I have seen my fair share of shack strewn shady side streets on this assignment. Some places you expect it: reputations precede most destinations. Other locations it takes you by surprise. But then again, maybe it shouldn’t. Lie back and close your eyes and picture the Bahamas. The endless blue ocean intersecting with gleaming, pristine sands. Palm trees rustle in the breeze. Tourists meander indolently. Danger only lurks in the form of a stray, ripe coconut being pulled by gravity towards your unguarded head. Then open your eyes and find yourself Over the Hill. In Nassau’s back alleys. Amongst the shadow of the wealth which permeates society, but which never reaches the far shore. Drink in the Tip Top bar, where a man darts in, jerks his head back and in an instant a one dollar shot cascades down his throat. Then he’s gone. A small injection of fuel, mainlined to help him through the next part of the day. In the barber’s there a hum of conversation. Local creole patter. The air: Hot. Still. Sweaty. A cloud of talc and a spray of something sweet send me on my way. Past the cycling Rastafarian, handlebars laden with bags of unseen detritus. Cars crashed. Rows of wooden houses. Some windowless, others are churches. Pray for them, my friends. Because they have been forgotten by the God of money. But they have spirit. In the mouths which flash toothless smiles, I see their pride. In the woman who recognises my companion and thanks him for his help and guidance. They are here. Over the Hill. But not beyond it.