You produced gifts, all the more romantic for their simplicity. A fiery sunset, a conch shell, almost intact. A fresh coconut, a mango and a bitter green lemon. I devoured the fruits, an internal embrace, you infused me inside and out. In some ways you were very traditional in your tastes. You offered up flowers: ginger, hibiscus, in all the colours of your Caribbean sunset.
There is an island off the coast of Cartagena de Indias, far from the sounds of horses and carts clattering over cobblestones, from the salsa drum that drifts through shuttered windows. The island is near silent – the Caribbean heat is brutal here, and nothing can bear to move.
For two weeks around each new moon, bioluminescence flickers across Bon Accord Lagoon. Movement sparks chemical reactions, causing the tiny organisms to gleam an indescribable colour, the shade of stars and static and glowworms. Fish darted past; shooting stars beneath a moonless sky.
On an island as tiny as Tobago, it’s doubly thrilling to discover that the road less travelled still remains. In this case the “road” was a river, and I was navigating it not by boat, but on foot – barefoot – with a man named Porridge.
Oh, to be able to bring this scene to life with the noise, the heat, the humidity. The acrid smells of rotting crops and fly-covered meat, the sticky black floor. This photograph is strangely calm, its subject lit as if upon a stage by the Caribbean light penetrating the glorious, rusting, metal roof.
A bag so good that it reduces pollution, saves sea turtles and employs women. Wow!