Real-life drama: A leap of faith from Montenegro to Manila
(Conclusion)
During a hike down a gravel hill near Tara in picturesque Montenegro last Oct. 22 where some former classmates, friends and I had gone to ride the zip-line, I slipped and twisted my left ankle. It happened in a split second, and no, I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes as the hill was unravelling before me. What I saw was my bent ankle and I was horrified.
That was the only time I lost my composure, literally and figuratively. Then, the take-charge, can-do attitude I’ve always had immediately took over.
I asked for ice. I asked to be taken to a medical facility ASAP and not to wait for help. I even flexed my foot and this somehow straightened it a bit. Later, I would be told I didn’t need emergency surgery, as I had feared.
That “twist of fate” occurred after we had visited the Ostrog Monastery, a place where the Orthodox, the Catholics and the Muslims are said to converge in prayer. In a small chapel in the monastery tucked into a vertical mountain in Montenegro, I knelt, deep in prayer, before St. Basil’s reportedly uncorrupted remains. The thought would later cross my mind — I had just visited a holy pilgrimage site and this happened? But then I thought, it could have been worse. A thousand and one angels probably braced my head and cushioned my hips as I slid down the gravel hill.
After eight hours and two hospitals, I was back on my bed at the Hippocampus Hotel in Kotor, my fractured left ankle in a cast.
***
The trip to the monastery and the mountains was part of the Balkan tour taken by six of my high school classmates from the Assumption Convent, some relatives, friends. We all met up in the Balkans in the autumn for a road trip that would take us from Dubrovnik in Croatia, to Montenegro, and finally, to Albania. My classmate Therese Gamboa painstakingly crafted our itinerary and we were all looking forward to visiting both famed tourist spots and the roads less traveled in these countries.
Alas, just before the last leg of our trip came a twist of fate. My roommate Andie and I missed the last few days of the tour. Andie willingly gave up the rest of the tour so she could accompany me back home. Instead of asking my husband to come pick me up in Montenegro, I gratefully accepted Andie’s selfless offer.
My doctors in Manila wanted to evaluate me ASAP so we had to rebook our OmanAir flight from Milan to Muscat to Manila, originally scheduled for Oct. 29, to a sooner date.
OmanAir was very cooperative and their representative Pennylane Bondoc was able to rebook us earlier, on Oct. 26.
But first, we had to get to Milan from Montenegro. The only airport with a direct flight to Milan was the Mother Teresa Airport in Tirana, Albania, 125 miles (about 201 kilometers) or three hours and 43 minutes away from Kotor. I insisted on the tour company providing a van for this service, even if we had to pay extra for it. There was no way I could ascend the tour bus, besides my travel companions had to continue on with their sojourn.
Actually the first leg of my 8,846.4-mile journey from Kotor to Tirana to Milan to Muscat to Manila began on a golf cart. It was miraculously produced by Fedja, the solicitous concierge of our hotel in Kotor, who resourcefully scoured the Old Town for it. Remember, no cars allowed inside the Old Town and no wheelchairs available, either. With the cobblestone streets and my oversized crutches, it would have taken me a year to get to the van that was to take Andie and me to Tirana.
The golf cart made it through the gates of Kotor’s Old Town like a triumphant chariot. The whole gang was waiting for us by the van, including Dino the tour guide who never left my side, and Wesco, the able driver who ferried me to the first clinic after I tripped.
Then off we were for Tirana. I was told by Dino to leave my crutches in the van, because he had to return them to the Podgorica hospital. I was devastated. Without them, I would be as helpless in walking as a six-month-old. No one knew where to buy crutches in Montenegro, and since it was a weekend, the drugstores were closed.
I immediately reached out to honorary Consul of Montenegro to Manila, Vanessa Pastor Ledesma, who also had referred me to the tour company handling our trip. She swiftly got in touch with the Philippine honorary Consul to Albania Loritan Prespa, who kindly offered to buy the crutches I needed.
Consul Vespa also arranged wheelchair assistance for me with the Mother Teresa Airport in Tirana. In an airport named after a saint, I knew things would go well. I was cleared to fly in my temporary cast. Thank God (and Mother Teresa) for those wheelchair lifts, which brought me and other persons needing assistance, directly to the door of the plane because the boarding took place on the tarmac. Imagine all those rickety steps I would have had to hurdle! After a journey of another 718 miles via Wizz Air, Andie and I finally made it to Milan in one piece.
We were met at the airport in Manila by “Toni,” a kind and respectful Filipino driver recommended by friends to Andie. Our first hotel had no wheelchair but had a room for those with special needs. We transferred to the NH Presidente, which had both.
I was getting closer to home, day by day. I even wrote a column in my hotel room while Andie went to the Duomo. I was feeling fine, amazingly free of pain. Perhaps it was the cocktail of prayers and adrenaline that gave me strength.
Finally, on Oct. 26, the journey of another thousand miles that would bring me closer to home. We flew OmanAir, with its spacious Business Class seats, from Milan to Muscat, the Omani capital. The legroom added greatly to my comfort. Service was efficient and caring.
After a five-hour flight, we arrived in Muscat and after a brief stopover, we were headed for home!
Ed was waiting for me at the airport. Ed is my own “Steady Eddie.” My rock and my anchor.
After a total of 8,846 miles in three days from Kotor to Tirana, Tirana to Milan, Milan to Muscat, and finally, Muscat to Manila, I was home.
The only way I survived my ordeal, aside from having supportive friends, was to take each day, a day at a time. One foot forward at a time, even if one was in a cast. Step by step. Fixating too much on the uncertainty of the days and weeks ahead would just have daunted me. I remember the sage advice I received from a virtual stranger many years ago: “Don’t take life as if it was an apple. Take it like an orange, piece by piece.”
Bones and scars will heal — but the love, kindness and genuine friendship, I have received after my twist of fate won’t fade from my memory.
My journey from Montenegro to Manila was a leap of faith and I made it. Woohoo!
(I am back on my feet again after my neon-pink fiberglass cast was removed last Dec. 3. I will still be wearing an Aircast walking boot for a couple of weeks more, but otherwise, my doctor, foot and ankle specialist Dr. Michael Thomas Gonzales, says I am fine.)
(You may e-mail me at [email protected]. Follow me on Instagram @joanneraeramirez.)
- Latest
