My experience in a Balinese Hospital (TW Blood)

And how you can avoid it

So this time, I want to tell you about my motorbike accident – and what it was like in a Balinese hospital.

It happened on the 15th of May 2025. (Good date, right?)

It was around 6 pm, and my boyfriend and I were about to buy some souvenirs for our friends – we were supposed to fly back to Sumatra the next day. We were staying in the Kedungu area, which compared to nearby Canggu still feels calm, quiet, and untouched. Narrow roads, rice fields on one side, hardly any traffic. The sun had already set.

We were just a few minutes away from our friend’s place when suddenly… everything went grey.

Like the curtain in a theatre suddenly falling – and then silence.

My boyfriend said the bike started wobbling, so he stopped. At first, he didn’t know what happened – he thought maybe someone had crashed into us from behind. But when he looked back, he realized: nothing had happened. He was still upright. But I wasn’t.

And when he saw me, he said it looked like I wasn’t on this earth anymore.

My arms were twisted into shapes he couldn’t even describe. What had happened was this:

The long kimono I wore got caught in the back wheel. It pulled me off the bike, and both of my arms got sucked into the spokes.

So there he was, crying in the middle of the road, screaming for help. And three people just drove past him. Ignored him.

Until one Balinese guy stopped.

He yelled at my boyfriend to calm down: “You can’t solve anything like this!”

That’s the first stranger who truly helped us that night.

I was unconscious that whole time.

The very first thing I remember was the feeling of my arms stuck in the wheel – and the sound of scissors.

My first thought?

“Oh my god. They’re cutting the spokes. The bike will be broken. We’ll have to pay for that.”

Yeah. While they were trying to save me, I was worried about a freaking bike.

They managed to free my right hand without cutting, but for the left one they needed scissors.

And as if the universe sent a tiny miracle: a guy drove by, with a brand-new pair of scissors he had just bought at Indomaret.

Next thing I know, my boyfriend is lifting me up – which normally, he never could – and carrying me in his arms to another scooter. No ambulance. No car. Just a young boy offering us a ride on his Scoopy to the closest hospital.

I still remember the cold wind in my wet hair as we drove.

That is when I realized my head was bleeding.

That’s when fear kicked in.

Sleepless nights in hospitals

Arriving at the hospital felt like a movie scene.

The big glass doors were already wide open, nurses were rushing around, and my boyfriend was standing there, still holding me in his arms, doing everything he could to stay calm while asking for help.

They laid me down immediately and started cleaning my wounds.

There were injuries literally from head to toe.

But when I heard the scissors again, cutting through something near my head – I panicked.

My first thought? “Please not my hair. I just wanted to let it grow for once.”

I didn’t even feel the pain yet – thanks, adrenaline.

It’s honestly crazy how your body switches into survival mode in milliseconds, even when your mind has no clue what just hit you.

At some point, I became fully conscious again.

My friends arrived. I still remember the look on their faces – they said after seeing my kimono wrapped around the wheel like that, they were prepared for the worst.

first selfie after entering the hospital :)

Until today, I honestly don’t know what kind of guardian angels were by my side that night.

The doctors started asking me questions – to check if my brain was okay.

Where are you? What happened? What’s your name?

Luckily, I was able to answer everything.

Still, they recommended transferring me to a better-equipped hospital for a CT scan – just to be safe. They didn’t have the facilities for that there.

My travel insurance at the time was Allianz.

So we asked around and finally found another hospital about 30 minutes away – one that supposedly worked with Allianz.

By the time we arrived, it was already around 10 pm.

I was brought straight into the ER, and my boyfriend went to register me. A little while later he came back – and his face already gave away the answer.

“They don’t work with your kind of insurance anymore,” he said.

I just stared at him. That was a slap in the face.

The next international hospital would’ve been Siloam in Kuta – a minimum two-hour drive away.

It was late. We were exhausted. My painkillers were wearing off. I had no more capacity to make decisions.

So my boyfriend asked how much the CT scan would cost.

“3.5 million Rupiah,” they said. Around 200 Euro.

Okay, doable. So we agreed – because we thought: That’s the only thing we need here anyway.

The Diagnosis

After the CT scan, we waited in the ER.

Surrounded by screaming kids. Divided only by thin curtains.

But finally – the results came in: no brain damage. Just an external head wound.

I was so relieved. I thought: Okay, now we can go home.

But then the nurse took a breath and said,

“We would still recommend surgery – tomorrow at 8 a.m.”

Surgery?

What the actual f*?

My brain was racing. For what?!

She explained: they wanted to remove all the dead skin cells and redo the stitches properly, because what I had now was just “first aid”.

They used fancy medical jargon, and I honestly didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Part of me thought: This can’t be necessary.

But the other part saw doctors in white coats saying words I couldn’t understand – and I got scared.

So I asked: “Okay… how much would that be?”

She said they would start working on the receipt.

An hour passed. I felt like I had a rock in my head.

The fever was creeping up. Painkillers were wearing off.

And then she came back – holding a handwritten piece of paper.

I looked at it once and felt like I had entered a parallel universe:

250 million Rupiah.

TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILLION.

That’s 12,000 Euros.

They explained this kind of price by the fact that a neurosurgeon would have do to the surgery.

I asked my boyfriend: “Is this two hundred fifty thousand? Or million?”

Because the number didn’t even make sense in my head.

The lady asked for a signature - so they could start operating the following day at 8 am.

I just said:

“No way. Nobody’s going to sign that.”

We told her we would stay the night, pay for any medicine, and leave in the morning.

We needed to find another hospital.

The feeling of being taken advantage of by people who are supposed to help you – it hit me hard.

(Please do not understand me wrong, all of my indonesian friends balinese, sumateran & javanese said so)

If an Indonesian person saw that price, they would’ve ripped that IV out of their arm and just gone home.

That night, we somehow tried to sleep.

My boyfriend, sitting on a tiny stool, head resting on the edge of my hospital bed.

I still don’t know how he didn’t leave my side once.

Inbetween waiting, fever and being completly overywhelmed.

The next morning, a young man suddenly walked into our room.

“Excuse me… Can I see Ms. Marina’s insurance policy again?”

My boyfriend replied, “Sure, but yesterday we were told it’s not accepted.”

“Oh yes,” the guy said, “that was a misunderstanding.”

He took my phone with all the Allianz info and left.

A bit later he returned, smiling.

They had called Allianz, and the company had confirmed coverage by phone.

Now they were just waiting for the written confirmation.

Sounds good, right? But I couldn’t relax.

In my head, I kept thinking: They’ll back out. They’ll say I didn’t wear a helmet. Or that the cost is too high. Or that this is fraud.

I was spiraling.

Then came the fever.

I started shivering. I was sweating. I was freezing.

And yet – no one came to check my temperature.

We were still stuck in the ER, behind a curtain, surrounded by crying children.

It was heartbreaking.

One kid screamed for what felt like hours. I had to cry.

Not just because of the sound – but because I felt helpless. Like I didn’t belong there. Like I couldn’t get out.

Afternoon came. Still no news from Allianz.

Gusti – the same guy who had come earlier – returned and suggested we contact the insurance ourselves.

But… how?

Allianz only got automated emails, when I sent them one - forcing me to wait again.

Calling the emergency number was an austrian number which wasn’t possible to reach with my Indonesian SIM.

And if I switched SIMs? The call would have cost a fortune.

Luckily, a friend came to visit me that day.

She often made international calls for work and told me about an app called “TalkU” – for WiFi-based international calls.

A literal lifesaver.

Well… would have been, if the hospital WiFi/signal hadn’t been absolute trash.

It took five failed attempts before I finally got through to a human being – the woman in charge of my case.

I felt like I had won the jackpot.

She confirmed the written confirmation was on the way.

So I thought: Okay, it’s handled now. Just a little more waiting.

But no.

Hour after hour passed. Nothing.

My boyfriend couldn’t take it anymore.

He couldn’t sit and watch me like this. The rock on my head. The fever. The tears. My silence. The pressure.

He kept pacing. Thinking. Trying to come up with a plan.

And then he looked at me and said:

“Call your parents.”

Until that moment, I hadn’t.

They were in Brazil. 11 hours behind.

I didn’t want to worry them. I didn’t want to hear the panic in their voices when there was nothing they could do.

But I understood – it wasn’t just about me anymore.

The people around me needed hope, too.

So I called.

Tried to keep it together. Told them I was okay – I just needed the final insurance confirmation.

They were shocked, but calm.

They called a friend who used to work for Allianz – and he said, if they’ve already confirmed it by phone, it will come.

It was late by now.

That call drained me.

I passed out the moment I hung up.

Then, around midnight, the nurse came in with the news:

“We received the confirmation email.”

Finally.

The Surgery

As soon as the email from Allianz came in, everything changed.

After two days behind a curtain in the ER, they suddenly moved me into a private room with a real bed, a bathroom, and even a window.

It felt like a hotel.

Even though my gut feeling told me the surgery might not be necessary, I didn’t have the strength anymore to look for another opinion.

I was exhausted. So I just said yes.

The next morning, around 8 a.m., they checked my vitals.

My fever had hit 39°C. They gave me some paracetamol, and off I went into the operation room.

They had told me the surgery would take two to three hours.

But I was back after just one – completely under full anesthesia.

When I woke up, I started feeling my body and noticed stitches not just on my head, but also on my ear and my knee.

No one had ever mentioned my knee. Or my ear.

Back in my room, still dazed from the anesthesia, I didn’t say anything.

Instead, I focused on texting my family, reassuring them that everything was fine.

Because honestly? That’s one of the hardest things for me: when people worry about me.

I hate it. It makes me feel like a burden.

While I was trying to convince everyone I was okay, the phone in my room rang.

It was a woman from Allianz Indonesia. She wanted to connect me to their Austrian representative.

And that’s when panic kicked in again.

What if he asks about the helmet?

What if he finds out I didn’t wear one? Will they cancel everything?

Do I have to lie?

He picked up.

And asked the most unexpected question:

“Are they treating you well?”

That’s it.

He just wanted to know how I was doing.

And I – beyond exhausted – said yes to everything, just to end the call.

Then I fell asleep again.

But when I woke up, my face was swollen.

It started on the right side of my forehead and moved down to my eye.

I asked my so-called specialist, the neurosurgeon, what it was.

And he said:

“I don’t really know either.”

Excuse me?

I felt the same uncomfortable wave of mistrust hit me again.

The same feeling I had when they handed me that 250-million-rupiah receipt.

Was I just a walking insurance policy for them?

Luckily, cooling the swelling helped. It took a few days, but it went down.

And just as I started feeling slightly better… something truly surreal happened.

On day two after the surgery, just as I was finally feeling a little better,

my boyfriend helped me get up to use the toilet – still half-weak from surgery, my hair sticky with dried blood, my face swollen.

And then suddenly:

a woman was standing in the doorway.

He said: “One moment please,” trying to give us some privacy.

When I came back to bed, four Indonesian women were standing in my room.

One of them holding a huge bouquet of flowers.

Smiling.

Apparently, it was the manager of the hospital – plus some higher-up staff.

And then they said:

“Can we take a photo?”

I just stared at them.

There I was – in a hospital gown, no shower in days, hair matted with blood, one eye swollen shut – and they wanted a fucking selfie.

I was too shocked to say no.

Too tired. Too confused. Too numb.

So I just sat in my be.

Click.

Going home

From that moment on, my patience was done.

I wanted out.

The next day, I was ready.

Ready to leave.

Ready to be anywhere but here.

But no one came.

The nurse told me to wait – “the doctor hasn’t arrived yet.”

It was already late afternoon.

I waited.

And waited.

By 4 p.m., I’d had enough.

I told the nurse, in a calm but clear tone:

“I’m not happy with what’s going on here. I want to go home.”

She just smiled politely. “Yes, but the doctor isn’t here yet.”

And then – hours later around 8 pm – he finally showed up.

Wearing shorts, a slingbag, and looking like he’d just returned from a beach day.

My specialist neurosurgeon.

He asked me exactly two questions:

1. “Do you have any pain?”

2. “Do you feel nauseous?”

I said no.

And that was that.

“If you want to go home tomorrow… no problem,” he added casually.

I almost laughed.

For this? I waited the whole day?

I nodded, smiled, pretended to agree – but inside I was already packing.

As the nurse removed my IV, I felt that tiny rush of hope return.

I’m really going home.

We packed my things and went down to the front desk to pick up my meds.

Even standing there, I couldn’t believe the insurance had really paid for all of this.

Every moment since the accident had felt so chaotic, so uncertain –

But somehow… it had worked out.

The nurse told me to return in two days for a check-up.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I could breathe again.

That night, back at our friend’s place,

I didn’t shower.

I didn’t cry.

I just lay there, in fresh sheets, in clean air –

feeling relieved, a little broken, but also free.

check up

Two days later, we were back at the hospital for the first check-up.

Still no shower.

My hair – crusted with dry blood, sweat, and hospital air – felt like a helmet of its own.

I was so ready to feel clean again.

But the check-up was rather quick.

The doctor cleaned everything with iodine, slapped on some fresh bandages and told me,

“Come back the day after tomorrow.”

That was it.

Still, I stayed hopeful.

Maybe the next check-up would be better.

Maybe they’d finally say: “Looks great. You can shower now.”

So after two days, we went again.

All my appointments were in the evening, and we always had to wait around an hour.

This time, my boyfriend came in the room with me.

He hadn’t dared to look at my wounds until now.

When the doctor removed the bandage on my head,

he flinched.

That was the first time he saw what I looked like under there.

The doctor opened the stitches on my head.

Then, without a word, moved to my knee.

Started cutting there, too.

I was confused. Wait – my ear also had stitches… what about that?

“Oh yeah, di telinga juga ada,” he said.

“Oh yes, the ear too.”

He had forgotten.

(and also he forgot the last stitch, which my boyfriend than opened at home)

Again this feeling:

I’m not really being seen here.

Just patched up. Processed.

He told me to keep taking the rest of the antibiotics and that no more medication was needed.

Cool.

Still no full shower allowed – but I was getting closer.

Doc Said, “You can shower in two more days.”

Ugh. Fine. I waited.

Back home I removed the last bandage, my friends noticed a tiny wet spot.

Not dramatic.

Not painful.

But… still a little open.

I didn’t worry.

I felt good. It looked small.

So I waited those last two days, and then finally – almost two weeks later – I had my first real shower.

It felt like a rebirth.

But maybe I celebrated too early.

That tiny wet spot?

It got bigger.

And my friends started to worry again.

I didn’t.

I still felt fine. No pain.

I couldn’t even see it – it was on my head, after all.

To be safe, I Googled around. Found out that zinc cream might help.

So I asked my boyfriend to apply some.

Still nothing.

He got more nervous.

Eventually, he sent a photo to the hospital.

They replied… and the neurosurgeon did two things:

1. Shamed me for using zinc cream.

2. Recommended coming back to the hospital. Again.

Oh – and also: “You should contact your insurance again.”

And that’s when I was done.

I didn’t want to go back.

I didn’t want to see his face.

I didn’t want to sit in that waiting room ever again.

So my boyfriend told them we couldn’t return – we were heading back to Sumatra.

They responded:

“Then we recommend cleaning it again with Betadine and putting a bandage on it.”

Seriously?

For that, I should’ve come all the way back and deal with my insurance again?

No thanks.

Sumatera

Back in Sumatra, my boyfriend said,

“Let me call someone.”

A few hours later, a woman showed up at the house.

She was a local doctor from the neighborhood – someone who usually worked at the Puskesmas, helped pregnant women, and had already treated many motorbike accident cases.

And the moment she saw my head, her face froze.

She gently examined the wound, and said something I’ll never forget:

“The stitches should never have been removed this early.”

Finally.

Someone who cared about the people.

Not just the wound. Not just a price tag.

She immediately put me back on antibiotics, and gave me a pill containing Snakehead Fish extract – a natural remedy used in North Sumatra to support healing thanks to its high Albumin protein content.

And then she looked at me, smiled, and said:

“You need protein. Eat five eggs a day – only the whites.”

I truly loved how she gave me recommendations of what I should eat in order to support my healing.

I do see food as medicine and truly believe that it can make a big difference.

She shaved a small part of my hair again to clean the wound properly.

Then redressed it with care. Every move was thoughtful.

And from that day on, she came every single day.

Every day.

To clean the wound. Change the bandage. Reassure me.

On day two, I looked at her with hope and asked:

“Is it getting better?”

She looked serious.

“Not better,” she said.

I was confused. What now?

She explained that when she pressed the wound on one side, pus came out the other.

The whole thing was infected from the inside.

She repeated it again: the stitches had been taken out way too early.

It should have been minimum 2 weeks.

That day, she cleaned everything out. It was painful – but I knew she was doing it for me, not for money, not to sell me a service.

And slowly… day by day… it started to heal.

Do you know how much she charged per visit?

40.000 Rupiah.

Not even three Euros.

In Bali this would have probably costed Millions of Rupiah again.

She’s an angel. Truly.

I still get emotional when I think about her.

In the end, it took over a month of one-sided head showers.

Endless gauze, ointment, patience.

But the wound finally closed.

Properly.

Completely.

Safely.

And sometimes I still wonder:

What if I had stayed in Bali?

Would the wound ever have properly healed?

& please do not ask me about my haircut now haha, I can only say I have a wide variety of hats now. :P

So remember people:

• 1. Know your insurance – and how to contact them.

  Download the app, save the hotline, know your policy number. Always.

• 2. Be mindful of your clothing on motorbikes.

  Long, flowy fabrics can be deadly. Tie them up, tuck them in, or don’t wear them.

• 3. Wear a helmet. Always.

  Even for short distances. Even “just around the corner.”

  Not just because of the risk – but because some insurances won’t cover you if you don’t.

• 4. Ask for second opinions if you can

  Especially when someone suggests surgery.

  And especially if it feels rushed.

• 5. Have sufficient funds & quick access to it

  My hospital did f.e ask me to place a deposit of half the sum & if my insurance pays they will return it. I refused to do that but if I had that would have been 6 k Euro, which needed to be transferred as quick as possible.

  Also if the hospital does not work directly with the insurance like mine did you would have to pay in advance.

  I always use the Mastercard gold (get 35 Euro, when you use this link ) & the Wise card. Love them for traveling. Especially with the wise card you can transfer money to local accounts within seconds. & the Mastercard allows you to withdraw money from ATMs free worldwide.