Paradise can be hell if you're a woman alone in Bali, especially in the resort area of Kuta. With that in mind, here are some tips to pack for your trip.
						The drivers often mistake your thigh for the stick shift.
My first night in Kuta, I check out the Sari Club, popular with Australian surfers who can afford to gorge on alcohol. While the rest of us squander our resources on shirts, surfers opt for a strictly below-the-belt wardrobe, leaving them more money to spend on drinks served in goldfish bowls.
A dread-headed surfer next to me is watching the women, summoning his courage, grasping for the right opening line. "Soo..." he turns and anchors his hand on my back pocket. "You here to party?" Balinese moths hover outside The Sari I Went Club while I try to unlock my bike. "I have a big dick," says one. "Do you want to see?" "No thanks," I tell him. "I've seen enough pricks for one night." "Cheap price," he adds. I don't say anything, so he starts haggling. "Okay, for you...tonight...free." I laugh and fumble with the damn key, which is writhing in a rusted lock and bent by haste. I've got to escape before the boy hits puberty. He is very concerned with my plight and supervises over my shoulder while I'm hunched over the lock. I straighten up to curse and notice the boy has swallowed a canary. "Come on," he purrs, "let me see them again."
Therese is a cherub-faced Swede who was eating with her fingers and drinking warm tap water when we met at a food stall. I see her a few nights later at a boat-shaped club called the Bounty. I notice she's sporting a purple blush on her right cheek. She explains what happened while she pats at the bruise. Therese was talking to an Indonesian man at a club and a group of them walked outside to leave. When the man realized Therese was headed home without him, he punched her. "I don't know what to do," she says. People tell me to report him, but what would the police do? "Besides," she adds, "I don't want to start trouble."
Goa 2001 is a club popular with expatriates who moan about how broke they are while we shop before our afternoon massages. Three British ex-pats introduce themselves at the bar. Maurice, the chap to my left, has swallowed one goldfish too many. His friends are discussing "Dutch Wives," these huggable pillows that are on beds in Bali. Maurice turns to me, "And what do you sleep with?" "A baseball bat," I say sweetly. After Maurice has offered to "maybe" introduce me to a connection for the article I'm working on, he alludes to later that night, when he'll be "sucking on my nipples till they're five times larger." "We'd be a good match," I coo, "if sucking on your IQ had the same effect."