So ... Bali, huh? (Part 2)

 Part 2 … Oh shit … The burn

We had no special plans for our time in Bali other than to spend time together and see what took our fancy, so we had a fairly lazy start to our second day. After enjoying breakfast, we decided that taking a book down stairs and hanging out by the resort pool was a good low-stress way to enjoy the morning which had dawned bright and sunny.

We found a couple of lounges with an umbrella and settled in. We applied sunscreen (that we’d had to buy the day before given we didn’t pack any) and made sure we were under the umbrella. I then went for a swim. I’d debated bringing a rashie to wear, but ended up neglecting to pack it. The Balinese sunscreen had seemed expensive, so rather than blow an entire tube on my large pale abdomen, I decided making sure I was in the shade of the umbrella was a good compromise. So I lay there, contorting myself to ensure I stayed in the shade while I enjoyed my book.

What none of the resort’s information tells you is that their shade umbrellas are apparently rated at approximately SPF 2.

So a couple of hours later when I stood up, Caroline said … “You look a bit pink.” Not long after that, having abandoned the sun, it was quickly apparent I was more than ‘a bit pink’.

I can’t recall the last time I’d managed to get that badly sunburned, but I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. I mean, it wasn’t like go get a doctor bad, but it was going to be uncomfortable … especially with a plane ride home looming.

We headed back to the pharmacy where we’d bought the sunscreen and where some bright spark had said, “no, we won’t need he after-sum lotion” and well, bought some after sun lotion.

I was disappointed that I’d likely have to spend our final day trying to avoid the sun, but it could have been worse. Like, I could have been holed up in the hotel clutching the porcelain and wishing everything would just end like the last time I’d been in the country.

It was some time after dinner that my belly gurgled a little disconcertingly. It wasn’t much after that I was re-visiting my last trip to Bali; alternately sitting on or clutching the porcelain and wishing everything would just end.

I won’t be too graphic, I’ll just leave you with the disconcerting thought that at the point everything that is being ejected from your body seems to maintain the same colour and consistency regardless of its aperture of expulsion, things are grim.

It wasn’t a pleasant night. The following morning wasn’t a whole lot better. At least I knew what I’d be doing to keep out of the sun for the day. And it happened to be AFL Grand Final day, so that gave me something to keep my mind off things. Even if the people down by the pool celebrating and enjoying the day reminded me what some of the other options could have been.

The biggest looming issue was the fact we were flying out the next morning (Sunday) to be back for work on Monday.

Caroline was good enough to stop by a medical clinic and get some advice. They basically said if I was still having issues the next morning that I shouldn’t fly, but that if we wanted, I could be administered a drip.

It sounded a little bit extreme.

But as the day went on and I continued to turn my insides into outsides and pondered my chances of recovering enough in the hours remaining before our flight, it started to sound more and more like a good option.

And so we made the call.

The doctor, a nurse and an assistant all attended our hotel room and put me on a drip, administering me anti-nausea and anti diarrhea drugs, along with a vitamin shot to get me going.

Now the online reviews had people raving like an hour after the drip they’d be ready to play in their own Grand Final and sink piss until all the hours of the morning. I’m not going quite that far. But I did manage half a bowl of unappetizing mildly warm white rice that evening and a single fried egg with a piece of toast for breakfast the next day.

And most importantly of all … I flew all the way home without resorting to the little paper bag in the seat back pocket, and without a desperate dash down the aisle, pushing people out of the way yelling CODE BROWN! CODE BROWN!!!

Ask me if I want to go back to Bali … I dare you.

So ... Bali huh?

 Part 1 ... The Massage

Way back in July of this year, Caroline and I celebrated 30 years of marriage. At the time, we had a fabulous dinner with our family and the members of our Bridal party that were in Adelaide for the occasion.

We’d discussed doing a quick weekend getaway somewhere to celebrate as well, but with life being busy with work and an offspring’s wedding, we didn’t managed to do anything until September.

There was a lot of discussion about where we might end up and finally decided on Bali; being able to get there direct from Adelaide, it not being too far and importantly, it being affordable.

So off to Bali we went. I talked with family that had been recently for advice on avoiding the dreaded Bali belly given that was one of my lingering, less pleasant memories of Bali from 10 years prior and decided to follow their advice and precautions.

Getting there was easy and getting to the resort was easy too, which meant all there was to do for the rest of the day was explore and eat. Oh and importantly, for Caroline, find a massage. Happy days.

We managed to first two items on the agenda easily enough and even finding the massage was simple too. I mean anyone that’s been to Bali will have seen a massage joint every 15 metres or so down the street.

I was so-so on getting a massage though. Call me weird, but strangely I just don’t love them.

Turns out I’m a bit soft, really. I just don’t enjoy someone inflicting pain on me with the intent of making me feel more relaxed. I mean, I’m pretty sure I tense up more because of the anticipation of pain and only make things work. But hey, we were there together so I decided to suck it up, enjoy the spirit of the occasion and share it with my wife. I made sure to ask for a relaxation massage rather than any sort of remedial, muscle re-aligning torture-based routine.

Having agreed and hoping to see some delicate young lass (so that she hopefully wouldn’t have the strength to hurt me) emerge to massage me, I was immediately disappointed as a young man appeared. I made very sure to emphasize that I wanted relaxation, not bruising. I’m sure when he saw who he was getting to massage he was even more disappointed than I was!

We were led back into the building and each into our own rooms where we were left to undress. I stripped down to my underwear and waited. When he came back in, he looked at me briefly before presenting me with a pair of mostly transparent black paper briefs and told me to change into them.

Yay.

Accepting my fate, I did as requested and pulled on the distinctly unflattering garment. Well, mostly pulled on. Being made of some sort of paper-like construction, they didn’t really pull all that well, especially given the felt like maybe I was pushing the boundaries of the size envelope for that particular selection.

So with them mostly on and partially torn, I lay down on the table, feeling anything but relaxed and comfortable, ready for my massage.

I will give the guy credit. He had clearly listened to my ‘please don’t hurt me’ request and the massage was in the main part good. But I couldn’t really relax, because I kept expecting things to ratchet up and reduce me to a whimpering, pathetic old man. When he reached the lower portion of my calves and down to the Achilles, that’s pretty much what happened.

Not to mention the boundaries of the paper underwear. I mean, there wasn’t anything inappropriate happening, but in terms of relaxation, when the fingers get under the band of the underwear, relaxation is out the window. The tension escalates quickly as you wonder whether the next thing to happen IS going to be inappropriate.

When all was said and done, I think I can some up the experience best by saying it was probably something neither of us wanted to endure.

Needless to say, I didn’t bother with another one.