I'm Going To Die Here, Aren't I?

I had been in Ubud for less than a week when I first met him. It was one of those quintessential Bali nights: a blur of ecstatic dancing and whispered conversations that felt profound in the moment. His name was Markos and he had an energy that was impossible to ignore—magnetic, chaotic, and a little unhinged.

We talked, and eventually exchanged contact information. It felt like one of those fleeting Bali connections destined to evaporate with the sunrise, but the next day, he invited me over for tea at his villa.

Tea in Bali is practically a handshake—it’s just what people do—so I accepted. I asked him to send his address since I hadn’t learned to drive a scooter yet and needed to order a Grab (think Uber, Bali edition). Instead of an address, he sent me a pin that led to the middle of a rice field, accompanied by a grainy photo of a dirt path and a message that read: "This goes down to the left just before a construction site… follow it to the end."

Okay...

I mentioned this to my villa mate, whose raised eyebrow and skeptical expression spoke volumes. He mused aloud about Markos' peculiar energy, something between eccentric and vaguely sinister. Undeterred—if not mildly amused—I got ready to head out.

The Grab dropped me off at the pin, which was (predictably) nowhere. The directions he sent were more of a riddle than a roadmap—offering just enough breadcrumbs to ensure I wouldn’t abandon the quest entirely, especially because I now didn't know my way back out. Eventually, I found the dirt path—hidden under a carpet of fallen leaves—and ventured deep into the jungle. Deep enough that I turned on my location and recorded a video for a friend, noting the situation, just in case.

The just-in-case video sent to a friend.

You would think at this point, alarm bells would be ringing, red flags would be swinging, but no. Not even when I finally arrived at his open-air villa and found him firing arrows with aggressive intensity across his living room, each shot landing with a force that made me flinch. Turning my head back towards the path to consider a quick exit, I instead make eye contact with the biggest shovel I have ever seen propped up against the wall. I'm going to die here, aren't I?

Apparently sensing my hesitation (I may have yelped when the arrow hit the target), he set down the bow, gave me an long, Ubudian hug, and started making some (allegedly) hundred-year-old, sacred tea.

The first pot was...fine. By the second, I was sure I was stoned. He said with this type of tea it was likely and immediately poured the next pot. By the fifth pot, I realized I’d been sitting there for five hours, being systematically over-caffeinated while he regaled me with tales of spiritual enlightenment. When he suggested staying longer for more tea and a dinner party, I firmly declined as I watched the sun start to dwindle.

As I got up to collect my things, determined to leave, I suddenly heard, "but don't you want to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow?"

Damn it. Of course I did.

Next thing I know, there I was, dodging his advances while trying to stay focused on the target. Fortunately, this time I was the one holding the weapon.

I obviously made it out of there, and we don’t talk anymore. While I can't say the experience wasn't worth it for the story, I am left to wonder if my newfound ability to shoot a 30 pound Mongolian bow somehow compensates for my lack of survival instincts.