There has to be another way to address the overpopulation problem, I remark to Juleen. It’s not just about tourism, and it’s not just immigrants, either – it’s also the overwhelming number of daily births. More than that, it’s a matter of infrastructure, the inefficiency of public services. However scant the resources, they must be redistributed; any money for efficiency gets divvied up among the rats. Beside me, a family of brightly clad tourists lift the plastic tape, some Argentines take photos – ‘No to predatory tourism!’ shouts the old man. Several Turks lean out of their shops. They’ll lose some sales to the blockade today. ‘Get Colombia out of here! ¡Fuera Colombia de aquí! Gimme back mi land! We demand a solution to overpopulation NOW!’ I hear. I feel confused and a little ashamed for the passing tourists. I hesitate. Maybe resentment isn’t the best discourse, although there are ample reasons for it. I don’t see any young people participating, just a few grandpas sitting under a white tent on one side of the street. A couple of journalists approach the admiral who’s walked down 20 de Julio in his khaki uniform. I wouldn’t participate either, not in these conditions.

‘That guy says the same stuff every time. Want the megaphone?’ Juleen dares me out of the blue, as if she’d read my mind.

‘I think you should, girl,’ I shoot back.

‘Ha! I’ll think about it. But I’m off to the other kind of enslavement for now – repairs at the posada, mija.’

I’d better go, too. I look out at the scattering of protesters. A tall guy with olive skin and fine features comes over and hands us the latest copy of El Isleño, the local newspaper. The front page shows a black-and-white photo of the solid residue incinerator, a towering machine with a tube in front, depicted with an elephant’s ears and trunk. I burst out laughing. ‘Wuoy!’ says Juleen, ‘finally!’ It’s the nature of this place: a dimension where humour is a lifesaver, a vital interpretive tool. Here’s the article about the construction licenses, I point out to her – they’re going to build a huge hotel in a rural part of the south, despite the fact that the island lacks any kind of food security plan. Juleen frowns. The Constitutional Court was supposed to have prohibited building licenses on San Andrés in ’94, a ban set to remain in place until the wastewater treatment plant is handed over and a sewage system built, I read quickly.

‘Do we have either of those things?’

‘No,’ Juleen says,

‘And have they stopped building?’

‘Noooo!’ She rolls her eyes.

‘Dat da dat,’ I tell her. ‘They’re illegal, Juleen. Technically all the new building projects are illegal, pirated – all that money laundering, the cash flow, the southwestern Caribbean…’ I press my palms to my cheeks.