Day two of my holiday and I am covered in blood, being driven at what passes for breakneck speed in the land of traffic jams by a very shaken surf teacher. Still in my bathers and clutching a blood soaked towel to my face we are headed for the nearest medical clinic!
I had forgotten the golden rules: always point the surfboard towards the waves, and keep watching the ocean. I had been distracted.
Having ridden a mighty six inch wave into the beach, on a board big enough to bring in a whole football team, I stood knee deep, in apparently benign water, watching some more elegant surfing off to my right. With the surfboard lying across the water at right angles to the waves, I moved too slowly, and turned to face the ocean a little too late. The next wave lifted the board to head height, and slammed it straight into my mouth. A loud popping sound, and a gush of blood –my bottom lip was split open. My first fear was for my teeth. How many were left and what state were they in? How do I say ‘teeth’ in Indonesian? Nobody around me spoke much English.
At the clinic, I was seen immediately. I was impressed…. until I realized that what looked like a statement of annual earnings for a multinational company, turned out to be the amount I would have to pay for the doctor to stitch my mouth. I had forgotten to take out travel insurance before leaving Australia. A short but intense mental struggle ensued: did I save my mouth or my money? Vanity prevailed and I resigned myself to the fact that never again could I eat 3 meals a day.
Within half an hour I was stitched up and on my way, armed with creams, ointments, tablets and dressings. Thankfully, there were no broken teeth. When I finally got back to my hotel room, and my trembling fingers worked the calculator, I realized that the whole episode had cost me less than $300, and the stitches looked beautiful!
Actually I looked like a freak - something out of a 60’s horror movie… with blood constantly oozing through the large white dressing on my mouth. I was a sight to frighten young children, and anyone of a nervous disposition.
The doctor had said “no swimming, no alcohol, no chewy food”. I could survive by sucking soup through a straw, but the the first two restrictions were going to cause me significant pain and unhappiness. I was tempted to just go home to Perth and accept this was the end of the holiday. But after some thought and experimentation, I managed to drape one of my small beach sarongs in what I considered to be a rather fetching way, around my head and face,.
I figured the doctor didn’t mean “no alcohol” – he probably meant to say “not too much alcohol”…. And surely the icy cold beer must be good for a bruised mouth? If the straw worked for soup it would probably work for Bintang also!!
After all, if you can’t break the rules in Bali, where can you break the rules?
So it was that I discovered the joy of watching the sunset on Kuta beach, drinking Bintang through a straw, my deformity discreetly hidden under a flowery veil.
Serene, peaceful, relaxing Bali? Not yet…
Maybe I need to actually live in Bali for a while, to find this ‘other world’ of tranquility, yoga, meditation, and ceremonies Now there’s an idea. I could sell my house, give up my job, declutter my life and go ‘walkabout’!
Why not? I could simply retire for a year, spend lots of time in Bali – perhaps lie by a pool and read a book? Discover the serenity and peace that people speak of?
