Flying is the ultimate ‘don’t look down’ experience. But as I tighten my seatbelt on the plane, it’s clear that air-travel has changed. I wait for the moment to arrive, but it never does. It seems that somewhere in the quest for low-cost air travel we have abandoned the one thing that distinguished flying from other forms of transport: the hot towel. Frankly, without a hot towel I might as well be sitting on a tram. Who is it that makes such monumental decisions? Is there a committee? Was there a plebiscite? The stewardess refuses to answer any of these questions no matter how often I push the button. As a result, I’m forced to improvise by wetting one of my socks and using two biros as a makeshift pair of tongs. ‘Hot towel?’ I ask.
It was inevitable. I’d seen the first series of ‘What Really Happens in Bali’ and felt inspired. Heck, I can fall over, get drunk, say stupid and downright inappropriate things that makes millions of people wince whilst getting an horrific but reasonably priced tattoo as well as the next person. Clearly, this was the place for me. That my pale skin leaves me susceptible to third degree burns when exposed to anything heavier than a forty-watt light bulb would not dissuade me. Besides, they must be filming a second series by now. Given that my groundbreaking and ingenious offer to be the Bachelor whilst living exclusively inside the Big Brother compound was rejected, going to Bali and injuring myself could be my big break. So to speak.
There are so many reasons to go and only one reason to stay. To put it simply, my back is an empty canvas that is presently going to waste. I want a dragon. With fire coming out of its mouth and holding an electric guitar (preferably a Gibson Les Paul ‘57, if that’s not too much to ask). Next to it, I’ll get the Southern Cross and below that add a few Chinese characters which, in an act of supreme irony, I hope will say ‘Australian Made’, but will probably say ‘Property of the People’s Republic of China’. Bali is the land of discount tattooing. That your provider may be using a sharpened Paddle Pop stick as his tool of trade and drawing ink from a severed biro is all part of the joy of overseas travel. The reason for not going is simple: my abiding and deep respect for gravity.
I am not a good flyer. It’s one of many things at which I truly suck. I am awful Formula One driver, but I seldom if ever get asked to race. When it comes to laying down rhyme, I’m not much of a rapper even though my employee record names ‘ODB’ from the Wu Tang Clan as my next of kin. I am a hopeless thoracic surgeon although I did once write a film script called ‘Thoracic Park’ in which pre-historic medical practitioners attack Jeff Goldblum, partly because he disturbed them in their natural habitat but mostly just for being Jeff Goldblum. Whilst I can avoid representing the Red Bull team, recording with the Wu Tang Clan and conducting surgery – both official and otherwise – some things you can only evade for so long.
Sitting next to me on a plane is not a fun experience. For a time, I travelled with work colleagues from Brisbane to Perth on a semi regular basis. I could almost see them age over the course of the flight, such was the effect of my anxiety. This time, I’ve come prepared with the entire last season of ‘Breaking Bad’ loaded onto the iPad in the hope of distracting myself and, possibly, providing a vicarious viewing experience to the six year old sitting beside me that may well scar him or her for life.
Flying is the ultimate ‘don’t look down’ experience. But as I tighten my seatbelt on the plane, it’s clear that air-travel has changed. I wait for the moment to arrive, but it never does. It seems that somewhere in the quest for low-cost air travel we have abandoned the one thing that distinguished flying from other forms of transport: the hot towel. Frankly, without a hot towel I might as well be sitting on a tram. Who is it that makes such monumental decisions? Is there a committee? Was there a plebiscite? The stewardess refuses to answer any of these questions no matter how often I push the button. As a result, I’m forced to improvise by wetting one of my socks and using two biros as a makeshift pair of tongs. ‘Hot towel?’ I ask.
In flying terms, six hours is nothing. But for someone who would rather extract his own teeth with a pair of barbecue tongs than get on a plane it’s a lot of time to distract yourself. Walter White is well on the path to destruction and I’ve eaten a dehydrated meal of rice whose claims of being ‘Nasi Goreng’ are roughly as about as credible as my claims of being Miss Universe. Everyone around me seems incredibly relaxed, no doubt preoccupied by having to decide which cut price tattoo to get first. When the flight touches down in Denpasar, I feel as though I’ve achieved something quite spectacular. We are herded onto a small bus to get to the terminal and I am struck in the back of the head by a mobile phone as a young holiday goer makes a face that resemble a fish recently injected with Botox and takes selfies. Forget boogie bags stuffed with contraband; if there’s anything that deserves a stretch in an Indonesian prison, it’s taking selfies on public transport. However, my attempts to report these activities to security staff are greeted with a chronic lack of interest.
When I travel, I’m always keen to respect the local customs. In the case of Denpasar airport, the local customs involve queuing up for an hour and waiting to hand over a wad of American dollars. Soon, we are collected from the airport by a young man called ‘Mus’ whose job it is to take us to Ubud. He has Bob Marley on the stereo and when I make a comment about this fact, he interprets it as some kind of criticism and switches to One Direction. Suddenly, my fear of flying is dwarfed by my fear of anything to do with Simon Cowell. By the time we arrive at our destination, I am a pale, quivering wreck and our hosts come out and greet us in the traditional Indonesian manner by asking, ‘Hot towel?’