Going Solo

It’s February 2001 and I’m a 22-year-old backpacker.

Staring out at the Indian Ocean, I bury my toes into the burnt vanilla-coloured sand of Kuta Beach in Bali while watching the sky turn a pinkish orange. Suddenly, a woman approaches.

“You want massage? Only 70,000 rupiah,” she says.

Ooh, that sounds lovely, I think to myself. And right here on the beach for what was about US$7 at the time? “Sure, yes,” I reply.

“Manicure, too?” asks another woman, who seems to come out of nowhere with a basket filled with nail polish.

Hmm, I think. It has been a while ... “Sure, why not,” I answer, nodding and smiling with approval.

They lay out a sarong and dig a small hole in the sand under it for my face. I nestle down toward the Earth. One woman sits on my lower back, while the other takes my right hand. Just as I begin to