Trouble in Paradise

While exploring one of the many abandoned resorts of the Gili, the furniture and menus lingering like earthbound spirits, I absent-mindedly jumped on a wooden step only to have it give way beneath me. Hitting my shin on a concrete wall, I nicked off a seizable piece of meat and panicked as I saw fat and tissue barely hanging on to my shin bone. The blood came rushing out and I instinctively applied pressure soiling red the white cloth I always carry to use as a head scarf while visiting mosques. Crying from the pain shooting up my leg, I hobbled to the neighboring hotel, where the nervous receptionist called a mule carriage, the only mode of transportation on Gili Menu. After what seemed like an eternity, I was rocked uncomfortably to the island clinic behind a moody mule. Although sparkling new, the clinic seemed to be not in use as dusk collected on the examination table. Generally weary of doctors and believing in the healing powers of traditional medicine, Indonesians, specially those outside the cities, tend not to frequent hospitals. I'm not even sure that the woman who came to clean my wound from a nearby home is a registered nurse. To the amusement of a crowd of curious kids that had gathered around me, I squirmed and screamed as the "nurse" poured antiseptics onto the gash on my leg. Only one child, with his emotive expressions of sympathy, aided in calming me by repeating "slowly, slowly" and making noises through clenched teeth. I spent that evening and the following day sulking and wandering not too far from my loft. I was only made a little cheerful by an invitation to break fast with the Muslim family who owned the Balenta restaurant and bar and my imminent departure from accursed Island.