Everyone says Mother knows best. But when I told my mother I was off to find myself in Bali, the worries she voiced seemed utterly unwarranted. “It’s just two weeks in Bali, what’s the worst that can happen?” I had scoffed. She worried that her vegan, gluten-free daughter would struggle to forage for food and would return home as mere skin and bone. “Bali’s practically the Mecca of Instagrammable vegan cafes” I had assured her. She worried that if her daughter lost her passport and luggage keys as often as she lost her phone and house keys, she may miss her return flight home altogether. “Bali’s called the island of the Gods – I’m sure at least one of them will watch over me (and my belongings)” I had light-heartedly suggested. But now, as I’m rounding a sharp corner on Nusa Penida and my motor scooter suddenly loses traction, it is I who worries that her daughter may not return home in one piece... With adrenaline flooding my system, time comes to a complete standstill. I was all for embracing the slower-paced Balinese lifestyle, but not like this. Eventually, I come crashing back down to Earth. My left arm has been put through a meat grinder. The road rash stretching from my funny bone to my phalanges is the freshly minced meat. A whole colony of dust particles has settled on my once-white shirt. The cotton of my khaki green slacks hangs in tattered ribbons over my right knee. A raspberry-red wound peaks out from beneath, its vibrant colour akin to the fake blood I used to buy for my Halloween dress-up parties. I notice my right shoe has parted ways with my right foot. The people in the van we had recklessly overtaken just moments before, disembark. My boyfriend throws a dispirited thumbs-up their way. I don’t turn around to look, but their stares burn into the back of my skull, hotter than the midday sun above. My body was battered and bruised, but my pride was beaten to a pulp. I guess three things in life are certain – death, taxes and naïve tourists getting into motor scooter accidents on Nusa Penida. Because while this island is a popular excursion for visitors to Bali, scootering between its Instagram-famous dinosaur-shaped cliffs and coconut-tree-laden white-sand beaches (#nofilter) is no easy feat. Take the gruelling journey to the Raja Lima (Five Kings) viewpoint for example. After driving down the pothole-plagued eastern coastline, you will be greeted with panoramic views of spiked islets protruding from peacock-blue waters. Pay just 50,000 Indonesian Rupiah and you can precariously perch yourself on the front steps of the nearby Rumah Pohon treehouse, like a bohemian princess overlooking her kingdom! A dance with death and 3.50 USD is a small price to pay for Instagram-worthy pictures and inane approval from friends, family and followers. Nusa Penida is a goldmine for Western tourists, and I had ashamedly succumbed to the gold fever too. The locals were more than happy to cash in though. However, thoughts of tonight’s Instagram post immaterialise, as I stand up and recollect my thoughts (and shoe). I now felt helplessly exposed to the world like a naked day-old baby bird who falls from its nest but miraculously survives. But I had willingly ventured from the comforts of the cotton wool my mother had laboriously wrapped me in for the first 20 years of my life. However, I feel comforted as I sit on the roadside and my boyfriend futilely tries to unearth the grit and gravel enmeshed with my raw pink flesh before dressing my weeping wounds with gauze. I guess I really had become one with the earth. I can’t help but feel amused that night when the lady in the local warung proudly presents me with my dinner: a plate of 'vegan' nasi goreng with a fried egg slap-bang on top. And returning from my pilgrimage ten nights later, I feel enlightened when my mother lovingly takes me into her arms and consoles me. "At least your scars will give you a story to tell” she explains. So now as I’m writing this story, I realise what everyone says is true. Mother knows best.