← PreviousExploring Coral Bay and finding a job in PerthThe next morning we got up early to catch the first ferry to Rottnest Island. We went on a Tuesday because it was the only day of the week with half-price fares. The island has a Dutch name, Rottnest, because when the Dutch discovered it they thought its little inhabitants, the quokkas, were rats, and they literally named it "rat's nest". Yet the quokka looks nothing like a rat. Much bigger and slower, it stands out above all for its huge smile that never leaves its face and which, in the age of Instagram and the quest for the perfect selfie, makes it an ideal target for tourists. You can find it almost only on this island, which isn't visited just for its beauty. Getting off the boat, we picked up bikes and set off to ride the 20-kilometre loop. Quokkas wandered everywhere, apparently not bothered by humans. We spotted them in trees, on the road and in the bushes. Feeding them was forbidden, but of course some people didn't care and did it anyway, which really annoyed us.
The little island was a festival of colours, with dazzling yellow beaches and water of a blue so pure you'd think it was painted. We pedalled along the road, smiling, the warm wind hitting our slightly sweaty faces. We fooled around overtaking each other again and again, laughing. We went from beach to beach, from viewpoint to viewpoint. We stopped to eat and fed some adventurous seagulls. Almost at the farthest point of the island, a colony of seals had taken up residence and you could watch them dancing in the water from a ledge. We got talking with an elderly couple who knew a great deal about the animals. Still on our bikes, we now rode up the other side of the island to get back to the jetty. Towards the end the ground became rocky, and I advised Cassandre to be careful on the descent. She went ahead of me and off we went. From her rack, the Rottnest map decided to fly away. I saw it land not far off, and not wanting to litter this paradise, I braked to go and get it.
The blackout lasted about ten seconds. When I opened my eyes again, I was on the ground and my hands were bleeding heavily. One of my legs lay under the front wheel and my right arm was trapped between the frame and the handlebars. I hadn't braked hard, being used to descents and bikes, but something had clearly caused my fall. I moved my forearms and felt as if both hands were broken. They hurt horribly. My first thought wasn't of hospital, pain or rehab but of the end of the trip. I instantly knew two broken hands meant a quick trip home. Cassandre was about ten metres further down and hadn't yet grasped how bad my fall was. I decided to get up on my own to assess the damage. As soon as I was on my feet my head spun and I almost threw up. My shoulder was grazed and my T-shirt torn, my left shoe ripped open and my big toe bleeding; I even had a big graze on my forehead. Cassandre offered to go for help, but I didn't want to be left alone in that state, so I lied and said I was fine. We got back on the bikes, and I steered with the heels of my palms, the only intact part. We quickly reached the island's little hospital, where a nurse took care of me straight away. She sat me down and warned me it might hurt a lot.
My hands weren't broken, but all the skin on my palms was burnt off and raw. She applied a cotton bud soaked in alcohol to clean the wounds and I held back a scream. Deep down, I told myself I was going to be in pain for a while and might as well get used to taking it right now. I thought that was my only real injury, but when she turned my hands over, I saw my knuckles completely swollen, like a boxer's after a bare-knuckle fight. Between my right ring finger and little finger, the skin joining them had simply torn away, so she had to use a syringe to clean inside the wound. After thirty minutes removing stones and dried blood, the verdict was reassuring: nothing was broken. She understood why I'd thought I had fractures, given the extent of my injuries, but it was just the pain of the impact that had misled me. We left with both my hands completely wrapped in bandages already stained with blood. That night was horrible; the raw skin still burned and I could feel the blood throbbing in my battered hands. Every movement woke me and I couldn't find a comfortable position to really sleep, but the worst ordeal awaited me in the morning when the dressings had to be changed. It's never pleasant, but removing a bandage from a layer of fragile skin was real torture. We managed in the end, but it was so gruelling that I decided to change them only every other day.