The coup began at seven on Sunday morning. It was a grey and windless dawn and the grey Atlantic rollers broke in long even lines along the beach. The palms above the tidemark shivered in a current of cooler air that blew in off the breakers. Out at sea - beyond the surf - there were several black fishing canoes. Buzzards were circling above the market, swooping down now and then to snatch up scraps of offal. The butchers were working, even on a Sunday.
- From "A Coup: A Story" in What Am I Doing Here by Bruce Chatwin