Recently, during a late night at work, Bali called and said, “Come see me.”
I said OK and booked my tickets.
We have a relationship. This is our relationship. It’s always very easy. Almost instinctive.
But this time in Bali, I spent six days on a surfboard and six days in a hospital bed. You’d be out of your mind to call that the golden ratio of a mimosa. No one drinks a mimosa. The juice is unnecessary and disrespectful. So what on earth were you thinking, Bali? Why did you do this to me?
It was a Tuesday morning. I flew out of Kuala Lumpur and arrived in Denpasar three hours later. It started raining, and the traffic was horrendous. After an hour in the taxi, I left my luggage with the driver and hopped onto a Gojek bike to get to the surf camp. Anywhere else in the world, I’d be mad. But not in Bali.
I’d done the same before — just a touch worse this time. Everything in my bag felt like dead weight. I wanted to surf so badly. I wanted to be in the water. Every now and then, we all need a little fear to feel alive — to break the dementia-inducing routine. And this, I decided, was far more reliable than an ayahuasca retreat. The risk was worth it.
I surfed in the rain that day. There was no thunderstorm. My skills improved — marginally, but still. By the time I returned to camp, my bags had arrived. I dried off and was driven back to a small hut I’d rented by the beach. I had grilled pork that evening and went to bed early.
I slept like a baby.
I love Bali because it can soar high and sink low with me. Always indulgent, but also deeply understanding. It’s OK to set yourself on fire. It’s OK to stay in. It’s OK to live on street food; it’s OK to wine and dine. It’s OK if you want a massage; it’s also OK if you fancy a volcano hike followed by an all-night beach party. And on the other side of every adventure, there’s always a pot of soothing lemongrass tea.
Bali can be still. Bali is always ready.
Ready when you are.
I stayed in Canggu this time and didn’t venture far. There was no need. There are beach clubs, local warungs serving cheap and cheerful nasi campur, waves to surf and horses to ride. I could party. I could go to a spa. The sultry sun and frangipani-scented breeze have drawn in yogis, gap-year students and honeymooners to what they call the Island of the Gods. Whatever works for them seems to work for everyone.
No one is special to Bali — yet everyone who comes here feels special. It’s baffling. I know, because I’m a willing victim.
Bali nudged me to get a tattoo — twice. I said I wasn’t ready to commit. I wanted to keep my body clean.
So Bali, rather vengefully, struck me with food poisoning and acute appendicitis.
On the last day of my trip, I could barely walk. I remember waking with a sore throat, struggling to open my eyes. I sat at Sari Kitchen for ages, sweating under a fan and sipping iced watermelon juice. I was meant to have one last surf that day. Instead, I crawled into a bunk bed at the camp and slept for hours. It was impossible.
When I finally made it to the airport, I was put in a wheelchair and taken to a quarantine centre behind the G20 reception area. The GP refused to let me fly — they suspected I needed an appendectomy. (I thought it was just Bali Belly. No big deal.)
What happened next unfolded in a blur: an ambulance, admission to hospital, a drip, injections, a CT scan.
It marked the beginning of six slow, hazy days — drifting in a loose hospital gown, with a fresh incision, suspended somewhere between pethidine and pain. It was utterly draining.
When I first met Bali, I never thought it was perfect. It’s gritty, loud, chaotic. Some parts feel backward. Many parts are messy. But as I said before this episode tried to take centre stage of my trip — I stand by it.
If I can tell you anything with certainty, it is this: amidst the sticky heat, the chaos, the storms and the potholes, nothing that happens in Bali feels accidental. You carry it with you. You tuck it into the pockets of your heart. It stays. It gleams.
I’m not sure if this hospital episode will ever shine the same way — but to hell with it, Bali.
In sickness and in health, in good times and in bad.
If this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.
With love x