Yesterday, Will and I decided to walk the ten kilometres from Canggu to Seminyak Beach.
We wandered along the shoreline, stopping periodically for fresh juices and iced coffees. The beach was crowded with sunburnt Australians, influencers posing in flowing dresses, and men trying to sell sunglasses to people already wearing sunglasses.
By the time we reached Seminyak, we were hot, tired, and ready to summon a Grab back to the villa when a smiling man appeared from nowhere.
This is where the bad decision begins.
He introduced himself as a representative of Karma Group Hotels and offered us a free scratch-and-win ticket.
Now, any sensible adult knows these promotions are rarely legitimate and yet the human brain contains a small, embarrassing compartment that believes it might be special.
Sure enough, both Will and I won.
Our promoter, whom I’ll call Anon, was considerably more excited about this development than we were.
“You win!” he announced, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
Apparently, if we accompanied him to the resort to collect our mystery prize, he would receive about $100 in commission.
“It help feed my family,” he explained.
Nobody wants to be the person who stands between a man and his family’s dinner.
“You get free taxi too.”
At this point, the combination of heat exhaustion and Australian optimism kicked in.
“Why not?” I said. This, incidentally, is another phrase that often precedes poor decisions.
A blue taxi arrived, and we climbed inside. Twenty minutes passed., then thirty, then forty-five. As the journey stretched on, Anon casually mentioned that to receive our prize we’d need to attend a short presentation.
“No more than one hour.”
The way he said it suggested this was information he had been meaning to share all along.
An hour later we arrived at a spectacular clifftop resort that looked less like a hotel and more like the headquarters of an international villain.
Inside, we filled out forms before being greeted by a sharply dressed gentleman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Gustavo Fring from Breaking Bad.
“Hello Mr Adam. Hello Mr Will.”
Hearing your name spoken by a stranger in an immaculate suit instantly makes you feel as though you’ve accidentally joined a cult.
Upstairs, we found a room full of tourists seated at separate tables, each with their own representative. Nobody looked entirely comfortable; it resembled either a luxury travel seminar or a hostage situation.
“Would you like food? Drinks?”
Would we.
Within minutes, sandwiches, juices and iced tea began appearing on the table. Every time a glass neared empty, another materialised. It was like being served by particularly attentive magicians.
Then the presentation began.
For the next two hours, we were introduced to a lifestyle so luxurious it made my entire financial history feel like a clerical error.
There were private resorts. Luxury villas. Five-star cruises down the Nile aboard a vessel called the Karma Karnak. Apparently, I could spend my retirement drifting past ancient temples while somebody delivered cocktails to my deck chair.
Hotels costing sixteen thousand dollars a stay.
Yet somehow, through the miracle of membership, I would only ever pay $299 USD per week for accommodation. All I had to do was commit.
Every few minutes a large gong would sound, and a staff member would stand and announce something like: “Congratulations to the family from Brisbane, our newest Karma members!” Everyone applauded.
The new members smiled nervously.
It felt less like a travel club and more like witnessing a public conversion ceremony.
Finally came the price.
“For you, today only, $30,800.” He paused.
“Or approximately $100 a week over seven years.” Salespeople have an extraordinary ability to transform the price of a small car into the cost of a weekly coffee.
By this stage, however, my attention was focused almost entirely on obtaining another free juice.
I politely explained that I needed time to think it over. This answer was received with roughly the same enthusiasm one might show toward a tax audit. Several alternative offers were presented, and revised calculations appeared. Several managers materialised.
I remained committed to my original plan, which was to spend absolutely no money whatsoever. Eventually, they accepted defeat and escorted us downstairs to collect our prize.
The moment had arrived for our mystery reward.
The thing we had travelled an hour for and sacrificed two hours of our lives to obtain. It turned out to be two hats and a voucher for a seven-day stay at one of their resorts.
I asked whether I could exchange it for the iPhone I’d allegedly been competing for, but the receptionist just smiled politely. There were, it seemed, no iPhones or Apple Watches. I’d suggest that none had ever existed.
Still, to their credit, they organised a taxi and drove us all the way back to our villa free of charge, and we arrived just in time for happy hour.
I sincerely hope Anon received his commission.
As for us, we got a free lunch, several litres of juice, two hats and a story. In the grand scheme of tourist scams, that’s probably not the worst deal Bali has to offer.
Though next time a stranger approaches me with a scratch-and-win ticket, I might just keep walking.
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