Another Day in Paradise

We’re anchored in the ideal hurricane hole. It is a long, deep harbor with a multitude of channels that snake through the thick mangroves. No rivers flow unto its muddy banks. The water remains calm, sheltered and unbelievably filthy.
(I couldn't get a shot of the harbor that accurately conveyed its state. Plus I'm reluctant to get too close. This shot of the goat stew the locals cooked up the other night comes close.)

The olive-hued fluid that surrounds our boat reeks with the foulness of oil and excrement, creating an odor that endures. It’s a toilet bowl with a broken handle. Only huge, pink jellyfish survive in this toxic brew. 
Everybody’s sick. It starts as a sore throat/headache/stomach cramp thing then morphs into influenza. “No big deal” I initially thought. After a week crawled by, I began to wonder. 
“How long has this been going around?” I asked an ex-pat.
“Well,” he replied. “It was here when I sailed in.”
“Yeah? When was that?”
“Three years ago last May” he continued. “It keeps mutating. You never get well.”

Downtown Luperon

Still, I’m counting my blessings. Malaria and dengue fever also flourish here. I met an American who had given up stripping and now teaches yoga. She has a great build crowned with a grey, ashen face. Malaria has struck once. Dengue twice. I glanced at her arms and legs. They were covered with sores. Then I looked at my own. 
Tiny red dots freckled my ankles. No-see-’ems, no doubt, that visit in the night. The rest of my legs looked like I extinguished a book of matches out on them, one at a time. The same large red welts ran up to my shoulders. All courtesy of the small, voracious mosquitoes that appear out of nowhere. 

Leprosy? What's "unclean" in Spanish?

Immense water blisters have formed on the backs of my hands. God-only-knows what caused them. They eventually burst, leaving an open, raw lesion. My stomach has a grouping of copper colored circles with black dots in the center. The incessant itchiness keeps me up half the night. I’ve tried alcohol, aloe, vinegar and cortisone. Nothing works. Only the bottom of my feet remain unaffected, protected by the thick layer of chalk-colored soot that coat them, courtesy of the dusty roads in town. 

I am presently lounging in the restaurant most of us hang out at watching my compatriots busily typing away on their laptops between sneezes. Appendages, bloated with white irregular blotches of sun poisoning, are in full view. Many are covered in pink and bronze abscesses. The open ones ooze a yellowish puss. All look worse than mine. "They’ve been here longer" I realize, silently counting the days left in the hurricane season. A buzz erupts in my ear, disrupting my thoughts. I slap half-heartedly at the mosquito, noticing two more feeding off of my left foot. I rub it with my right toe, then look out at the brilliant blue sky fronted by swaying palms and order another beer.