Downhill
Justin hates Bali. He hates being dragged to see temples, art galleries, traditional dance. He hates how taxi touts and barmen look at Zoe, how they laugh when he tells them to fuck off. How every human interaction – a drink, a smile, a photo – has a price. And it’s a rip-off.
But Zoe doesn’t see it. She sees lush rainforest and terraced rice fields. Tropical fruit on trees scaled by tiny squirrels. Coloured batik and deep rich earth. Her Bali is an island paradise of relaxation, spiritual and cultural nourishment. She breathes deeply and glows. Like a duck to water, he thinks, while he lumbers around like a gorilla on the shore, drowning in sweat and stumbling over rocks.
Yesterday they went to a tea plantation, a tourist trap that served free tastes of ten supposedly different teas then charged Melbourne prices for anything decent.
Needing a proper caffeine hit, he ordered the kopi luwak. ‘Made famous by The Bucket List!’ a faded sign proclaimed. A gimmick beverage, made from coffee beans plucked from civet dung. It was still coffee, Justin figured, even if it had spent time in some rat-faced animal’s bowels.
The server smiled eagerly at him. ‘Do you like it?’
The other tourists watched him curiously. He grinned, then said loud and clear, ‘Tastes like shit!’
Zoe covered her face with her hand. The others shuffled, looked away.
‘Come on, it’s a joke!’ he coaxed. But the server wasn’t smiling anymore and cleared the cups.
‘I’m so embarrassed,’ Zoe told him. She bought four huge packs of tea and made him carry them as punishment.
‘You didn’t even like the tea,’ he complained.
‘I had to buy something after you were so rude!’
Last night Zoe told him he was turning into that guy. That guy who doesn’t give anything a chance. Who sneers at the food, is rude to everyone. Who can’t handle it. ‘That guy,’ she said tersely, ‘who doesn’t make an effort.’
He exhaled. ‘But – ’
But Bali was dirt and desperation. Toothless beggars. Skinny dogs with glazed eyes. Discarded plastic bottles. Open gutters so big you could fall in and drown. Rabid, yellow-eyed monkeys trying to steal your food.
‘Don’t be that guy,’ she warned.
Justin nodded.
***
The minibus drops them at a café in a car park at the top of a mountain. They have a breakfast of weak tea, stale bread and jam. Desperate for a coffee, Justin pays extra for a flat white. It arrives black. The waiter hands him a container of condensed milk.
Bitter without, unbearably sweet with. Another shit coffee, he thinks to himself, wishing he hadn’t put the sickly milk in. He finishes it anyway, hoping the caffeine will push away the headache that’s prickling behind his temples.
Justin and Zoe are the only Australians. There’s an English couple, Hannah and Liam, and two uni friends from Israel, Yael and Naomi. Yael is staggeringly beautiful, with unusually green eyes that reflect the lime of the endless terraced rice paddies. Justin finds it hard not to stare.
The guide, Alek, thrusts water bottles at them and shouts instructions. ‘We leave in ten minutes! Pick your bike!’
Three sizes of cheap, tinny rides, stamped with brand names Justin’s never heard of. Flat tyres. Peeling rubber. Rusty chains. Not right for four hours of downhill mountain bike-riding.
‘Jesus,’ he mutters.
Zoe glares at him. ‘Just give it a go, will you?’
‘I’ll be lucky if I get one that fits.’ But he’s not. Even the biggest bike feels built for a five-year-old. Justin can’t straighten his arms or legs. He hunches over the handlebars, elbows and knees sticking out wide. He feels ridiculous.
Alek’s bike is of a completely different quality. Justin asks if there’s another one like it and bites his tongue when the guide laughs.
Alek waves Justin away and shouts to the group. ‘Five minutes! Test brakes! Change gears!’
Zoe rides in cautious circles, braking carefully. Justin waves tentatively, and she jolts to a stop next to him. ‘My brakes work,’ she says, dubious.
Alek is ready. He yells over his shoulder as he rides onto the highway. ‘Ride a metre apart in case we have to – ’ but his words hurtle down the hill with him.
‘In case what?’ says Yael, green eyes sparkling.
Zoe smiles. ‘In case we have to stop, I guess.’
‘Yeah,’ Justin says. ‘Don’t want any pile-ups.’
Yael’s brow crinkles. Justin forces himself to look away.
No-one moves, all too polite to go first.
Justin rolls his eyes. The sooner we leave, the sooner it’s over, he thinks. He swings his too-small bike into action, assuming Zoe will follow.
The first kilometre is packed with heavy trucks and whining motorbikes. There’s no shoulder, so they cycle next to the vehicles on gravel, dirt and litter.
The water bottle in Justin’s backpack thumps against his spine. Grit and dirt fly up and stick to the sunscreen on his face and arms. The tang of the condensed milk coffee sits in the back of his throat.
Alek pulls over when the road broadens. Justin and the English guy, pink‑faced and puffing, follow. The Israelis skid around the corner, gravel skittering as they slam on their brakes. Zoe and Hannah are last.
Justin grins at Zoe. ‘How’d you go?’
Her sunglasses hide her expression, but her tone is cold. ‘You didn’t wait for me.’
‘Thought you were right behind me.’
‘You didn’t even look,’ she says.
Then he remembers that last night she’d asked him to ride behind her.
‘Want me to ride behind you?’ As if he’s just thought of it.
‘Yes, please.’ She sighs and drops her voice. ‘The Israeli girls have no idea. I want them in front of me, where I can see them.’
Justin follows her when they resume, knuckles pale on the handlebars. He cycles to work most days, but it’s all he can do to stay on the bike as it skids and clatters. The condensed milk churns in his stomach.
When they turn off the highway, the guide stops again. Justin chugs the water Alek gave him and chucks the empty bottle on the side of the road, like a thousand people before him.
‘Worst bit’s over,’ Alek says. ‘It’s easy from here.’ He grins at Yael, who gives him a warm smile. Her green eyes follow the tattoos that twist up his arms.
Justin smirks.
‘What are you grinning about?’ Zoe asks.
‘My dream job,’ he chuckles. ‘Outdoors, riding your bike in the countryside, pulling hotties like Yael …’
Her face changes. He stops.
‘That’s where your mind’s at? You can’t remember what you said last night, but you know her name?’
‘It’s a joke. I’m not interested.’
He tries to touch her arm, but Zoe charges off. She overtakes Yael and rides just off Alek’s back wheel.
Justin watches Yael’s legs and bum until she rounds the bend, then follows the group.
‘Don’t be that guy,’ he murmurs. ‘Make an effort.’
***
At each unscheduled stop Alek makes – the woodcarver, the silversmith, the traditional Balinese house – Justin is silent, attentive, interested. He smiles and nods at everything.
Whenever he stands near Zoe, she finds an excuse to move away – a flower, a beetle, a pig. Punishing him.
He wants to tell her he’s not that guy. Look at him, giving everything a go, riding this tinny little bike. He’s going to ache for days, but he’s making an effort and he’s not whinging.
As they leave the traditional house, Alek shouts, ‘Big hill! Change gears going up!’ Justin passes the flummoxed Israelis early. He grins: Alek has flirted hard with Yael but hasn’t stopped to help her.
Justin focuses on pedalling. After this, it’s all downhill, and he can cruise. He makes it up the hill, sore and drenched in sweat. He dumps his bike and drops onto the dirt alongside it to stretch his hip flexors, glutes, back and limbs. Everything hurts.
The others lean on a stone wall. Zoe ignores him.
Alek is smoking his second cigarette when the Israelis turn up, red‑cheeked and sweaty, pushing their bikes.
An old man appears from nowhere and shuffles over, holding up a model bike.
Everyone looks away except Zoe. She inspects the little bike with great interest – turning the pedals, twisting the handlebars, triggering the tiny kickstand.
She looks at Justin for the first time since his faux pas and beckons him over. ‘The chain moves!’
‘Great,’ he mumbles.
‘No – look! It’s amazing.’
The bike is well-made, with rubber pedals, tyres, seats and handlebars. It boasts mudguards, a chain-guard, a rack, springs beneath the seat and in the kickstand, with a pump on the down tube and a headlight with hatched glass.
Better than what I’m riding, he thinks, but keeps it to himself. Be bland and dull and pleasant.
‘I make in factory,’ rasps the old man. Justin has to lean in to hear him. ‘Decoration.’
‘How much?’ asks Zoe.
‘No,’ Justin says. ‘When you ask the price, it means you’re buying.’
‘I want to buy it. It’s beautiful,’ Zoe tells him.
‘500,000 rupiah.’ The old man’s hoarse voice is suddenly strong.
‘Fifty bucks!’ exclaims Justin. The others turn away, scuff the dirt, but he knows they’re listening.
‘Special price.’ The needy rasp returns.
Justin laughs. ‘Highway robbery. No sale.’
He tries to give the bike back, but the old man drops his hands and refuses to take it.
Zoe stares at Justin. ‘Just lend me some cash without making a scene. I don’t have enough on me.’
‘Say no for once,’ Justin rolls his eyes. ‘They’re all scammers.’
Zoe opens her bum-bag. ‘I only need 100,000.’
‘Maybe you’d have it if you hadn’t bought all that tea yesterday.’ He turns away from her. Sweat drips from his hair to his neck.
The old man limps forward and touches Justin’s arm with a gnarled hand.
‘Sir, very special price—’
‘Fuck off!’ Justin yells. He throws the model bike in the dirt. ‘We don’t want your bloody bike!’
He turns to Alek. ‘Are we going or what?’
Alek flicks an awkward look at the old man, drops his cigarette in the dirt and mounts his bike.
Justin contorts himself into position once again and takes off.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he hears Zoe say to the old man.
Justin spits into the jungle and leaves them behind.
***
It’s finally the downhill ride they’d been promised. Justin just wants this day to be over.
He tries to find the least painful position on the long, weaving descent. He prepares to ride the brakes and stick on. He can’t afford to fly off, break a leg or collarbone and end up in hospital here.
But the road is smoother than before, and somehow Justin finds a rhythm. He glides through pockets of tropical jungle. He sweeps past extravagantly green rice‑fields and falling-down, patched-up houses. He smells cool, fertile earth all around him.
They cruise through a village. Little kids stand by the road and yell ‘Hello!’ Justin surprises himself by waving and high-fiving the brave ones. He catches himself laughing at nothing.
For the first time since they arrived, cool air envelops his face and body. He’s still cramped and hunched over the bike, but he’s finally stopped sweating a river.
Just as he admits he’s enjoying himself, the canopy thins and the shade vanishes. The smooth village road widens into a large, bumpy urban street, full of trucks, cars, motorbikes and potholes. The sun hammers down, and thick fumes rise into his nose.
Alek brakes hard and Justin almost hits him. He squints up at a giant papier‑mâché black bull and tower being wheeled in circles in the middle of the road. A large crowd cheers.
‘What’s going on?’ asks Justin.
‘Dead person inside. To burn,’ Alek says. He weaves between cars and up a lane, narrowly missing parked cars and a swarm of people.
Justin’s sweating again. He inhales traffic fumes and something else and wants to vomit. The niggles and aches return. His backpack sticks to him.
***
Justin helps Alek pack the bikes in a trailer while the others climb into the minibus. His head aches, but he composes an apology for Zoe. He shouldn’t have thrown the bike in the dirt. He could have lent – given – her the money, although it was a rip‑off. He shouldn’t have been that guy.
But Zoe sits next to Naomi, deep in conversation. Justin takes the single seat near the door and stretches his legs. He closes his eyes, expecting a long drive after four hours cycling, but the minibus gets them to town in fifteen minutes. Straight into a traffic jam on Monkey Forest Road.
Justin turns to Zoe. ‘Babe, it’ll be quicker to walk. Want to hop off here and get an ice cream on the way?’
Zoe shakes her head. ‘No, I’m going to do a silver-smithing class with Naomi and Yael.’
‘Silver-smithing?’ She’s already done two classes, with mixed results.
Naomi nods. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘Have fun,’ he says, at a loss. ‘I hope you make something… really cool.’
He asks Alek if he can get out.
Alek nods, bored. ‘Have a good day.’
‘Bye, all,’ Justin says. Someone murmurs a farewell as the door closes. He throws his pack onto his shoulder, disappointed and angry, swerving past beggars and tourists and touts, into the noise and heat.
***
That night Zoe doesn’t reappear. Justin wolfs a burger and orders a chilli chocolate ice cream from the packed shop. The boy behind the counter whistles.
‘Very hot. The chilli is hot,’ he warns.
How hot can ice cream be? Justin thinks. But he doesn’t say it out loud.
Without Zoe around, he wants to prove he’s not really that guy. That guy who makes the jokes no-one laughs at. Who scoffs at everything. That guy who makes everyone look away in embarrassment. Who no-one wants to be near.
That guy would argue with the shop kid.
‘I can handle chilli.’ Justin plasters on a smile.
Ice cream dripping onto his hand, he sits on a crumbling wall by a temple. The boy was right. After two bites, his mouth burns. The ice cream is full of stinging chunks of birds‑eye chilli. He can’t finish it.
A spindly monkey stalks him, tailed by smaller ones. It sits at his feet, yellow eyes shrewdly following Justin’s hand, then extends its own.
Justin smirks and holds out the cone.
Before the monkey can grab it, Justin realises. Only that guy would give chilli to a monkey. He jerks his hand back and stands, scattering the animals, then drops the cone into a rare bin.
He smiles. He’s not that guy.
***
He finds a model bike in a souvenir shop. The wheels turn, the chain works. There’s an old‑fashioned light and spring‑loaded kickstand, the same as the old man’s. It’s 100,000 rupiah, $10 – the amount Zoe lacked.
In the apartment, aircon blasting, he puts the bike on the table so she’ll see it as soon as she walks in. Next morning, he finds her staring at it.
‘Big night, eh?’ he says.
She turns the pedal. Gives him nothing.
‘How was the class? Did you make anything?’
She points at the pendant around her neck – three shaky, interlinked circles – daring him to say something about it. Something mean, something wrong.
He’s not that guy.
‘That’s so pretty,’ he says.
‘You should have seen his face after you took off.’ Her voice is tight. ‘Naomi and Yael and I just stood there feeling awful.’
It’s his cue. ‘I was rude to him, and you. I’m sorry.’
Her face threatens to soften.
‘I was right, though: they’re much cheaper here.’
The threat passes, and Zoe pushes the bike away.
‘You liked it so much, I bought you one,’ he says. She doesn’t react.
He keeps trying. ‘I guess he needed the money.’
The tight voice again. ‘Well, you’ll be glad to know he didn’t leave empty‑handed.’ She plonks a plastic bag on the table. ‘We pooled our money and bought two.’
‘You gave him a hundred bucks?’
Zoe shakes her head. ‘Special discount for two – and for not being jerks.’
She twists past him into the bedroom and emerges, shoving her toiletry bag and towel into her daypack. ‘I need some space.’
‘Great idea,’ he nods. ‘That day spa opposite looks awesome, but they probably give you a towel.’
‘I’m going to Kuta with the girls,’ she says. ‘See you in a few days.’
He feels like an idiot.
***
The day before Justin flies back, Zoe texts to say she’s staying longer and won’t be on the flight. She asks him to put her gear in the hotel’s left luggage.
Furious, Justin crams her wheelie bag full of her stuff. He wedges the stupid bikes in with the photocopied recipe books she’d kept from the cooking classes, boxes of incense sticks and body oils, and the four packets of tasteless tea. He yanks the zipper so hard it sticks on a bright batik sarong and refuses to move.
At the sports bar Zoe refused to go to, he orders the Bintang beer tower she rolled her eyes at. He watches the AFL with some Melbourne guys – good blokes, even the Collingwood supporters.
Between quarters they talk about Bali, this bloody awful island. Being hauled to cooking classes. Made to eat tempeh. Forced to sit through cheesy dance shows. Having everyone – tout, beggar or monkey – treat you like a human ATM.
After his second Bintang tower, the image of Zoe’s wheelie bag and the broken zipper recede, and he starts to unwind.
‘Tried that kopi luwak,’ Justin says in the lull when their food arrives. Knives hover over steaks and parmies.
‘“Made famous by The Bucket List!”’ one of the Pies supporters says, with jazz hands.
Justin relaxes. Grins at them, and says loud and clear, ‘Tasted like shit!’
They laugh until morning.
Kathryn Goldie lives in Yamba, NSW, on Yaegl Country. Her short stories have been published in Island Online, Westerly, Newcastle Short Story Anthology, The Canary Press and Grieve. In 2022, she won a Byron Writers Festival Residential Mentorship and was shortlisted for the Newcastle Writers Festival Fresh Ink Emerging Writers Prize. She won second prize in the 2022 Kyogle Writers Festival Poetry Competition and won the 2021 Long Way Home short story prize. Her award-winning short films have appeared at more than sixty Australian and international festivals, and her short plays and monologues have been performed throughout Australia.
