Back in the summer of 2014, I found myself heading to a remote island in the southern Philippines called Siargao. I’d only ever seen it in documentaries and YouTube videos, where tanned, muscled surfers carved through perfect waves while backpackers with dreadlocks “found themselves”—as if a mirror wouldn’t have been an easier and significantly cheaper alternative.

Getting there, however, was an odyssey. Richmond to New York, New York to Doha, Doha to Manila, then another flight to Davao, and finally, a hop to Siargao. By the time I arrived, I had crossed so many time zones that I wasn’t entirely sure if I had traveled to the future, the past, or some strange alternative timeline where all airline meals taste like cardboard.

The airport in Siargao was… well, calling it an airport is generous. It was about the size of a restaurant in Florida—the kind with a crocodile in the middle. But at first glance, the island was stunning. It ticked every box on the “Tropical Paradise Checklist”: humid air, blazing sun, coconut trees swaying in the breeze, flowers in every imaginable color, mangoes, pineapples, and a farmer plodding along with his trusty water buffalo like an extra in a postcard. The air was fresh, the ocean sparkled, and, shockingly, the locals seemed genuinely happy to see tourists. Either that, or they were just very good at pretending.

Minivans ferried visitors from the airport to the resorts, a 30-minute drive across the island. As I hopped into one, I overheard two fellow passengers speaking with unmistakable American accents. Naturally, I asked where they were from.

“Virginia!” they replied.

I leaned in, intrigued. “Where in Virginia?”

“Mechanicsville!”, (a suburb of Richmond) they said in unison.

I nearly fell out of my seat. “You’re kidding! I’m from Henrico!” (another suburb of Richmond)

For a moment, we just sat there, stunned at how absurdly small the world had become. Here we were, thousands of miles away from home, in a tropical paradise, and yet still able to be with people from Richmond, Virginia.

As we reached our stop, the couple checked into a decent resort. I, however, in a moment of what I can only describe as pure stupidity, decided to embrace adventure and check into the cheaper backpacker accommodation. It was a massive, two-story wooden house with a metal roof and bamboo flooring, and no rooms in sight. Just open space, like a glorified barn with human occupants instead of livestock.

I approached a shirtless local who was missing a few teeth and inquired about the price. “Five hundred pesos a night,” he said, which, at less than ten dollars, seemed like an absolute bargain.

I handed him the cash. He handed me two things: a mosquito net and a pillow that smelled like it had been soaked in formaldehyde and regret.

“Where’s my room?” I asked.

He gestured vaguely at the open floor. “Anywhere.”

Ah. Luxury.

As for my suitcase, it was to be placed in a “secure” room, guarded by a man standing at a formidable 5’4”, also shirtless, and his equally shirtless dog. Confidence-inspiring, to say the least.

The island, however, was incredible. I walked along the beach, met travelers from across Europe, and discovered that the local population was apparently just 60% Filipino—the rest were mostly Scandinavians, Germans, and Brits, all enjoying the sun while pretending Brexit hadn’t happened yet.

Then came the night.

What I had envisioned as a peaceful slumber under my mosquito net quickly turned into something out of a dystopian nightmare. People were drinking, smoking, shouting, and playing music loud enough to resurrect Bob Marley.

In the dimly lit corners, couples were enthusiastically engaged in what can only be described as human bumper cars—arms flailing, lips colliding with the accuracy of a drunk homing pigeon, and hands exploring like they’d lost their keys down each other’s shorts. It was like watching a live-action remake of one of those overly enthusiastic California productions human mating documentaries, the kind that makes you question both evolution and the state of modern cinematography. Except this time, the plumber was mercifully absent, and I was left to question every life choice that had led me to this horrifying spectacle.

What I saw that night is now permanently etched into my brain, like a regrettable tattoo done by a man with a nervous twitch. No amount of therapy, industrial-strength bleach, or blunt force trauma will ever scrub it from my memory. I am, without question, irreversibly scarred for life.

By sunrise, before even the roosters had woken up, I was gone. Suitcase in hand, I marched straight to the nearest resort, flung myself at the reception desk, and pleaded for sanctuary like a medieval knight who’d just spent a year fighting dragons with nothing but a spoon.

“Please,” I begged. “I’ve seen things. Horrible things.”

They took me in. No questions asked. Either they saw the sheer terror in my eyes, or this sort of thing happened a lot.

The rest of my stay was pleasant—no more unspeakable horrors, no unexpected trauma. I even got to meet the locals, took boat rides throughout the island, and, most importantly, never again stumbled into an impromptu episode of National Geographic: After Dark.

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