I bumped and skidded into MARCH village on that sweltering November afternoon aboard the humble two-wheeled stead of Christopher. “Christopher” a remarkably familiar twang to obtuse European ears…something I had not anticipated yet came to learn not unusual in this melting-pot-land of American and Spanish influence. “Have a nice day” extrovert approach-ability fused with reverent, self-effacing South East Asian vibes; ingredients for rich interpersonal exchange with venerable masters of foreign linguistics. The settlement was well-concealed, a lattice of regimented royal blue huts and weathered wriggly tin roofs standing proud from the claggy rust-red soil, bordered by both scrub and the lapping sea. Proud as a typhoon resettlement should be, Yolanda may have broken homes but it would not break these people; the broad grins and smiles afforded to an approaching incumbent “ilong” with too many bags was testament to that. “Ilong” Cebuano for “nose” (in my case an alien, narrow-bridged protrusion) the central feature upon which South East Asians fixate, in the same way a Westerner might study the eyes but may be less inclined (or able) to comment so affectionately on. These people were warm, friendly and welcomed me; particularly the children whom I developed more snuggling appendages than limbs. I spent a happy time here exploring the neighbouring backwaters, eating Halo-Halo, Naked Fish, Meringa… and making friends with Nan Ny (the village matriarch) developing bonds through shared card games and chores. Life here was simple but full. The assumed warmth and kindness were proven when I fell sick. The first evening I ventured from the village to taste island flavours beyond Nan Ny’s trusted pan I indulged in seafood hot pot, well spiced and packed with a plethora of portly prawns. I savoured each spoonful of rich, creamy broth and then (as if struck for blasphemy) I ran to the toilet to vomit. Hot, clammy and experiencing increasing difficulty coordinating my lead-like limbs I pondered how the king prawns must be permeating my body’s usual steely stomach defences with record lightning speed. How foolish of me to have my head turned by such culinary skirt; a flash-in-the-other-pan romance of fleeting pleasure that left my fingers decidedly burnt and a strong sour taste of vomit in my mouth. Fortuitously I was accompanied by the village leader, another incomprehensible matriarch. “Minnie” let me lay a little but with my condition waning she sort help. Knowing everyone from the lapping sea to the small harbour town and all shack and shanty in-between she was an asset equal to weight in gold. No longer could we safely negotiate the treacherous passage home on our humble two-wheeled stead; total cover of darkness made sure of that. Too many others had fallen before us; riders with confidence and agility without the additional impairment of a pillion who could now no longer sit straight. We rested till morning rescue by truck. I retired to my dark, airless compound; only the damp cloth of Nan Ny to soothe me. I recall Nan Ny’s anxious expression and muted, comforting Cebuano utterances as she pottered to and fro with cloth, water and mouth-watering food that could not be eaten. She patted my forehead repeatedly but a sort-after thermometer was to reveal temperatures of dangerous, dizzying heights. A storm was brewing. The young men of the village flanked the flat-bed truck on which I lay strewn in a sombre, moped fleet; never leaving my bedside all the while I was prodded by needles under flickering generator lights that illuminated grubby, blood -spattered island doctor walls; wide-eyed and afraid. Instructed to take the next boat we embarked on the seven hour pilgrimage to the city of Cebu before the eye of the storm spied us and ex-communicated us from all neighbouring atolls. Cruel world…thrown starkly into cold, white-light focus. Cebu hospital; unfunded groaning bodies left to writhe and meet their demise in vacant doorways or corridors. Lady luck of birth-right shone on shuddering fever-stricken bones. A fever and delirium of infection, riddled deep within tissues initiated (as it transpired) by a seemingly innocuous prick to the toe from a plant known as “Arioma” when exploring the backwaters in earlier heady days. Portly king prawns nothing short of a red herring.