The Filipino island of Siquijor has been known for its mysticism for centuries. Local folklore tells stories of witchcraft, black magic and sorcery, and some claim inhabitants still practice the dark arts today. Some Siquijorians are believed to be the descendants of powerful pre-colonial priests and priestesses who possessed magical powers. Known today as Mananambals, they claim to cure physical ailments with potions made from various oils, herbs, and bark from native trees. The potions are massaged into the patient’s body during an ancient healing ritual known as a Hilot. During a recent trip to The Philippines, I decided to take my phlegm-ridden lungs on a visit to the witch doctor. I was directed to San Antonio, a small village nestled in the hills, consisting of nothing but an old church and a few small shops. I was greeted on a street corner by a bum bag-toting teenager who urged me to follow him up a winding footpath towards a small house. There, I found a woman frantically breaking up twigs on the floor. “Do you like basketball?” she asked. Remembering that the national love for basketball here would make the dedication of a life-long Sunderland fan look questionable, I quickly said yes. The twig breaker, whose name I’d later discover was Inday, pointed me towards a door. Following her finger, I found myself in a small room with a man watching a game on a 90s TV and VCR combo unit. Fifteen minutes passed, and then it was time for my hilot. Inday placed her hands on my forehead and I felt a sudden, unexpected rush of reverence. Something truly magical was going to happen. A few delicious moments passed as I relaxed my face muscles and adopted a mask of absolute, unwavering serenity. Inday’s warm but firm fingers were pressing into my temples when she bluntly asked me if my menstrual cycle was normal. Somewhat taken aback, I opened my eyes and quickly answered “yes.” The perfect hypochondriac, I thought maybe she had sensed there was something wrong, and quickly added that my last period was indeed, very short, and perhaps there was a problem. In response she checked my pulse, then answered “you’re fine” before letting my arm fall back into my lap. Persisting, I tried to tell her that actually I had a cough. “A cough?” she asked, incredulous. I nodded, and began to explain that I’d had the cough for weeks, and at some point someone had even said it could be tuberculosis. Inday looked at me with hard eyes. “That is easy to cure. That is no problem,” she assured. Now that the mystical healer had established I had a heartbeat and periods, it was time for me to jump up onto the bed and lie down. What happened next was nothing short of magic. Lying face down on the bed, Inday’s fingers began to move their way along my spine, prodding and poking into invisible crevasses and undiscovered bio territory. After dispensing some ‘potion’ onto my back, the scent of peppermint filled the room as Inday’s adroit hands began to weave rapidly across my shoulder blades like a chef smoothing out dough. Plunged into a reverie of relaxation, I completely forgot about my could-be-TB-cough. Inday continued to administer what was probably the best massage I’ve ever had for 30 minutes while the summer breeze blew through the holes in her roof. Once my Hilot was over, Inday leafed through a bag of herbs and prepared me a mug of tea. I took a sip and was yanked sharply out of my blissful stupor. The concoction waged an unnaturally powerful assault on my senses, leaving me dumbstruck and desperate for somewhere to spit. After some probing Inday conceded that it was oregano, which would help my cough. I managed to finish the ‘tea’ before being slapped with a 400 peso bill. Bewildered but somewhat satisfied, I left Inday’s home confident that through a combination of pleasure, persistence, and Inday’s supernatural healing powers my cough would be conquered. As it turns out, I’m still coughing almost three weeks later, but it was a damn sight more fun than sitting in a doctors surgery.