Last Day in Moalboal

Our last day in Moalboal. It's gotten quiet here, though we're in the quiet part of the "beach," so maybe it's no different than usual. Apparently last night someone was stabbed outside our bathroom window. We followed the trail of blood all the way to our lunch restaurant, thinking it was just spilled paint or sauce. Then Javi and Malin told us about the knife fight at the discoteque next to our cottage. The poor man staggered quite a ways. Seeing the evidence of the violence during the daytime, scrubbed by the scuffle of tourists' slippers and the diffuse tropical sunlight, I had a sense of sinister unease, as if I were treading water and suddenly knew I could no longer touch the ground.

But life goes on and soon our heads were filled with the later-breaking news that the Singaporeans' laptops and iPad had been stolen by a 16-year-old boy who had climbed through the window of their cottage. Apparently the police had shot at him (later we found out that they were just warning shots into the air) while we were blissfully eating our lunch. Listening to the story--or, rather, now, writing about it--I realize what tourists we are, coming here protected by our relative wealth, traumatized when something happens to puncture our peaceful bubble. I'm not being sarcastic--the trauma is real, and I can only apologize for it and keep on fearing and looking out and feeling secretly grateful that I have what I have.


The sun has come back out, though in the shade it's still cool, and a small breeze stirs my damp hair. Small waves lick the coral, infinitely washing, cleansing. Tourists come, tourists go. Maybe nothing happens here after all. We're too many, we humans. Swarming ants, a scourge. And yet: an infant's precious fingers.