Arrival in Paradise

We had an early morning flight from Bangkok, which meant I only got about an hour of sleep. The youngest member of our family had decided to take a long nap in the evening and was wide awake all night.

In a complete daze, I did one final check of everything, got the kids ready, and we headed out to the street to wait for our ride to the airport.

At the airport, Johnny’s stomach started protesting the Tom Yum he’d eaten the night before. He was doubled over in pain with cramps. I should probably mention that when he brought that soup back to the apartment for dinner, I told him it wasn’t a great idea before a travel day, but he just insisted he was craving it and would be fine.

Poor guy. He couldn’t even use the restroom until we’d cleared security. He had to haul heavy suitcases in that condition and somehow managed to hold it together.

The flight from Bangkok to Denpasar took about four hours. Luckily, Simeon slept the whole way. I crashed for a while too, only waking up when the flight attendants came around with food. Arthur went hungry again because the Thai airline didn’t disappoint—they’d snuck a little chili into everything, even if just for flavor.

The trip went by quickly. At the airport, we cleared immigration, and then Johnny went on his usual hunt for an ATM to get some cash.

The heat in the Emirates had been dry, and Bangkok was humid, but neither compared to the heavy, sweltering, damp air that hit us the moment we stepped out of the airport in Bali. I was drenched in sweat instantly.

Local taxi drivers swarmed us, pushing their overpriced services. Johnny shut them down after a brief exchange, telling them exactly what he’d be paying through the app.

He managed to order a large taxi through Grab, which took us straight to our rented villa.

Our New Home for the Month

We were thrilled with the accommodation. Beautiful, clean, and spacious—all crucial attributes since we’d booked it for an entire month. I was so looking forward to relaxing here and just enjoying some quality family time.

We unpacked, freshened up, and headed to the “paradise” beach. Before our trip, we’d watched countless YouTubers, read dozens of blogs, and heard nothing but glowing praise from people we knew. Everyone said once you visit Bali, you’ll always want to come back—or you might never leave. We were so excited to experience this “heaven on earth” with the kids for the next month and a half.

Note: Most of Indonesia is Muslim—it has the largest Muslim population in the world. Except for Bali. While there are Muslims here, the main religion is Hinduism. That’s likely why it’s such a popular destination for Australians and people from all over the world; it’s peaceful, safe, and respectful.

We decided to walk to the beach. The nearest one, Pererenan Beach, was about 1.5 kilometers from our villa. It was around two or three in the afternoon, and the sun was scorching. We had to walk along a narrow asphalt road with no sidewalks, passing rice fields while scooters constantly buzzed past us.

We approached the beach with bated breath, imagining that pristine, virgin shore where we could finally rest on soft sand and cool off in the Indian Ocean after long days of travel.

We arrived. I looked around. Tears welled up in my eyes. This is what we traveled halfway across the world for?

The beach was covered in trash. A never-ending belt of garbage stretched in both directions. It was a literal dump. Stray dogs were roaming through the filth, adding their own “contributions” to the scene.

Johnny told me I was overreacting and that we should keep walking to see what was further down. Along the way, I saw a waterfall of sewage pouring out of a resort directly into the sea. We had to wade through that stinking stream—the water reaching from my knees to mid-thigh—to get to the other side.

I felt total disappointment and anxiety. We walked for another 10-15 minutes and settled at Papi Chulo Beachfront. Johnny tried to cheer me up by ordering a young coconut. Having been to Thailand, I knew what coconut water should taste like. This overpriced “miracle” was miles away from that. It was just plain water with a sour aftertaste. The coconut didn’t even have any meat inside. They’d basically served us an old, hollowed-out coconut filled with water.

The beach was a bit cleaner in that spot. Clearly, the businesses and resorts try to maintain their own sections. I later read that during the rainy season, it’s “trash season”—swollen rivers wash all the garbage downstream, and ocean currents push all the filth from the surrounding areas onto the shore. It would have been great if any of the sources we studied had mentioned that little detail.

The kids went to splash in the water, but only at the very edge because the waves were massive and the currents were strong—a surfer’s paradise, as expected. I felt my stomach turn every time a plastic bag, a feminine hygiene product, or a plastic cup brushed against my leg.

I don’t want to sound like I’m just complaining that the sea is gross. I’ve seen things floating in the water after rains in Zadar, Croatia, too. But based on everything I’d heard, I just didn’t expect it here—and certainly not to this extent. It’s a sad reminder of the state of our oceans due to human carelessness.

City or Village?

From the beach, we moved toward the town. Though calling it a “town” is a stretch; it has more of a village feel because all the buildings are low. This is because their religion forbids building anything taller than a coconut palm, which is about 15 meters. Exceptions are only made for things like telecommunication towers.

Johnny was looking forward to finding some cheap local warungs. We were getting hungry, so we went searching. Along the way, we bought local SIM cards so we could stop relying on roaming data.

Walking here is genuinely difficult because there are practically no sidewalks. And where they do exist, they’re completely destroyed. The area is absolutely not designed for pedestrians. Everyone gets around on scooters and motorcycles. It’s like the American style where people drive even for a few meters. Here, a car is actually a disadvantage because it takes up too much space, whereas a motorcycle can squeeze through almost anywhere. You’ll often see a family of three on one scooter—even tiny babies, which fascinates me; the mother wears a helmet, but the baby is just tucked into a carrier.

After wandering for a while, even Johnny’s optimism began to fade. We couldn’t find a single decent warung. Everywhere we looked, there were only overpriced hipster spots serving Western-style food.

We were both feeling pretty down about the whole situation. We just wanted to get back to the villa and order something.

Central Europeans in the Tropics

We walked into the house and flipped on the lights. Hundreds of flying insects were swarming around every lamp. They looked like moths. The floor was covered in thousands of what looked like winged ants. Then I found small droppings on a chair. Johnny immediately remarked that they were definitely from a rat. Pure desperation. He texted the owner, who just replied that the insects were harmless—just turn off the lights and keep the doors and windows closed after 5:00 PM. Great advice.

I took out my frustration on the crawling insects, stomping and wiping them away. Meanwhile, the owner sent the poor cleaning lady, who traveled an hour in the dark and away from her three children just to see that the “insect Armageddon” had already been dealt with. She kept apologizing, worried she hadn’t cleaned well enough. I felt so bad for her and guilty that we’d even mentioned it to the owner. By the time she arrived, nothing was even flying around the lights anymore. It looked like nothing had ever happened. Then I spotted one stray specimen and showed her. She immediately said, “Oh, that’s rayap.”

A little nature lesson: “Rayap” is the Balinese word for termite. Only the winged caste can mate. When they bump into each other mid-flight, their wings fall off, and they drop to the ground.

Fine. I could live with termites. But those droppings still worried me. I spent the whole night Googling what they could be. To make matters worse, I could hear strange screeching sounds coming from the roof. I concluded it had to be a black rat, which is common here. I was terrified. I couldn’t even sleep, imagining rodents crawling over us. I read that they like bananas, so Johnny set one out as a test.

Secret Life on the Roof

In the morning, the banana (by the way, a banana plant is an herb and the fruits are berries) was untouched. It was a partial relief to know they weren’t running around the interior.

However, we found more droppings in various places. Then one of the kids noticed a small lizard running along the wall—a gecko. We realized the house was full of them. A total gecko invasion. They mostly stay in the roof area but scurry through the bathrooms too. I felt much better. Geckos are friends. They eat bugs. Unlike rodents, they don’t bother me.

But then, after some heavy rains, I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of rustling and the pitter-patter of tiny feet. I jumped out of bed and frantically searched the room with my phone light. Nothing. The sound was coming from the roof. I spent another hour staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, waiting for something to jump down on me. After an hour, the rustling stopped. Nothing attacked. I could finally go back to sleep.

Those strange rustling, pattering, thumping, and whimpering sounds became a daily occurrence. Always at a different time and in a different room. To protect my own mental health, I had to shut down my imagination and ignore it. As long as it’s not running around the apartment, it doesn’t exist to me.

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