Or what it feels like when your cocktail is loaded with Rohypnol…
(Editor’s note: A few days ago, the Santa Cruz surfer turned Bali transplant, Mara Wolford, lit up on Facebook after she nearly died when her cocktail was spiked with Rohypnol. It’s a rough read and, when you dig a little deeper, you learn that drink spiking in Bali isn’t exactly an isolated event. So far, Mara’s story has been shared by 13,000 people, 138 of ’em moved to comment. It’s an interesting story, I think, because it illustrates the paradoxical nature of Bali, an island superficially perfect but with a dark undercurrent.
“I am pretty lucky to be alive,” Mara says, “and since I posted that, I’ve received around 40 long mails from women who lived through the same thing, not understanding what had happened. The first time this happened a few years ago, I was with Gerlach, Budgey and Mick Curley. They understood someone had dosed me and got me outta there, kept me safe. But it’s scary shit. Over it. I’m going back to Santa Cruz. But not before I go get some sick barrels on Nias…”
Read Mara’s account of what happens when your cocktail is loaded with Rohypnol below…)
Goodbye, Bali and Fuck You Whilst You’re at It #39. So, Tues. night was eventful. I went to visit My friend MJ over in Echo Beach. We visited for a few hours, MJ was tired. Her guest, Emilio, an elder Spanish gentleman, suggests we go to the beach and grab a bite.
We do, then we head up the road for a drink. He orders us two mojitos.
The bartender makes them behind the bar out of my view. I don’t worry about this, I’m chatting with the bar guys in bahasa and they’re cool. I leave the drink on the bar and go to the bathroom. All of these acts, ordering mixed drinks, not watching them being made and leaving a drink unattended, are fatal errors in Bali, but this evening, I wasn’t too concerned. I have not been out for a drink since Gerhard died six months ago and the fun in Bali stopped.
Half-way through the second mojito (also poured out of view), the Rohypnol kicked in with fury. I knew what it was because this happened three years ago and it was terrifying. From the speed in which this was happening, it felt like multiple doses.
Today is G’s birthday and I know we all miss him more than he could ever know.
Half-way through the second mojito (also poured out of view), the Rohypnol kicked in with fury. I knew what it was because this happened three years ago and it was terrifying. From the speed in which this was happening, it felt like multiple doses.
I have no way to know and or prove who did it, but I grabbed a photo of the bar guy who made the drinks. Asked him for a photo of the tattoo on his face because it’s so cute. Righto. I then subtly tell three women in the bar whom I don’t know what has happened, to be very careful, and to not let anyone follow me out of the place when I leave as I don’t know who did it or who will try to follow me, to create a diversion. I only have 200 metres to walk home safe.
I exit the bar, turn down the road, walk maybe 20 metres and fall flat on my face, out cold. A motorbike passes, circles back around and stops. I can remember no detail about the driver other than he was Caucasian. My face is split open. I told him to take me back to MJ’s and he seemed to know where it was. He was trying to clean my face up, and I remember telling him it was fine. I know what is going to happen next and I don’t want him to witness it.
Emilio comes home, worried about my disappearance, and the motorcycle guy explains what has happened, that I’ve been drugged. I am now nearly paralyzed and can barely talk. And what happens next is, between projectile vomiting and loss of all bodily function, I nearly go into organ failure.
I can feel my body shutting down. MJ runs into the bedroom, throws the guys out of the mess (we didn’t get to thank the guardian angel, but thank you, whoever you are) and deals with this catastrophe. Dunno how to thank you, either, MJ.
She gets me washed off and into bed. She sleeps next to me because she is really worried. My breathing is superficial and interrupted, a symptom of Rohypnol overdose. She doesn’t sleep much that night. She saved my life.
I know it may sound weird that we wouldn’t go straight to the hospital, but the hospitals here wouldn’t know what to do either, in the case of severe benzodiazepine poisoning, and my stomach and bowels had already been purged: my body was fighting hard to save itself.
I come to late yesterday feeling like I was run over by a truck. I really don’t know who would think it was funny or a good idea to slip a 51-kilo woman enough Flunitrazepam as to nearly kill her, but it reconfirms for me that they aren’t the type of people I want around me.
Bye, Bali and Fuck you, as well.
