately I’ve been looking at knives funny. A white girl rides by on the back of a moto, driven by a Balinese guy, surfboard on the side. Does she live here? You research ‘local clubs Bali’ and all you get is the places you’ve been to or walked by: Sand Bar, Mexicola, Bounty. Then one in Denpasar: Hip Hey. ‘A local favourite,’ the writeup says. On Google Maps you see Denpasar is thirty minutes away. You ask the lady serving food how to get there. ‘Moto,’ she says, pointing to some guys eating in the corner, fluoro vests on and motos behind them. ‘10,000 rupia.’

▪

THE RIDE IS TERRIFYING—chaos, sounds, fumes. What have you done? You hang on for dear life, arms wrapped around the middle-aged driver’s pot belly, legs warped around his portly waist. Will you get into the club in shorts and sandals? You can always buy something—you’ll have time to burn, should you ever get there. A truck, pigs in a truck, a bridge. You pull over for fuel and expect gawping—you’re not in the tourist zone—but get nothing.

Denpasar is beautiful! You are dropped off at its manicured civic centre—detailed architecture, vivid grass, people on bikes. Parliament and the Governor’s building. A voluminous park. Elaborate temples.

No!

This babble!

Inside your head!

You are sick of it. Its yearning. Its romanticism.

But what’s the alternative? Which other head are you going to wear? You go to a small shopping centre and buy a charger, some pants and a pair of stylish sandals—none of it cheap.

You get mei goreng in a small arcade and the canteen lets you charge your phone as you eat. People come and go as you google stuff, eat; google stuff, eat. A summary:

Extend original VISA twice—taking duration of stay to 180 days.

Get working VISA for one year—with pre-approval from employer.

Marry an Indonesian.

You get changed in the arcade toilet. When you emerge the sun is disappeared. Now the messages are coming through thick and fast.

Izzy: Houdini! Where u?

Raquel: Haven’t seen you all day! You okay?

Kurt: ????????

and I’m sorry

and I made a terrible mistake.

Nothing from Alice.

Google Maps gets you to the club—two stories, Hip Hey in neon over the door, local hipsters smoking outside. It’s early, but already the energy. You appear to be the only white person. An hour by moto from the girls; three hours by air from home. Tingles run up your legs. Booze hops around in your belly. A moto whizzes by and its hoarse buzz energises you. You are going to enter the club. You are going to dance with abandon. In the morning you are going to steal off with your suitcase to a hostel, swearing Alice to secrecy.

You are going to stay in Bali.

You do.

▪ ▪ ▪

Ivan Terrence is an Australian writer whose burgeoning work has won things and been published. Mostly he is just happy to be a part of it all.