I don’t miss any of these things:

  • Your oily creek full of baby sharks, your gory stench, or your tin sheds with row upon row of shell necklaces and baskets.
  • The sword carvers who lurk just under the lip of the roof, out of the rain, ready to spring.
  • I don’t miss the orange coconuts or the red bananas.
  • Your national park.
  • I don’t miss the rotting vegetables.
  • The goat curry, or the boiled, bluish dalo.
  • I actively dislike your volcanic mountains where they meet the black harbour water.
  • I don’t miss the bus.
  • I don’t miss the windows made of plastic that you can roll up and tie at the top.
  • The heat.
  • The rain.

I don’t miss you.


I do miss raw fish in lemon juice and coconut milk, and can’t get it anywhere else. I loved it on chips, and I ate it overlooking that oily creek full of baby sharks. I took one good thing from you and I wish I hadn’t so that I could hate you wholesale and promise never to visit again.