As the days of my isolation blended into one another, by the time New Year’s Eve came around I was happy at the prospect of finally getting to work. I was finished my ten day isolation (modified down from the original 14 in light of some convenient international data on isolation time as well as general pity on little ol’ me), giving me the chance to help the actual team with their clerical work for the day loading supplies into the base. I got the chance to meet Chrys, one of the other staff members who I thought was a doctor, but it turns out his official title is clinic manager. The conversation with Sam that led to this realisation went something like this:

                 ‘Hey Sam what’s up. Anything I can help you guys with today?’

                 ‘Sure if you want we’re unloading some materials from the boat, lots of rice and building supplies for the base, also Chrys just got in this morning, one of the clinic managers, you should meet him’

                ‘Oh cool. Yeah I said hi to him this morning, I thought he was a doctor’

                ‘No he’s not he’s a clinic manager. He’s been doing this for a long time though he knows whats going on and on mobile clinic days you and him will share most of the responsibility. He’s more than capable, great guy’

                ‘Okay true yeah for sure, he’d probably know way more than me anyways haha. So Jack is the other guy who will be on Monday he’s the other doctor. Must have gotten confused’

                ‘No Jack is the on-site manager, but yeah he’s coming on Monday. So exciting!’

                ‘Oh okay. So who are the other doctors?’

                ‘There are no other doctors’

                ‘No other doctors?’

                ‘Nope. Clinics will consist of just the three of you’

                ‘Oh. So it’ll be just me then. Doctor wise’ (I say this keeping in mind that I am not yet an actual doctor)

                ‘Just you’

*Juan’s eyebrows furrow, and his look turns somber resembling that of a holy man who’s just seen an apparition*

                ‘Yeah I know. It’s not ideal but, we’ll just have to see how it goes. Just play it by ear’

                ‘Right. I can do that’ 

So it turns out I will be the most qualified medical practitioner physically present on base during my time here. I have a direct line to the commander in chief at all times and I will be well supported. I have taken a mental note to inhale as much of my Oxford’s handbook of clinical medicine as well as go through the Floating Doctors up for a second time, even more carefully than the first with all the above in mind. I am excited.

Sam went on to tell me a little bit more about the islands in the wake of the Covid epidemic. Some of them commonly refuse the services of Floating Doctors, for a myriad of their own reasons which I can completely understand, after all how many times in the past has the white man preached salvation on the brown one only for them to smash up the whole joint and keep the loot or themselves. I empathise with their caution, and if anything I am only sad that I will not be here long enough to dissolve some of these barriers myself. The community we will be visiting on Tuesday (my first clinic), is one of said communities. We are hopeful that our services will be well received. Most of the communities have not seen a doctor in any form at all since August, and so it is tough to predict what exactly things will look like.

With that, after unloading all the gear everyone went off to ring in the new year with their families. I for one remained fully engrossed with my housekeeping duties. I was determined to re-organise the pharmacy with a degree of organizational prowess that would make rain man himself proud. This was at around 4pm in the evening and I was hauling materials down from the bunkie, when I felt Anselmo loitering in my presence.

                ‘What are you doing?’ He asked

                ‘Just gonna bring some things down from the Bunkie to the pharmacy’ I said.

Still feeling him linger, like he was unsatisfied by my answer, I filled the silence with a question. ‘Why what’s up have you got plans?’

A couple cheeky beverages on the dock for the evening would be our celebration. With his help, I even got to enact my wicked vengeance on the Jellies, as he taught me how to pluck them out of the water with my bare hands. I got him to take a photo of me which I planned to airdrop to their jellyphones as a warning. It was an exercise in agency that I really needed to reassert my dominance on the biologically inferior gelatinous gloobs. Next on my agenda was to find out how to cook them. Only by consuming their flesh and making them a part of me will they accept me in their waters. As I was posing for the photo I said to him ‘hey this is pretty badass isn’t it’.

                ‘Badass?’ He said. ‘You are like Chuck Norris!’

After a few beverages, night began to fall, and having never been out so late on the dock myself for fear of impending death via chitras, I was taken aback by a strong smell of sepsis. It turns out that during the night when the winds change direction across the water, the waste disposal systems in Bocas town waft the smell of all their business straight down to the islands. How rude.

As the sky cracked open like a walnut to reveal a soup of stars the likes of which I’ve seen only a handful of times, we talked about life, about the stars, all the beautiful things that life still holds for us despite this pandemic of our times. After the arrival of the night-watchman, and a small deliberation, we decided to take the boat out for a little spin. With my Bluetooth speaker bumping the serenading sounds of Gregory Isaacs (the best voice in all of reggae, change my mind), we cruised out on the water that was still and crystal clear. The ocean formed a sheet of glass, and as the moon rose up, its luminosity drenched us thick like a fog-light that reflected off its surface. The peppering blast of fireworks in the distance provided colour. With the motor rumbling low, he showed me all the points of the island. Just across the first bay there was a house that backed onto the Ocean, sensing I was about to ask Anselmo told me what it was, ‘A gringo’ he said. We came to the entry point into the village of Valle Escondido, one of the two communities on the island of San Cristobal. Turning down my speaker, we could hear that the village was bumping, seemingly not too dissuaded by the national covid guidelines. As we continued around the coast more and more lovely houses kept coming up, and every time it was the same answer ‘gringo’ ‘gringo’ ‘Otro gringo’.

Now I know we live in a world where nationalism is meant to be bad, and the free market reigns supreme, but there is something about that which feels unfair. The people of the islands, the indigenous who have lived off these waters for ages are reduced to wooden shacks deep in the swamp, where the sweeping stench of sewage floating downwind from Bocas del Toro asphyxiates you with the smell of crap, while old American money peppers the coastline with Wi-Fi and air conditioning for the kids of Uncle Sam. I’m not sure whether it’s good or bad inherently, or whether anything can be done about it except try to elevate the playing field for those without a fighting chance, but still it feels unfair. I thought to myself what the difference in life expectancy might be for those living on the coast versus those farther from the shore. The difference is there I am sure, I’d only be interested in the numbers to determine how big the effect truly is. I thought about it only for a minute before the rumble of the motors pulled me back into the beauty of our moment.