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[Kagus]

Well, okay, so really more just "cute" than hot...   Plus they're Protestant.

Man, I just get all the luck don't I?
*Ahem*


Day 3, Heming-Day.

Got up early-ish, went up to the roof to dine on the delectable repast which was the hotel's breakfast spread.

And by "delectable repast", I of course mean bagels, pork, green bean salad, and sugared biscuits.  Plus juice and eggs, if you dared.

After sating our not particularly rampant hunger (that was the interesting thing about the dining at this hotel, it would alleviate your hunger without your even having to eat it), we journeyed out into the Wild Brown Yonder of Havana, seeking out only the most fascinating and important points of interest, of course.

Anyways, when we're dropped off at the vegetable market, we're notified that the buses, who were not allowed to park out in the street, would return in half an hour to pick everyone up.

So we're wandering around, admiring the truly vast selection of local fruits and vegetables (not to mention the far more interesting and bumpy locals themselves), and talking about the day to come.  We're not buying anything because 1) They weren't taking the tourist pesos, 2) They didn't speak any English, 3) Honestly, what would *you* do with a pineapple in that situation?

Eventually, a few of us venture out to the sidewalk to join the smokers in complaining about how hot it is.  I look over and I see a bus on the other side of the road.  I see some people getting on to the bus.  It looks quite a bit like our bus.

Curiously, cautiously, I look closer.  Indeed, those certainly seem to be Skiringssal students getting onto the bus.  They look about as confused as I do.

A few of the others have noticed by this time, and some have even started across the road.  I join them, and we form this weird, confused group that makes its way haltingly across.

The guide ushers us into the bus, and we sit down at our assigned places.  Apparently, it's time to go.


After a few more people pile on and sit down, the teacher stands up and asks if anyone is missing.  The students look around and say that yes, indeed, there are a couple people missing. 

Apparently the teacher didn't hear this too well, because he asks again, just to be certain.  They respond in a unified "YES, there are students missing".  There's a bit of a back-and-forth with the driver, the teacher and the guide.  This goes on for some time.  Then, at the end of it, the doors close and the driver starts off into the street.

This causes an instant uproar from the students.  People shouting to tell them that "HEY!  There are still people who didn't get on the bus!  Stop!", but they're not interested.  The bus can't park in the street, so they're gonna go on without them.

Psycho Theater Dame, who was sitting behind me, starts berating the principal, who was sitting across the bus from me.  Telling him about how he can't do that to people.  How he's left a couple students out there, in a city they don't know and that speaks a language they don't speak, and that in a little while they're going to look around and realize that they've just been abandoned.  She's obviously quite worked up about it, and not without good reason.  Imagine what it would be like if you were left stranded in a Cuban vegetable market (that sentence sounds funnier than it is...).

The principal's immortal response (paraphrased):  "We couldn't park there.  Have you paid for the show ticket yet?"

This was in reference to a performance that was going to be coming up in town.  All those who wanted to attend had to pay 20 CUC to their teacher before a certain date.

Knowing that she wouldn't get anywhere with the argument, she let out a simple "Yes", and sat back down.  The principal said "That's good", marked it down on his little list, and faced forward again, that little moron's smile of his playing across his lips.


So that was that.  There was absolutely no notice of when the buses arrived.  If I hadn't been on the sidewalk when I was, I might've been one of those left behind.  When the students reported a short headcount, the management was more concerned with remaining in a no-parking zone than anything else, and left without sending someone out to look for them.  And, finally, when someone tried to get the principal, the head of the school, to do something about it (or at least admit that he had condoned something wrong), he promptly changed the subject and simply turned a deaf ear towards any attempts to change it back.

My respect for him, if there was any left, was quickly wiped away.  As was whatever respect I may have had for the secondary Film and TV teacher, who was the other head of our bus and who had ignored the missing persons report.

It was looking to be a very fine day indeed...


Next stop was Ernest Hemingway's abode, painstakingly maintained as a historical monument on Cuban soil (Hemingway is a VERY popular icon in Cuba).  We were allowed to wander around the premises and peek in through the windows at the various rooms of the writer's house.

Peculiar man, Hemingway...   He had a pickled lizard in his bathroom, and was apparently something of a weightwatcher.  On the wall next to the scale was a long list of dates and weight measurements, scrawled onto the wall itself.

In the bedroom, a small bookshelf with a typewriter on top of it.  This was apparently where, and how, Hemingway worked.  He felt that the blood was pumped into his brain more efficiently when he was standing up, allowing him to think (and thus write) in a better capacity, so he would prop the typewriter on a mid-level surface and write standing up.

And also naked.  I forget what his reasoning was for not wearing any clothes while writing his tales.  Probably just the weather.

His house also boasted a number of exotic animal heads, all trophies of Mr. Hemingway's numerous wild game safaris, along with a few prize fish he happened to drag up (there are pictures of him with some truly monstrous sea-dwellers).

Around the back, down a little path and beyond the pool, was the dry-dock that Hemingway's boat was stored in.  A fine and beautiful creation that any mariner would be proud to look upon.

College students, on the other hand, were slightly more interested in the pet cat graveyard.  Hemingway had a thing for black cats, and gave each one a grave and a tombstone to itself.  WEll, I suppose it's true what they say...  Once you go black, you never go back.

He went through quite a few cats, apparently.


He also had a little tower that allowed for a truly marvelous view of the sea and surrounding jungle.  This was his personal little observatory.


It was at Hemingway's house where we were assured of the well-being of our fellow students, the ones left behind.  The second bus had come along later, and had managed to find seating for the others.  Still though, that wait must have been brutal...

The two students left behind, interestingly enough, were John Smith and X.   Smith, of course, was hardly fazed by the ordeal.  He's one to go with whatever flow it's possible to go with at the time.  He also was remarkably good at getting along with the natives...   They all seemed to get quite a kick out of him.

But on the other hand so did the rest of us.  Not all that surprising then, really.


Towards the end of the Hemingway visit, as some of the students were wandering back to the buses, someone happened to discover a litter of very young, very friendly, and horrifically dirty puppies along the way.  These proved to be equally as, if not more, entertaining than the rest of the visit.  Simple pleasures, eh?

A word about Hemingway...   He was apparently quite an "interesting" personality.  He'd routinely have his chauffeur drive out with two metal thermoses, and have him go to two very specific bars.  One bar made the best Daiquiris in the area, and the other made the best Mojitos in the area.  So the chauffeur had to drive to each of these, ask the barman to fill up the thermos with the specialty drink of that establishment, and return the beverages to the esteemed author.

Also, he had some peculiar priorities...   There was a particular tree that was growing very close to the house, a type of tree known for its pervasive growing style and incredibly powerful roots.  Hemingway's wife at the time, fearing for the integrity of the house's foundation, dug the tree out.

In response to this, Hemingway furiously grabbed his wife by the ear, forced her to crawl over to the tree, kiss the trunk, and ask for forgiveness from the tree.

Err, right...   That seems perfectly sensible.


To be continued...

P.S.
I hope y'all appreciate just what an INSANE amount of text I'm putting into these updates.  My fingers hurt...

[Kagus]

Day 3, Heming-Day, continued.

After Hemingway house, we took off to grab some lunch.  Heading along the coast, were dropped off and left to walk the rest of the way along the waterfront.

We stopped off at a prime sunning location, which just happened to be located in the same space as a monument to Ernest Hemingway.  It was here that we encountered two old farts who have remained in my heart ever since...

One was wearing a red shirt and a straw hat. His instrument of choice, the guitar.  He had half of his teeth. 

The other wore a dark blue shirt and a baseball cap.  His instrument of choice, the coconut.  He had half of his legs.

And these two cheerful old coots were just sitting on the steps of the monument, singing all the traditional tunes for the entertainment of whoever decided to listen. 

Or join in, as the case turned out to be.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

That green thingamabob you see is a camera made out of aluminum cans.  Press the trigger and the "lens" pops off, causing a little spring-powered smiley face to shoot out.  Highly enjoyable little doohicky, and it proved once again the Cuban resourcefulness for squeezing money out of people with as little cost to themselves as possible.  Inspiring stuff, really.


Moving along, we came to the restaurant itself.  Food was...  Well, I'd really rather not go there.  Only points of interest were the people at my table discovering that it is possible to smoke through a straw, and me nabbing one of the guitars from Music so I could satiate my aching fingers.

After food, we went to the beach.  Now, I wasn't aware that we were going to be doing any swimming that day, so I hadn't brought along any swimtrunks.  Or a towel.

I wasn't going to let this ruin my first opportunity at enjoying some Cuban waters, however.  So I emptied the junk out of my pockets and jumped in with my regular shorts.

Well, there's a reason people use swimtrunks for swimming.  It is because swimtrunks do not require ten hours to dry out afterwards.

The beach extravaganza was cut somewhat short by the fact that it was completely overcast and that it started raining not long after we arrived.  Mmm, the joy of sitting on a bus with sopping wet shorts...


Arriving back at the hotel, we were afforded a short amount of rest.  The next item on the list was a music performance later on (this was the outing that I was talking about, the one that needed to be paid for).

Those who had opted out of going to the performance got straight into their preferred method of hardcore relaxation.  Those who were planning on going were busy cleaning themselves up and picking out something to wear.  I followed suit.

After working everything out, I wandered around waiting for when the group would gather to take off for the show.


After a while of walking around the hotel, I noticed that it seemed rather quiet.  I started looking for some of the other students, but found only a very small smattering of them...  Piqued, I went down to the lobby and looked out onto the street.  Nobody around.

I looked at my phone-clock.  6:15, the agreed-upon time to meet up.

I searched the hotel a while longer, before finally coming upon the realization that there had been, surprise surprise, yet another misunderstanding.


The meet-up time, which had been shouted at us while driving around town on the bus, had been quarter to six, not quarter past six.  Feeling more than a little miffed/embarrassed, I headed out the door in an attempt to find the location we were to attend the thing at (it was right in the area around the hotel).

Of course, I didn't have a bleedin' clue where to go.  So I asked a random bystander for directions (well, in essence.  I basically just said "Casa de la Musica?", the name of the establishment.  I don't speak Spanish).  He smiled, said something in Spanish, and pointed.  I thanked him and set off into Havana.

I'd just like to take a moment to mention just how often and how insistently the teachers reminded us never, ever to leave the city without at least two other people with you.  Well, bollocks to that.


I found the establishment, and headed over.  A few students were idling around outside, and I chatted with them a bit about my situation.  After a while the teacher who was managing admission tickets came back out to the entrance to let in a few more students.  Seeing me, she asked if I wanted a ticket too.  I said yeah.  She then returned inside and organized admission for the rest of us.

Boy, that was a pretty stern punishment for having ventured into the city alone.  "Don't ask don't tell", I guess.

So we get inside, and the place is essentially a big club.  You've got a bar, multiple levels with tables, a dance floor center front, atomically loud salsa music looping on the speakers, and not nearly enough seating for everyone inside.  I see several Skiringssal-ites in a little cluster near the bar, all sitting with their chairs facing the dance floor.  I wander over and just sort of stand there for a while.

After some time spent standing around and being generally...   Well, "there", I start to feel a certain desire to seat myself.  However, all the chairs in the Skiring area have been claimed.  In some cases more than once, with students sitting on each others laps.

So I start looking around for a free chair.  Nothing.  Continuing my scan across the room however, I finally lay eyes on one table just across from where all the students are.  A Cuban man is entertaining two Cuban women, and I notice that one of the chairs at their table is tucked all the way in under the edge.  And as if that were not a clear enough sign, there was no sign of any drinks having been imbibed at that particular spot.

So I wander over to inquire as to whether or not I may make personal use of that seating item.  Reaching their table -and acquiring their attention- I grab hold of the chair,move it slightly out from under the table, and then gesture at it and myself.

A brief pause as the information sinks in, and then all three start nodding their heads, saying things I can't understand in Spanish, and motioning towards the chair.  It is at this moment that I start feeling kinda bad, because I realize I have just miscommunicated without so much as opening my mouth.

They think I want to sit down at the table with them.

Feeling very bad about doing so, I pick up the chair and gesture in the direction of the other students.  The original concept was finally conveyed, and accepted, and we all walked away from that encounter feeling slightly foolish. 


With my newly-acquired chair, I sat down with the rest of the group.  I exchanged a few shouted-into-ear words with the person next to me, but maintaining a conversation in such situations is always tricky, and it eventually fizzles.

This next passage my shatter your mind.  Just thought I'd warn you.

Not having anything better to do, and feeling slightly adventurous, I head out onto the dancefloor.  No, I am not looking for lost jewelry, nor was I trying to get across to the other side (not that there was much of interest in that direction anyways, just the stage).  I wasn't even going out there to play with the blacklight (although I must admit to being slightly mesmerized by all the shininess when I first ventured out there).

No, I was going to dance.  And dance I did.  I couldn't salsa, thanks to not attending the classes, but after talking with a few of the students who *had* taken the lessons, neither could they.  They'd apparently forgotten everything.  Made me feel slightly better.

I danced around, I danced from side to side, I danced alone, I danced in groups, I danced in the giant synchronized dance square that eventually took over the floor (learning the moves as I went, of course), I danced till my feet hurt.   And then I stopped and went back to sit down in the chair I had appropriated.

And then I wondered what exactly I had gained from that experience.  I wasn't entirely sure, to be honest.


After a time, the recorded music was cut off and the band came out.  Finally, after ages of listening to Salsa and Technosalsa, we were gifted with a live band who would be performing...

Salsa.

At least, that's how it started out.  After a few moments however, it turned into folk-rap-salsa.  Okaaay...


Quick word here about something that happened during the dance frenzy...  I heard about this much later, but this is as good a place as any to stick it in.

Remember brain-damaged loverboy?  Yeah.  Well, he really likes to dance.  He couldn't hold a rhythm if his life depended on it, and he really does have the agility and coordination of an air-filled balloon, but boy does he ever like to dance.  Preferably very close to well-endowed females.

So he's flinging himself around on the dance floor, having a right ol' time with all the dancing and Cuban women.  He sets his somewhat puffy eyes on one in particular and starts maneuvering over to her, flinging his fingers skyward in that time-honored disco move, to which he has applied his own very special mentally retarded flavor.

The two end up dancing in close proximity to each other, and the women eventually notices him.

<<The people who told me about this explain that this is the turning point from when they were laughing and enjoying Loverboy's antics and when they're scraping their stunned jaws off the floor with plastic spoons>>

The woman starts grinding with him.

So they're out there, gyrating away on the dancefloor, as the miniature audience scrambles to pick up their fallen anatomy.  Loverboy's grin looks like it's just about to stretch far enough to meet up around the back of his head.

Before they have time to do so, however, the woman grabs Loverboy by the hand and starts leading him off the dance floor purposefully.  He follows quite willingly.

No longer content with merely the club floor, the misplaced jaws start digging underground.

The woman leads Loverboy over to the bar and stands VERY CLOSE to him while smiling broadly and chattering about something.  Her hands frequently reach out to caress the pudgy flesh of Loverboy.  And then...

The jaws suddenly snap back into place, smacking hard enough to instill the heads of their owners with newfound wisdom and insight as the woman starts rooting around in Loverboy's pockets, seeking the treasure not of lusty desire, but of idiot tourist wallet.

One of the school helpers saw what was happening and went over to peel Loverboy off of the woman.  To put it mildly, he was NOT happy about being pulled away from what was obviously the opportunity of a lifetime.


After the show, I ended up heading out with a few of the gals to find something to eat.  We ended up making our way towards Chinatownstreet, and stopped in at a spot that I hadn't been before.  Looking over, we found several of the other students dining at another table.

The food was of little note...  Better than the other restaurant I had been to in Chinastreet, but still not fantastic.  The only interesting items were the one dude at the other table (sadly, a member of our very own Film and TV) who was berating the waitress and generally acting like a douche, and the service itself.  There was quite a long wait at the beginning of the meal before someone came to take our order, then it was another long wait as the food was being prepared and served, and then once the meal was over we sat there for A WHOLE HOUR waiting for the check to arrive.  And about twenty minutes minutes after that before the waitress came back.

This was in a restaurant with, as far as we could tell, two tables.  Admittedly, they only had one girl working them (and she seemed rather frazzled, poor thing), but still...   That's just insane.


Getting back to the hotel area, we had to sign up on a list that didn't exist.  They'd either lost the list or the person who was supposed to be there wasn't or whatever...   Suffice to say that it was *clearly* their fault, and that I had to write in both my name and the fact that the name I had just written in was, in fact, present and accounted for.

I got back to my room and started to pack.  Tomorrow, we would leave that hotel behind.  And I would be traveling with soggy shorts in my bag.

Hurrah, hooray.

[sonerohi]

Hehe, I was hoping that kid would lose his wallet.

[sonerohi]

*Is terribly dissapointed*

[Kagus]

Sorry, was getting bogged down again...  Thanks for poking though.  With any luck, I'll have some time tomorrow.

EDIT:  Nope.  Maybe the next day will yield an opportunity.

[Jackrabbit]

This is funny and interesting and as such I am posting here to sate my interest and laugh.

[sonerohi]

Kagus. I am dissapoint

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

[Kagus]

Day 4, Sugarboys.

Got up early again, and started the day off with a delightful hour-long bus ride, during which the tour guide almost certainly said some things, but I couldn't bring myself to summon the energy or excitement necessary to hear any of them.

We stopped at a sugar plantation for a little peek at how they do things.  We got off at the main "hub" of the place, and then loaded on to this old-fashioned train they use for transporting the sugar around.

Spoiler: The Amazing Sugartrain Boys (click to show/hide)

So we got to watch the cane workers do what they do best (which is to play music and dance with red scarves, naturally), see how a person climbs a palm tree using only two ropes, and chew on some raw sugarcane chunks.

Spoiler: More of Da Boyz (click to show/hide)

That's me playing guitar because it is a dreadfully long and dreadfully boring and also dreadfully uncomfortable train ride to and from the various points of interest.  Next to me is my compatriot, who looks disturbingly like he's improvising a bathroom on this fine locomotive (crazyreason...  Yes, I would love to ride on one of those!).

As you can plainly see, I surround myself with only the highest class of people.


Our final destination for the bus ride was, however, the next "hotel".  I say "hotel", because this place really didn't abide by the standard laws of hotel-ism.  But I don't mean that in a bad way.  Oh heck no.

Spoiler: Booyeah (click to show/hide)

Houses two people.  Contains two beds, full bath, closet space, TV, coffee table (with chairs), an AC unit (that works), and two rocking chairs that can be placed on the verandah so you can watch the sunset while listening to music and rocking back and forth softly.  Enough of these little bungalows for everyone.

In other words, FRIKKIN' AWESOME.

To add to this, it is a fully inclusive resort.  That means breakfast, lunch, dinner, beach, pool, and an open bar which served what I can easily say was some of the most delicious fresh-squeezed orange juice I have ever tasted in my entire life.

That, and the meals weren't nearly as lame as the first hotel.  That was nice.  But even just having a shower that was actually a shower and not just a hose sticking out of a wall, and that actually had water in it, was luxury to us.

We were also placed right on the beach, you could see the water from our little sitting spot on the verandah.  Mind you, said beach wasn't all the interesting.  The water wasn't particularly warm and was only about two feet at its deepest, and the bottom was covered in either rocks or slime.  But hey, for the first time on our trip to this Caribbean island nation, we were able to walk from our accommodations down to the sand.


Another interesting thing was that the daily schedule was cleared for this day so we could just kick around our new digs and just chill.  And boy howdy did we make the most of that opportunity.

We did DIDDLY.  Absolutely boinking NOTHIN'.  And it was glorious.  Just lazing around in those rocking chairs, passing the guitar back and forth between me and my compatriot (whom I shall from now on refer to as "Hatman", due to his penchant for all things hatlike), and injecting a little action into the day by going down to the beach and sunbathing.

It's been quite nice to be able to sit outside a bit, as the open air is far more difficult to clog up with cigarette smoke than a dinky little hotel room where one of the windows has been NAILED SHUT.  The reason I bring this up is that, although I do not smoke, Hatman smokes enough for the both of us.  And the neighbors.

Over the course of these few days, he had emptied half a case (not carton, case) of cigarettes, and had literally burned through several of the cigars he picked up as well (after smoking a cigar, he likes to "finish off" with a cigarette.  I've never heard of anyone doing this before).

<<At this point in the narration, I comment on how I was sticking my head out the window at the time of the recording and saw a couple people walking past.  I probably looked a little strange, pulling the curtain away so I could peer out the window with my hair down while talking into my hand, but that's fine since they all think I'm schizophrenic anyways>>


And that's going to have to be the end of this update, as my parents just got back and there's no way I'm listening to my logs while they're around.  Hell, I feel bad listening to them in my OWN presence, let alone somebody else.

By the way, I hope y'all can appreciate just how much of a timesink writing these things is.  I started writing this update at 3:30.  It is now 4:46.  The last Heming-day update took SEVEN HOURS to complete.

[Nilocy]

The guy looking at the camera in the second picture looks like he's been eating too much sugar cane.

oh edit: Wow man, serious dedication going on there. I've enjoyed dipping in to read this. I'll keep an eye on this more so.

[sonerohi]

Kagus, I, personally, do appreciate all the work you put into these even though you have no obligation to. The fact that you are willing to share this experience with us speaks volumes of who you are.

[Kagus]

The guy looking at the camera in the second picture looks like he's been eating too much sugar cane.

That's "The Bear".  Rather amusing individual he was.  And I'm fairly certain he lost his teeth through slightly more violent/drunken means than sugar intake.  He's got some new ones now though, so it's all good.

The fact that you are willing to share this experience with us speaks volumes of who you are.

Uh oh.

[Kagus]

Day 4, Sugarboys, continued.

<<The first minute or so of this recording is indecipherable since I was apparently trying to eat my phone while talking into it.  This has caused most of the commentary to be obscured by heavy wind and disturbing "*glup*" noises>>

After shambling around the bungalow for no apparent reason, I decided to head on down to the central area to see if I couldn't scrounge up something to quench my thirst, both for liquid and socialization.

When I got down there, <fkjkksraasdrkjgks> the buffet, so I <kasdjfkarrraksdkfjaksr-*glup*-llaskfraarghkksh> the most entertaining food, but hey...  I've eaten worse.  And lived to blog about it, no less.

Taking the plates outside, I sat down at a table with Hatman and a couple other people.  Including Pirate-Goth, who as it turns out was one of the lucky few to contract "Castro's Curse".  Also know as "Vacation Stomach" and "Two-Way Jet Propulsion Systems". On top of this, she apparently had a cold throughout the entire trip.  And had a rather nasty blister-turned-sore on her foot. 

This gal just never takes a break, I tell ya...

I offered her a foot massage, partly out of habit and partly because I know how a good massage can really take your mind off things like that.  She gave me a rather peculiar look as though she was trying to determine exactly how many scorpions I was planning on putting between her toes, but I managed to convince her of my sincerity (and satiation from having already eaten that evening).

This was how I learned of the sore on her foot.  It seems that even trying to help this poor gal results in her injury...


After dinner, Hatman and I put our metaphorical heads together to solve the issue of our dwindling drinking water supplies.  We opined that searching around the local area for a late-night shop would be the best course of action and set off.  Pirate-Goth, who was feeling somewhat better and had nothing better to do, decided to tag along.

And so we set out in a semi-random direction, and eventually came across a couple shops that looked promising.  Upon closer inspection however, they appeared to have been closed down for the night.

To add insult to inconvenience, the posted hours indicated that they were open little more than half an hour ago, back when we were sitting around and gabbing at the dinner table.

It was at this point that one of us had the brilliant idea to simply take our empty bottles in to the buffet and fill them up at the drink stand.  We agreed that this was indeed the voice of wisdom, and spun around with this new epiphany fresh in our minds.

Naturally, in the time it had taken us to go looking for water, the buffet had closed down.  May our fortunes ne'er falter...


Hatman reasoned that we might have better luck at the open bar, which still seemed to be operational.  Pirate-Goth said that she was starting to feel rather tired, and that she'd just head back to her bungalow for the night.

Now, quick comment here...  From where we were, my little bungalow was on the other side of the street.

Her bungalow was on the other side of the colony.

In addition, the group that she had come to the buffet with had long since departed.  This meant that she would have to walk all the way across the resort, on cracked and knobbly pavement, in the dark, alone.

Of course, being the gentlemanly sort I was, I could not subject a sick lady to such treatment.  I immediately put on my cavalier's hat and offered to walk her home.  She began to protest about inconveniencing me, but I insisted.  It was simply poor show to abandon someone to walk such a distance alone at night.

Hatman piped up that I was better at speaking English than he was, and that the barman didn't speak Norwegian.  I told him to shush up and stop being such a baby, he didn't need me holding his hand for *everything* he did.


So I accompanied her to her resting place and bid her goodnight.  I then doffed my hat at a dapper angle and turned around to head back and see how Hatman had fared with his end of things.

It then occurred to me that I had just walked for several minutes on winding pavement that I'd never traversed before.  Furthermore, the incredible darkness had limited my visibility to a few yards.

I was now completely and utterly lost, with only the faintest inkling of which direction my own bungalow resided in.

Shrugging, I started walking down one of the sidewalks.


Quite some time and at least a partial circumnavigation of the entire resort later, I managed to find my place.  As I walked up I saw Hatman sitting on the lit verandah and smoking a cigar while rocking back and forth softly.  This looked highly enjoyable, so I grabbed the guitar and sat down next to him.

We sat out there for quite some time, chatting, passing the guitar back and forth, and saying goodnight to the people as they went past.

Of special note were the wild critters that made the resort their home...   Numerous large reptilians would sun themselves during the day, and the packs of stray dogs were as common here as anywhere else in Cuba.  But of particular note were the herds of wild horses who would go running around the streets at night.

Seriously.  Wild horses.  This place was just awesome.


Apparently a few of the other students thought us two geezers sitting out on rocking chairs was a rather entertaining sight, so we got to swap words with a few notables.  This period included one of the longest conversations I'd ever heard Brain-Damaged Loverboy engage in.  I have no idea how he managed to find a cowboy outfit in Cuba, but he can be rather resourceful at times provided the motivation is great enough.

This one gal came up and started talking to us for a bit, commenting on how we looked like a couple old farts just sittin' out and enjoying the weather (speaking of which, it was a very comfortable temperature out there) in our rocking chairs.

We smiled wisely up at her and responded simply, "Yep."


After a while she headed off down the road to find her own bungalow.  We bid her good night and went back to talking about nothing.  We saw one of the resort guards walking along and waved.

What happened next was rather interesting.


*clop clop clop*

...

<Horse whinny>

"WAAAAAUGH!"

Hearing the scream, we peer out into the darkness in the direction the girl walked off in.  We see her running towards us panting hysterically about how "it's going to get her". 

A word about this particular girl...  She apparently had some sort of spinal problem, so she was perpetually bent over to one side and always seemed to shuffle a bit.  She was also something of a high fashion chick, having developed quite a taste for all things New Yorkish.

So here comes this gal, decked out in her designer clothes, shambling down the street as quickly as her legs can propel her along, and she's muttering terrified profanities to herself.

The guard, who looks about as panicked as the girl, quickly asks her what's wrong.  She yells "IT'S A HORSE!  IT'S A HORSE!"


We lose it.  We just lose it.  As the guard is desperately trying to calm the poor girl down, we fall out of our chairs as our bodies are wracked with howls of laughter.  All attempts at composing ourselves are lost to the wind as we simply cannot withstand the comedic pressure this situation has built up inside us.


The poor gal was petrified of horses, the guard ended up walking her home so she'd feel safer...  It really wasn't anything to laugh about, and we realized that (making sure to feel sorry for ourselves later on), but damned if we could do anything about it. 

We eventually managed to gather ourselves to some extent, whereupon we resumed our previous assignment of enjoying the fine evening.


All our composure was obviously a sham though, and for the next hour or so we would sit quietly for a few moments before one of us exclaimed "It's a horse!", and we'd both break down again.


Much later, after the bar had run out of orange juice and we had run out of licks to play on the guitar, we turned out the lights and went to bed.  And so ended my first night at this resort...


F_ing EPIC.

End of day 4.


<<Author's Note:  GOD DAMNIT.  Due to events unfortunately under my control, I had to rewrite this post from scratch from about the point we got back from water-hunting.  Blargh.

With any luck, the safeguards I just put in place will prevent such an occurrence from popping up again.  What's funny about this is that I was checking my bank account so that they wouldn't shut it down due to inactivity...  I've had loads of problems with this bank ever since I started up with them, and I *knew* something was wrong when I managed to go through an entire interaction with them without something terrible happening.

And then I hit the wrong "X" button, thus closing the entire browser rather than just the tab.  *glup*>>

[sonerohi]

No offence, but I hate it when people can't use a phone without communicating into it with their tongue. It's so nasty to let someone use your phone and they put their mouth on the end.

[ToonyMan]

No offence, but I hate it when people can't use a phone without communicating into it with their tongue. It's so nasty to let someone use your phone and they put their mouth on the end.

That would be like kissing someone in a face-to-face conversation.

[sonerohi]

I know, it's so nasty!!