Experience: I was viciously attacked by a group of otters
I started running three years ago as part of my daily fitness routine. After dropping my son off at school each morning, I’d head to Perdana Park, near my home in Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia, for a warmup. The park offered a perfect space for peaceful reflection at the start of the day.
One morning in early September, just after my run, I was surprised to spot a group of otters crossing the parking lot. I couldn’t resist capturing the moment on video, marvelling at how endearing these small creatures seemed. It was the first time I had seen otters in the park and I sent the video to my friends, gushing about how adorable they were. Little did I realise that that footage would soon go viral for reasons I couldn’t have anticipated.
On 11 September this year, I arrived at the park, ready to begin my usual routine. The air was still and the path empty. My feet hit the ground at a steady pace and all seemed serene, until something shot out from the drain beside me and a sharp, searing pain erupted in my foot.
At first I thought I must have startled a stray cat. By the time I realised what had actually bitten me, more otters were pouring out from the drain and sinking their teeth into my feet. Panic surged through me and I thrashed around, collapsing into a sitting position as I tried to fight them off. My voice cracked as I screamed for help. The attack was relentless – there were 10 otters in all, tearing my arms, my legs, even the back of my scalp, as though driven by some unyielding fury.
For days afterwards I was plagued by flashbacks and struggled to sleep. The medical team suggested I might have PTSD
I struggled, shielding my face as best as I could, for what felt like five agonising minutes until a couple rushed to help. The wife found an abandoned paint pot and swung it at the otters in an attempt to fend them off, only for some of them to turn on her and her husband instead.
As the otters shifted their attention, a third jogger dashed over to help me to escape the area. More people gathered, drawn by the commotion, and the park’s security guard arrived, wielding an iron rod to frighten the animals away. Bloodied and overwhelmed by pain, I sat at the side of the path in a state of shock, only starting to grasp the full extent of my injuries.
Flesh had been torn from my arms and blood dripped freely. The couple who had intervened were also wounded, though their injuries were confined to their lower limbs. An ambulance arrived, and as the three of us were taken to hospital, the story was recounted to the paramedics. Their faces mirrored our own disbelief.
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At the hospital, I was given precautionary tetanus and rabies shots and, since this was the first recorded otter attack in the state of Sabah, I was placed under observation for a week. During the first few days I was in a state of exhaustion, struggling to process everything that had happened. As my condition began to improve, the surgical team managed to close the wounds on my scalp and arms, but some of the deeper bites required a second operation. It would be 17 days until I was able to leave.
During that time, my mood was lightened by visits from family and friends. Although I got to see my 12-year-old son, my baby daughter was unable to enter the ward, so I was glad to get home to properly begin my recovery. My body bore the evidence of the ordeal – about 150 stitches stretched across the wounded areas, a stark reminder of the attack. For days afterwards I was plagued by flashbacks and struggled to sleep. The medical team suggested I might have PTSD and arranged for counselling, but an underlying fear remains.
My story made headlines around the world, featuring the footage I had taken back when I thought they were cute; not long after, a second video went viral, showing a group of otters at another local running route. Some believe urban development has disturbed their natural habitat, forcing them to search for a new home in the city.
I’ve kept in touch with the strangers who risked so much to help me, whom I now know to be called Vincent and Martha. Though their wounds were less severe than mine, they still had to undergo surgery and spent a week in hospital. I’m for ever grateful for their bravery – without their help, things could have ended much worse for me.
• As told to Chris Broughton
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