On the morning we fled, there was talk of a storm. We arrived at the land of witches at about 8pm when it was too dark and too rainy to see anything on the road. Perhaps it was the shaman’s work and we should understand, because the following morning, everything was bright.
At Siquijor, there was a hammock beside the beach. I took out the pillows from the little house made of bamboo and L took a picture of me, all with eye bags and messy hair. There were a lot of dogs on the shore and we played with some of them. Silly us, we tried to fit our skinny selves into that poor hammock. But we did. It felt like victory.
In between, there was a lot of running and riding around, the usual scheme. We did blasphemous poses in the church, curiosed around the convent. L told me there is a reason why convents and churches are structured close together and his theory, as always, is unfit for this written documentary.
We swam a bit, argued over a hot girl, smoked some. We didn’t talk a lot and there was more fighting than usual but I couldn’t wish for a better companion.
We ended up with a lot of photos of the sunset. Perhaps Siquijor is the mystic that she is, not because of monsters, but because of magic.