The Doctor and the Unwelcomed Tourists: The Caribbean Chronicles

By Sean Wellard

PARADISE CLINIC
Emergency Physician needed
Exotic location and Luxury Lifestyle

This is what Dr. Sean Wellard had signed up for. Life could not have been better. He was working in paradise and busy falling in love. He is soon involved in a series of events that leads him to the edge of despair. His friendship with Inspector Max Dawes and an unwelcomed tourists criminal activities soon ushers him into a world of murder, mayhem and a long kept secret revealed.

Ever wondered what goes through the mind of your doctor when you are in the ER?
Ever wondered what patients are really wanting to know about their Illness in the ER?
How does it feel when a dark secret gets revealed to the one you love? Will they still love you?
A book every doctor, patient and human being should read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491895948

Book preview

(EXCERPT FROM) - THE FACILITATOR’S OATH

The fiends that follow you, will be lead astray,

Their own forked tongues will end their way.

Let me be your equalizer, your facilitator,

Let me light a candle to your growth.

Let me help you realize what you want to be.

Allow me, to relieve you of your burden and free your thought.

Your prison of fear and guilt strangles your reality,

And is instigated by the usurpers of your strength.

These debauchers of your soul and raiders of your ark,

I want you to breathe and see, the glowing truth.

The world has much to answer for this perilous time.

Hold my hand and let us soar and climb,

To my sanctuary and leave this very human race behind.

- From ‘Love and Divinity Poems’ by Curtis Sonny

1

PROLOGUE - THE TALE OF TWO ISLANDERS

You can have too much of paradise. I mutter to myself as I look into the bottom of my tumbler of rum and coke. I sit wearily on a stool at the Surfside Bar in Holetown, squinting down the beach at the sandpipers’, as they scurry diagonally on the white sandy shoreline. This is a far cry from Trinidad, my homeland.

I chuckle and shake my head at these hilarious birds, they certainly seem to have a splendidly simple life. They always make me laugh. Their fast feet just avoid the approaching tide from capsizing them. I am in a west coast town on a beautiful tropical island in the Caribbean called Barbados.

I sit with my cotton plaid shorts and Hawaiian shirt blowing in the breeze, as the humidity envelopes me in perspiration. The dancing clothes sold by the vendor, gyrate with the unseen wind, heralds the passage of another gust of breeze, that gently brush against me and caress my sweat-covered skin.

Gusty weather, man. I whisper to my visibly inebriated table partner, Chris. He is a local businessman who thinks he is Bob Marley. He does have a striking resemblance though, minus the dreadlocks. He is fixated on all things Rastafarian, but he has a screwball haircut and makes up in the smoking department.

I am of mixed origin. I have a bit of African, Indian, Spanish and English in my blood. My brown complexion helps me blend in this Caribbean background, but I am often mistaken for being Mediterranean. I am in my thirties and have been around these tropical islands a few times.

The beautiful and idyllic Caribbean, many a foreigner would sell their grandmother to live here, given half a chance. I was born here and revel in being able to not wear a watch. I can pinpoint the time of day by the position of the sun in the sky. When the sun is direct overhead it is midday, sun rises at 6am and sets at 6 pm, just like clockwork. No change of the clocks to suit the farmers, no manipulating nature to suit our mortal activities.

My neighbor and I have been at the Surfside Bar all day. I look over at him. Chris is sipping his beer out of the molasses-brown, glass bottle filled with ice-cold liquid amber. The bottle’s cold sweat runs down it sides, then coalesce into big drops that slowly pool at its base, leaving ring water marks on the table. His eyes glaze over with thirst satisfaction. Rum has made many souls happy and about just as many miserable. Just like any medicine it is best used in small doses for optimal effect.

I make an observation, while I screw my eyes up at the sky. It’s hot today, man.

It seems like an understatement in the tropics and this open-aired bar. The bartender in one corner peer out at the turquoise blue ocean, which is only 15 meters away. I had measured this once before in the bar some time ago. I made 15 long steps to the edge of the beach surf. That was at low tide so it may be closer at full tide.

My bartender points to the red roof and says frankly with his strong, melodic Bajan accent, This galvanize roof does not help much, it just transmits the heat right through. He gesticulates with his hand as a salute in reverse, to show the heat movement from the galvanize emanates down. My bartender is a slim, young black guy with a red bandana and a red Manchester United shirt, advertising his football loyalties.

Just call me Fergie, just like the gaffer. He points with both thumbs to his t-shirt and grins broadly. His muscular arms ripple under the snug T-shirt.

Alex Ferguson - we would all like to be him. Football and horses, he certainly made a bob or two. I think it’s much better than only fools and horses, I chuckle at the thought. Rodney and the gang always makes me chuckle. I almost had a father-in-law who thought he was Dell-boy – accent and all.

I feel very lucky to be on this island. I work not far away. I fix people and problems for my livelihood. I am an Emergency Physician in Paradise Clinic. It does not get any better. After work, I walk over to the Beachside bar and sit caressing a cool drink. This is far from London. I do miss the fish and chips though, with mushy peas. Some days I want a nice pint of John Smith - smoothest bitter to me.

My name is Dr. Sean Wellard and I also miss Lucy - Dr. Lucy, I mean. I must not forget my manners! I repeat to myself as I walk back to the car.

I repeatedly animate that doomed introduction to her mother, where everything I said sounded stupid. It did not help that I vomited all over my potential mother-in-law’s dress.

I animate my hand to catch the imaginary vomit and push it back into my mouth. I wish I could rewind the whole night. It started with a few drinks to relax my nerves that night. I guess five glasses of Extra old rum with coke on the rocks is very relaxing! I was not drunk though. I think I just had too much pudding and souse for lunch at the Village Pub in Lemon Arbour.

Today, we had lunch at the Village Pub in Lemon Arbour again. This village pub is an epicurean delight that serves Caribbean food such as stewed lamb, barbecued pork-chops, jerk chicken and fried fish with a menagerie of steamed vegetables. These vegetables include pumpkin, okras, christophene, cauliflower, carrots, string beans - just to name a few. This has the usual accompanying staples like yam, cassava, potato, breadfruit, rice and the ubiquitous macaroni pie. These are all made up to Caribbean standards of taste excellence, with beautiful herbs like parsley, fine thyme, marjoram, sweet basil, rosemary and oregano.

In addition, you have spirits, cold beers, various alcopop beverages, juices and soft drinks. These are all served with a backdrop of lush green rolling hills, painted with sunshine and carpeted with sugar cane fields. The atmosphere is crisp and lively, because the air is so fresh and the mood is properly chilled out. I absolutely relax in this atmosphere, and the people are exceedingly sociable.

Caribbean hospitality is legendary and the laid back attitude simply mindboggling at times. This reminds me, crossing the road is an art form in the West Indies. No two persons cross the road the same way. It ranges from a hurried dash to various angles of meandering that seems to last forever. The pedestrians seem to do it on purpose, its like their moment on the catwalk, their time to shine. I mentally begin to commentate on a scenario with a broad grin, There we have Ms. Venezuela with a sequined red dress, off-shouldered with a simple mini crossing the busy Broad street. The audience goes wild as she stoops to retrieve her fallen hair fastener. Her long curly black hair unfolds and caresses her neck and she looks at you with innocent eyes and an inviting smile as she continues to slowly wiggle and walk. We are all performers and love to be noticed.

Back here in the Village Pub, there are also two large-screen televisions for any sporting event. The locals love their sports, and local horseracing is right up there at the Garrison Savannah. There are weekly English football games and other European football leagues vying for attention here at the television bar, while the garrulous customers carry on with animated conversations and loud laughter. A remedy for any malady are good friends, good food and good drink.

Now, pudding and souse is a story. Pudding is a sweet dish and usually made with brown sugar, cloves, herbs, sweet potato/cassava or other starch and some hot pepper. Souse is err…well… it’s steamed pigs’ trotters that is falling off the bone and is usually served with fresh chili, parsley and cucumber. There are other parts of the pig in there as well. It can be eaten hot or cold and may have been cooked with fine thyme or oregano or parsley. It is scrumptious, if you could get past the image of pig’s toes from your head. Toes are never really used in this dish.

This is a very old English tradition that was exported here a couple centuries ago. In fact, pickled pigtail is sold in some butcher’s shops in the north of England. That is another delicacy we adore, and is sold as a barbecue at some of the better roadside eateries. Yes! We love food in the Caribbean, especially when accompanied by fizzy drink, fine company and an even finer breeze.

Today, we are just having a boys’ day out. If there is only one place you are meant to drink rum and laze about on a hot day on this earth - it is the Caribbean. The weather is made for drinking to quench that ever-present thirst.

Now, I don’t drink much alcohol but there is local rum called Extra Old for which I have acquired a taste. Maybe it’s the warm atmosphere, the cool breeze and the easy sunsets. I just feel like I am constantly on holiday, but I do work. Extra Old is definitely the smoothest rum I have ever tasted. It is made right here in Barbados, but I am not a particularly a rum drinker. Rum, I used think is best for desserts, but I have certainly been converted to a believer.

It all started when I did a tour of the Mount Gay Rum factory, and fell in love with it ever since. It is fragrant, with a hint of vanilla, banana and caramel. Rum is like whisky to me, with a harsh after-burn, which needs a chaser. I usually gravitate to the liqueurs like Amaretto, Cointreau and Southern Comfort. This goes to show how smooth that rum has to be to please my palate.

I am lead to believe that rum was distilled here very early. Barbados has always been a trendsetter with rum distillation and cultivation. In my readings, Brazil was the main world supplier of sugar in the mid 17th century. Due to their prolonged wars with the Dutch merchants, the Dutch sought greener pastures elsewhere. This allowed English colonies like Barbados to capitalize on this new crop, after the local decline in tobacco and cotton production in the early 17th century. Barbados became a financial powerhouse for England, and rum production was a key by-product. In fact, some trading was done with rum as the legal tender.

I can see my trusted silver Nissan march parked right next to the bar. This is all totally behind the police station in Holetown. No brawls at midnight here, I imagine, as we clamber into my silver bullet ready to go down the West Coast Road.

The coconut trees lean into the roads and are easy to avoid, I wonder how the buses do? They seem to steam down these narrow roads at breakneck speed, as well as the smaller yellow vans that carry 20 plus passengers and an occasionally unpleasant driver. They do get you there, if you are in a rush. They can be very nice though, but I have enjoyed an unpleasant ride with them on the odd occasion. This is usually when the aisles are ram-packed with passengers and you feel like a proper sardine. The tourists are usually holding onto their seats and their wide-brim hats, while the minivans race down the Bajan roads. With every corner you can lean uncomfortably close to your neighbor, but it’s an adventure really. Public transport here is a very communal event, there are also taxis for hire but they can be expensive.

I drive past the junction for the polo field and up the winding road, to my first level apartment overlooking the sea. It is high on this Holder’s Ridge. This is as close as I want to live to the ocean. I feel uneasy since that Tsunami hit that country. The video shots were frightening on the TV and I have a healthy respect for the ocean, now it is a healthy fear.

You know what Chris? I look at Chris’s sleepy face as I drive up the winding Holders Hill. I confess my yearnings, I need a flying fish cutter. A cutter is the local word for sandwich.

Chris eyes open wide and agrees, Yeah man! I with you on that! There is no need for me to convince Chris of the need to eat again. We were both off, it was Sunday and the sky was coloured with a crimson-blushed sunset. These are two good reasons to enjoy the fruit of the land - Sunday and sunset.

I discovered flying fish here, together with about a million tourists every year. It’s just tasty, and tastes like tender chicken. It’s usually fried as a butterfly fillet, and served inside a bun with optional hot sauces. This of course can be washed down with any drink. I will have lager and Chris usually has water. He claims he can’t eat hot sauce and chase with lager. He will need water to chase it all the way through. I have found brown sugar, a good pacifier for extreme chili sauce burns. Just pour it into your palm and lick the heat away. The hottest peppers are still found in Trinidad, there is one called ‘Moruga scorpion’ and it’s supposed to have one of the highest Scoville rating in the world. There is a new king pepper called ‘the Carolina Reaper’.

We find ourselves soon at Paynes Bay, sitting on a wooden bench and watching the small waves rush to the shore to die. We are just enamoured by the cool breeze, warm setting sun and the visual tranquility on display. The water is very inviting, and as soon as we are filled with sunset, I ask calmly, You fancy a sea bath Chris?

He looks at me, now totally awake by the hot sauce and says, I don’t have a towel. His wide-open red eyes, fat sweat drops on his face and open-mouth breathing, tells me that the sauce was hot.

I look at him and laugh while I walk to the car announcing proudly, I have everything in my car-boot Chris. Just ask and ye shall receive. I promptly pull out two brightly coloured bath towels, and throw one over to Chris with a gentle request, Just wash it and give it back to me, please.

We are soon swimming and paddling about in the warm clear water, like two seals in a pool. He soon darts out of the waves trembling like a leaf. He shakes the water from his tanned body with a few high jumps on the wet sand.

He grabs the towel from the bench and confesses, Whoa! I needed that. I follow him out with a similar ritual and soon dry myself off.

My bed is calling me now. I utter as we drive off towards home. It’s dark now and we have been out all day. He lives in the flat next to mine.

He still has my towel draped around his neck as we amble up the steps like two tired gunslingers after a night at the saloon. I relent and say to Chris, You might as well give me the towel. I will wash it.

He passes it over solemnly, as sleep invades his face and he mumbles. I think this was a good day, man. I am off to bed to sleep, perchance to dream of another day like this. Thanks palos. He quickly disappears into his flat and slams his door.

I look over the balcony and breathe in the fresh sea air and whisper, Night, night moonlight, another night will soon be here. I will see you tomorrow.

I set my clock for 0730 to enable me to shower and dress. Then I can get to work for 8 am. Work is just a 5-minute drive away.

2

THE TALE OF THE GERMAN AND THE JELLYFISH

Jellyfish sting in reception. I am stunned by the vocal intrusion on my trail of thought, as I sit writing the last patient’s note. I look up from the right corner of my eye and reply with a nod and pursed lips, uh-huh.

I abruptly close the file and rubberstamp it. My self-inking stamp is the full stop that punctuates all my patients’ notes. This is my seal of authenticity, the royal blue ink that confirms my assessment and treatment of that patient.

Did she see the jellyfish? I enquire, looking at Debbie, while she enters momentarily, a manila folder cradle in her arms.

Debbie replies instantly, I don’t know? That’s what she told the receptionist. I am going to triage her now. Debbie is pure Bajan, always on the go and ever helpful. She has a pretty face, cropped, tight curly black hair with a jovial voice and very polite.

Her beautiful accent always reminds me of Bristol. I am sure that is where that accent came from. In the early days, Speightstown was known as Little Bristol and I am convinced the accent has persisted. It is also the accent of the archetypal pirate, ‘aright me hearty’, and the Bristolian ‘my lover’. It’s all to do with the rolling R’s in the speech. The Trinidadian accent is very Welsh. I was very surprised to learn this when I worked in South Wales near Neath, Port Talbot and Merthyr Tydfil. The Jamaican accent is very much cockney-based.

I slip into the next cubicle, and have a look at a sutured wound in the leg of a young boy lying flat on the bunk bed. Hello, I am Dr. Wellard and how are you today? I ask as I nonchalantly peruse his notes.

I aim my conversation at the adjacent mother looking on tenderly, Is it ten days already since you had this stitched? I tap the boy’s shoulder softly to reassure him of my gentleness. Children need to know that you are not going to hurt them. This is important in setting the scene for an examination. Since the child usually expects it to be painful.

I hear a dry, hacking, loud cough from another cubicle. I could not tell if it is a man or woman. The person is definitely trying to clear their throat. The cough is not deep and does not sound bovine, as though trying to clear the deep recesses of the lung. It was short and sharp, immediate as if it was tickling the throat and they need to keep clearing the phlegm.

I look at his mom and say calmly, We will take the stitches out today, but that does not mean it’s healed. I pause and look firmly at both of them. I continue in a well-rehearsed oration.

These injuries can take up to 6 weeks to heal, but the important thing is that the bone is fine. It is not broken. The stitches were done to aid the healing process, so it can heal in the quickest time by putting the skin closer together. I gesture, by apposing my thumb and index finger together in a pinch with my free hand to illustrate the skin closure.

"This helps the skin have as small a scar as possible. The outer