Opening this month-long stint in Bali with Rob has etched many memories into my mental scrapbook: the heat getting under my skin in a way that would make Sinatra proud, the exact smell and taste of incense Dad burns at home whilst Weller plays, and the glorious, if envious, sound of the Scooter.
Scoot-Envy is a new phenomenon to me; I’m no adrenaline-junkie, settling for a Baileys and a Sudoku with my Grandpa over a multi-CC joy ride, but there’s something dangerously sweet about scooting around. Indeed, manually wheeling along the gravelly, cambered side of the road, dripping from a mixture of sweat and mosquito repellent isn’t the most attractive, although it does allow us to practise our morning ritual of ‘selamat pagi’ with the beaming locals and revert to pet-talk with stray dogs who look like they’re grinning but are probably just boiling their bollocks off. You never know; I’d smile too if a sitting fuchsia pom-pom and the Milky Bar Kid’s older brother were passing by… But I’d bloody squeal if I saw two such characters on a scooter!
The green-eyed monster inside me (most likely fuelled by veggie juices: my new fashionable Canggu diet) grows when I think of donning a groovy helmet, revving an engine and jetting off to pastures new, wind-snogging-face and the journey taking two minutes instead of twenty. The sun would no longer need to find solace behind a cloud to grant us moments of cooling grace; we’d be free.
…That is until I remember that I can’t balance for shit and would fall off in three seconds flat, but dreams are definitely allowed in paradise, right?!