In my very first band, aged 16, I doubled on trumpet. I haven’t picked one up since. Forty years later I now find myself the proud owner of a Yamaha Xeno Artist Series Bb trumpet. Because it’s worth over ten times what I paid, it must be either stolen or counterfeit.

It’s not like I had much choice. I’ve been scouring the city for a trumpet since Sunday, when I learned that our trumpet player’s instrument was defective and wouldn’t play high notes. We even made enquiries at the army to see if we could rent a band instrument. Along the way I learned that most players  make (!) their trumpets.

The only one we could find was at a music store and for sale only. By the time I’d checked it out (you never know when grade-school band practise will come in handy) the store was ready to close, we had no cash and they had no way to deal with plastic. After some negotiation we left the store with the trumpet and followed by a shop assistant on a motor scooter we drove around looking for a cash machine. It felt like a drug deal. We sat in the car as Monique counted out a huge wad of local currency to give to the courier. But in the end we had our instrument with a full 48 hours to spare before showtime.

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This is just one example in a long litany of similar tales. To keep minor splintering from becoming major, our drummer wraps his sticks with the duct tape I brought. He totes his bass drum around in a cardboard box. The percussionist is playing on borrowed everything. Our saxophonist told of his top-of-the-line Selmer tenor,  returning by post from Paris after a complete renovation. When it arrived he found that someone had stolen the neck piece (help me out with the correct terminology, readers). Until he can come up with 500 bucks – which in Madagascar means an awfully long time – the instrument will remain unplayable.

Speaking of instrumental theft, after a gig out in the provinces our electric guitarist dozed off while waiting for sunrise and the taxi brousse (12-seat minivan) to take him back to the capital. When he awoke his guitar was gone. He has never owned his own amp and marvelled at the inexpensive guitar cable with gold-plated connectors I gave him to replace his crappy, noisy one. Rehearsal ground to a halt one day when his high e-string broke at the bridge. Everyone got down on the floor to search for the little metal rivet that had flown off (guitarists will know what I’m talking about). Reattached it would give the string a second life.

What makes the stories really tragic is that these are amazingly good players, perfectly capable of holding their own on any stage in LA, New York or Paris. It's heartbreaking.