Adventures In Boracay: Part II

Getting off the ferry was just as harrowing as getting on the ferry, but we made it, damn it. Dragging our luggage kicking and screaming onto the lush island of Boracay, we started looking around for a taxi to take us up to the hotel. There was a line of limos coming off the proper ferry and heading into the jungle, Brad was hanging out one of the windows with his ever-present Mai Thai in hand, cheering everyone he passed. About one hundred metres ahead of us was a line of trikes.

"You want the trike experience."

Flagging down a new trike driver, we told him the name of our hotel and off we went again. This time the roads weren't as good as the mainland, and even though there were two lanes of traffic, there was barely one lane of the road. It was a long trip up the island.

The city (?) of Boracay was thick with busy narrow roads, tourist shops, pharmacies, bars, and endless hotels all smashed together facing the ocean. Inside the city, it was hot and noisy and (if I'm being kind) it smelled pretty ripe. We didn't see any of the Muerte Gang on the drive up, but I had one arm locked around our luggage and another around Jenn to make it harder for them to kidnap and murder us.

After what seemed like days of riding in this trike through the jungle and haphazard communities made entirely of concrete blocks and corrugated sheeting, we finally arrived at our hotel—Willy's Beach Hotel. We were really concerned that we fucked up and would never be seen again—it was that harrowing of a ride and that sketchy of a neighbourhood. We had to walk down a short dank alley to get into the lobby of our hotel, but as soon as we stepped inside, it was like we had arrived in Narnia. A completely different world from where we were only 30 seconds earlier.

THE STREET JUST OUTSIDE OF WILLY'S BEACH HOTEL

The hotel was beautiful, clean, quiet, and well-appointed. The front desk staff greeted us by name and got us checked in, offered us a cocktail, and told us to take our time settling in. We had a room on the second floor that overlooked the courtyard and ocean beyond. Not a fantastic room, but large and comfortable. We unpacked, changed, and went down to have a cocktail on the patio, which was a mere two feet from the beach and the ocean beyond.

You could almost forget that the Muerte Gang was still roaming around, thumbing their noses at authority, all the while looking for people to kidnap and murder. The hotel included breakfast and dinner, but drinks and lunch were sold separately—they would just add those and other incidentals to our bill.

We quickly got into a routine where I would wake up early and head down to the cafe to grab a coffee, set up my laptop to write and work for several hours looking out over the ocean. Jenn would get up a couple of hours later, get ready for the day, and we'd meet for a late breakfast.

On the morning of April 1, Jenn arrived for breakfast as usual, and as usual, I packed up my laptop and went to take it up to our room.

This story now breaks into two points of view—I will tell it from Jenn's perspective first.

"Mike has been gone quite a while," Jenn thought. "I wonder what's taking him so long?" and after waiting another 15 minutes, she decided to go up to the room and see what was taking so long.

All she saw was blood sprayed up the steps and wall when she reached the stairs. Carefully stepping over the puddles, she went up to our room. The trail of blood led directly to the room. Afraid of what was behind the door, she bravely called out, "Mike? Are you okay?" and walked into the room. More blood. No body. Just blood. The Muerte Gang! Did Mike just get kidnapped and murdered?!

I'm not sure what she did next.

Here's what happened from my perspective.

As I walked through the courtyard towards the stairway to our room, I innocently stubbed my toe on the corner of a paving stone. It hurt like hell, but I just walked it off. When I reached the stairs leading up to our room, my toe was throbbing, and the stairs were wet, so I looked down to make sure I wasn't going to slip.

Blood was spraying from my big toe. The wetness was my blood all over the stairs and walls. Having had more than my share of gaping wounds I knew just what to do. Limping quickly upstairs, I got into the room, grabbed a towel to apply pressure and called the front desk calmly looking for first-aid supplies. The front desk lady showed up with a medical kit, looked at the bloody carnage around the room, noticeably blanched and suggested that when I was ready (and, "Sir, you should really do this right away."), I should come to the front desk where they would then get me to a doctor. "Very soon, sir?"

I thanked her, promised her I would do just that, and then dealt with my eviscerated, still squirting, big toe. She looked pale yet professional and backed slowly out of the room—perhaps she was wondering if she'd need to have a body removed later that day.

After a few minutes, I got myself bandaged up and went downstairs to the front desk. As I was ducking down a back hallway shortcut to the front desk, Jenn was turning the other corner and heading up the stairs, and we all know what she saw next.

The lady at the front desk was expecting me and had already made arrangements to have me seen by a doctor who was only a few doors down from the hotel—I wasn't to worry about the cost; the hotel would look after it.

Casually I limped back out to the cafe to let Jenn know what happened so she wouldn't worry. I don't really remember how that conversation went, but I'm pretty sure she was shaken up and was wondering how much she'd have to pay the Muerte Gang for my safe return, or if my body would ever be found. Vacations with me are never dull.

The hotel had a trike take me a couple of doors down to the "hospital," which just happened to be a single concrete room wedged between a scuba shop and bar. I limped in and was given a seat. Presumably, the hotel had called ahead and told them I was coming and all about my injury. The nurse took me to a bed in the middle of the room (there were five beds, four of which were occupied by people in various states of disrepair and pain) and proceeded to unwrap my toe, clean it deeply, soaking it in iodine before calling the doctor over.

Doogie Howser might have had a decade on this doctor—he literally looked like he was 12 years old. It's my nature to exaggerate some stories for effect, but in this case, this was no exaggeration. He was certainly no older than 13. But a very calm and professional 13. At that point, I fully appreciated the "Send a Kid To Medical School Tax" I paid before coming to Boracay.

He expertly poked and prodded and opened and closed the wound before deciding that I could probably have stitches, but also, it might be acceptable just to glue and tape it closed. I opted for the latter. As he was patching me up, I told him I had a scuba dive booked the next day and asked how long until I could go back in the water.

In a calm doctor's voice, inconsistent with his age and in perfect English, he said, "You should really wait 24 to 36 hours before going back in the water." He then handed me a prescription for some hardcore antibiotics and painkillers and sent me on my way.

Later that day, I had my foot up, washed my drugs down with some cocktails, and watched Jenn frolic in the clear blue waters of Boracay.

While she played in the waves I kept alert and on the lookout for the Muerte Gang.