Foreboding never felt so ominous.
Like folklores that grow wings and perch on top of the roof at night, waiting for the perfect chance to lower its tongue into the belly of an unsuspecting mother, Siquijor’s reputation for nurturing hands that curse and hands that heal created a perpetual mist that shrouds the province.
We rubbed sleep from our eyes and wiped exhaustion from our gaping mouths as the island of Siquijor loomed on the horizon like an early case of teenage acne. The comparison was appropriate for seeing the Land of Fire for the first time. We boarded the hotel shuttle and completely lost control of mental diarrhea over witch doctors while talking to our driver who wore a Hawaiian shirt and a smile. His smile had a flavor of amusement, but we hinted disappointment in it too. Perhaps he was so used to the questions; and having answered them every single waking moment of his working life, he probably thought he already got the word out that Siquijor is not a damned place after all.
