A Weekend in Paris

On Wednesday morning as I was sitting on the pavement outside a restaurant using their unprotected internet (posting the last blog entry, as it happens), I was approached by a girl who smilingly asked if the internet signal was good.  I looked up, surprised by the accent and inquired where she was from.  Derry, no less.  Sat chatting with her for a while, and on parting she said that she was going across the road to rent a scooter for the day to check out the island.  She asked if I wanted to come too, but I thanked her, but declined, wished her luck with it, and strove to finish up on the internet.

Five minutes later after watching two girls trying to learn how to use one of the machines, jerkily taking off into the traffic, she came back saying that she didn’t have her license on her as it had been stolen while she was in New Zealand.  I asked how much the bikes were to rent, out of interest, and was surprised to hear they were only 30 Ringgits (less that 8€) for twenty-four hours.  “In that case”, I said, thinking that I hadn’t yet seen the island properly and that this might offer a better opportunity than hitching around as I had been considering, “would you like to go splits on one?”

We went and put my gear in her dorm room, and then on to sign up for a bike.  Before we went, I warn her that this would be my first time taking out a bike, but she said it was fine, as the only experience she had was a ten minute tutorial from one of the guys in her hostel that morning.  So no worries.

At the back of my mind as I filled out the forms, was handed the keys and shown how to start the thing I was thinking about Mum’s hatred of bikes and scooters, and the warnings of how if I ever got on one that I’d be kicked out of the house.  I shrugged, and reckoned if I told her she’d get over it by the time I got home, seeing as I wasn’t planning on making a habit of it, and anyway, I was old enough to be able to make my own decisions.

So off we went, and I took to it quite well, going quite slowly at first as I got used to the controls, but then easing it up to a reasonable speed, although I was still being passed out by cars and other scooters.  Stopped off at another marina to suss out if anyone was looking for crew, and got chatting to a couple who were very helpful, took my email address and said they’d pass it on to a few friends of theirs that might be looking for someone, but they seemed to think I shouldn’t have any trouble with finding something, so long as I was flexible.

We went to a waterfall with seven beautiful pools of cool fresh water that was much more refreshing to bath in than the sea, which is almost hot at times.  We rode on further north, and as evening drew close we arrived at the mangrove swamps.  We had been hoping to see “The Cave of Bats” presuming it to be an attraction you could just walk into, but discovered that it could only be seen as part of an hour’s boat tour of the swamps, which also included a stop at something like a floating aquarium, and eagle feeding.  With a bit of haggling we managed to get at half price.

The mangroves were spectacular and well worth it, and when we finished up there we headed back to near where we were staying to join some CouchSurfers for a barbeque at their house.  The food was great, but as soon as I ate it I started fading, the long day and very little sleep having caught up with me.  The guys, who had no room in their house, told me that I’d be more than welcome to pitch my tent in the grounds outside their place, or alternatively stay in the condemned house next door, still equipped with electricity and running water.  I took the house.

The following morning I hit the road fairly early in order to get something for the local guys who’d invited me for dinner when I first arrived.   The only thing I could think of doing for them was printing out three copies of the photo I took with them and writing a note.  Two of them were there when I arrived, but the guy who’d given me the ring wasn’t, and I couldn’t hang around for him as I was set to meet the girl from Derry at 11:00 to see if she wanted the bike for a few hours before we had to give it back at two.  She was content to hang around for the afternoon so I decided to head to a beach away and make the most of the petrol we’d put into it.

Headed north again, and came to a series of bends that I’d nervously negotiated the previous day, and approached the first one with more confidence.  Half way through however, I lost confidence and control of the bike which skidded, fell on my leg and threw me several metres away.  I sat up and went to pick myself up, but as I was stretching my right leg I came to the realisation that I’d broken it.  The foot seemed to be doing its own thing.  Within thirty seconds several people had stopped to see if I was alright, and two guys picked me up, helped me into the back of their car, drove me to the hospital and told me they’d bring the bike back for me.  They were showing me some sort of ID so I’d know they weren’t just stealing the bike, but honestly at that stage I wasn’t overly concerned about it.  On the way, as I was holding my leg up a bit so that the foot only touched the floor enough to keep it from swinging from side to side, but not enough for there to be any weight on it from the rest of my leg, things started to go white, and for a few moments I thought I was going to pass out, but I kept it together.

The guys helped me into a wheelchair, handed me over to the doctors and then took off, before I could get any sort of contact details to thank them.  But I had said it a few times in the car.  The wheelchair was almost as uncomfortable as the back seat, and eventually they put me on a trolley and started checking me out.  The doctor asked what hurt, and I told him my leg was broken.  He smiled and said, “might be broken”.  I shook my head and said that no, it was definitely broken I could tell by the way it was flopping around, but he only gave me a patronising smile and said that we’d see.

They told me they were going to have to take off my shoes and sock, which hurt – they were going to cut my sock, but I protested that they were my good socks (my icebreakers), which got a bit of a laugh - and they managed to roll them off in the end.  They agreed that my leg was broken and sent me for an x-ray.

The x-ray confirmed that I had a spiral fracture, and had done both my fibula and tibula.  Thought I heard one of the doctors outside “oooh-ing” as she looked at the x-ray, which made me feel like I’d at least done a good job of it.

The bit that hurt the most was when they were putting on the plaster and manipulating my leg.  I groaned a bit, but remained conscious for the whole thing, and then I was brought to my bed.  Where I’ve been since.

I’ve since been told that I’ll need an operation, and they’re going to be sticking in a few titanium plates into me.  This was originally going to be done here on the island, and they were going to get the piece they needed ordered in, as due to the nature of the break it is different to the ones that they normally use.  However now the insurance people have got involved and they’re going to fly me out to KL tomorrow morning.

I’ve had no shortage of visitors over the past few days.  The girl from Derry has come in several times, bringing me in books and snacks, and all my gear that was still in her room, as well as getting onto my insurance crowd for me.  An absolute legend, and while I told her not to bother coming in and to enjoy her holiday here, I was always glad to see her.  She’s leaving this evening for Thailand, so I probably won’t be seeing her again for a while, but I really have appreciated everything she’s done.

I was also visited by the CS gang that I met at the barbeque the previous night, who told me that I had no need to worry about a place to stay if I needed it for the next few weeks after I got out of hospital, and who’ve helped me in faxing documents on to the insurance people as well, as they don’t have the facilities here for some reason?

As for the staff in the hospital, they’re all very nice, and even though I’m in a third class ward, there’s only four of us in it, and the guys are all sound as well.   Apart from the fact that they gave me a leaky jug for peeing into which they don’t seem inclined to change – I was left holding it out over the floor as it dripped for ages trying to call a nurse the first time (after taking about twenty minutes to be able to wee into it in the first place, but I’m getting better) – I’ve since discovered that it only leaks when you pick it up and hold it vertically, but it’s fine when it’s laid flat.  Which means it stays on the floor quite happily until a nurse comes along and empties it, so there’s a trail of my wee all the way to the toilet across the ward.  I’ve tried telling them, but it doesn’t seem to sink in.  But apart from that the place is quite clean.

Anyway, not sure what my plans are going to be from here on.  Apparently I’m going to be on crutches for the next six months, but I’m not sure if that’s a conservative figure or not.  It certainly means that diving and partying in Thailand in May are out, and that patrolling the beach in Kefalonia is also a no go for June and July.  Coming back to Ireland seems like the most likely scenario, but as for the exact when and how, it’s hard to say.  I finally broke the news to my father today over a very bad skype connection, but I’m yet to talk to Mum.  That’s going to be fun.

Just to wrap up, taking things into perspective I got off  very lightly, apart from the minor issue of the leg (which, although it is probably too soon to say for sure, has probably ended my football career), the rest of my body got out with only minor scratches.  My face is fine, or as fine as it was before at any rate.  I’ve had the opportunity to experience touching generosity, from people who are almost strangers (and from complete strangers, like the guys that were visiting the fella across the ward who came over and gave me a few apples).  Over all it’s not been to bad.

Must dash now but I’ll be back.