‘More?’ Juleen’s voice pulls me back. More. I inhale once, deeply, then release – long, slow – the breath of the healing tree. I levitate as I follow Juleen, who leads me by the hand through the houses on stilts, back to the hubbub, back to the wooden windows where so many other Histories peer out, just as valid as the official one. I look and they look back, and my eyes feel playful, light and heavy at the same time. They must be red, their green unruly. Juleen claps and lets out a flirtatious laugh; we hear the chorus of a man’s voice, singing to a languid beat. A tall, athletic man looks at me steadily, directly, and I just smile, but not because of what the lyrics say.

‘There you are!’ Jamie says behind us.

We return to the terrace by the road. The rundown stew is still in the works: women are making white flour dumplings as something boils in a pot big enough for me to climb inside. I laugh. Jaime meets my eyes and hands me a Miller.

‘You like Miller, right? It’s all they’ve got.’

‘Thanks.’

He opens the beer and hands two more to Juleen. Sami’s hugging her from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head.

‘I almost couldn’t find any. This blockade is bad news,’ he laughs.

‘For you, maybe!’ Sami points ahead of us, across the street, pursing his lips: there’s a large cooler full of beers under a cedar, beside a red couch and an old drooping office chair that make for an open-air living room.

‘Shit! Well, that’s what I get for being a paña,’ the cachaco laughs. I mock his identity crisis and find myself touching his hand – the same arm as his tattoo. Juleen shoots me a look. Me deh so high.

‘Did you guys smoke?’ Jaime asks, glancing at each of us one by one. His smooth flushed cheekbones lift as he smiles, and he raises his eyebrows.

‘Yes sah, you missed out,’ Juleen sings.

‘You didn’t wait for me! I was looking for beer…’

‘You looked busy,’ Sami teases, clapping him on the back. ‘I feel you, buai.’

‘Oh, that was my neighbour, she got locked out of the front gate again. But the beer took me longer,’ he complains, and takes a swig.

‘Yeah, I used to have a neighbour like that… Come on, bro,’ Sami says, laughing, and leads him away.

Juleen turns to me: ‘So yo guain tell me the seshan?’ she demands, smug.

‘No seshan at all!’ I retort, shaking my head and holding up a dismissive hand. ‘I’m not gonna share any gossip if there isn’t any to share!’ I shrug. She accuses me of being a flirt. My fling with the German guy counts as gossip. He’s probably with another girl in Cartagena by now.