Only about 50 km north of the bikini-ridden streets of Kuta lies one of Bali’s most feared attractions. For those who don’t want to risk taking home a Balinese hex, the Ghost Palace Hotel is a must-do.
It’s not that I was afraid of dying — I just didn’t want to die of rabies. It’s embarrassing. Rabies makes you drool, flail, bite, and spasm. It turns you into a flapping zombie, lashing rancid spittle lassos at anyone who comes close. Thanks to the hydrophobia, you’re probably not showering, either. That’s not a good death.
They believe I can read minds. This is half because I keep saying I can, and half because I have accurately predicted three break ups, one IVF baby and two cycling accidents.
It was the summer of 1960, and the future had arrived. Barry Crump was being published, women were on juries, and television had arrived in New Zealand. In secluded Maraetai, a couple were trying to escape the hustle and bustle of this new world – and glimpsed another one entirely.