I seem to be the kind of guy who easily ends up in some kind of trouble. It’s probably a mix of thrill-seeking, bad luck, and occasionally just plain stupidity.
Among the many questionable things I’ve done, the snake incident ranks near the top. It started when my sous chef called about a snake hanging around the property—something that could be dangerous for hotel guests.
When I got there, our bartender was already in a standoff with a six-foot snake, using nothing but a broom. I took the snake for a boa constrictor, which are common in our area, and are not real threat to human beings. The snake was clearly irritated, and to make things worse, a few tourists were getting close, phones out, hoping to catch something exciting for YouTube.
Chopping it up in front of a crowd didn’t seem like a great idea, so another ‘brilliant solution’ came to mind. Grabbing it behind the head with my bare hands seemed reasonable at the time. That worked for about three seconds before it wriggled loose and bit me on the hand after which I dropped the snake again. At first, the bite felt no worse than one from a dog or cat.
On the second try, a pair of kitchen tongs did the job, and the snake was carried off, my sous chef, Maya Mike, took a closer look and identified the snake a fer-de-lance—one of the most venomous snakes in the region.
A makeshift tourniquet was tied, and Corrie, my wife, drove us toward the hospital. Somewhere on the way, the pain kicked in extremely hard, and things started going downhill fast. It’s a very peculiar feeling once you realize you are in mortal danger. We pulled into the ambulance service just outside Hopkins, where the paramedics took over and rushed me to the Dangriga Hospital.
The team there moved quickly. They had the anti-venom but not the meds needed in case of an allergic reaction. At that point, hesitation wasn’t an option—I told them to go for it.
As my arm swelled to nearly triple its size and pain took over everything, the thought crossed my mind that this might actually be the end. But thanks to the hospital staff, I made it through.
It took 27 doses of anti-venom, a lot of morphine, and three long nights in the hospital before I discharged myself. Now, 18 months later, my health still isn’t fully back. There are lingering complications from the venom, and my hand still flares up with irritation and pain—a constant reminder of how close things came.
As a more permanent reminder, I had the snake tattooed on my arm, with the words: “what doesn’t kill you…”
Hopefully, I’ve learned something from the experience and will stay clear of doing dumb stuff. Then again, the people who know me best have serious doubts. It’s on me to prove them wrong.
