The Iguana and I walked down the street.

“You have to jam,” I said to the Iguana, “I have to write.”

Later I found notes from that night. I’d kept asking the barkeeper for a pen and scribbled on a scrap of paper.

Captain’s Sand Bar, Buccoo, just after sunset. The place was heaving. Soca music pumped from the speakers, but there was no sign of any tourists. This was the local ’hood, letting loose.

I smiled. Nobody wanted anything from me.

A waft of ganja drifted in the air. I inhaled automatically. One of the blokes was wearing a diving mask. The world might look interesting through it.

I finished my beer. It was time to move on.

Eight or nine musicians were jamming. Steel drums, two grit-filled calabashes, the Iguana rasping on a grater. All the instruments are home-made or picked up from a scrap yard.

Then they hit the spot just right. For one sweet moment I was swept up in the rhythm, became part of the band.

Later the Iguana introduced me to the calabash-shaker.

“He’s big in New York,” he said.