Slaves were brought from Africa to mine salt. No one gives a shit. They’re serving cocktails outdoors on Deck 7 after a day in port. I’m seated at a table with my wife and two other couples, drinking a pina colada and calculating our respective status. We had taken a tour of the island in a hired van that morning. The driver said his name was Jude. His eyes were hidden behind very dark glasses. He chattered happily as the van rattled our spines. Damage to the roads from a hurricane and mudslides four years ago still hadn’t been repaired. We passed a small shack that sold “native” trinkets. An old black woman dozed on a stool in the shade of the doorway. To harvest cinnamon, Jude was saying, you must cut down the entire tree. Black men with hard faces under shoulder-length dreads loitered on corners. Meanwhile, spindly goats wandered around loose. There were no dogs to be seen; I presumed dogs got eaten. I was frankly relieved to get back on the cruise ship. We were even in time for team trivia in the Grand Salon. The string of typographical symbols (%@$&*!) used in comic strips as a substitute for an obscenity is called a “grawlix.”