Beginnings

Getting into Bali proves difficult. All it takes is a simple: "Can I see your exit ticket, please?" and all your carefully laid plans are undone. Or rather, the fact that you didn't carefully make any plans. That was half the charm.

"You don't know when you're going to be leaving Indonesia?" says Immigration Man incredulously. "Why didn't you know about this rule? Don't you have friends to tell you these things?" He's annoyed now, but it's the annoyance of a man who is going to let you in eventually, as long as you play your part, which in this case is meek, slightly startled, inoffensive woman. It's probably easier to do if you're not wearing a Ramones t-shirt.

As a solo traveller, the odds are almost never in your favour (certainly not financially - a single room for 90% the price of a double? Thanks). As a lone female you have to put up with even more. But there are occasions when, faced with some part of the bureaucratic process, the official will give you the once over, ask: "Is it just you? Oh... go on then," and wave you through, onto that plane you're stupidly late for, into that open bar on NYE and, on this occasion, through to Bali without an exit ticket. Or maybe Immigration Man just likes punk rock too.

I share the car to the hotel with the Canadian Graham and Geordie; one outgoing, bouncy friendliness, the latter quiet, brooding and beautiful. Men who travel in pairs on the road are often like this. It is as though there is not enough personality to go around and characteristics must be shared. G&G compliment each other beautifully, and I'm quite keen on their unit by the end of the ride.


G&G

Making friends on the road can be a delicate process. A day and a half without an English conversation renders you quite ill with verbal diarrhea, and thus seriously off putting to potential drinking partners. A certain amount of judgmentalness is called for, but not to Heathers proportions. Weigh up the other party quickly. If I go for drinks with this girl, is she going to spend the entire evening talking about her A level results? Do these people who want to have dinner with me have any idea of the value of the local currency? If I go to bed with that guy I just met, is the outcome going to be mutually beneficial?  (You should have answered: Yes, No, and, obviously, No again.)

In the dorm, I take off my Proper Shoes and put them in the bin. Tights, which seemed quite the thing in Tokyo, suddenly lose their appeal in 36^oC heat. I peel them off, almost snow-blinded by my white wintered flesh, and hit the strip with the boys. Sadly, it leads to the infamous Kuta district, which is the Costa del Sol of choice for the less discerning Australian chav. Huge lobster-pink men, either shirtless or mercifully covered with a singlet, line the streets swigging bottles of Bintang, the local brew. Hawkers force henna tattoos, fake Ray Bans and massage fliers on us. They touch you as you go by. Dry fingers trail down my sweating neck, tracing the line where their necklace or earrings will hang. Techno trance blares from empty superclubs. We fall onto the beach and pay to sit in chairs in the full strength of the midday sun and drink warm Bintang. For Hindus, Bali is the "Island of the Gods." I stare out at the rough sea and try to switch my brain to Holiday Mode. I'm not there yet.


Night falls as hemlines rise in Kuta