My toe was staring at me, covered by a rich, thick, burgundy-like fluid. Pain was not an issue at this point: I was simply staring in bewilderment at the ravages that a split of a second had made. As dust was about to settle, a choir of voices began their hike to crescendo. The fragile old lady was shaking, her soiled bicycle having barely survived the impact. Something shattered, pieces of coloured glass suddenly falling to dust. Thought fragments continuously fought to make sense in my mind. In the midst of it all, someone grabbed my arm, spoke a few words and led me out of there. The next few minutes were a blur, and I woke back to reality once safe in the oasis of my hotel room. What had happened?
My friends and I were on the gorgeous island of Panglao, Philippines. On what seemed as an infinite stretch of sand, Alona beach was deploying all its guns for early tourists. Lush palm trees soared to the vault of heaven, shielding wooden guesthouses from the heat. Having insatiably soaked in lazy hours staring at Helios’ corpulent body and flirting with Poseidon’s peaceful embodiment, we decided it was about time we parted on an adventure. The choices were abundant: from all sides, locals were incessantly harassing us, desperately trying to milk our fatty foreigner pockets. We had heroically resisted for a couple of days; it was about time we gave in to temptation. In a stretch or pure brilliance, we chose to rent second-hand motorbikes. Despite our complete lack of driving skills, and the raw condition of the bikes, it seemed like an enlightened decision. It wasn’t. It only took an instant after the motor’s roar for me to realize, with dismay, that my brakes were unresponsive.
The sun was at its peak as we entered the tiny, crammed, damp and glum police office, and was diving into the sea by the time we escaped it. Ardent negotiations took place: the car owner claimed an arm and a leg for the light damage, and the ‘’foreigners’’ weren’t bulging. Eventually, an undercurrent of cohesion stirred across the room as the bluecoats sided with the locals; it took brutally honest tears and repeated apologies to get away without a record.
Hours later, the five of us were savouring a luxurious meal on the edge of the seashore. The table was brimming with crispy golden squid rolls, maya-mayas with lemon, and generous fresh fruit mash-ups. By now, our waiter’s ethereal voice had tackled ‘’Somewhere over the rainbow’’ and ‘’Don’t worry, be happy’’, in an attempt to lift the crestfallen mood. In due course, the comicality of the situation got the best of us, and spirits’ level rose. Literally. In the evening’s cool misty air, we looked at each other and breathed relief. This would be a story that transcends time, a story we’d reminisce about, a story to tell our children. This was our big adventure.
