It was early evening, maybe about 8 o’clock, and the sun was just starting to dip below the horizon. Clouds were beginning to form in the cobalt sky, insulating the remaining heat from the stifling day and promising a lusciously warm evening ahead. It had been hot, even by the harsh standards of Canarian summers, and the scents of prospering wildflowers filled the thick, sultry air. It was a still afternoon, not a breeze to be had to alleviate the cloying heat, and the coming night was loaded with potentially suffocating warmth.
The beach was tiny compared to the resorts further along the coastline, sheltered by the surrounding forests of palm trees. It was an almost perfect semi-circle of fine, dark volcanic sand, with not a trace of the inland civilization in sight – an unspoilt, secluded paradise on an island gradually being colonised by armies of skyscrapers, strip clubs and tourist traps. There was a humble building near the eastern end of the beach, a traditional affair on stilts with a straw roof and a mishmash of wood and corrugated metal forming the walls. Small birds perched high in the frondy branches of the trees, chirruping softly to themselves and each other, while minute lizards scuttled energetically around on the sun-warmed rocks which bordered the beach, close to the outskirts of the palm forest.
The sea was calm and still, the waters lapping nonchalantly at the shore. It stretched out, undisturbed, to the dark line of the horizon. On a clear day, and from the highest point on the island, another land mass could just be made out as a sliver of brown and green, resting on the edge of the sky. Swirls of inky blackness from the darkest depths penetrated the clear turquoise surface, transforming the usually sparkling azure waters into a more forbidding ocean, fit for the shadowy world that the coming of the night creates. Tiny fish darted close to the surface, glinting silver in the rays of the setting sun. Glowing green phosphorescence gave the sea an unearthly, eerily beautiful quality.
The Term Paper on Fast Food Nation The Dark Side Of The All American Meal
Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All American Meal The affinity of the American people with fast food can be understood because it enables people to eat on the go and to be able to take out their meals that are set to an affordable price. Fast-food restaurants address a societal need of Americans today which is the lack of time to cook their own food for themselves. If there is such a thing ...
Halfway along the length of the beach, and approximately equal distance between the sea and the trees, was a large, roaring campfire ringed with irregular grey stones. The flames flickered with flecks of bright, acid green and soft blue hues from the driftwood piled high at its centre, atop the logs and branches dragged over from the forest. Food was balanced precariously over the blaze, both on metal grilles and frames salvaged from old barbeques and impaled on sticks and pokers wedged into the stones and sand at an angle.
There were chunks of juicy, tender beef and an assortment of different fish – sea bass, parrot fish, pejines and even octopus. Fresh white bread, oozing with creamy, melting goat’s cheese, cooked alongside strips of sugarcane which were being gently smoked to bring them to chewy perfection. The mouth-watering mixtures of smells wafting from the bonfire were strong and delicate all at once – succulent meaty scents mingled with the sweet sugarcane and strong cheese to create a perfume quite unlike any other. A variety of local vegetables, including tomatoes, avocados, and chayote, were roasting over the pyre, while freshly picked papayas, mangoes, pineapples and dwarf bananas from nearby plantations sat nearby in coolboxes and baskets, awaiting their turn to be skinned, chopped and eaten by the people sitting around the fire.
There were roughly 15 individuals, aged from mid teens through to early twenties, laughing happily as they waited for their food to cook. There were tanned locals from the few remaining island fishing villages, as well as young tourists wanting to get away from their stuffy hotels and soak up the real island life atmosphere. They were dressed in an odd assortment of clothes – many of the males just in baggy shorts with the occasional t-shirt for a vague pretence of decency (although one boy of about seventeen had on a thick denim jacket and tracksuit bottoms, obviously suffering from a dreadful cold).
Some of the younger tourist girls were clad in skimpy bikinis and shorts that barely protected their modesty, though most of the women were rather more respectfully attired in tunic tops, cropped trousers and flowing maxi dresses. They were talking, having fun, making friends and exchanging information and it looked as if it would be a fun evening ahead, especially when they broke out the booze snaffled from sleeping parents, hotel minibars, and kitchen cupboards.
