i would welcome a visit from you at my home on 21 november at 10 a.m., if you’re still on the island and don’t have plans that day.

until then, here is something that will interest you.

‘Don’t call me Miss’ makes me chuckle. There’s a file attached; I click to download. I imagine Hazel as I remember my grandmother, and I think I even give her the same voice in my mind, with Josephine’s hard Anglo r’s. I open the document. Staring out at me are the blue eyes, large ears, white moustache and broad smile of my great-great-grandfather. He’s wearing a black suit, a tie and a white-collared shirt, with the slender chain of a pocket watch dangling from his jacket lapel; on one arm, a long iguana’s tail hangs all the way down to the floor. A nervous crack crack crack, a greeting from the roof, makes me gasp; rrrssh, rrssh, and the skin on my neck goes cold. There’s a gust of air and I jump, my hair standing on end; the light goes out and the voltage regulators rustle. The photo stays illuminated, the Jamaican’s crackling gaze. The hum of the engine from the outside world.

X. THE SOUTHWESTERN CARIBBEAN

X. THE SOUTHWESTERN CARIBBEAN

Thirty metres out to sea, I can see the spine of the seahorse. There’s not a soul in sight. If it weren’t for the column of black smoke, I’d be able to picture myself swimming in the waters of a deserted island, a happy island. The smoke is so dense, my surroundings so radiant, that these two contradictory things make for a distressing prelude, a sign of the times.

Three days ago, a tremendous fire started in the landfill. It’s still blazing, but the authorities claim it’s under control. A horrific black pillar rose up, smearing the cloudless sky for almost my entire bike ride along the ring road. The northeast wind is blowing hard, which complicates my trip back; I haven’t biked much in recent weeks, haven’t wanted to go out more than necessary. There’s something peering out of people’s eyes that I can’t stand. The house, though, is an oasis, and it’s mine; I love its ghosts.

There’s no breeze today. I’m not sure if that helps keep the fire from spreading across the three mountains of trash, but it’s good for me: I made it to the ocean. I had an intense allergic reaction a couple of weeks ago and decided I’d stop going to Spratt Bight beach, where various sewage systems from the hotel area drain. I got sick of the tourists and vendors offering coconuts, cocktails, braids, massages, jet ski rides, tours, jewellery and big black cocks. I got sick of the residents nosing around every part of your life. Here, on the other side, on the small cement platform I jumped off, there are several used rubbers, wads of paper and a wrinkled sanitary napkin. It smells like boozy piss boiled in the sun. There are countless beer cans and bottles swarmed by tiny mosquitos, cartons of guaro liquor, abandoned on the steps, scattered around the trees – a broad radius. I had to hold my breath to keep from gagging. I don’t want to be like everyone else, but I can’t help but curse people. I’m getting out of here, I’m leaving, I thought. But then I looked out over the ocean, enormous and pure, with all its colourful little fish. I’m here, I’ve already made it all this way – how could I resist?