their way along the streets. They made her think of the Bangkok tuk-tuks she’d seen pictures of, with their decorated metal sidecars attached to the driver’s motorbike.
Across the street there was a sudden blur of movement and noise. The boy carrying the cockerel gave a high-pitched yelp of surprise as the bird burst free from his grip and made a dash for it across the road. A tricycle coming towards it swerved sharply in a squeal of brakes, and the passenger – a young Western man with large headphones clamped over his ears – was shot out of his seat, slamming to the other side of the vehicle, making it veer further off course.
The tricycle careered onto the pavement, crashing into a street grill, and dragging it along the roadside towards Lana, metal raging on concrete in a hideous cacophony of noise. Stunned by the eruption of chaos, she didn’t manage to move back swiftly enough and the grill caught her foot, pulling it out from under her.
Suddenly the ground was spinning towards her – her bag and sketchbook flying away. She felt the smack of concrete against her palms, the side of her knee, her ankle bone. Her nostrils filled with grit and dust. Beneath her the concrete thrummed with heat.
There was more shouting, and she lifted her head to see the young boy making a grab for the cockerel. He caught a fistful of tail feathers and yanked it, squawking, towards him, clasping it roughly within both arms. The tricycle was now parked haphazardly on the side of the road, and its driver clipped the boy over the head, scolding him demonstratively.
Lana blinked, bringing her gaze back to the ground. She needed to get up, but couldn’t seem to make herself move. She was aware of her belongings tossed aside, the fresh pages of her sketchbook splayed in the dirt.
As she lay there, a young man in a bright T-shirt crouched to the ground and gathered up her things. He came towards her, fanning the dust from the pages, asking, ‘You okay?’
‘Yes,’ she said, finally heaving herself upright. Her head swam and she touched her forehead with her fingertips.
‘Here,’ he said, taking her by the elbow, and carefully helping her to her feet.
As she stood, he kept hold of her, turning his back to the flow of the crowd to give Lana space while she regained her balance. Her ankle throbbed painfully and she looked down and saw a small patch of blood beginning to bloom just above the bone.
‘I was in the tricycle. The driver was trying to miss the cockerel, but …’ He paused, looking at her again. A faint beat of music slid from the headphones around his neck. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine—’
‘Lana! Jesus!’ Kitty was pushing her way through the flow of people, sunglasses askew on her head, a bag bouncing against her hip. Reaching Lana, she threw her arms around her neck. ‘I heard the noise. Saw you! Are you hurt? How bad is it?’ Kitty pulled away, her hands holding onto Lana’s upper arms as she scanned her. ‘Your ankle. It’s bleeding.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Lana said, wanting to get off the street and sit for a moment. She brushed half-heartedly at the dust on her dress.
‘I think these are yours,’ the stranger said, holding out Lana’s belongings.
Lana thanked him.
‘Take it easy, eh?’
As she turned to move away, her vision seemed to swerve. Everything felt louder and closer: horns honking, quick bursts of Tagalog, the banging of a hammer against metal. She was aware of the hot trickle of blood winding its way down her foot and the sensation made her want to gag. People wove around her, scents of washing powder, food, sweat, rising from their skin. Just walk. Move slowly. Get out of this street.
But as she walked, her legs felt unsteady and her balance seemed to falter. She reached out a hand to find something solid she could rest against, but there was only air.
‘Oh shit!’ she heard Kitty cry, her voice seeming far away.
Then the man was at Lana’s other side, gripping her by the upper arm – steadying her. ‘Here,’ he said calmly. ‘We’ve got you.’
*
They steered her along the street, cutting through a narrow gap between two stalls that led down a shaded alleyway. Chickens roamed and bleached washing was drying stiff in the heat. An elderly woman sat with an empty plate in front of her, watching them through milky brown eyes.
He took a left, crossing a rickety bridge that stretched over a waterway, towards what appeared to be a dead end of rocks. ‘It’s just up here.’
A group of travellers appeared from a gap between the rocks, talking in loud voices, laughing, bashing each other over the shoulders. Lana followed the direction they had come from, hobbling slowly along a cool, stone passageway.
Eventually she found herself standing at the top of a stairway made of hundreds of white pebbles set neatly into concrete. From here a view of a bar opened out below. It was built on stilts over the water, its sides open to the softening blue sky, and almost everything she could see was made of bamboo or driftwood. Backpackers in T-shirts and board shorts, sundresses and colourful tops, lounged in low chairs or on floor cushions, playing cards, smoking, talking. Two girls sat at the very edge of the bar drinking beers with their tanned legs dangling towards the water. The pulse of music throbbed through the space, intermingled with voices and laughter.
The man found them a spot by the water, where a cool breeze drifted in. Lana set her sketchbook on the table, then lowered herself down into one of the wide wooden chairs that sat only inches from the floor. She stretched her legs in front of her, pleased to take the weight off her ankle.
‘I’ll get some ice,’ Kitty said, ‘and drinks. Lana, you need something medicinal.’ Turning to the man, she asked, ‘Beer?’
He held a hand up, saying, ‘You guys go ahead. I’ll sort myself out. I’m meeting some mates here soon.’
‘Just a quick one – to say thanks,’ Kitty insisted.
He hesitated for a moment and then shrugged, saying, ‘Sure, why not?’
He introduced himself as Denny, and when Kitty went to the bar he told Lana he was from New Zealand. He had an even, golden tan, which set off the pale blue of his eyes, and his hair – a bed of tight sandy curls – seemed to grow upwards. She imagined that if she reached out a hand it would feel springy to the touch.
He unhooked the headphones from around his neck and set them on the table beside her sketchbook. ‘You draw?’
‘A little,’ she replied.
‘What type of thing?’
‘Oh, anything really. Whatever captures me.’
‘And what captures you?’ he said, looking at her with interest.
She thought for a moment. In the month she and Kitty had been travelling in the Philippines, she’d already filled two sketchbooks with illustrations. She pictured her most recent sketches – a group of boys sitting on a crumbling wall, legs swinging; a goat tethered in the shade chewing the cud; a doorway shrouded by a sun-bleached yellow sheet; a lone shoe discarded at the roadside. ‘I like to sketch ordinary things that pinpoint a moment.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Something that has a story.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly it.’
Kitty returned with three beers sweating on a bamboo tray, slices of lime sticking out of each bottle neck. She passed them around, then handed Lana a bundle of napkins and a glass of ice. ‘Best they could do in the first-aid department.’
Lana wrapped the ice cubes in a napkin and placed them against her ankle, wincing at the cold.
Kitty used a finger to push the lime into the belly of her beer bottle, then they all clinked bottles.
Behind them there was a crash of wood, followed by the sound of laughter, and Lana turned to see a giant Jenga tower had collapsed.