Perforations in the Reading.
There are two ways to reach Eduardo's World Cafe Bar.
One is by a rough path that leads you down to the small narrow spit of rocky land that juts into the sea, there Eduardo's cafe sits on the site of the old Life Boat station.
The other, is the route I usually take, a slow meander along the winding beach working up an appetite, anticipation, a salivating Pavlovian desire to eat the best food on the planet.
A large laminated map of the world greets you as you enter Eduardo's.
The map stretches over a white washed wall surrounded by a sturdy black trellis dripping with sweet smelling Bougainvillea.
The tea and coffee growing countries are picked out in green and yellow pins, pink and blue dart the source of exotic drinks.
Scattered world wide, orange pins holds tiny photographs of smiling farmers beaming from ear to ear as they pose proudly with the local produce from their region.
A delicious platter of mouth watering delights brought to you courtesy of Eduardo's.
A tranquil oasis of peace and harmony, a place of music, laughter and good company.
Colour and warmth fill the rooms with soft diluted orange and pastel yellows that splash along walls dotted with beautiful ethnic art work.
A profusion of wild flowers spill from tarnished copper urns.
An assortment of wooden tubs and china vases perch haphazardly atop each other, dropping delicate petals over the bright woven rugs that scatter over a red chipped terra cotta floor.
I love the place, I love the people who work here, I can say hello, goodbye, I love you in a hundred dialects.
Eduardo grins as he greets me with a loud hello and pretends he has never seen me before.
'Good morning sir, what would like to drink? Tea? Coffee? Glass of wine? Beer? Something to eat...?'
He nods to a lengthy list of food, the day's specials written in exquisite italics that begs to be eaten.
A global feast to satisfy the most jaded of palates with each dish weeping enchanting fragrances that drift from the kitchen.
The smell tempts the weak willed, waistlines under threat, not helped by the smiling staff who join in and offer their favourite delicacy from some remote part of the worlds menu.
'Try this today, my spicy soufflé ?' Calls Celine. ' No, try this dish?' suggests Kalif. 'This is much nicer, cuscus and...?' Petra offers.
'...Olives...salad...rice...chicken...roasted vegetables...' added for your selection.
They giggle and banter with each other about the merits of their special recipes.
Eduardo feigns a shrug of mock despair.
'Ah, the staff?' He tuts. 'I cannot control them?' he adds laughing.
His long suffering wife Marzia smiles at me and shakes her head.
' See to the coffee machine, a nozzle needs attention...!' pointing at the hissing block of chrome.
'Right away lady boss' he winks at me as he salutes and weaves away dancing to soft Fado music.
'Hey, you lot...leave the poor man alone...shoo..!'
Mapula beams at me, fluttering her large arms at the others.
I like her, warmth just oozes from her, she is going to persuade me in the direction of her dish of the day I think.
She hugs me tightly.
'I need to fatten you up...you are too skinny...' she teases.
'You don't listen to them, you must try my mtuzi wa samaki today, okay? Some ugali to the side and a nice village beer...I know you will like...how about that ?'
She gives me another hug.
Resisting is futile and I take a table on the small patio overlooking the sea.
'Hey, Eduardo...Eduardo...' she calls. ' Your Fado makes me sad...play some of my High Life music...Kwue Nkeyi...okay.
'No,no,no..' protests Carmen.
'Eduardo...you must play some Nada Es Color De Rosa...'
'Nooo...please,listen to Marcel Khalife or Nancy Ajram ' pleads Farouk.
squeal invisible requests from the kitchen.
They all sing and dance around the cafe dispensing their trays of food to the delight of hand clapping customers.
As I read the newspaper perforations resemble small bullet holes that pierce each page as if in warning to withhold its contents.
To the left, one page a perforation, a scar that cuts to Down and Out in the City of Angels.
Los Angeles, now the homeless capital of the world, fifty blocks of the city centre given over to rough sleepers, with more expected back from active service in Iraq and Afghanistan likely to be homeless.
To the right, another page, another perforation, another tear at life.
Tells of a young man in a detention centre in Damascus, a bullet wound in his chest, crying out for his mother and father to help him.
A page sticks to another and rips.
Taiz, Yemen. Tribal militias gather for war.
Karachi, Pakistan. Ninety-five have been killed since Tuesday, arson attacks, shootings and more.
The sad sounds of famine that echo from the Horn of Africa fall on deaf ears.
Page after page of corruption, greed, loss, despair and sorrow, a never ending list of sadness.
With each turn of a page the perforations become deeper and deeper until it shreds completely.
An angry world pulped underfoot.
In Eduardo's I eat the worlds food, I listen to the worlds music, I listen to the laughter from a hundred cultures, the banter, the humour requiring no translation crossing borders with ease.
As I leave, I notice for the first time, cracks appearing in the large laminated map.
A cluster of orange coloured pins lie on the floor.
Tiny photographs of unsmiling farmers amidst dead Bougainvillea leaves.
I wonder if Eduardo's World Cafe Bar is about to change.
I return along the beach weeping as the tide turns.