Hello Bali. Hello new home. Hello new life.
You'd think six months of preparation would help with the jump. Wrong. It was a slap in the face. In shock, like the biggest rookie, I stumbled through the first month of my new life.
It all started with the big mistake and my first learning: never, ever, do your farewell party the night before departure. My 'look & feel': Alien baby on its way back to Mars. The head heavy from all the Prosecco, the stomach queasy. The crying at the departure made my condition even worse. Finally in the airplane, the stewardess inquired three times whether I was well. She didn't want to believe me, nor would I have. As soon as the seat belt sign went off, I had to empty my entire stomach contents into the airplane toilet. What a takeoff.
Half asleep, half crying, equally absent as present, I survived the 20-hour trip. Upon arrival, my luggage is searched, of course. One woman alone with two suitcases = smuggler. Two hours later, finally out of the airport, heat stroke hits me. 35 degrees, not a cloud, 60% humidity. Although I only felt like sleeping, I still had to make something out of the day. Short check-in, then my hangover, my black circles and swollen eyelids threw themselves into the turmoil of Canggu. On foot in the blazing sun. It was hard. There's nothing more to say about it.
The week remained equaly hard. Marked by a long lasting hangover, fatigue, lack of plan, inner restlessness and insane homesickness. Torn between the urge to do something for my upcoming life in Bali and an inner resistance to build anything at all. Where does the resistance come from? Do I just lack energy? Or have I made a mistake? One big question mark.
A severe sunburn, a stolen wallet (found again), countless yoga sessions and a lot of brooding later, the first week finally came to an end. My psyche ready for the weekend to meet new friends, drink beer to distract myself. Of course, fate didn't allow me: 40 degree fever, killer headache and aching limbs. Which brings me to my second learning: If you wake up with symptoms like that in a tropical country - see a doctor. ASAP.
Dengue fever. My waiting and taking ibuprofen worsened my condition, so by the middle of my second week I needed to be taken to the nearest hospital by ambulance with blue lights (never have I moved so fast in Balinese traffic). Blood values in the basement, danger of internal bleeding. It took three days with lots of sleep and medication to get me back on track. Slowly I believed, the universe wanted to give me a sign. Dengue has an incubation period of at least three days, which means that I was bitten on my second day in Bali at least.
The days in the hospital drag me through an emotional low. Is it just not meant to be? Should I just fly back home? Of course, I expected my start to be different. Without being sick, not to mention a hospital stay. Without a mental roller coaster. Without being terribly homesick. What did you expect? Without a mental crisis. Maybe I thought letting go would be easier for me. Maybe I thought not having a job, or a plan, or structure would be easier for me. I should have known myself better than that, me the social animal and the control freak. Fuck.
Yet so often, it takes this lowest point, without distractions, with lots of tears, time and peace, to wash it all away for once. To see clearly. A phenomenon that (as I learn later) many experience when they arrive in Bali. We call it the magic of the island. And so I realized under what kind of inner pressure I was suffering. I emigrate. I have to find my happiness here. There is no going back. Yes, there is. Going back is always possible. And failure is okay. But failure involves trying. Trying to live. Not running around panicking and obsessively trying to be happy. Not sitting sadly in paradise, bathing in self-pity and worrying incessantly about whether this was the right or wrong decision. Time will tell.
Emigrating means starting a new life. You know nothing, can't do anything, know nothing and nobody. You are a rookie. You are a baby that must first learn to walk. Falling down, crying and then looking a little bit defiantly at the world is part of it. As soon as you realize that, you start crawling. For me, that moment came in week three. After my slump, I got up, ventured outside, met new people, went out. I started to build a routine, subscribed to the gym, wrote applications. I inquired and learned. Like a little kid.
Crawling, I learned that life works a little differently here. Anyone who has been to Bali before will be familiar with this. There is not much planning and structure here. Life is slower, it just takes as long as it takes. Life is lived day by day and with a lot of gut feeling. And everything, everything, is about connections (you know someone who knows someone who knows someone who is looking for a new employee, has a villa or is also new to Bali). Of course, a challenge for a perfectionist European. But once that's accepted and you get into it, things fall into place organically. And look at that. In week four, I was able to stand for the first time. Had job interviews, even a trial and a villa is in the offing. And most importantly, new wonderful friends.
That's not to say it's never hard or takes a lot of effort. The moments when I fall down, doubt, miss home and my loved ones painfully remain. But I have learned to accept them and see them as part of the adventure. After all, even dengue had its good side. Balinese mentality. So the only thing that's left is being able to walk, and I'm curious to see what will happen once I do.