The origin for this story lies in the time after my engagement to my wife. A few weeks before our marriage, she casually mentioned Bali as the ultimate honeymoon destination, as was the trend of the time. On the night of Walima, after counting our Salami multiple times, I told her, “Thanks to our relatives, we can successfully fly as far as PC Bhurban!”
Fast forward through the years, we roamed half the globe, visiting many breathtaking beaches and islands. On our 20th anniversary, though, she reminded me of that Bali comment, and I realised that a wife “never forgives, never forgets”. I finally caved in and planned a trip to Vietnam and Bali.
One early morning in Ho Chi Minh City, we found ourselves in the Jasmine Halal Lounge. After having a nice breakfast, I settled into a massage chair with the flight information TV right above my eyes. And directly in front of me, through the massive glass wall, was a soothing view of the docked plane we were to fly in. We had around an hour before boarding began, so my wife went off on her last minute shopping, asked me to call her when it was time to leave. Meanwhile I fiddled with the remote of the massage chair and accidentally set the timer for 45 minutes. Engulfed in the relaxing chair, I closed my eyes for a sec and when I reopened them after the timeskip, the plane in front of me was undocking. Our plane. The one my wife and I were supposed to be on.
I jumped and rushed outside, but it was all in vain. This was the first time in my long travel history that I ever missed a flight. I got cancellation on exit stamp on passport, and went to the airline counter along with two more passengers; one who lost the flight as he was in the bathroom and the other who slept just before the flight.
Fortunately, after sacrificing an extra $66, I got tickets for the next flight which was after 2 hours. Finally, we landed at Bali safe and sound, and checked into the hotel. We were three hours late, so to catch up to my grand plan, I rushed outside, and met with a couple of agents. A deal was struck with one of them, whom I paid for the Nusa Penida Instagram tour for the next day.
We then rented a bike and drove to Uluwatu template. By the time we reached there and made our way in, it felt like we’d bought tickets only to see the darkness. After that we got into another endless line to see Kachuk dance; with our ‘good’ luck, entries got closed before our turn. The monkeys (a common sight), sensing our despair, added to the drama by stealing my wife’s phone pouch. A local hero traded the phone for a banana, and we cursed the temple before heading out.
@Monkey took my Phone
Five minutes into our ride, it started raining cats and dogs. We bought overpriced raincoats, but found them to be no more effective than just large plastic bags. Soon enough, we found shelter in a souvenir mall named Krisna Olay Olay, where we settled to make shopping our only victory of the day.
Next morning, I woke up to my phone frantically ringing at 6:00 am. Apparently, a driver was waiting in the hotel lobby to take us on a trip to Nusa Penida. We rushed outside and got in the car. A few meters away from the hotel, he suddenly asked us to pay for the trip. I told him that I’d already paid his agent. He looked confused, made a few calls and then informed me that I had not, in fact, paid. In utter confusion, I told him to take me back to the hotel for now, so I could figure things out. As we returned with a long face, a different driver came running to me, telling me that he was from the travel agent I’d paid. Heaving a sigh of relief, we got into his car.
Finally our trip to Nusa Penida started. After several traffic jams, we reached a pier, where the driver handed us over to a boat with a ticket. After an hour’s ride on the boat, another person came to me with my name on a piece of paper and took us to a car. Upon payment he gave us wristbands for diamond beach. After descending around 200 steep stairs, we reached the most scenic place of the area, Rumah Pohon Tree House. Another long queue was waiting there, with yet ANOTHER ticket to take a picture with the tree house. Annoyed with ‘ticket pe ticket’ experience, the prospect of climbing 200 stairs, and the anxiety of running out of time, we decided not to get the ticket and resorted to simply taking pictures from the side. The rest of the trip was uneventful, and hence, enjoyable. We visited Kelingking, Angel Billabong and Broken beach.
Then we left for our hotel in Ubud, taking the infamous Bali swing and ATV along the way. I was sure that luxury awaited me in our water villa in Ubud and that I would be able to relax at long last.
My wife had other plans.
When I had just started to settle into a deeper sleep, she woke me up at 2:00 am and told me to get ready, because the driver would be at the hotel in 10 minutes. We were going to go see the sunrise at Mount Batur. Half asleep, I complied. The driver drove us to a dhaba for a light breakfast and tea. At this point I was feeling less like a tourist and more like a qurbani ka bakra being fed grass before slaughter; We were given headlamps to help us navigate through the dark. My wife tried to muster up my courage by telling me that she’d seen reviews about the track being between easy to Intermediate. Owing to our prior hiking experience at Fairy Meadows and Sharan Forest in Pakistan, we assumed that it would be possible for us to climb to the top.
When I observed my surroundings, though, my spidey sense tingled and I realised that everyone going on foot looked like expert hikers and in shape. Neither my wife nor I fit into that category. After around half an hour, I found us at the end of the queue, and embarrassingly not even close to the bottom of the hill. That was when I put my foot down and told my wife that at this rate, we would end up seeing the sunset instead of the sunrise. She reluctantly agreed, and I called a male and a female biker to take us up the mountain. My biker half flew our bike and covered 90% of the ascent in a short time. But mid-trip I realised that my wife’s bike was nowhere in sight. I told my biker to stop and wait.
Around 15 minutes passed, the sun was at the brink of rising, but she never arrived with the female rider. I called and yelled at some riders, they coordinated and then told me that the female rider’s bike broke down due to a technical issue, and that another female rider was on the way with her.
Finally, we reunited, and began our last climb to the summit. Although I am not a fan of sunrises, the view was breathtaking and entirely worth the struggle.
The guide gave us boiled eggs and bananas to rebuild our energy. Here, history decided to repeat itself; a monkey emerged from nowhere and snatched my wife’s banana, eating it while seemingly mocking us. Finally we descended the two hour hike and returned to our hotel to enjoy a cosy nap in its pool.
Next morning my wife suggested we go to the Handara Golf course. I thought it would be a place to play golf and have a nice coffee; but alas, I was mistaken. Handara Golf course’s entrance had an iconic gate, famous for pictures. “We’ll just take a couple of pictures and return to the comfort of our hotel”, I told myself. Little did I know that not only was it at an hour’s drive, with an expensive ticket and a long queue, but also that you’re not allowed to take pictures yourself, you have to pay the management staff to take your picture. At this point I started feeling like I was being robbed, what with the ‘ticket pe ticket’ experience.
Finally we started our journey back on our bike, which we had rented to get around the city by ourselves. The sky turned dark, but we carried on anyway. We were driving on a broken road late at night — there were more than a few bumps and ruts that we had to counter. Having not eaten in quite a while, we bumped into a halal dhaba, where we decided to try local cuisine. While getting off the bike, I realised that hunger was the least of our problems: our bike’s keys, without which the bike couldn’t start, were missing.
I vividly remembered hanging them on the bike, but I had no idea where they had disappeared now. Panicked, we started retracing our steps by foot, the phone’s flashlight being the only hope we had. We went back around a mile but could not find the keys anywhere. I frantically started estimating the cost of the motorcycle which I would inevitably have to pay as a fine.
When I was at the brink of giving up, a road worker who had been observing us for a while pointed to the side of the road, where, shining brighter than any diamond I’ve ever seen, lay the accursed keys. I thanked the worker and ran back to the restaurant where we left our bike, where we ate in a hurry and returned to our hotel.
Next morning, we called a cab, and started our journey back to the airport. En route, the driver asked if we would prefer going through the normal, rushy road, or a faster tunnel route which would require a toll fee. I said no more ‘ticket pe ticket’. So he took us from the long route, at the end of which he asked “Do you want me to drop you outside the airport premises or to take you inside to the dropoff lane? For the latter, you’ll have to pay extra charges”. Although every fibre of my being was completely done with giving ‘ticket pe ticket’, we could not drag our large suitcases all the way in; I had to surrender to his will and paid extra charges to drop us inside. Oh the ‘ticket pe ticket’ phenomenon!
Finally, we took the flight and came home, successfully fulfilling the long-held wish of my wife. Happy wife, happy life?
Alhamdulillah, all is well that ends well.
