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When my aunt asked me to recommend a driver for her one-day layover in Bali, I, of course, encouraged her to contact Dodo, and I messaged her a photo of his business card. “Oh,” she remarked; “is he trustworthy?” I roll my eyes, phone pressed to my ear. “Of course he’s trustworthy,” I reply. So many friends and family have ridiculed my love for Bali: it’s a tourist trap, they lament; it’s full of drugs; the locals just want your money. “How did you meet him?” she pushed, seeking confirmation of his character. “Just about,” is my response; “–pure luck.” And I assure her he’ll take her where she wants to go before she hangs up and leaves me to my day. I breathe out heavily, encouraging my agitation to dissipate. I can’t very well tell her how we truly met. My first visit to Indonesia and that infamous island was for my honeymoon, a trip planned in haste two weeks before our wedding. Not knowing much of the island, we booked a beachfront resort in South Kuta with plans to get day drunk and relax, the usual happenings of a honeymoon. And, inexperienced, spent $40 AUD on a ten-minute taxi ride from Ngurah Rai to the hotel. Our hotel was stunning. To enter the lobby, we passed a massive pond featuring a display of lit geometric columns that sparkled in the middle and cascaded shimmering light into the water beneath. Of the lobby itself, the wide and open space shone with rich brown and black tones, intricate floral displays graced every table and counter, and on the walls hung beautifully carved designs of deities and local fauna. Quite obviously, we were awed, though we quickly realised our plans for lazy days weren’t to please us, and we sought adventure outside the high walls and thick, lush gardens surrounding the hotel. Bali is a place of great extremes, particularly Kuta, Seminyak, and Legian: luxury hotels bordered by stark cement shopfronts and contemporary restaurants, invigorating in design with the way both nature and building seem as one, hidden behind scooter carts with precarious modifications holding steaming pots of banana leaves, chicken, and rice. While I relished the activity, I sort tranquility. Only, we weren’t sure where to go or how to find the serene green landscapes and ornate temples unique to the island. Uncertain and abashed, we continued our walks, exploring further and further into the streets of Kuta and Legian, until we met Dodo. He caught our attention from the other side of the street and quickly crossed, dodging the many cars and many more scooters, before promptly handing my wife a scratch card. “Scratch it; scratch it!” he encouraged; “there’s a new hotel, and you can win!” Relaxed in the turn of events, my wife scratched as directed, revealing three gold stars. Dodo’s hands flew high, his eyes wide and grin wider. “You won!” Bemused, we followed this man down an alley and into an office with white-tiled walls and a white-tiled floor, where a young woman sat at the only desk, bright green nails clicking on a keyboard. Three other men similarly dressed–black chino shorts to the knees and pressed white shirts, untucked–sat on a wooden bench, leaning against the wall, one with his eyes shut, seemingly asleep. Dodo seemed convinced we had won $1000 USD, and to claim the prize, we had only to travel with him to the new hotel in Nusa Dua. We politely declined and returned outside to the oppressive blanket of heat. As we returned to the road, a shout came from behind: “Wait!” And we turned to see Dodo brandishing a business card. “This is not my proper job,” he explains; “I just need the money.” He holds the business card for my wife to take: Dodo Island Driver, read the card, with WhatsApp details attached. “Please; call me.” We did call Dodo, and he, as advertised, showed us the island we would not otherwise have seen, always a smile on his face and beautiful words to describe his home, sharing this island, his island, rich with beauty.