Tuesday 14th August
When I said at the end of the previous post, about the last day in Sydney, that I wished I didn't have to go, I meant it seriously. The day before, as we got into the train into the city, I had to stop myself crying. I focused on enjoying Sydney during the day, kept my thoughts away from where I would be twenty-four hours later, but back at the house in the evening I could no longer avoid it and I did cry. I did not want to go to Bali. It wasn't that I was just nervous, or wished I could have more time in Australia. I wanted to not go.
I'm sure you're all wondering "What?! Why?!" I did, too. I had chosen to go, wanted to go, it sounded like a nice and interesting place. It was somewhere new that would be very different to anywhere I'd been before, stretching my comfort zone, so I was nervous, but over the previous couple of weeks a fear and dread strong enough to make me want to not go at all had developed. Some far-away rational part of me knew that I would be fine: Bali is Australia's holiday destination of choice, their Spain or Greece, tons of people including families with kids go there every year and have a great time. You just use common sense, like everywhere else. I wasn't going anywhere dangerous. But that message wasn't sinking in. I knew that what I was feeling was a completely irrational over-reaction, but I didn't know how to stop it.
I think it stemmed from some of the travel advice I'd been given. The fact that vaccinations were recommended in the first place meant there could be diseases in the water, the food, the air, and of course animals. All the advice was commonsense stuff, but the grumpy doctor I got my third rabies jab from in Cairns went a little bit more worst-case-scenario than the UK nurses had. I'm not blaming him, he was just doing his job and didn't know he was talking to an anxious overthinker.
Of course, I had to go. That's a self-imposed "had to". It was just fear of the unknown, it would be fine. I knew I was very lucky to have the opportunity to go there. I didn't want to lose the money I'd already spent or spend any more. I didn't want to disappoint my sister, whose suggestion going there had been. Most of all I knew that the amount of self-loathing and disappointment in myself I'd feel if I didn't go would be just as awful as the fear. With help from my poor worried mum, I managed to calm down, finish repacking my suitcase, and sleep.
Our flight was late morning. The four of us got a taxi to the airport and Mum and Gary were dropped off first at the Domestic Terminal, so we said goodbye there. After checking in at the International Terminal, Cat and I went for breakfast - poached eggs in a tomato sauce with chorizo and peppers and a bit of grated cheese melting on top, with some toasted ciabatta, yum!
The flight took about six hours and, after taking an hour and a half to get from the back of the passport control queue to the front, we were met by our hotel transfer driver, who looked so happy and relieved that we were finally there, poor man. He was very friendly and cheerily welcomed us to Bali. I like the musical way they pronounce it - "ba-lee" rather than "bar-lee".
I think it stemmed from some of the travel advice I'd been given. The fact that vaccinations were recommended in the first place meant there could be diseases in the water, the food, the air, and of course animals. All the advice was commonsense stuff, but the grumpy doctor I got my third rabies jab from in Cairns went a little bit more worst-case-scenario than the UK nurses had. I'm not blaming him, he was just doing his job and didn't know he was talking to an anxious overthinker.
Of course, I had to go. That's a self-imposed "had to". It was just fear of the unknown, it would be fine. I knew I was very lucky to have the opportunity to go there. I didn't want to lose the money I'd already spent or spend any more. I didn't want to disappoint my sister, whose suggestion going there had been. Most of all I knew that the amount of self-loathing and disappointment in myself I'd feel if I didn't go would be just as awful as the fear. With help from my poor worried mum, I managed to calm down, finish repacking my suitcase, and sleep.
Our flight was late morning. The four of us got a taxi to the airport and Mum and Gary were dropped off first at the Domestic Terminal, so we said goodbye there. After checking in at the International Terminal, Cat and I went for breakfast - poached eggs in a tomato sauce with chorizo and peppers and a bit of grated cheese melting on top, with some toasted ciabatta, yum!
The flight took about six hours and, after taking an hour and a half to get from the back of the passport control queue to the front, we were met by our hotel transfer driver, who looked so happy and relieved that we were finally there, poor man. He was very friendly and cheerily welcomed us to Bali. I like the musical way they pronounce it - "ba-lee" rather than "bar-lee".
Of course, now that I was actually in Bali and could see what it was like for myself, I was able to relax a bit. I can't say I liked the urban areas we drove through - hot, humid, noisy, crowded, crazy traffic, narrow pavements - but it wasn't that bad and I felt a bit better. Our hotel was in Kuta, only ten minutes from the airport. It was early evening when we arrived so we unpacked a little, went and found the pool (which was on a lovely rooftop terrace overlooking the sea), then went out to find dinner. We came across an outdoor warung (a small restaurant or café) and went in there, ordered simple grilled duck with rice, which was good, then afterwards had a short wander round a couple of streets, full of tourist shops selling exactly the same things (lovely clothes though) then went back to the hotel and had an early night.
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