When I travel, I do everything I can to blend in—“live like a local.” But when it comes to healthcare? That’s where I draw the line. If you have the option, always choose the best doctor available, even if they’re out of reach for most locals. Trust me—I found out the hard way.
Caye Caulker, Belize
I woke up in a beachside cottage in Caye Caulker, Belize, feeling well-rested—until I noticed a small red bump on my upper left thigh. No big deal. Growing up in a drafty old house in Maine, I was used to waking up with the occasional mystery bite. Sure, the thought of a spider crawling on me while I slept was unsettling, but it wasn’t anything a day of ignoring it couldn’t fix.
So, I did exactly that.
The next morning, the bump was still there—bigger, but not painful. “Tropical climate,” I reasoned, and went about my day like a person who definitely did not have a growing medical issue.
By day three, my leg had other plans. The bump had risen, started to ache, and now had a tiny opening at the center, like a nickel-sized pimple plotting something sinister. Finally, my brain raised a tiny yellow flag: Maybe scrub it with soap?
I marched to the corner store, bought a bar labeled “antibiotic soap”, and scrubbed the bump like I was trying to erase my own bad decisions. Convinced I had single-handedly solved the problem, I went on with my day.
I had not solved the problem.
By the next morning, my quarter-sized wound had evolved into something straight out of a medical horror film. It hurt. New red bumps had joined the party. My leg was confused. My body was angry. Even I had to admit that ignoring this was no longer an option.
But there was no way I was going to the fancy doctor up the river who catered to expats and wealthy Belizeans. No, I had made local friends. I spent my days on the beach, smoking spiffs with said friends. If the town doctor was good enough for them, he was good enough for me.
With confidence that only comes from very poor judgment, I hobbled to the local clinic. The waiting room was spotless, a crisp white like I was used to back home. “See?” I thought. “Totally fine.”
The doctor, a Belizean who had trained in Cuba, took one look at my leg and gave me a knowing smile that I did not like. He excused himself to prepare my “treatment” and returned minutes later holding a syringe full of gel.
“This is hydrogen peroxide,” he explained, far too casually. “I’m going to inject it directly into the wound. It will kill the infection, and in a day or two, you’ll be fine.”
He met my eyes. “This will hurt.”
And then he shoved the syringe into my leg and squeezed what felt like a travel-size bottle of hellfire into my open wound. I nearly saw God. But, as they say, no pain, no gain. I thanked him, paid my $5, and hobbled back to my hostel, fully expecting to wake up miraculously healed.
That is not what happened.
For three more days, things got worse. I kept telling myself it was just the it-gets-worse-before-it-gets-better stage. Until I woke up nearly a week and a half after the initial bite with a deeply swollen leg, painful red bumps spreading across my thigh and pelvis, and the inability to walk properly.
Finally, even I had to admit defeat. It was time for the fancy doctor. I boarded a water taxi, cane in hand, fully prepared to either get real treatment or fly home before I lost my leg, went septic, or both.
The doctor took one look at me and grimaced. “I wish you had come to me sooner,” he sighed. Not helpful.
He assured me he could fix it but warned that it wasn’t going to be pleasant. That same day, he started me on daily injections of antibiotics and anti-inflammatory drugs—delivered straight into my butt cheek. He then cut into the worst infection site and pulled out what I can only describe as a wad of used chewing gum. Delightful.
For the next week, I returned daily for more injections and a special round of let’s see what other infected bits we can squeeze out of your leg today. By the end of it, I was mostly healed, though I’d remain on oral antibiotics for a month.
I’m incredibly lucky this second doctor was available at all. And if there’s one thing I learned from all this (aside from the fact that spider venom and peroxide don’t mix well), it’s this: When it comes to your health, always take the best care available. It took me months—if not years—to fully recover from this mess. So, trust me: Go to the fancy doctor.