Indonesia: Boogie board for sale

While settling on the beach in the afternoon, one of the local ladies balancing sundry items on her head asked if Mrs M wanted a tee-shirt ‘for her lad’. There was silence for a few moments after her departure, while the penny dropped. ’She thought I was your mother!?’ This was unfortunately the latest in small number of such incidents following the original ‘can I speak to your parents?’ question in the year 2000.

At 4pm Mrs M walked out of the sea clutching her boogie board in one hand while trying to hold the contents of her head inside her skull with the other. The red stuff covering her face terrified the local ladies as we slowly climbed the 130 steps up the cliff to the hotel where a taxi was called to get treatment. The taxi driver drove at speeds that suggested the likelihood of second accident as we headed in the direction of a local clinic where, after recoiling in horror, the doctor suggested a hospital would be more appropriate. One hour after leaving the resort, a glance at Mrs M’s crimson head was enough for the security guard to allow the taxi into the hospital where the staff gathered with comforting calmness.

Seven hours, one CT scan and 18 external (plus other internal) stitches later we emerged into the night air where the taxi had been waiting for the entire time. The driver was considerate enough to ask if we wanted food on the journey back to Bingin.

Back in the hut, Mrs Bump was put to bed with hot tea to be monitored every few hours for signs of internal head injury. It was at this point I remembered we had cancelled our reservation at Bumbu Bali, one of Bali’s finest restaurants – Mrs M owes me.