We sit on fold-out chairs on the front lawn of an abandoned house on Chevron Island. A table piled with iceberg lettuces sits beside a temporary stage. Our hosts, two men in neon coloured suits, are offering pickled onions from the jar, sardines from the can and melons ripped apart with their bare hands. They take it upon themselves to gently whack some audience members with fly swatters, despite the lack of flies. Ah, yes, hospitality.