The jungle is singing. Insects and birds and frogs in chorus; chirping, buzzing, humming all day and through the night. But still, the noise is calming. Perhaps because there’s incense burning and fresh frangipani flowers lining the room. Perhaps because we’re on holiday.
Everyone asks us if this is our first time in Bali. F tells them he came here when he was seven. I say, Yes, it’s my first time. We’re staying in the middle – among the trees and hills and rice fields. Everyone asks us if we like it. We say, Yes, it’s wonderful.
I send my family a photo of the view from the deck outside our room. The jungle. Leaves are green and yellow and orange and red and pink. A bright blue butterfly alights briefly on our table, completing the colour palette.
My mum wonders if creatures will emerge from the trees and they do: local dogs potter the perimeter, geckos climb the wall and two tiny kittens join us for breakfast. All I’ve eaten in the last twenty-four hours is nasi goreng and I don’t want anything to change.
I text my family: I’ve died, and gone to Bali.
We decide to go for a walk into the town. Before we leave I put on sun cream and trainers and sunglasses. The glasses have that tint. The one that makes everything look better.
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