The Pool Had No Depth, But I Sank Regardless

By (the LitBot in) Franz Kafka (mode)

The Sunday Times Travel Magazine

July 2025

It was a Tuesday. Or rather, they said it was Tuesday. The woman at the guesthouse—smiling, always smiling—assured me that each day in Bali begins with a prayer and ends with a small act of forgetting. I checked my watch. It had stopped. The sky looked confused.

I had come to this island to rest. My doctor, who no longer accepts my calls, once said I should go somewhere warm and silent. I imagined volcanoes. Instead, I was handed a hibiscus and a form to sign. The form was titled: Intention to Relax. I hesitated. “Mandatory,” she whispered, pressing a pen into my hand. I complied.

The guesthouse was called Harmony Retreat. It consisted of a single open-air pavilion, three iguana-shaped fountains, and a pool that reflected nothing. My room had no door, only beads that rustled with accusation each time I passed. The bed, though freshly made, seemed as though someone had already dreamt in it.

Every morning began with yoga. A Belgian named Pieter instructed us to “breathe from the hips” and “release inner governance.” When I asked whether he meant ‘government’ or ‘self-control,’ he said nothing, only closed his eyes and appeared to levitate slightly above his mat. I remained grounded.

Later, we were served a breakfast of sliced dragonfruit and something called mindful porridge. It tasted like a cancelled appointment. I tried to ask for coffee but the waiter shook his head and muttered, “The beans have not been blessed.”

At midday, I wandered into Ubud. The monkeys watched me. They are not sacred, the sign said, merely respected. I bowed slightly. One stole my handkerchief. Another tried to return it. Or perhaps it was offering me its own. The transaction remains unresolved.

In a temple courtyard, a ceremony unfolded. The locals wore white. The tourists wore confusion. Smoke rose. Gamelan music clinked like the inside of a malfunctioning clock. I asked a man what the ritual meant. He shrugged: “We feed the gods so they don’t notice us.”

Back at the retreat, a woman named Olya offered to open my chakras. “They’re probably welded shut,” I told her. She laughed, but not cruelly. Her tools included a singing bowl, sandalwood oil, and a QR code. When I lay down, she waved a feather above my chest and whispered, “You are holding something.” I said, “I know.”

On the third evening (I think it was the third), the retreat hosted a silent dinner. We sat in a circle, chewing rice and avoiding eye contact. The silence was not peaceful. It grew louder with every passing minute, until one man sobbed into his jackfruit.

I asked to leave. They said my checkout required a Closing Ceremony. It involved fire, chanting, and the return of all borrowed energies. I hadn’t borrowed anything. Still, I stood beside the flame and nodded as a woman in a trance asked me to name the thing I had left behind. “Certainty,” I said. She smiled. “Common one.”

I made it to the airport. The check-in agent examined my passport, then her screen, then me. “You have overstayed,” she said. “By how long?” I asked. She shrugged. “Time is ceremonial here.”

While I waited, a small child approached me and offered a marigold. When I reached for it, he pulled it back. “Just kidding,” he said in perfect German.

I boarded the plane. It did not take off for several hours. Outside the window, the sky was still confused. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe from the hips.

Perhaps I should not have come. But I fear I would have found this place, or something like it, no matter where I went.

On reflection, I see now that the pool had no depth.

But I sank regardless.

Franz Kafka is a former insurance clerk and part-time insect who once attempted a beach holiday but got trapped in a deckchair for three days. Though largely unfamiliar with leisure, he has strong opinions about luggage tags, hotel keycards, and the existential menace of continental breakfast. He is currently working on a novella about a passport control officer who interrogates souls at the border of the afterlife. Kafka lives nowhere, and often.

Note: This piece of writing is a fictional/parodic homage to the writer cited. It is not authored by the actual author or their estate. No affiliation is implied. Also, The Sunday Times Travel Magazine cover above is not an official cover. This image is a fictional parody created for satirical purposes. It is not associated with the publication’s rights holders, or any real publication. No endorsement or affiliation is intended or implied.

‘Nowhere Fast’ is our first-class review section for economy-class reality. Whether it’s a wellness retreat built on a fault line or a five-star resort where the pool’s full of crypto bros, we go there so you don’t have to. Think postcards from hell, TripAdvisor rewritten by Joan Didion after three gins…or Joan Rivers after a dozen…