The motorcycle accelerates. I support myself by squeezing my thighs, a technique to keep my breasts from brushing against the driver’s back despite how earnestly he invites it with every brake. I sit ramrod straight behind the man’s skinny frame. He’s from Soledad, on the mainland. I greeted him confidently as I got on, of course. Dressed all in white, I’m bound for a gospel concert at the First Baptist Church, ‘pan di hill’, to meet Juleen at last.

We turn onto the fishmongers’ street towards the bay of sardines, across from the end of the airport runway. I’m stunned by the moon: I could swear I’d never seen it so big. It captivates me for a moment. It’s as if it were spilling towards the island, towards me, as if it wanted to touch everything. We pass the Air Force base. The man from Soledad is cheerful and attentive, but I’d like him even better if he didn’t drive like a madman. He has the OCCRE card, he says proudly, so I don’t get the wrong idea; he’s lived here for thirty years, on a pension, and insists he works because wants to. Out of the blue, he tells me that one of his hobbies is shooting and teaching young guys how to shoot. I wonder whether I shouldn’t get off the motorcycle right now, right here at the corner of the airport. I stay put. I’ll ask questions. Of course there are assault weapons on San Andrés, he replies. He slows down so we can speak properly.

‘This road is pretty dangerous these days, right?’ I ask, remembering the plumber’s recent stories.

‘Yeah, it gets dodgy. Better avoid it at night,’ he says, speeding up a bit, ‘and why not during the daytime while you’re at it! Lots of muggings – they prey on tourists leaving the airport on foot.’

I’ve seen lots of them dragging suitcases or hauling enormous backpacks. This is new as well. In my day, all the tourists took taxis; there weren’t any hotels within range, not in this rough neighbourhood.

‘And there are more and more armed robberies, aren’t there? Just three in the past week,’ I press. I hear a trace of a Mexican accent in my voice.

‘Yeah, but it’s all for show – those guys don’t even carry loaded guns. Not a single bullet,’ he replies.

We turn at an intersection and head up a street I don’t know very well, but I know it passes through Back Road, a neighbourhood whose residents fill pails with well water every day. Last Sunday, on one of these streets, a stray bullet killed a children’s football coach when he came to the window.