‘Aaah, so you don’t know yet, huh?’ His eyebrows arch, but his eyes are fixed somewhere on the ground. ‘The whole street is blocked off with bonfires and tyres and things, because there’s been no mains water for over a month and everyone’s desperate. Juleen’s probably busy with all that – ’

‘Blocked off? Is Juleen protesting there or what?’ I interject. Nard fidgets, spinning the keychain to his motorcycle around his index finger.

‘Yeah, right there. Apparently the governor’s headed over now to negotiate with the protesters. What are you doing here, anyway? I’m going there myself, want to come?’

I figure it’s not the best idea to show up dressed like a tourist at a water shortage demonstration, but I walk alongside the tall guy with his mosaic-print shirt and broad, pearly smile. Suddenly it strikes me that everyone on the island is an activist, everyone’s fighting for something. When the government’s bad, money doesn’t circulate. And what about me? I live off a bank account managed from afar, but I don’t have anywhere else to be. Nor have I ever felt happier being, just being. Which satisfies me. I think of that and am abruptly inundated by the stench of actual shit.

‘What’s that smell?’ I ask, gesturing to the circular mouth of the sewage drain, which spouts a thick greenish-brown foam. I feel myself gag a little. Nard practically giggles and shakes his head as he swings a leg across the seat of his orange RX 200.

‘Ay ay, Miss Baruq, don’t you remember that it’s always been like this here? That’s the smell of the high season,’ he says. He presses the start button and the engine revs. I get on too, smoothing my skirt between my legs.

‘Very poetic, “the smell of the high season”,’ I repeat emphatically.

‘I don’t know about poetic…’ Nard says, glancing over his shoulder to turn right and pass several of the Montero hotels and blocks of tourist flats.

‘It totally is – the intimacies of tourism. Just look’ – I gesture, pursing my lips – ‘there are all the drunken parties, the hangovers, the cheap drinks…’ The dense liquid has pooled all over the corner and onto the pavements. A man, fat and pink as a shrimp, is emerging from the beach wearing a green sports cap, flip-flops dangling from his hand.

‘And since it’s always high season these days, it’s always packed around here – and even so, the hotel owners are always freaking out about “damage to the destination”!’ He raises his voice so that even the governor could hear him over the roar of the engine. I lean closer, transfixed by his hair: its curious little furrows, tiny and black.

We pass the barracuda statue. A group of long-skirted ladies are gathered around it like members of a prayer circle.