Pirates

Rob Fletcher

The swarthy figures around me cackled, chuckled and snarled in a Spanish as rough as the wine in their chipped enamel mugs. As the sun beat down and I drifted in and out of their conversation I had time to reflect that a plastic bags worth of clams, fresh from the ocean and eaten straight from their shell, was by no means my standard breakfast. Nor, I thought hazily, did I usually wash down my morning meal with red wine.

Yet, despite the rich food, the outlandish nature of its providers, and the fact that I lacked the support of an English-speaking companion, for the first time since moving to Chile I felt truly at ease. ... (continues)