DAYCLEAN. A HARD DAWN LIGHT. A quicksilver mirror lapping at the hull of a log canoe. An island rising from the sea, sand strewn with coconut husks frothing at its perimeters; leaning palms; the hills a mirage of purple looming from the rainforest. In a shack, Obeah Magic Man under a beard of shining fine steel-wool; a impatient voice saying, “The Indians discover this island havin’ sailed up the Orinoco in 60-foot canoes chop from a single gommier, so don’t you be tellin’ me about the impossible. You want to help this island? Go look me-out what it means for you.”

On airmail paper, with intense and constant pressure, he wrote a letter to Mr Ernest Gilfillan, chief executive officer of the Raubbau International Mining Corporation, protesting about the company’s intention to remove 45 acres of forest on the island for a site upon which to prospect for gold, signing it, “Yours sincerely, Charles W. ‘Smiley’ Gumbs”.

It had taken Obeah Magic Man most of the morning and his reserves of concentration to compose the letter. It no longer mattered that taxi driver Charles W. (for Wesley) ‘Smiley’ Gumbs would have been unable to write in mainland English with no Creole flavour. It’s the thought that counts, he thought, as the chickens jerked about the porch of his shack; its roof, door and window frames painted blue to discourage the jumbie spirits.

This afternoon he’d stroll down to Miss Islin Chance’s Post Office and post the letter. He licked the gum, grimaced and sealed down the flap of the envelope.

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