How my Bali babymoon – and dreams of poolside mocktails – turned into a nightmare

Our ‘blissful’ getaway before our first bub arrived was the furthest thing from relaxing – but it sure did prepare us for the sleep deprivation about to hit, writes Kara Jung.

What’s a babymoon?

It's a wanky name for a fine idea – get away, relax and enjoy the last cup of coffee you’ll have without being interrupted.

There's no cocktails, only mocktails, but there’s reading an entire magazine while lying on the beach without a small child kicking sand in your face.

It’s watching a whole movie, even the part where she orders them to stop the private jet so she can disembark and run into her lover’s arms for that final passionate kiss without your kids interjecting with pressing life questions like: “Mum, can I open this pack of biscuits?” or “Mum, have you seen my Squishmallow?”

Reading without interruption, bliss!

Of course, we didn’t know all that then. It was our first child and we had no idea just how much it was all about to change.

But we were excited for a romantic escape to spend some couple time together before the impending birth of our beautiful first baby.

We’d left it a bit late – I was almost seven months pregnant and regularly fielding questions from people like: “Jeez, are you having twins?”

But we had our doctor’s letter, and despite the threat of Bali belly, we booked some bargain direct flights to Indonesia for a tropical beach getaway.

We couldn’t wait to sit in the garden at Cafe Wayan, to look out over the rice paddies at Tropical View Ubud, to while away the hours on the beach at Waka Nusa on Lembongan and snack on ribs at Naughty Nuri’s.

Watermelon juice on the beach at Waka Nusa on Lembongan.

The hum of scooters and the waft of clove cigarettes was calling us.

The day before our flight I was reminded of Barack Obama also flying into Bali for the G20 Summit that year.

A quick call to the airline assured us it was all clear skies and green lights.

We had nothing to worry about.

And so off we went.

And after about five-and-a-half hours we prepared to land and begin a week of relaxation.

Except we didn't.

Land, that is.

When it was clear there was something up the pilot sheepishly announced we were just “circling Denpasar airport for a bit” due to a backlog of traffic … due to Air Force One and President Obama being in Bali for the G20 Summit.

No worries, a small delay.

After an hour or so we were told we might need a plan B, which was to land and refuel … in Jakarta.

I’ve always wanted to visit Jakarta. To wander through the old city, go shopping in Menteng and take a day trip to Thousand Islands.

We saw none of those things.

In the pool at Maya Resort in Ubud, Bali. Much nicer than the inside of a stuffy aeroplane.

We landed on the tarmac at the airport and that’s where we stayed, with the doors wide open and no aircon or even the slightest breeze for five hours.

Our view was a bunch of passengers fighting to stand in the open doorway in a vein attempt to escape the hot box we were all sweating inside.

I’ve been yelled at with an AK47 pointed at my face in Nepal, come off a scooter on a deserted back road of an island somewhere in Thailand, lost my passport in Laos customs, which weirdly, also resulted in a gun being pointed at me in the middle of the visa lounge. But this was getting next-level uncomfortable.

Finally though – the green light. We were heading back to Denpasar.

There was an announcement when we arrived, followed by cheers. And then there was more circling, followed by another apology from our captain.

We were in the queue but not cleared to land.

I mean, at least the airconditioning was back on?

“I’ve go a bad feeling about this,” I said to my husband.

“There’s no kids on this flight and only one puffy, uncomfortable pregnant lady – we’re going to be the last to land, if we get to land at all.”

I was desperately hoping I was wrong.

I wasn’t.

After several hours of circling the captain broke the news that, “sorry folks, we have to head back to Darwin for the night”.

By the time we arrived back (is it “back” if you didn’t technically go through customs in Indo?) on Australian soil and was shuffled to a crappy hotel near the airport it was late and we were weirdly tired from all the sweating and waiting.

We set our alarms for 4am to catch the next flight.

The following morning many fellow passengers, now inextricably linked by our uncomfortable journey together, kindly checked in on the puffy pregnant lady’s welfare.

“Jeez, are you having twins?” asked one elderly gentleman.

There were then more shared smiles of sympathy when our new flight was delayed by more than an hour.

By the time we landed in Denpasar we were battle weary, and had counted 36 hours from when we left home to when we walked into the humid air and hailed a taxi to our hotel in Seminyak.

As usual, Bali was a delight – making up for the nightmare plane ride to finally get there.

The week that unfolded was one of luxury spa treatments, watermelon juice by the pool, delicious meals and time together.

Oh, and a rather horror dose of Bali belly.