Chasing Amy-Lou

Canggu, Bali, Indonesia;

Today I went to my first yoga class of this Bali trip at a place called Jungle Room. Situated in the luscious green surroundings of Canggu, with views of the jungle river and forest at every turn, Jungle Room is not just a yoga studio, it’s an Air BnB property too. And a very, very nice one at that.

Rocking up looking like a hobo from a Charles Dickens novel (disheveled after I’d power walked the 4km from Gusti’s because my measly budget would only allow me to rent a scooter or bicycle a handful of times and I didn’t want to blow all my cash in the first two days), I felt a little out of place when I saw just how beautiful Jungle Room was. I’d come to attend the yoga class but as I took a look around, a longing from deep in the pit of my stomach churned and clawed at me – I wanted to stay there; I wanted to pack my bags, leave Gusti’s and stay there.

Using the free wifi, I checked out the property on Air BnB and sniggered to myself in a spluttering shocked manner; especially when I saw the prices. To stay at Jungle Room would cost me over 100 AUD a night. Ha! Only in my wildest dreams, only in my warped figmented imagination would I ever be able to stay there. Forever on a budget, my Charles Dickens hobo appearance, at that moment in time, couldn’t have been more appropriate.

Anyway, casting my poverty stricken perversions aside I joined the yoga class and at 100,000 IRP it was the cheapest I was gonna get for yoga in Bali. Most other places charge around 130,000 IRP/13 AUD which for me, again, is very pricey. I suppose though, it’s the going rate for any kind of yoga class – anywhere – and I did know this before I came (staying in pov backpackers had its advantages after all – it meant I could do the things I wanted to do without worrying about whether I could afford to eat that day because I’d spent all my money on luxury villas).

The yoga class was…meh. It lasted for only an hour (most yoga classes I’ve attended have been 90 minute classes which I believe to be standard if you want the class to be beneficial) and like with a lot of things in my life, I’d definitely had better. To say I was disappointed was an understatement. I hardly felt challenged and I also felt robbed – the instructor chatted to one of the girls for fifteen minutes at the start which meant we actually only practiced yoga for 45 minutes. I wanted my money back.

Alas, because I’m never one to complain or moan (!) I left the class and trudged the 4kms back to Gusti’s, pissed off, not feeling zen at all, and praying for sunshine.

As I walked I could see the grey clouds swirling overhead. They spanned for miles and it didn’t look as though the sun was going to make much of an appearance that day. I’d read online that the weather in Bali in August was supposed to be fantastic – it was dry season and according to certain websites it was the perfect time to visit. I’d also taken advice from other valuable and reliable sources (Aussies that frequent Bali a lot) who told me Bali was great all year round. It was the sole reason I’d chosen to come back to this little island – for sunshine and beaches before I returned to inevitable rain and depression back in England. It seemed as though my luck had run out though. Karma was being a bitch as far as the weather was concerned and I kinda lost faith in her a little bit.

So, for the rest of the day I did what any normal Brit would do when they’re on holiday and the weather is shit – I plonked myself on the roof terrace at Gusti’s, read my book, played on my phone and drank a couple of beers. That evening I consumed pizza, some more beers, a couple of cocktails and a bottle of wine with my roommates – a guy from Wisconsin and a bloke from Serbia. If the weather wasn’t providing me with happiness, I was gonna find my own at the bottom of a very expensive bottle of red. Bali needed to up its game. And pronto.