“Oh, he was amazing! He can turn the S into two turtles swimming from head to tail, and the T into a palm tree and the U into a vase of flowers…”

Load

At this point I noticed her tattoo: an armband in homage to a man named Stuey – who apparently was no longer on the scene – which was now being transformed into the turtle-and-flowers motif.

The conversation was interrupted by a man coming out of the room where Stuey could have been if he was a goalkeeper. It was 10am on my watch, but it must have been 5pm somewhere because the new Stuey had a drink that matched his Bintang singlet. The lady across the pool pointed at him.

“Will you find out his name next?”

“Yes.”

The ladies laughed. I got the feeling they both knew that his tattooed name would be a feature this time next year. And why not? It’s not like it’s going to break the bank. Getting a tattoo in Bali is a third of the price you’d pay in Australia.

The next day, I booked a driver to take me to Ubud, a two-hour drive from my accommodation. I imagined myself being dropped off and wandering the busy streets at my own pace, perhaps picking up a few trinkets to take home as gifts.

“Do you like silver or gold?” the driver asked. We had talked about the weather and family, but this went a step further.

“Um… silver.”

The driver smiled.

“Rice fields?”

“Yes, I don’t mind rice fields.”

“Waterfalls?”

“Yes?”

“Volcanoes?”

“Um, yeah.”

I didn’t realise that with every positive answer I was writing my plan for the day – one that didn’t include Ubud. I spent the day in places with high tourist traffic, places that cause me great anxiety because I spent too much time in Old Town Sydney as a child.

I spent the next few days on a sun lounger on the beach. It was somewhat relaxing, but the garbage bothered me. For every two plastic bags I picked up, there were another 10 waiting for me.

On the fourth day, the dreaded Bali belly struck. And the rest, as they say, is history. I didn’t go to the pool or the beach anymore.

I am now at home.

Will I go back? No.

I returned to my original camp. Bali is not for me.

Annemarie Fleming is a freelance writer and author.