As the propellers rumbled forward, houses faded into specks and then were lost behind jungle as the river slithered like a serpent in all its bends and flows. The trees, tall and thin, had web like roots that projected up from the still water, and their dangling vines stood firm, having you convinced they grew up from the ground and not the other way around. We’d periodically pass a small wooden house or a hidden community behind thick curtains of green and brown. We motored for upwards of an hour into a series of small lakes and tributaries turning lefts and rights with the guidance of the locals until we reached a bifurcation that led us into a narrowing canal. There was a density in the jungle that made it difficult to see farther than one meter into it, and the highest tops of trees contained the odd sloth that looked at us confused, as if to ask why we’d be so bold as to disturb them during their daily ways. One of the locals in our boat, the same older man that helped us get in through the river mouth when we first arrived, told me that they had built this canal themselves. It was a state sponsored program to give them easier access to goods from the mainland without having to round the whole peninsula. Shovels and machetes did the work he told me, over the course of fifteen years. I was amazed. They had literally hacked a wound into the jungle that ran kilometres long. 

We reached an outpost with a gentleman inside, a collector, who charged three dollars per boat for the use of the canal for maintenance. Things like tipped over trees and debris that would otherwise make the crossing impossible. The locals haggled him and tried to barter down two for the price of one, since one was actually meant to be a guide boat, but the collector wouldn’t budge. They offered to leave one boat behind, ride with us the rest of the way and then walk back through the nipple height canal. We told them not a chance, the rest of the way was meant to be straight through, with no forks, so we bid them goodbye and carried on through the back end of the canal without their guidance—not the wisest decision in retrospect. The canal narrowed at its worst to around two metres wide, and was dug so deep that the walls came up a few metres on either side. The tide was dropping fast as well, at times no more than thirty centimetres deep. For a good stretch we had no use of the propeller due to the shallows, and we had to use nearby bamboo sticks to row ourselves off of the bottom of the channel. Our captain would tell me later that he was genuinely worried the tide would dry out to leave us stuck. It took us close to two hours to finally get out the other end into a river that fed into Open Ocean, and not exactly where we thought it would.

Finally spilling out into the big blue, storm clouds dropping their might a click or two in front of us formed a grey blanket that completely blocked our vision, so it was hard to tell where we were in relation to the islands or the bays. Not to mention that nobody onboard had ever come out through the river that way. In essence, we were lost, and it was starting to get dark. A series of discussions between the captain, Chrys, and Jack trying to get our bearings had us in a disagreement. The best course of action was just to motor forward, into, around, or through the storm, and hope that our GPS could pick us up or some clearer views would help us find our footing. Without being too dramatic, we found our way within the next thirty minutes as the edges of some islands and river mouths came into view. So now we clear to charge straight ahead back to the base, at first with clear vision, and then under the stars. When we finally arrived, Anselmo told us he was relieved; they were on the verge of sending out a search party. We were expected back around 4 and it was now 730, after dark. We never felt danger ourselves, but the team on land had been stressing. Apologies to everyone for that, I promise we won’t do it again. I don’t actually though, because I loved every single minute of it.

That time in silence on the boat served me to reflect on everything we had come through. The thrill of navigating the jungle, the chaos of way too many patients and not enough time, the insanity of being asked to pull teeth, dress wounds weeks old, and drain cystic masses. I loved it with every part of my soul, and some sick part of me still wasn’t satisfied. I wanted more; more children with fevers, pregnant women, running traumas, and diagnosing terrible breast masses. The hammocks, rashes, bugs, jellyfish, and everything in between, this was everything I wanted, hospital medicine be damned. I had never considered general medicine as a specialty before this, but this was something I could do. I remember chatting once with one of my GP mentors, a brilliant man from the west of Ireland. He told me about his general practice in Kildare. ‘I’ve sat in this chair for twenty one years’ he told me.

God bless him, doing a job that needs to be done. I am full of respect for that, but no chance in hell; that’s not for me.

Everyone who knows me knows that I am calculated, I have goals, and a clear vision, but at heart I am a kamikaze. When I go skiing I tuck my arms and race my shadow to the bottom on the edge of control, when I played rugby I hurled my body into carnage with every 100 kilo monster that broke the line clean, technique be damned, and when I played the drums I gave myself tinnitus and tendonitis, always on the precipice of pushing myself too far. I breed controversy, chaos and disruption. I push buttons, and I irritate. I am like the chitras themselves, and if my number gets called tomorrow I’ll blast off into the void with a rocket on my back. This wasn’t general practice in any normal sense, this was swashbuckling medicine. This was a stethoscope in one hand and a machete in the other, with a compass hanging from your neck and flare gun strapped to your waste. It was perfect. And you know what?

I wouldn’t have it any other way.