Two Pommie Sheilas: An open letter to Bali tourists: money can’t buy manners

In case you haven’t guessed from the name of this column, I’m a dual national Aussie-Pom. I was born in England and since moving to WA, I’ve become an Australian citizen.

This gives me the fantastic benefit of being able to claim the resilient Brits and the “fair go” Aussies as my people — and I’m proud to belong to both countries.

But, during a recent overseas holiday, I’m afraid there were times I was ashamed to show my passport.

That’s because I’ve just returned from a visit to Bali.

The relaxing synergy of “pool, sun and bar” my Aussie friends described sounded too tempting, so I snapped up a cheap deal and took a punt on the land of the Bintang singlet.

And while we’re talking about singlets, I was to witness my first headshake moment in the airport check-in queue.

My grandad once told me you should always smarten up: 1. To vote. 2. For a job interview and 3. For a flight.

Now I love my tracksuit pants as much as the next Yorkshire lass, but it was a shame the old bloke couldn’t have had a few words with my fellow travellers.

Reckon they’d got so much as a phrasebook in their suitcase? Had they heckers.

The airport was riddled with holidaymakers in shorter-than-short hot pants, men in singlets so baggy they bared their nipples and people in pyjamas — and even slippers (honest).

It didn’t stop there.

Mid-air, the shoes (or slippers) were off and they shamelessly trotted off to the toilets in their stockinged feet. Manners? They’d been left at home, while airline staff were referred to as “mayte” or “lav”.

Would they have behaved similarly during, for instance, a night at a Perth restaurant? Of course not.

But this was just the beginning. At the hotel, a British couple stood at the counter yelling at the staff because they were unable to understand their loud requests for a late check-out and early check-in.

Reckon they’d got so much as a phrasebook in their suitcase? Had they heckers. So, in the cringeworthy style of many Brits abroad, they improvised by, you guessed it, gobbing off at the top of their lungs.

These were my people. I should have been proud. I wasn’t. “Where are you from, Miss Natalia,” asked the young driver.

“Australia,” I quickly hit back. I didn’t fancy being associated with this mob.

But I’m afraid that some of the Aussies were hardly any better.

A night at the restaurants would show off Straya’s finest.

Loutish lads taking the mickey out of a barman, while Westerners sat spread-eagled on their wicker chairs waiting to be served some more satay sticks without so much as a please or thank you.

At the counter, they’d wait for every last coin of their change, completely ignorant to the fact the shrapnel they’d discarded in the bottom of their beach bag was likely a day’s wages for young Kadek, who had put up with their ridicule all afternoon.

Yet the grand Balinese folk, who barely had a pot to pee alongside Stevo with his FIFO wages, smiled widely, tried their hardest to speak English and gave service to rival their Aussie counterparts raking in many times as much.

Yes, Bali’s cheap to us and we’re effectively millionaires when we turn up at Denpasar Airport with our Aussie wages.

But you know what?

A few million rupiah doesn’t give us the right to treat the Balinese staff like our personal servants.

Bali, your people, beaches, views and hotels are amazing, and I thoroughly enjoyed what your island had to offer.

It’s just a shame some of your tourists couldn’t have lifted their standards to match.