It was on the third round trip that worry, and maybe even fear, began to overtake me; the tropical sun was scalding and I was sweating, the dust of the red dirt road trailing behind us like a cyclone.
The scooter I was driving -- more like managing to keep upright -- was coated in the dust, dirt, and grime, of two previous trips back and forth to the island's only hospital, a mere thirty kilometres away. We were on Phu Quoc island, my girlfriend and I, and we were in the midst of experiencing, the hard way, why every traveller should always be prepared for emergencies.
The tiny tear shaped island is corralled between the coasts of Cambodia and Vietnam, and boasts a colourful history of incursions, prisons, and recently, investment. Officially belonging to Vietnam, but claimed also by Cambodia, Phu Quoc has been offered to the French, hosted the Republic of China's retreating army, captured by the Khmer Rouge, boasted the largest prison during the Vietnam -- or American -- War, and finally, left alone to develop into the next tourist hot spot.
The island is exceedingly beautiful. At the risk of being superfluous, it is magnificent, idyllic, bucolic, pristine. However, it is also being examined from afar, by people with enough money to turn this adjective laden paradise into a bland and overdeveloped mega hotel. We sought this relatively undisturbed natural beauty as my girlfriend and I finished our month long trek from Hanoi to Saigon. Phu Quoc was the natural choice: a quiet island about 300 kilometres from Ho Chi Minh City.
We wanted something quiet, something removed, and so we left the developed main town on the island, Duong Dong, and instead headed to the southern coast. Rumours of a resort being built near Bai Sao beach were our hopes. We found two: My Lan, an overpriced abode with bungalows for rent, or next door, the former Gecko Jacks and the now currently unfinished, nameless lodge. We chose the lodge -- which boasts a whopping three rooms -- and for our three night stay, we were the only guests.
Besides our Vietnamese friends working at the bar, we had only to contend with one or two score of day trippers from Duong Dong during the day, to be rewarded with solitude at night broken only by the cacophonic orchestra of wild dogs. Our envisioned plan was to sleep in, to eat a slow breakfast, to swim in the ocean, maybe have an afternoon nap on the beach, and maybe take a scooter out to explore the island. We were tired, our clothes were dirty, our money was low. My stomach hurt and my body was exasperated from trying to fight something which, I would find out at a hospital on the other side of the world, was untreated salmonella poisoning.
Even the combination of physical and mental malaise from spending a month on our feet could not stop us from exploring because, after all, when you wake up under a mosquito net with a balcony facing palm trees and ocean waves, there is an involuntary urge to look around.
Five minutes after renting it from the lodge's bar, my face was in the dirt, the bike was on top of me, my girlfriend was hurt, and, we were on a deserted dirt road. She had a circular white mark on her leg, but the pain hadn't set in yet. There was no choice but for us to limp back to the lodge. Taking stock of my injuries, I was lucky; a bad bruise on my leg, cuts on my arm, foot, and hand, and a body length ache on the side that hit the ground when the bike lost traction in the dirt. Our first aid was rusty, but from my tiny and ancient kit I managed to cobble together a bandage -- exhausting all of our supplies -- for her wound.
That afternoon, braving the hour long trip on the scooter and the relentless sun, we set off to head into town. The road from Bai Sao in the south to Duong Dong in the middle of the island, is incredible. From the tree line on the right your eye can span over the red dirt road, full of potholes and divots, to a line of sparse palm trees, a sharp decline to the beach, gentle waves, a few lonely boats for pearl diving or fishing. You will pass two pearl factories, where you can watch someone cut a pearl out of the oyster's belly, a sparse village where the road is inundated with water daily to keep the dust clouds down and a tiny shack where you can buy Coca-Cola, a small bite, or a beer.
We would take the journey two more times before we left the island. To and fro we would go, spending each morning amidst the burning heat and blazing dust to arrive at the Duong Dong hospital. We were lucky, on that first trip back into town, to stop at the local roadside counter to replenish my first aid kit. The look of disgust from the teenager working the pharmacy worried us and was alarming enough to send us to the hospital for treatment. My girlfriend was brave; the tiny hospital certainly lacked inspiration and did not instil any amount of confidence in me with its open air rooms and patients on wooden benches in the hallway. Not to mention the burgundy drops of overlooked and now dried blood and that we did not have any medical insurance since both of our teaching contracts had finished.
Cost was the last thing on my mind. I was sick, she was worse off, and when the doctor had examined her leg and scribbled on his pad, he pointed me out the door. The language barrier between us made the situation tense and I certainly did not want to leave me girlfriend. I was bewildered, but I reluctantly followed his point to a squat concrete building near the hospital entrance with barred windows. It wasn't until after I had approached the counter and looked through the window that I realized it was the local pharmacy.
After I handed the clerk my scrap of paper with a few short words on it, she thrust the necessary supplies into my arms; iodine, saline, ointment, gauze and medical tape. This would become my daily ritual. Each day as I approached the tiny building, the clerk's smile would grow a little wider as she prepared the goods the nurses would need to painfully patch my girlfriend‘s burn.
When I returned to the hospital's narrow hallway, I was ushered inside the room where my girlfriend, the nurses and the doctor had been waiting. It seemed time had frozen, as no one had changed positions and my girlfriend's wound was still exposed. Seeing my arms full, the doctor and nurses sprang into action, cleaning and dressing the wound. We were all finished before you could say cahm urn (thank you). I don't know if it is the communist state or the rudimentary medical supplies, but 150 000 Vietnamese Dong, around five dollars, isn't too bad for a medical bill!
Grabbing the bike and throwing my weight backwards to steer it back onto the road, it was time to head home. The irony of the situation was that we could not escape the bike itself; cabs were too expensive and the distance too far to walk. Our reluctances were outweighed by the slim wallets in our pockets. Now, take note: high winds are not conducive in maintaining cleanly wrapped bandages. By the time we got back to our rustic room, her bandage was falling apart, dirt and dust seeping in to sully the once clean wound. If only I had more with me.
All I could do to keep her spirits up was to take the less dirty pieces and wrap them around her leg. It is not easy to be positive when even the mundane medical tasks were multiplied to serious situations. Even the sultry air, the swaying palms, and the serene scenery could not erase the worry and fear from my mind. On two more mornings we would ferry into Duong Dong and on two more afternoons we would brave the blaze of the fiery sun to make it back, the leeching dirt making her condition worse every hour spent on the auburn road. There was nothing to be done.
Forty hours of layovers and a few days later, I was burrowed in my family's home to ward off the ice and snow that permeates Christmas time in Canada. Somewhere between Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam and Saint John, New Brunswick, with a swollen stomach and lethargy crushing my body, it struck me that all of it was preventable. Within a day of landing I had been through the emergency room for the poison in my stomach and my girlfriend had been to a specialist for her leg. Though neither of us could avoid what happened, our responses could have been a little more informed and a little less haphazard.
Now, instead of relying on the goodwill of strangers to offer me their stomach medication, or what's contained in the catacombs of my first aid kit, I have become more prepared. I've learned travelling problems are inescapable; blisters, warts, and cuts on the feet; lacerations, muscle pain in the legs; bacteria, poisons, and protozoa in the stomach; sunburn on the shoulders, burns on the body; bruises on the back, the feet, knees, elbows. All will happen. All can be treated. If you are a fast on your feet traveller, with no space in your pack, you can still save a world of hurt by simple preparation. My indispensable travel tools: my wallet, passport, and now, a fully stocked and streamlined first aid kit.
Sean Smyth finds himself teaching primary children as a day job but is passionate about travelling, eating and football - in that order. As a recent import to Singapore, he spends his time writing, reading and exploring. Originally from the east coast of Canada, Sean has an undergraduate degree in International Relations and has been living in Asia for almost two years. 
