Dear journal of the historical investigations of the island of Bali by Paulina M. Gifford, For the purposes of historical accuracy, I am going to make a true and verified (by me, Paulina Gifford), declaration of my innermost feelings at exactly 11.30 pm, Bali time.
The location of this true and verified declaration of my innermost feelings at exactly 11.30 pm, Bali time, is Kuta Beach, Bali.
Kuta Beach is located in the town of Kuta, in southern Bali, Indonesia. It used to be a fishing village. Today it is a very popular tourist town. You might remember that Kuta was the site of the 2002 and 2005 Bali bombings. Two hundred and two people died in the first bombing at Paddy’s Pub, and twenty-six people died in the second bombing.
You can still feel it here: the tragedy and the sadness. It’s only a tiny thing; just a flicker. The only physical sign of the destruction or the death is a memorial on the site of Paddy’s bar. My research revealed that it was worth a visit so it was for this reason I set out on my expedition tonight.
I am so glad I did. It was absolutely an indescribably moving and historical experience, to see all the names of the people who died. I reached out and I touched them and I felt I was somehow part of it, part of the healing, even though I was quite young when it happened and it didn’t mean much to me at the time.
There were many other people there. Australians and Indonesians and tourists from all over, and we stood there, and nobody said a word. Some people say at places where there were wars – like Gallipoli or the Somme – they imagine they can hear bullets or screaming. At the Bali bombings memorial, while the people around me were respectfully silent, further down the road I could hear laughter and music; bells and singing children. I liked that. I think those sounds make better echoes.
After the memorial, I strolled down to the sea, before going back to the hotel. Mum and Mrs Blue were having some pre-conference meetings. And I had my marine organisms assignment in my daypack. I thought the beach would be an apt place to work on it.
I planned to spend an hour or so researching zooplankton, and then return to the hotel. I did not expect to become involved in a rescue-mission involving an Australian film-maker, a Balinese waiter and a stupid, stupid, stupid Tasmanian airhead called Daisy Blue.
My reaction to these unforeseen occurrences forms the basis of this true and verified declaration of my innermost feelings at exactly 11.30 pm, Bali time.
Well, actually, now it is 11.32. I should get a wriggle on.
The declaration of my feelings is as follows: I hate Daisy Blue.
There. That’s it. Written down and . . . there . . . signed. For historical preservation.
I, Paulina Gifford, hate Daisy Blue. She is an annoying, shallow, reckless, illogical, incomprehensible bimbo. This trip has the potential to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, full of archaeological marvels and sites of extreme historical interest (not to mention chances to achieve extra credit on my science projects by examining exotic flora and fauna IN THEIR NATIVE MARINE ENVIRONMENTS), but has instead turned into me WASTING MY PRECIOUS TIME RESCUING AFORESAID ANNOYING PERSON FROM CLUTCHES OF GRABBY SURFERS AND HOLDING BACK AFORESAID EVIL PERSON’S STUPIDLY LONG HAIR WHILE SHE VOMITS ON MY FEET!!
I’m sorry. That was rather too long a sentence, and one full of grammatical missteps, but I can’t HELP it. I am just so ANGRY! I promise, however, to henceforth rein in my anger in order that I may write a grammatically correct account of tonight’s events.
I think I shall call my account The Story of How Daisy Blue Wrecked Paulina Gifford’s Lovely Night Doing Her Science Homework on the Beach, or Bimbo Gets Drunk. Wrecks Normal, Sane, Intelligent Girl’s Night.
Yes, that second one is better. It is a more accurate representation of the night’s events. Which are as follows: I, Paulina Gifford, set out to visit Kuta Beach with the aim of beginning my environmental-science project. It was very warm outside, though not as stingingly hot as it had been a few hours earlier.
On Kuta Beach, I found myself amid a throng of people dressed COMPLETELY inappropriately, in teeny bikinis that left very little to the imagination. I, conversely, wore long cargo shorts, sandals, and a loose blue T-shirt (tucked in) from the 2006 Model United Nations conference. I had selected my attire to avoid causing either religious offence or unwelcome manhandling. I congratulated myself on my cultural sympathy and evasion of bodily assault.
Once settled, I took out my exercise book, my copy of Marine Science Activities of the Nations of East Asia and a black biro, and prepared to observe the natural marine environment. What I actually observed was a young man sprinting across the sand towards me.
He stopped in front of me.
I regarded him warily.
He ran his hand through his shiny black hair.
I got myself into the seated ‘ready’ pose I learned at self-defence training. ‘Look,’ I said. My heart was beating rather quickly, ‘I have no money on me. Or valuables. Except this book . . . and it’s only valuable if you are into environmental science, so—’
‘What on earth are you talking about, dude?’ asked the boy. ‘I don’t want your book. I need your help! You seem to be the only sober person on the beach . . . unless you are the kind of girl who gets drunk and reads about marine ecosystems.’
‘No, I don’t get drunk at all,’ I replied. ‘Ever. I value my brain.’
‘Good for you,’ said the boy, and I thought I detected a condescending smirk. I prepared to lecture him about how alcohol is one of the most dangerous drugs in modern society.
‘Sorry, I know that sounded rude,’ he said, before I could begin my prepared argument, ‘but we don’t have a lot of time. Will you please help me? It is urgent.’
Okay, so the boy COULD still feasibly have been a pickpocket, and this COULD all have been his elaborate plan to lure me away from the crowds so he could fleece me of my copy of Marine Science Activities of the Nations of East Asia, but there was something in his eyes telling me I should trust him.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll help. What’s wrong?’
‘There’s a girl,’ he said. ‘By the water. She’s drunk and I am worried she might drown. I need your help to move her and . . . and check she’s okay. She’s totally lost it, I think. She keeps raving on about daisies and Diet Coke and . . .’
‘Hang on,’ I said, feeling my blood turn to frazil ice (which is a kind of sea ice, by the way). ‘This girl . . . What does she look like?’
Paulina