I was thinking about that spiritual crisis when I saw the path was covered in rubbish up ahead. Amid the foliage and along the dirt road, I saw two toilets tipped upside-down, the belly of a washing machine, several old television sets, satellite dishes like mine, and lots of aluminium scraps now stripped of any identifying markers. I couldn’t understand how all this stuff had possibly got here – there was no road large enough for a car to unload it. Or a motorcycle? Are you serious, people? Who had perched their arse on those toilets, and why didn’t they junk them in their own damn yard? I asked Rudy all of these questions and others; he simply laughed, resigned to a problem he said was hard to fix.

We finished our sojourn at La Laguna: Big Pond. It’s not on any all-inclusive tour. The tourists haven’t invaded it outright as they have the cays and beaches. The two Rastafarian stands were open, as always; at that hour, a couple of willowy blondes were trailing over for a glimpse of the serious old man with flowing dreadlocks as he agitated the little babilla crocodiles with breadcrumbs. I felt the earthy scent of marijuana in my next mouthful of air. Rudy and I made our way up a still-dirt road scattered with tough, tiny seeds, half-red and half-black. I picked up several of their thick brown buds and was immediately transported back to my childhood, to the maracas we made in arts-and-crafts classes. We were burning up by now; my head was swimming. We reached the road with stuffed pockets and got on the empty bus that magically drove by just then, so we could stop at the Gough for the motorcycle.

When I sat down and the bus revved up, I was relieved by the breeze and the view of the infinite line to the east, with that expansive patch of glassy green, lit lavishly by the midday sun. Rudy took the seat in front of mine, turning around so he wouldn’t have his back to me. The dramatic crunches of aluminium cans didn’t persuade the driver to slow down; not even the speed humps held him back. We jolted and rattled as we went, dazed by the volume of the radio, which blasted a sequence of commercials that hadn’t changed since my schooldays. This distributor, that importer, goods and liquors, chemists, restaurants. Although I did hear several messages in Creole, which I hadn’t before. Small-town radio stations, I thought. This too is a time machine that transports me back to the island where I’d always lived, an island of just three superficial square kilometres – ‘That’s right!’ I exclaimed, pointing at Rudy as I imitated the silly accent of the voice in the fabric store ad.