My husband drew the line when I mentioned the shamanic sacrifice. I’m not a total sadist, but after 10 days in a turbo-charged immersion of Indonesian culture, pencilling in a chicken-slaying divination ceremony seemed perfectly normal. Clearly, I had reached peak Gap Week.
For the uninitiated, a gap week is longer and more restorative than the self-care day, brief enough to sandwich somewhere in my (rapidly diminishing) annual leave and the school holidays. It has plenty of Live, Laugh, Love photo ops (‘great for the socials!’) but in short, less-irritating-for-everyone-else bursts.
Far East Asia felt achievable now that my children are out of nappies, and we landed on the classic combination of town and country, starting in the backpacker’s paradise of Bali before moving on to the infinitely more remote island of Sumba.
To be clear, we weren’t actually backpacking and were instead guided by the expert concierge team on the ground at Original Travel, who provide travellers with superlative itineraries. Landing in Bali, we were transported straight to the lush jungle of Tabanan, Bali’s ‘next big thing,’ to our hotel Nirjhara, which is shrouded by verdant canopy and waterfalls.
The hotel itself was a discreet yet perfectly formed alternative to the shabby chic lodgings we were drip fed via social media in other overdeveloped areas like Ubud and Canggu.
Enveloped by greenery, rooms ranged from boutique riverside pavilions and treehouses to the Residence - arguably the most beautiful villa on-site - which the expert concierge team whisked us to without great fanfare so we could discover it all ourselves (not least the villa's private infinity pool to perfect our morning laps).
With only 48 hours, we had to ignore our blinding jet lag in favour of a whistlestop tour of the surrounding villages by expat guide Clemence Boudic, founder of local outfit Niskala tours.
Undulating rice paddies gave way to crumbling ancient temples en route, each garlanded with the most astounding floral offerings. Turns out we’d arrived on a high holy weekend, celebrating Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of knowledge and art.
Our highlight? An afternoon at a local griya (translation: priestly) home, our children playing with the family’s hand-painted puppets, while my husband and I feasted on lunch made by the matriarchs. Then onwards to Sumba for a drastic change of scene. No traffic, no noise, barely any people. Immaculate coastlines melt into the Indian ocean and twinkling lakes and lagoons seem to spring out of nowhere.
There are only two hotels and we opted for the chic and considerably more affordable Cap Karoso — a labour of love for couple Evguenia and Fabrice Ivara. Their passion for brutalist architecture fused with Indonesian detailing (thatched roofs and upcycled wood furnishings) has manifested in a haven praised as one of the World’s 50 Best Boutique Hotels since opening last year.
It's no surprise: every space has been thoughtfully curated - from the airy midcentury modern layouts of the rooms and villas (ours centred around a sleek infinity pool, the water seeming to slip straight into the ocean), walls sheathed in bright contemporary art and tables expertly stacked with aspirational coffee table books.
A virtually deserted kids club and helpful babysitting services meant the children were happily diverted while we absconded from parenting at the traditional Indonesian Mandala spa during the day, and enjoyed dinner a deux at Julang, the hotel's fine-dining restaurant with its revolving roster of guest chefs.
Flip-flopping between the hotel pools and beach restaurant (catch of the day so fresh you could see the fishermen with their nets from your table), we revelled in our daily excursions — paddle boarding, visiting local ikat weavers and learning about how the villages worked as mini co-operatives.
The experience was revelatory, and chastening, and gave us some perspective on how parochial our little London lives were. Turns out you can see a year’s worth of life in a week if you’re guided by the right people.
