Sarah Jane Doe

There’s been a mistake


I think there’s been a mistake. A serious problem of emotional accounting has occurred and it’s gone unrecognised. It concerns the idea that No One Can Make You Happy But Yourself ™. We all know this to be true, right? It sounds like it must be true. Mostly because it’s sort of difficult and annoying, like all true things are. You should immediately soak that egg yolk off your breakfast plate or it’s almost impossible to remove later on. That kind of thing.

So it goes that if we rely on others for our happiness, they’ll eventually reject us, fail us, die, become a Scientologist or move to Nova Scotia and then where will we be? Stuck in Unhappy, with no one to play with. Better to nod sagely and agree with the last few decades of psychological sock-pulling-up that is No One Can Make You Happy But Yourself ™.

A card from my cousin arrived and seemed to confirm this. It read ‘In the midst of winter, I found there was within me an invincible summer’. Happiness is within you, it says. And it’s all down to you. Except. Except. I couldn’t help but feel that she had made me happy just by sending me the card. Very happy, in fact.

I looked around at the midst of my winter. It was pretty cold. I was naked, which didn’t help, stripped bare in an un-sexy, pale and goose-fleshed way with just the odd bruise for colour. I was sitting on a winter beach. Not sand, not even pebbles (too smooth) but that awful shale stuff with sharp edges under my skinny haunches; the kind of beach that excites only geologists and the vacationing citizens of Mordor.

From time to time people would pass by on the windy cliffs above me and shout down offering assistance. ‘No thanks!’ I’d shout back, waving grimly, ‘Gotta do this by myself. Responsible for own happiness. Invincible summer within me. Not a group effort. Back to it,’ I’d say, saluting them on their way. And I’d concentrate. Happy. Happy. Yep. Still there. Good work. Winter’s OK. Lots of people like winter. Oh look, a dead seagull. That’s nice.

Eventually my brother passed by and yelled down, ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m looking for my invincible summer!’


‘Yeah. It’s the beach – summer – you know?’

He looked sceptical, even from a distance.

‘Pretty sure mine was over the other side.’ He gestured.


‘Yeah. Want me to show you?’

‘Nope. Only I can do this. Go away. You’re making me happy with your care and attention. Idiot.’

‘Sorry. Good luck!’

But I thought about it and when it got colder, I started up towards the cliffs, climbing rocks and grabbing at wet tree roots until I was on some semblance of a track. Picking lichen out of my fingernails and rubbing my arms for warmth, I ran in to my ex love-of-my-life. He waved a little. He was standing beside a bicycle.

‘Saw your brother,’ he said, ‘Thought you might want this.’

‘A bike?’

‘Nothing flashy, but I fixed the gears and the seat is nice and soft. I also put some beers in a basket on the back, for you when you arrive.’


‘Yeah. I know how much you like a beer on the beach in an invincible summer. Wasn’t sure which one you drank anymore, so I put in a bottle each of your favourites. Modelo Negro, Sierra Nevada Pale, Carlsberg Elephant, Tusker – like your folks drank in Kenya – and the other beer relating to elephants we drank in Sri Lanka. You enjoy beer with elephant themes somehow.’

‘I do! Thank you, this has made me really ha – wait, I can’t take it.’


‘The whole No One Can Make You Happy But Yourself ™.’

‘Oh yeah. That’s so true. It’s my philosophy too.’

‘I know.’

We regard the bike together.

‘But the beer…’

‘Yeah, just use it for it bit. It won’t make you that happy. ‘


I set off at a wobbly pace, cold beer clinking against cold metal and cold metal against cold skin. Feeling happiness like small hiccups. happy. happy. hmm.  happy.

A couple of my friends were around the bend with a stall selling Pimms and bikinis.

‘Guys! This is awesome!’

‘Sarahjanedoe, you are crazy naked. Take a bikini, we insist.’

‘No, I couldn’t…’

‘Seriously. You’ve given each of us your bikinis in summers past, what’s a bikini between mates? You’ll feel better in your invincible summer with a bikini.’

‘OK, but you know, this is making me really happy, and I’m trying to get there on my own! My cousin already ruined it with her happy-making card…’

But it was too late, the bikini was on and I was under way again. I cycled for hours. It was cold and uninspiring terrain; it didn’t feel like I was closing in on summer. Maybe I’d gone the wrong way.

I saw a figure in the distance. A man, with a beach towel around his shoulders – a promising sign. As I drew closer I noted his golden skin and the traces of white sand on his feet. Maybe he can help me find summer! Maybe – No! No One Can Make You Happy But Yourself ™.

Suddenly aware of my straggly self on the bike, I dismounted and wheeled by, keeping good distance. The man smiled, an enormous smile, and said ‘Hey! A bikini! Are you also looking for the invincible summer within you?’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘I’m just, y’know, riding. Being happy already. Totally happy. And cool. Quite cool.’


He had very blue eyes like the sea in my invincible summer and they seemed disappointed.

‘Are you looking for yours?’ I asked.

‘I was just there…’ he gestured vaguely and scratched his beard. A shimmery dusting of sand fell out. ‘But I’m not sure of the way back.’

‘OK. Look, I lied to impress you. I have no idea where mine is but I know it’s within me, not you or my family or friends, and those people are all slowing me down with their happy-making help. Doesn’t anyone realise No One Can Make You Happy But Yourself ™?

‘It’s true isn’t it? I’ve heard it so often. It must be right.’

‘Yes, because what if you let someone make you happy that isn’t you and then they become a Scientologist?’

‘Or move to Nova Scotia,’ he said thoughtfully.


‘Well, seeing as we agree, maybe we can just go part of the way together. Zero happiness. Promise. Because it doesn’t fit.’

‘Sounds great, let’s go.’

We encountered ridiculous obstacles. At one point a track filled with broken glass looked like it would be the end of the journey until my parents arrived with a care-package of brightly coloured Havianas. ‘Hey!’ I protested, ‘No One Can Make You…’ but they were already heading back to their own invincible summers, picnic baskets in hand.

Before long, the blue-eyed stranger looked at me and said ‘I think your bruises are fading.’

He was right.

‘And you’re much more golden.’

He checked his arms and smiled. ‘I think we’re getting close.’

It was growing warmer.

When at last I arrived at my invincible summer within myself, the bike had become a gypsy caravan of trinkets and treasures from at least thirty people – books and thick towels, suncream and cold bottles of Badoit, tropical fruits, sarongs and even a silver box of sea-bird calls, an unexpected gift from someone who reminded me that you can’t have summer without those sounds, anymore than without the sound of the waves.

The golden stranger whooped and ran straight into the limitless ocean, splashing joyfully. I was hesitant. ‘Come in!’ He said ‘Your invincible summer is fantastic! Have you seen how perfect this sand is?’

‘It’s meant to be within me, though. It’s not real now. Ugh. Exhausting.’

I plonked gracelessly on the beach.

‘I’m going to have to do it all again. Look, you keep this stuff. The beer’s still cold and those coconuts from my neighbours look really tasty.’

‘Aren’t you happy here?’

‘Yes! Really happy. I was happy as soon as I got that card. But not all by myself! It’s all these people who make me happy. They make me happy every day. Even strangers make me happy! That’s not how it’s supposed to be.’

‘What if it’s wrong.’


‘What if it’s wrong, that No One Can Make You Happy But Yourself ™, and it’s actually only the people in our lives who make us happy? Humans are a pack species after all.’

I consider it. It’s a possibility. Have we all just fallen victim to popular psychobabble?

So at the end of a full day of enjoying my invincible summer within myself with added friends, family and handsome strangers, I wrote my own manifesto* on my beach in the sand. And it felt true.

*‘No One Can Make You Happy But Yourself. Yourself Might Need A Lot Of Other Amazing People To Make Yourself Happy, But Yourself Will Do A Damn Good Job Of It ™.’


You put the lime in the coconut


Bear with me on the present tense from a year ago. It’s now the start of a long, cold, wet Melbourne winter and I’ve had some requests for tips on Ubud, where everyone wise is headed in the next few weeks. So, cast your minds back to be in the moment with me. I will do the same. It’s raining and 11 degrees today. I just might cast back and stay there.

Yesterday I met a real pain in the ass. Doesn’t happen much in Ubud. If you don’t like the smiley vibe here, you tend to just…leave. This guy had been here for a day and a night and he hated it. In fact, I think he’d spent 23 hours thinking about what he hated and writing these things down. In blood. During the 24th hour he went looking for someone to vent to and he found me.

I was an easy target. Sitting under my bower of passionflowers at Bar Luna, smiling into the afternoon sun, thinking about Bali. Thinking about France. Laughing at an email. Waving to a friend piloting a slow scooter down Jalan Coutama. When people walk past here, they smile and say hello. It’s nice. I smiled. He said ‘Can I ask you a question?’

I said ‘Sure!’

A few of my friends operate an unofficial bule embassy out of Bar Luna and I felt I owed it to them to keep their desks warm: I prepared answers to the questions I’ve heard a few times before from this perch – ‘how do you extend your visa?’ ‘Where can I get good coffee?’ ‘Is that organic beer OK?’ ‘Is there a toilet in there?’ ‘When is happy hour?’ and ‘Did we know each other in a past life?’ (not-even-kidding-a-little-bit).

‘You look happy. Why is everyone so happy here? It’s vile. It’s a vile place.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Yeah, I prefer Kuta. At least in Kuta you know it’s going to be hell. But this place pretends it’s heaven. It’s a disgrace. It revolts me.’

‘I’ll take that as a comment.’


‘OK, well, I’m happy because it’s warm, friendly, relaxi –‘

‘It’s not relaxing. It’s busy.’

‘This is the centre of town at the height of tourist season.’

‘Yeah. It’s busy.’

‘Go just outside of town, take a walk down –’

‘But you like it here. I can tell.’

‘Yes, I really do.’

‘Huh. What’s it like in there?’

‘Great food, great coffee. Lovely staff.’

‘Yeah, right. They just want your money you know.’

‘Yep. It’s a business. It’s a cafe.’

At this point, the three piece acoustic guitar band at Bar Luna start playing ‘Don’t worry be happy.’ (not-even-kidding-a-little-bit. 10 July 2012, one of their best ever sets). The dudes harmonised their whistling in a way Bobby could be proud of. I was proud too. I puffed out my chest. I gestured at the guitars, ‘Look, it’s happy hour. The band’s playing a happy song about being happy. Come in, get a drink with a fresh lychee in it. Give it a chance,’ (this is how happy I am here – I invited this nasty little man in to my happy from his unhappy).

He just snorted a real snort at me and said ‘They’re ruining this song,’ then he said ‘and I heard there was a Starbucks here.’

I felt my stomach plummet – how could I mount a case for Ubud-as-heaven when he already knew its most horrible secret? There really is a Starbucks here. It’s even got this fakey-temple thing going on. It’s just awful, truly awful. So. Tragic. I hung my head and mumbled that I’d heard there was one. I felt all my pride and Ubud-love deflating.

‘Yeah, well can you tell me where it is? I want a real coffee from a good place.’

‘They only want your money you know.’ (hey, I’m not that happy.)

After giving Mr Sunshine directions and a tight-lipped wave goodbye, I thought I should publish the ‘Few days in Ubud’ quick-list I’ve put together for some friends. That way, if you turn up after being stuck in traffic behind a tour bus for hours in indifferent weather, you can cheat your way to happy-in-Ubud without wasting time on bad snacks.

Here we go.

Coffee: This is important to me. Good strong coffee gets me really, really high. I love drinking it. The comedown is just as severe as the upswing however, and it takes real fortitude to get me through the giddying trajectory of any day that includes coffee. That’s pretty much every day. I live like an addict. Lots of self-loathing, promises, shakes and headaches, dry-mouth, snapping of elastic bands on wrists, the joy of abandoning myself to the high, the self- loathing and repeat.

If you need it too, Bar Luna is the best, by far. Their strong latte and house-made shortbread mini-cookie is a sublime coffee experience. Seniman is also wonderful – part design studio and coffee laboratory, and both spots are tucked away in relatively quiet spots and have wifi. Juice Ja and Kafe are my other hideaways for real coffee, and both serve delicious food and juices (Kafe has much better food, Juice Ja has the better location). The green tea espresso frappe at Kafe is the stuff of breakfast dreams.

Snacks: one of the reasons people are happy here is that we eat tasty food all day. Just cruise from one long meal to the next. There’s a lot of high quality produce and flavours to be had for crazy small sums of money, particularly if you are used to eating out in a big city. What would cost me $40 in Melbourne costs me $4 in Ubud. As a consequence, I spend my time snacking in fancier, more obvious spots. You can get a tasty meal here for 70 cents, but that’s not on my list. My list is not going to be liked by people who think it’s sacrilegious to eat Mexican food in Indonesia. I care not. You’re on holiday – eat tasty things that make you happy. It’s not a competition. The Lonely Planet fairy will not appear and award you anything for eating tepid gado-gado at every meal.

Juice-Ja – these guys have a great soto ayam (local chicken soup) and will even serve it piping hot for breakfast. I’m a big fan of it for breakfast or lunch with a whole young coconut to drink on the side. Their juices are great too, and it has a lovely vibe. Jalan Dewisita, near Havana.

Bar Luna – the nasi campur is the best in town. The coffee is the best in town. Breakfasts are great and so are the delicious tropical cocktails – 2 for 1 during the long happy hour from 5 to 8, so a lychee breeze and a watermelon martini will set you back about $5 for the pair. This is great for Bali, where mixed drinks can be surprisingly pricey. Jalan Coutama.

Taco Casa and Grill – better Mexican food than I’ve had anywhere in Australia. I’m a big fan of the shrimp quesadillas, and I always order the fresh ‘lemon’ juice (an incredible iced lime slushie – don’t fear the ice in any of these places) The burritos are great too. So is the guac. It’s all great. Jalan Hanoman, next to Pizza Bagus.

Kafe – Yum! Healthy, delicious, nutritious, tasty. Everything here is good. Wash your meal down with a green tea espresso frappe in the morning, juices the rest of the day, and a Storm beer (the Pale is great) at whatever is beer time for you. Jalan Hanoman.

Clear – best at night, when it’s all lit up and fancy. This and Havana are great date nights. Wide selection of treats. Jalan Hanoman.

Havana – what’s a Cuban salsa bar doing in Ubud? Who cares? The band is fantastic, the swivel-hipped staff will have you dancing, and despite the fact that those two sentences would normally have me cross the street to avoid a place, it works on holiday. It’s often the last place to close, and in a town with sleepy nightlife, that’s important. Jalan Dewisita.

Kue bakery, has a daily edition of the international edition of the New York times, and a pleasing array of snacks including a sandwich with melted brie. Yeah.

The sate/satay guy deep underground in the wet market – this guy has great satay and he’s a sweetheart too. More of an in-between snack than a meal, just head down into the underground local-ish part of the touristy main market in town. The satay are always cooking over hot coals, just follow your nose. Jalan Main, underground at the markets.

Take the through-the paddy-fields walk to Sari Organik, but keep going further to Pomegranate, a massive favourite and very peacefully away from it all.

 Other top tips

Yoga Barn – Just do it. It’ll be great If you’ve never done it before, do an intro. I did it one day when I was at half-lung capacity from flu and I finally learned the basics properly. After a few months of practice at all the classes on offer, I’ve never looked or felt better. Twas grand. Jalan Hanoman, be very careful of the broken footpath getting there, and look for the ‘Siam Sally’ sign to find the entrance. Every other Monday night the Yoga Barn run open-air movies on comfy cushions, with organic popcorn served in half coconut shells to the sounds of a thousand crickets in the paddy fields  and a water fall rushing below.


Jalan Main  (self-explanatory) is like the body of the octopus and all tentacles come off in this way. First is Monkey Forest road, all the way down to literal Monkey Forest. Busy and crazy. Leads to the soccer field, always a good landmark.

On Hanoman, you’ll find the Yoga Barn, Clear, Kafe, and Sisi and Nanan and Puspita for shopping (sweet, Japanese designed silverwear and clothing).

Jalan Coutama is my favourite little street by far. Just wander.

On dealing with touts and beggars

This largely happens on on Jalan Dewisita. Just be friendly. This is a small town, not Kuta. You’ll run into these people again. They aren’t too persistent and occasionally you do want a ride or whatever they offer. Chill out. No one is trying to get the better of you. Remain smiley and kind. Remember your manners, these are people too. Also, you are on holiday. So, maybe the knife sellers are the only ones to ignore – but no one else needs to be ignored. No one should be ignored! It will just ruin your mood.

Jalan Main leads down to Campuhan, and on to Penestanan.


For nails, great massages, soaking in deep copper tubs and all kinds of lush (and cheap!) treatments, visit Sedona.

For massage in exotic, jungle-cave surroundings that won’t cost crazy prices – Tjampuhan

For the best wax, particularly intimate waxing (in fact, don’t go anywhere else for this) Skin is by far the best choice. They have the best kinds of nail polish too.

Most important tip – Smile. Breathe. Make your own list and make it better. There’s so much left out of this one. x






Advice for the new lover

For the five or six months of your pregnancy that is visible to the outside world, the outside world will attempt to warn you about what’s coming next. People who have a limited grasp on logic or have grown up oddly sheltered from common expressions such as ‘you can’t be a little bit pregnant,’ or skipped health classes in high school where a bored/embarrassed/somnambulant PE teacher explained the one-way street that is second trimester pregnancy, will take it upon themselves to offer the kind of advice that’s as useful as winding down the window of a car shouting ‘Bridge out ahead!’ and waving gaily like smug Samaritans as the train carriage you are strapped into hurtles  toward a chasm with comically bent tracks disappearing into oblivion. In short, it’s not helpful. There’s no way out.

The warnings about the pain and practicalities of childbirth are useful.  I took them seriously enough to introduce myself as ‘Epidural’ upon being admitted to the labour ward last month in the throes of pain that was, as the warners described, indescribable.  But what you largely get warned about is nothing you can medicate away or buy swaddling linens made from sustainably sourced bamboo for.  What you get warned about is so fundamental and irresolvable that it feels more like condolences than advice.  Pregnant! The hands flutter to the mouth or heart. The following is issued, in no particular order, or all at once:

‘It’s like a piece of your heart is outside yourself forever, and you have no control over what happens to it. You’ll never sleep properly again. You’ll have to consider someone else in everything you do for the rest of your life. You start making concessions from the moment they arrive. You’ll do things for them you’d never do for yourself, and then they’ll rip your heart out with a few thoughtless words.’

Baby advice? I could read that out as a wedding speech. And although you can stop that particular train in time, nobody tries to warn you about falling in love. When you say ‘I’ve met someone,’ with shining eyes, no one says ‘Oh God, clearly you don’t value your sleep, free-time and autonomy, eh? But I’m sure you’ll be a great lover, no really, it’s just that, well, it’s so much harder than you think, and no one ever tells you, they just sell you this myth of loverhood like it’s the be-all-and-end-all, when honestly, your life will just never be the same again. You’ll never be the same again. Once you look into their eyes and see that recognition back at you – oh, it just turns your world upside down. You’re powerless. Good luck. It’s a special club, not for the faint-hearted’.

No one says that. No one even offers you as much as a day of new lover leave for all the sleep you’ll miss in the first delirious month, or practical advice on keeping your fluids up to prevent cystitis. New parents don’t sleep. OK, but for how long? Because when you fall in love, it usually ends with someone sharing your bed and disrupting your sleep for the next conceivable ever.  The only break you get from this is when they aren’t sharing your bed and despite your longing for your own bed again, you’ll do anything to avoid your lover sleeping on the couch or in another bed somewhere because the pain of that will keep you awake anyway.  But people rush past these immediate and obvious realities. Instead they merely squeal and want to know your potential heartbreaker’s star sign, occupation or postcode, as if any of these things were important and could provide some prophylaxis to the black chasm ahead. As if anything could.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a romantic. A lover. An idealist. A dreamer. I have so much hope I had to give up scuba diving. My glass is full to the meniscus. But falling in love? My condolences. The very best, truest, longest loves end when one lover dies. Yep. Every time. So the holy grail of happy endings is a terrible accident in which both lovers are simultaneously incinerated with no knowledge of the other’s pain, or a suicide pact. If those are your best outcomes, I don’t think you need me to walk you through the worst. Open a newspaper. Or a novel. See any French film. Sit next to a divorce lawyer on a Sydney to Melbourne flight. Re-read the letters you wrote to the first person you ever loved. Scary, isn’t it? Much more frightening than a little being designed to love you and be loved by you for the rest of your life with no preconditions or preconceptions. Much tougher than that. So my advice? Keep your legs crossed, your eyes closed and your heart shuttered. And never fall in love.*

*Note: By never, I mean truly, never fall in love. Because even if you think you can handle being in love, it often leads to parenthood. And the thing about parenthood is that there’s always a piece of your heart outside yourself…

See friendship

I am spring-cleaning my Facebook…what’s the appropriate collective noun? Gallery? Database? Mob? Collection? It’s kind of a collection, in the American Psycho/ Silence of the Lambs sense of the word more than the Antiques Roadshow variety. Anyway, I’ve noticed that when you hover (technical term, not literal) your mouse (technical term, not animal) over an icon representing someone in your Facebook collection of people you know, don’t really know, worked with or are related to, Facebook entreats you to ‘See Friendship.’

Friendship is capitalised, so I’m not sure if it’s actually been acquired by Facebook like the colour blue they use, or the word ‘Face’ they are attempting to trademark (if successful, will we all have to start referring to our visages as ‘visages’ or ‘that place where my features are at, yo’ to avoid copyright infringement?) but regardless, it’s a powerful suggestion. See Friendship.

You scroll (technical term, not pastry) through these little squares of artful selfies, babies-as-adults, objects-as-semiotic-jokes, and blurry-crops-from-company-picnics-or-family-reunions and on every one of them, this same command; see friendship. At first I found this to be wildly irritating. Yes, w not m – wildly. Nobody likes to be issued directives from machinery. My new microwave screams at me to ‘Get Food’.  I currently use it to sterilse bottles so hey, microwave, you get f*ood, OK? Get fooed. And I had this same reaction to Facebook until I realised that it was actually giving me the sweetest, oldest, most human message there is.

This person’s face? Your mate with some serious passive aggressive behavioural issues who causes you pain? See friendship. That person’s sailing-trophy in place of head? Yeah, you don’t really know them anymore, but once you did, once they offered you the best thing they had – their friendship. So when you look at that icon, hey, see friendship. In fact, all carefully culled and shined and alphabetically arrayed 400 odd souls, see friendship there. Even if it’s not there anymore. Or if it’s troublesome. Or if, in the case of one particular face, it goes so far and deep and long and into your life and soul that ‘friendship’ seems reductive and insignificant – just see the part that’s friendship. See that part. That helps.

And if you want to really see friendship, to really get excited -  then for all its ugliness and pettiness and timewastiness, Facebook has a sort of gratitude-journal function called ‘most recently added’. You can see, hammered up on the dart board of your digital heart, a list of the ‘+’ number of beings who gave you friendship in the past year. Do it, do it now – see how good you feel about most of them. See how surprised you are to know that some of these friends have only been around for a single ‘timeline’ year. See how their ‘profile pic’ makes the sun peek out between clouds in your mind. See the girl who reminds you of a vivacious Serbian version of Sofia Coppola who dropped you off in front of your house and said directly ‘So I think we should be friends’. See the beautiful young man who forgot convention and decided to hold an almost-stranger on the street because he knew she was sad, and then offered her his story, some Tolstoy and a sober agreement of fifty years of friendship. See the slight, pretty woman who moved in with you a few days after meeting you, on the afternoon you both dodged near-death by falling coconut. See the 21 year-old French DJ, the TV chef, the Viking photo-journalist, the Swiss renaissance man with Petit Prince stars on his body who made you coffee and fixed your visa in the jungle, the writers, the doctor, the girl you met while you both took a giggling photo of an enormous new panty-liner with wings stuck boldly on the window of the 112 tram. See their stories. See their gift to you. See friendship*.

*Note:  the lowercase f. We gave Cadbury purple, Facebook blue, and Apple – everything. Let’s keep the big stuff and tell the corporations to get fooed.

Every little beetle

Mother and daughter

My baby book is a masterpiece of 70s tripped-out-shepherdess charm, filled in with my mother’s neat, best-behaviour script and made triumphant by the kind of trophy a fairy might take: a Scotch-taped lock of my first straight, golden hair. It also contains a curious inscription from my Dad, a then 26 year-old father-to-be. It’s an old Arab proverb. His mother was Syrian, but it didn’t come from her. Where he found it in 1978 in a small, rural Australian town before the internet I’m not really sure, but in his familiar, left-handed letters reads this dedication before my birth – ‘Every little beetle is a gazelle in its mother’s eyes.’

My daughter will continue the tradition my parents started and be the second little girl in our family conceived (and discovered) accidentally on an extended international adventure, born to a determined young mother and a shocked University student father. The ensuing drama of my turn at this scenario has made me consider that perhaps Dad’s inscription was a personal prayer. After all, there wasn’t much you could possibly know about your little beetle back then, apart from the fact it was very definitely on its way.

In contrast, my 2013 belly is a glass-bottomed boat to doctors – my baby’s fingers and toes were counted at 12 weeks, her probable gender and reassuring normality confirmed at 20 weeks. If you ask me what my beetle is like I can already boast about the excellence of the brand new four-chambered heart she grew, which is as big as my pinkie nail and pumps blood in and out in very fast, happy little snorts.  She has a lovely straight spine. Its resemblance to a large anchovy is purely circumstantial.  Her ears, like her fingernails, are perfect (and exquisitely, head-spinningly small). She has very fine feet for someone who weighs half a kilo, and I’m looking forward to telling her this one day and also to complimenting the lovely little lips I’ve just seen the doctor scrutinise for any sign of a cleft palate.

My Dad didn’t know any of this about me. I was just a mysterious, growing mound on his wife. How necessary then, to hope that every lowly little beetle will be somebody’s swift-footed gazelle, how important, the reassurance that someone will love us no matter how we emerge. Because no one really knows what’s coming yet. Like some of the other mothers-to-be at my hospital, I could fly to Hong Kong for some of the pre-natal tests that aren’t available here, but even then there’s still nothing to tell me with any certainty that my beetle might fail to flourish. And if they could, I wouldn’t want to hear it anymore. I’ve fallen hard. I’ve got three long months to go before I meet her, but something has taken over my brain as surely as toxoplasmosis makes an infected mouse wander stupefied until it finds the scent of feline excreta and follows it right to the jaws of a (presumably surprised) house cat.

Because my belief in her fine qualities is certainly not based on science. In fact, there is some evidence that my baby is not terribly bright (yet). She often becomes tangled in her umbilical cord and then executes furious, ungainly rolling manoeuvres to extricate herself that I imagine must look like those made by a dim-witted astronaut in a Gary Larsen cartoon.  She doesn’t think much of good coffee and throws a few half-hearted punches when I drink it (philistine). She lies in wait until I’m asleep and then tries clumsily to kick her way out (one does not simply walk into Mordor) and, according to my doctor, she prefers to sleep upside down like a little bat.

So none of what I know so far really adds up to gazelle, but the first time I felt her kick I became a non-cynical, wide-eyed true-believer in her greatness. In the perfection of a parasite as big as half a bag of flour, whose main occupation consists of covering itself in dead skin cells to keep warm and gaily sipping at its own urine. I grasped for words to explain the total transformation of my mind. ‘It’s like seeing a Unicorn,’ I said at the time, and it’s struck me since that I’d found the only creature less beetley than a gazelle to describe her.

I know I’m a fool in exactly the way zillions of other parents have been foolish, but I don’t care. And it’s made it easier to hang out with my mum on the days when it’s obvious she’s convinced that at 34 I still don’t know how to use NapiSan or do my hair properly, because I now know, with absolute certainty, that she once thought of me as the most wondrous creature ever to fall from the stars.  So next time your folks give you their disappointed face, remember that you undoubtedly came into this world as their Unicorngazelle and stand up straight to let the sun warm your beetle-shell back. No matter how much you screw up, you were once perfect. We all were. It’s a very nice thing to know for sure.



When I meet people from Melbourne here in Ubud, they’re invariably my own kind. The transplants. Cultural ‘fugees to Melbourne from Sydney, Canberra, Tasmania, and attractive little regional centers up and down the Eastern seaboard. ‘I’m from Melbourne.’ When we say her name, it’s with the smug, reverential certainty of the newly married, the teen model, the Scientologist.  Even though we are all here escaping her winter, our love for the same four or five postcodes and CBD is as bold and indelible as a full-face tattoo.

Like the other come-latelys, I love Melbourne as only someone who hasn’t grown up there can. I never had to play junior AFL in grim little sportsfields with burnt off grass and fresh-from-Mongolian-tundra winds reaching through my polyester school shorts. I was never bored at her suburban bus stops, never drank underage in her shopping centre carparks, never crowded around a bar-heater to watch Neighbours like a whole city taking communion in inflammable tweed dressing gowns. Never had to spend weekends driving to visit nameless cousins or liver-spotted senior relatives in places I once heard described as ‘Trading Post suburbs.’ eBay postcodes. Car sales suburbs. Whole lot of cul-de-sacs in search of a milk bar. I have never seen this Melbourne.

I didn’t grow up thinking that my private single sex school – or absence thereof – was the most defining part of my life from age six till the end of University, and now, in my 30s, I’m not duty bound to open with this fact at parties (you still do, Melbourne, you still do). Nope. None of those things. I got to turn up just in time to steal a piece of her cut-price inner city during an odd month at the end of 2007 when, globally and nationally, it had never been a better idea for two semi-employed young people with aspirations of working in ‘The Arts’ to buy a whole house 4 km from the GPO and incur a mortgage less than the cost of rent on a Sydney apartment. I know it was a one-time-only deal, but it added to the sense that we were colonisers in a land of savages wholly unaware of their own bounty.

Oh, Melbourne. You had a thousand tiny cafes and bars and cafes that were also bars and they all let us drink outside. One was in an alley with milk crates for seats and it only served tinnies from an esky. It wasn’t self-conscious. It wasn’t po-mo, it wasn’t a stunt. It was convenient and low tech and served Uni students. We were hooked. We didn’t understand that you didn’t understand that this was not how life was lived elsewhere. That elsewhere there may have been other bidders for that old Victorian cottage with an 80 year-old elm tree and the romance of a broken-off name; a back yard lost under a cloud of honeysuckle; and the thrill of pulling up old pennies, marbles, smoking pipes and porcelain dolls heads along with the sunken flooring, all within walking distance of the delights of your city center; your universities, bars, parks, pools, museums and galleries. Oh, Melbourne! We sat on our front step drinking limoncello, looking about in wonder and disbelief, longing to toss a glass coke bottle in from the sky just to see what you would do with it.

Now you know what we know, but we’ll never let you go. We’ll insist that you’re undiscovered, secret, and a sign of our rarefied taste. Just like we do with Ubud, as we shout her name over the teeming traffic, the tour groups, the touts and the throngs of the tribally tattooed. The Ubud/Melbourne transplant set. Melbudians. No one has ever loved so wisely and so well.  Or with more humility*.

*Note: by ‘humility’ I mean that we are poised to accept whispered praise and sidelong glances of admiration with all the grace and shy-eyed discomfort of a Vegas showgirl or a US Olympic swimmer.

This is your captain speaking

‘Welcome to Denpasar airport and the island of Bali, where the local time is 7 p.m. and the weather is a fine and mild 26 degrees.

On behalf of Captain GrooossmetterwhitzelIfrunke and the crew, we thank you for choosing to fly with KLM. If you don’t recall making the choice to fly KLM, we thank the internet search engine you used. We’d also like to thank Air Asia for neglecting to service this route adequately, as well as our corporate lawyers and the strange protectionist policies of various countries and agencies for allowing us to get in on this air-space stitch up. Danke!

For those passengers who have never flown KLM before, we are delighted to have had the chance to impress you with our Smurf-blue everything, our disconcerting sense of humour (did you like how the Captain laughed at his ‘jokes’ all the time? In two languages? No other airline offers this, we are loving of ourselves in this minute!), and the hilarious accents of all on board, especially the cabin crew who made the safety instructions sound like they were being spoken backwards, underwater, with a suffocating catfish lodged in their throats.

If you are connecting to an onward flight, KLM thanks you for flying with us and wishes you a safe and pleasant journey. Hopefully you’ll catch the end of Albert Nobbs on the next plane.

If this is your first time in Bali, KLM welcomes you to the one that got away. Did we say that out loud? For the ease and comfort of our passengers during their visit, we wish to advise you that the local language is simple and the primary industry is you. That’s bule. Say it: boo-lay. It means white but not whitey, so don’t be offended. And it’s OK. Everyone’s winning. Your country is cold and expensive and you’ve had to outsource. In doing so you’ve become a major resource. We are letting you know so that you stop trying to get everyone to just ‘go about their business’ while you take artful photographs of them. You are the business. Luckily for you it’s a family business, so as soon as you join in you’ll become Balinese much faster than by poisoning yourselves at five cent food vendors. Go to the 50 cent food vendors and create a micro economy, we dare you.

If you are returning to Bali, KLM would like you to acknowledge that the Dutch got here wayyy before you. We had Bali on vinyl. Accordingly, if you are returning to Bali after a few years away you may also wish to claim bragging rights to the island, such as the man in seat 18 C who is currently reminiscing about how Ubud used to be a ‘sleepy little fishing village.’ Ubud is a mountain town, hat-of-ass. Apart from paddy-eels, the only live fish in the Ubud area are the small flesh-eating kind in those streetside-stunt-tanks that bule wish to put their feet in to have their dead heel-skin eaten in gross-bule-flesh water along with other bules, and the sleepy golden koi in ponds for bule to look at while taking the shoes off those same manky feet outside of Yoga Barn. It was never a fishing village man, get over it or get off my craft.

If Bali is your home, KLM wishes you a warm welcome home. As you have just travelled with us from outrageously expensive Singapore, we predict you are still laughing about how wonderfully cheap it is to live, eat and drink like kings in Bali, unless you are earning rupiah, in which case you might be understandably glum that Singaporeans have none of the natural resources that you do and technically should be your poor and awkward neighbours but instead have a populace dressed largely in stuff created under the LVMH umbrella of wanko-luxe, while drinking water right from the tap and never smelling their own – working – sewerage systems. Don’t worry, the bule find your lack of access to these things ‘charming’ and, as I’ve just pointed out, they’re your primary industry. What’s a little dysentery between friends every now and again, eh? It’s the only way it travels after all. Everyone else chooses to travel with KLM*.’

*Note: this author would certainly choose to fly Royal Dutch again, having been roundly charmed, not least by their offer of ‘red wine, white wine, or Amarula Cream?’ with dinner.

Bring your daughter to work day

sarahjanedoe and her Dad at work together

It started with a text from Dad. ‘In Singapore. At hotel shaped like boat. Come on over.’ I’m a sucker for two things: my Dad and themed hotels. Themed anything really. But mostly Dad.

I was reading this on a tiny island off the Indonesian coast. From a beach-shack breakfast with only the waves and some piratical island cats for company, Kelly and I caught a horse taxi that she accurately described as being disconcertingly like Santa’s sleigh into ‘town’, then a boat to the dock of Padang Bai on Bali, then a ‘transport’ to Ubud, checked into a room, walked the length of Ubud to eat at Taco Casa and Grill (best Mex ever), where I decided to give in to the growing idea to follow Kelly out of Bali (but not home to winter, no thanks) and onward to that boat shaped hotel. We checked out. We got another ‘transport’ to Denpasar. We ran around the airport trying to get me a ticket on the last flight out in a series of foolish escapades, stolen wifi, and sweaty trips between terminals which ended with a very strange but successful phone call to an office in Qatar (bless the Qataris for not believing in Sundays).

I arrived here in Singapore at 2 a.m. and met Dad at a hotel shaped less like a boat and more like a futuristic disaster movie of impossible proportions. It’s not a building so much as a giant, towering spectacle, styled like Gattaca meets Battlestar Galactica. My dirty feet with their Bali induced Haviana perma-tan were as out of place in the pristine lobby as I was, fumbling through wads of the smallest denominations of Indonesian rupiah and shaking half the sand of Gili Trawangan beach out of my hair. I met Dad with a hug and a high five for completing phase one of hi-jinks. As I made myself at home by stealing his Qantas First Class upgrade trophy (silk slippers) and donning a fluffy robe, I grew nostalgic.

‘It’s just like when we used to go to Tampa! Remember Tampa? We’d watch basic cable and drink no-brand ”hot tea”. Afterwards I’d put wet toilet paper in my ears to drown out your snoring. Then in the morning I’d drop you at work, borrow the Jeep and drive to Krispy Kreme. Get a dozen warm and an endless cup. Make fun of a copy of USA Today till lunchtime.’ I grew wistful. ‘Those were the days Dad’.

‘They sure were, Sweet.’

I don’t think Dad’s had a gig yet that I haven’t crashed. And he’s a water treatment engineer, so this means my happy snaps are often interspersed with pictures of giant pipes, bores, and odd shaped holes in the ground. Other people see waterfalls where I see hydro-electric schemes (water still falls down in a pleasing way). One year Dad went back to Uni and I crashed that too. It was Harvard. Well played, right? It allows me to say things like ‘When I was at Harvard Business School’ and be technically correct. I really take over, too, during the crashing, and Harvard was no exception. Did my laundry there. Ate all my meals at the dorm dining hall, went to the classes and tutorials where I opined about the case studies I’d watch Dad prepare the night before. Went drinking with his new friends. I even had his bed while he slept on a rolled out mat on the floor. ‘Night Dad.’ I’d call from above. ‘Do you reckon our homework is good for tomorrow? Dja do a good job?’

‘Yes, Sweet.’

I don’t really know how we got away with it. Most families are probably just too well-bred to try, and the Harvard post-grads were all too well-bred to call us on it.

Dad’s reward for this kind of regular intrusion is a partner in crime who shares a love of Asian food for breakfast as well as the same blend of curious dorkdom in all things. When we find a movie like Groundhog Day on in-room telly we settle in and sigh contentedly together without needing to seek approval or permission. At Harvard, we had to work hard to avoid culture and taste. It took us a good few days to locate a movie theatre showing Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit, instead of art-house flicks and the latest in contemporary European cinema. The theatre turned out to be in a highly dubious neighbourhood and involved an on-foot expedition travelling the wrong way along the kerb of an unattractive freeway, a short climb down a rubbish strewn embankment in the rain, and some squeezing between a variety of chain link fences. Later, full of popcorn and with the mysterious curse of the were-rabbit finally solved, we didn’t have to check in to see if the other had found the experience worthwhile. It was obviously the best thing about our Harvard experience, and this was a school that served us poached wild-Atlantic-salmon fillets with potatoes au gratin for play-lunch.

This year marks the 30th anniversary of when Dad first took his daughter to work. It was in Alexandria, Egypt and I was four.  Armed with some small snacks inside the relatively new technology of a zip-lock bag, I set forth with optimism about my career as an engineer at my father’s side. We were out on the road together, under our own steam, stopping to inspect important things like Possibly Friendly Animals, and, once or twice, a man digging a ditch or measuring a length of agricultural pipe. Throughout the day, I was told that I was clever and interesting and very useful. Indispensible really.  It made quite the impression. That’s why I’m so pleased to be in Singapore navigating the room service menu and writing Dad notes on hotel stationary that read ‘KPIs for today include bacon.’ Really, I don’t know how the man manages to do his job without me*.

*Note: I’m not an engineer. Sadly, I don’t even like graph paper.

What a difference a day makes

sarahjanedoe and Kelly in Ubud

‘What a difference a day makes’. I wonder who said that first or if it’s just some ancient, amorphous truism? A sort of collective, hive-mind blendy? Because even back when life was cave and tundra, every day was different. People still woke up, broke up, got knocked up, knocked out, got high, felt low. Some days are dramatically different from the ones before. Car crashes. Windfalls. Breakages. Breakthroughs.

This past week I started writing a post titled ‘Today is the Greatest’. I was so busy having my Greatest day that the post didn’t get finished and, by the next day, things had swung unexpectedly toward the Worstest. Then whoa, back again.  Big week. I’m quite tired from all the difference a day makes (note the ‘from’ not ‘of’. Never ‘of’).

So it’s been a sadistic kind of treat to watch it happen to someone else, even if it’s my much adored sister-in-love, Kelly. She arrived a week ago from the middle of winter in the middle of the night to the middle of a new country and the middle of my health crisis. Probably not what she’d expected when reading about my sunny, happy, blissed-out life here in Ubud.

I reacted to my fast-improving health and the 100% increase in loved ones from home by attempting to have about four Greatest days in one. I met her at the airport with a cool-ass driver and an ice-cold beer (a tradition started by my brother for all new arrivals to the island of Bali), whizzed her to a luxury hotel, woke her about six hours later for breakfast at Sea Circus followed by sugar cane espresso cocktails on the beach at Ku De Ta and a ride in Tanky, the vintage Mexican VW, up the winding mountain road to Ubud. All before midday. Sounds great, right? Right. But I was still nauseous, she was jet-lagged and the rice paddies were all being burnt back so that a thick wet haze of stale smoke hung over everything.

I decided to fix this by applying a liberal dose of Yoga Barn in Ubud. As soon as Kelly fell from Tanky’s sweet, rattling embrace I marched her down Jalan Hanoman in search of inner-peace. This is the busiest street at the busiest time of the busiest part of tourist season (turns out I Rumpelstiltskined myself during the whole amoebic dysentery thing. I woke up to find it was school holidays in Australia and the whole of that island had moved to this one, en masse. I even ran in to the girl who serves me at my local bakery, Dench. She recognised me right away – apparently my North Fitzroy hangovers look sama-sama to my almostdiedovers. Classy.) and, ergo, it was pretty busy.

Whole chunks of footpath on Jalan Hanoman are missing, with drops ranging from mere ankle-breakers to lose-your-relatives in pungent, watery depths of tropical mystery-mess. You need to dodge dogs, their poo, their chicken friends, and the motorbikes they chase, as well as looking out for various things – corners of signs, burning sticks of incense, odd bits of temple – waiting for the chance to take a chunk of scalp or nick an eyeball.

After twenty minutes of this, walking single file with me shouting out commands to enjoy oneself and see how amazing everything is in Ubud, a querulous little voice behind me asked ‘So, ah, you find this relaxing?’. I was surprised to admit to myself that I did, or at least I had up ’till now. I’d re-set. Forgotten my initial fears of death and dismemberment on Jalan Hanoman and couldn’t see it as anything other than the Happy Path To Yoga Barn. How could I help Kelly to feel this too? I shouted at her some more and forced her full of treats and yoga. By bedtime, I’d run out of ideas (and my throat was sore).

The next day, I came upon Kelly in a sunny, quiet little street in a cafe she’d found her way back to by herself. She was curled up in an egg-shaped rattan chair with a giant Murakami book balanced on a cushion and a large beer perspiring gently on the table in front of her. She looked up at me from a post-yoga puddle of limber limbs, smiled like the sun, and announced she intended to order cake. I couldn’t resist asking if she ‘found this relaxing’. What a difference a day makes*.

*Note: I’m certain this will become the title of a terrible movie about the power of positive psychology and the endless randomness of Western-asshat life, probably starring Tom Hanks with some small earnest child coming-to-a-plane-near-you, so before it does, let’s get it out a bit more. It feels truthy and important.



Throwing up is hard to do

Fresh ginger and Leatherman multi-tool

See this picture? Yeah. Two days in to some nau-sea-sickness, I took this picture to document my beautiful, natural Ubudian recovery. I had fallen, sure, but I was on the mend. At that stage I liked to think the fall had been a controlled descent. I did my best to lie down gracefully with my feet elevated after throwing up my bright green salad lunch and a double-cold-pressed-cashew-milk-coffee in Alchemy, wherein my super-cool author lady luncheon companion Sarah did me the supreme honour of turning promptly from willowy, hilarious glamourati into level-headed-mother-of-young-child-used-to-dealing-with-vom, and arranged an immediate and graceful evactuation of the premises.

I went home and vomited a lot more. I’m not a vomiter. It’s hard for me. Takes a long time. I spend hours adrift on the Sea of Nau before the main event. A day passed. I began to get extremely thirsty. My lips chapped. Every swallow of water made the sly promise of staying down only to collect into enough volume for a high-velocity torrent a few hours later. I took the anti-emetic Stemetil that I had wisely packed for a tropical excursion (despite only having suffered ‘traveller’s sickness’ three times in fifteen years and countless trips overseas) and threw those up too, until none remained. Thirstier and thirstier, I looked at the rattan ceiling and composed impassioned correspondence to the manufacturers of Stemetil suggesting fundamental changes in their delivery method. Topical lotions, single-use-syringes, fast dissolving wafers. Eye-drops. Lip-balm.

At the point where my eyes had begun to shrink into their sockets and my pee was clinking into the bowl as crystals of uric acid, I summoned the fortitude to look at my swimming computer screen and Google ‘how keep watr dwn f ur dyin’ and the wisdom of the internet responded with ‘small spoonfuls water’. The internet also delivered a truly terrible story of two Canadian sisters who had just died in their hotel room in Thailand and – because I catastrophise, especially when ill – I went down a black, black hole of what-ifs that only ended once I remembered I had repatriation insurance so at least my pale little body wouldn’t cost anyone money to ship it home.

Then I cried. Well, I tried too, but I had no water for tears. The internet said this phenomenon is followed shortly by death. I screamed (whimpered) for my housekeeper Nyoman, who came in tut-tuting with a flask of boiling water and some ginger and rosella tea. He changed my sheets and cleaned my bathroom with surgical attention, and sent my clothes off to the Ubud Eco laundry, because y’all might remember from previous posts about my first world problems that the toxic-avenger smells of the detergents they use in Indonesia make me gag even on a strong stomach.

I started to feel better. Determined to Definitely Not Be Ill Like Losers Who Aren’t Real Travellers And Such, I took myself on a small quivering excursion to Bali Buddha, where I bought some organic ginger. Once home, I remembered I’d packed my favourite multi-tool, the Leatherman aka ‘Leathery’, and peeled the ginger and took this smug picture of my clever, natural, grown-up approach to wellness and self-sufficiency.

At about 3 a.m. (nothing good ever, ever happens at 3 a.m. unless you are on your honeymoon) I had a seizure. Before I could think what to do next, I had another one. As it subsided, I realised my body was so indescribably freezing that I needed to get extra blankets, jeans, my leather jacket – possibly lie under the mattress itself – all things which were not possible because my limbs were now suffering intermittent spasms like the aftershocks of a powerful earthquake that I had no option but to ride out in cold, dark terror. I thought about the Canadian girls and I thought about my family and I thought about how nothing like this had happened to me before and I thought about how human I was and how small I was and I called for my Mum in my head and I said the Boy’s name aloud to prove I was real and then I passed out.

Was this overly dramatic? Hilarious in hindsight? I’m not so sure. I don’t think I know where the edge is with illness anymore. I do know I woke up. A day later. On my back. In a watery gruel of feces. Cheeks plastered with vomit that I was very lucky not to aspirate. The pain in my muscles and bones was like nothing I’ve imagined in the realm of natural illness. I was surprised they could bear my now 52 kilo frame. This, along with the sudden plummet of core temperature, spelled dengue ‘bone-break’ fever to the admitting hospital, but no rash developed so they didn’t test for it. There’s a current outbreak and the only treatment is ‘fluids’ anyway. They sent me home.

I got worse. I went back. They tested my blood for bacteria. They tested my poo by handing me a pair of disposable gloves and a plastic jar and asking me to ‘shit in my hand’ and wipe it in the container. The toilet was dirty, the walls were peeling. They offered to hospitalise me and I responded the best way I knew how. I threw up on their floor and went home again. On the way home I checked my phone and the picture of the ginger and knife flashed up. It looked like my intestines and what was happening to them. It became totemic of my failure and misery. It made me throw up to look at. It made me throw up every time I thought about it. I tried to delete it and failed at even that.

Over the next five days lots of people helped me. I emailed the test results to my two mates who happen to be a boyfriend/girlfriend trainee-doctor-duo who tag-teamed a long distance diagnoses and prescribed the magical tummy-bomb Flagyl that worked overnight. Despite enduring non-stop nausea of the kind documented by my pregnant friends that made me swear with every wobbly breath that I’d never allow myself to get knocked up, the fact that one of these doctor friends is going to be a pediatrician also made me swear to have children just so they can get sick and I can take them to her.

The Boy called my sister-in-love, who went straight from handing in her final essays for her postgrad on-something-too-complex-for-me-to-understand to a medical center, where she talked a doctor into the codeine and Stemetil not available in this country. She got on a plane with them and arrived expecting to nurse me instead of hang by the pool in matching bikinis as planned, without so much as a shrug. Every member of my family who knew, every friend at home, every new friend in Ubud – all of them flooded my online areas with goodwill and love. Thanks all. Thanks and thanks and thanks.

And sorry I didn’t respond. It’s just that throwing up is hard to do.