I was two weeks into my new found resolve and fighting hard the cravings. I was ready to tear the cigarette out of the mouth of any smoking passerby and suck it greedily into my lungs. My body and brain were having ideological differences, the brain touting wise words of health and happiness, and my body just going gimme gimme gimme. It was war.

Bali is Six hours from Sydney, Garuda air. Some movie played on a monitor I had to strain to see, and with the red cathode ray on the blink. Dum de dee killing time, if I was allowed to take a knife onto the plane I would have whittled, maybe created a little elephant or something.

Denpasar airport. The cattle stampede of passport stamping, luggage, sticky heat and then out into the throng... A gaggle of sign waving squawking, shouting and madly gesturing Balinese transit operators mugging you as you exit.

And all with cigarettes in mouth, the sweet scent of nicotine and cloves filling the air. I was gagging for one. I found my ride, and we travelled into Kuta, tourist HQ where I checked in, dumped my shit and took a few moments to chill out.

There is a smell that I associate with third world countries, itís a blend of traffic fumes, overworked sewers, incense and cigarette smoke. It conjures up images of frantic traffic, alien cultures, bustle and chaos. Bali smells like that. I love it.

I had my first taste of Kuta touts. Every third person grabbing at you in manic fashion, "Watches", "DVDs?", "Sunglasses... I do you cheap price", "T-shirts","You want massage...?", "You want WOMAN?", "Transport?", "taksi?", "Hashish, Marijuana?", and my favourite, always said with a sly grin and a leer "You want Jiggy Jig". Itís incessant, it doesn't stop, it makes your head want to explode, and some tourists just can't handle it and fly of the handle.

I always enjoyed the "You want woman?" calls, I'd give them a smile, pull-em close and ask them in the hushed sly tone... "you have woman, big one, fat one, who is really old with no teeth...?" It stumped them every time. It was great.

Kuta has a crazy night life. It is a beach Babylon. Cheap beer, Arak -the local firewater, loads of clubs, and armies of travellers (mostly aussies) out for a good time. It makes for a place of great hedonism. Seminyak had me hooked on the first night. I was out with the boys, covered head to toe in nicotine patches, sucking down dollar bir bintangs, and politely declining the advances of the local working girls. It was great. A Sydney girl approached one of us. "What are you drinking?" she asked. The victim replied "I don't drink", "I look better after a couple of drinks" she added. Shudder.

The next morning hurt.

When travelling to a new country I always find it important to introduce the local micro-organisms into my body gradually. I like to consider my intestinal tract a place of great multiculturalism having many unique communities of microbes happily living there, from Turkish to Indian. I love Indonesian food; this place is a gastronomic heaven, and the home to beef satay, beef rendang, nasi goreng and a whole host of other delicious treats.

I started my eating in grand style, and took on the beef rendang. Succulent chunks of beef, cooked slowly in coconut milk and with herbs spices and chilli. It was delicious. That night, the Balinese bacteria had a party. Some might have described it as an all out riot, Rodney King style and in my lower intestines.

Hotels always have a habit of pristine white sheets, starched to within an inch of their life, and tucked in so tight that one needs a crowbar to prise oneself into bed.

Sometime in the middle of the night I woke, I can only imagine the look of shock, panic and sudden realization that must have flashed across my eyes. I had seconds, perhaps less before my intestinal rioters broke through the barricades. I struggled frantically against the super tight bed sheeting thrashing and twisting in terror trying to get out. I nearly made it; I was so closeÖ

I couldn't make eye contact with the room cleaners for the rest of my time in that hotel.

Satay beef is a dangerous addiction. The presentation was fantastic with the little skewers of charcoal-grilled beef lying seductively on their own little terra-cotta bbqs, little charcoal embers keeping them hot. Delicious. So many times I would look at the menu, see the mixed green salad and think ëhow healthy that would beÖand good for my body!í A waitress would come... "can I take your order sir?", "why yes" and with my finger firmly pointing at the salad option on the menu I would calmly say "Beef Satay please".... my own body, betraying me.

I went to Bali for the paragliding, and heading down with the rest of the group on the tour we navigated our way through Balinese traffic, swarms of motor scooters like angry locusts, bemos and little trucks without any regard for lanes, life or limb hurtling along at breakneck speed. The law of the horn is strong here. Toot for I have right of way is the ethos.

Bali cliffs is a beautiful ridge overlooking epic surf, and on the shallow reef the industrious seaweed farms of the local villages, working hard to keep the skin of Japanese cosmetic users supple and clear.

The flying here is wonderful, coastal air, warm, hours can be spent, the photos tell it all, locals to pack up a glider, carry it up the hill should one land on the beach, serve icy cold beers or cook up some gourmet treats. Yeah, this is the life, and I get to work on my tan as well. Flying over temples, along to the big cliffs, and beyond to the end of the Island are magic experiences, though for some (cough, look at feet) resulting in remote beach landings, hikes up said bloody big cliffs and paying some non-english speaking farmer to take me back...

The flying was not without incidents, and there are some lessons to be learnt. First lesson. Talk to local pilots, operators, instructors. Make sure someone knows you are there, who you are, your skill level etc. Two: have a radio. Three: have good insurance. Four: know your ability and fly within it, if you can't top land, don't. Five: Follow these guidelines, as I said, they are lessons and some learn the hard way (cough, look at feet).

The first incident happened early in our flying tour. A solo pilot turned up to fly, though failed to make his presence known to anyone. Taking off and flying around. I didn't pay much attention to him until I saw him coming in over the launch, he was very high, with his brakes pulled down VERY deep (and this is VERY bad), his wing practically stalling, and his height an easy 30 metres high. He dug one down a little deeper, my thoughts being he was about to pull some radical acro manoeuvre to land, he spun quickly, a dramatic 180ƒ, thatís when I heard him cry "What's happening...". Oh shit, he's no acro pilot.

He spiralled out of control into the ground, I ducked as his spinning body nearly took my head off, then he hit the ground with a thump, and the sound of cracking. He was seriously fucked up. People came over, an ambulance was called. It took a long time to get there, all we could do was not let him move, and keep him shaded. A broken femur, pelvis, four ribs, shoulder and back. He'll be out for awhile; I hope that none of it is permanent.

I had been looking for some life direction for awhile, the total feeling of uselessness as I stood at his feet was a pretty good inspiration to investigate a medical career. Itís pretty hard to ignore a 'sign from above'.

As more flyers arrived the ridge started to get more hectic than Heathrow in a hailstorm, I took that opportunity to explore the island. Incidentally, I did hear of another solo pilot, turning up, not making his presence known and flying the ridge. Caught in some bad air he was forced down, onto a tiny beach between two massive rock faces. No radio, no phone. Lucky other pilots flying over spotted him. He spent the night there before being winched out the next day by the Indonesian Army. He left his wing there, his flying days over.

I rented a motorbike, ok a scooter, and explored the island. Riding one of those things is an extreme sport in itself, especially when one gets lost in the capital, Denpasar. I found my way to Ubud, a little tourist trap, with lots of handicrafts, but surrounded by amazing rice paddies in layered terraces up and down the hills.

I find something totally zen in rice paddies, the green, water trickling, wind blowing its like the ultimate in feng shui. I just chilled there for awhile. I am sure I could make a great meditation retreat there, charge rich middle age women extortionate amounts of money to sit in a little hut in the middle of nowhere and not speak for 10 days. Thatís a great business plan.

I made my way to Padangbai, a beautiful little beach town. Room and breakfast: $6. Lobster every night for dinner: $3. The atmosphere: priceless. Oh yeah. The diving here is fantastic, with easy access to the wreck of the USS Liberty at Tulumben, and the magnificent drift dives of Nusa Penida. Hurtling over sponge gardens and vibrant coral in a 5-6 knot current just centimetres above this incredible landscape. Wonderful.

A few days of bliss, before a few more days of flying, my last day spent shopping and filling my luggage up with all sorts of pointless, but fun, wooden knick knacks.

I boarded the plane, took far too many sleeping pills, watched 10 minutes of peter pan and then my next memory is of throwing off my doona cover in my own bed. SWEET! I checked, all my stuff was there, except for the BB guns that I tried to smuggle in. I have no idea how I got through customs, or home for that matter. Damn, I love Autopilot.

Bali rocks.