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  Peter E Pete staggers to the hammock. Another trying day with ungrateful tars and scallywags. Two small sloops bound from Jamaica and all the rum ya could swally was all she wrote. Rum punched, one and all they blather on about not enough coin jingling the trouser as the pillage turned glum. He remembers the days in old Main Brook , a welcome sight after weeks at sea and the hearty and hale at Fred's Lounge, a place before it's time. Plunder a plenty back then but the scarce times came fast as kings and queens fell, and no privateer knew who to trust. At anchor in Spirity Cove, he sensed his days were numbered as the leader of his loyal but frustrated crew. Maybe time would soon come to take Con up on his offer to buy that small inn in St John's, become a publican. A few more raids, enough pirated bounty to ease into a landlubber's life. The slow trough shifted his hammock and
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Karla.

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            Karla found herself at the end of the month in Santiago, working at a Cafés con piernas for little wages, tips, free tortas and a pair of high heels. Back at the hostel (were she was able to convince the manager for a weekly discount) the extra sandwiches went over big with the tourists as she sold them cheaply as Chilean `artisanal tortas` ' All made with local ingredients. Local in that as Karla knew, they came from the local supermercado around the corner. This was quite the change from what she called her ` kebab wallah ` job in Mumbai at an expansive hostel, more an open courtyard hotel with a large tandoor and bbq pit with a big tawa on top. She quickly used her cooking skills and storytelling to earn free room and board as she entertained nightly. Everyone was a foodie in that they all knew what a kebab was from home. So Karla adjusted by what she could find on hand and used her skill to transport all these foodies to local India! From pasanda and nar
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