Ola!

I've gotten pretty used to saying that over the past week. The trip to Cuba was an interesting time. Highlights include snorkeling (fun), midnight drives to Havanna (mildly scary), scooter tours (really fun) and being chased by a bull (exhilerating). Much of the trip went off without a hitch, except that Ted forgot his sleep apnea machine which put a damper on his energy and we ran out of money on the last day. It is really rather hard to describe one's first time in a semi-tropical third-world country. It wasn't really as hot as I expected (though the sun was more intense) and there is a greater variety and frequency of wildlife. I remember being near my room at the resort only to see a huge crab staring back at me from behind a dip in the steps. Dogs hanging out on rooftops were also an unfamiliar sight.

Bit I think the strangest thing about Cuba was how the whole place was at once severly dilapidated and yet possessing of a happy vibe. People everywhere were talking, walking, laughing, drinking (which can be done publicly there) working and otherwise seemlingly pretty happy. This stands in sharp contrast to the subtle but apparent undertow of desperation and hostility I felt when I was in London, England. Everybody there was cramped in like sardines, but in very nice buildings. Where the Cubans were pleasantly sipping their mohitos half-naked in the middle of what looked like a warzone untouched (and unrepaired) since the 1950's, the English, on a saturday night, busied themselves getting gussied up to the 9s so they could get violently drunk and cuss at each other in language I wouldn't utter to a death row inmate. Most of the white english folk I saw while in London looked like zombies. Their skin seemed gray and drawn into a scowl. The Pink Floyd line "...quiet desperation is the English way" immediately springs to mind. The Cubans, however had a kind of rough-and-ready look about them. As if they could at any moment break into song or construct a viaduct.

My Indiana Jones Moment

By the very end of our stay at Breezes Jibacoa (the resort) we had run out of money. Sitting in front of the bus-loop, and presumably bored, Ted jokingly bet Carlos $100 he couldn't climb the mountain (really just a huge, steep hill) in the front of us and be back before we had to leave at 7 pm (about thirty-five minutes). Carlos, as with most of the activies during the trip, was disinclined to do so. I volunteered but Ted wouldn't do it for more than $20. Decked out in my Indiana Jones-esque attire and having not shaved in a couple of days I set out in spite of Ted's insistence that I was being stupid and he had only been kidding. After ascertaining from the security guard how to get to the path, I set out to conquer the mountain and claim my prize. I was breathing hard after about 10 seconds of cutting through the bush and by the time I had reached the top I was covered with scratches from the thick folliage. Ted was a good 300 metres below me when I called to him about 5 mintues after I had set out. Now for the easy part - or so I thought.

I mentioned the word path eariler. Perhaps this is a bit misleading. In this context, what I mean by path is a small opening in dense forest where someone or something has passed through sometime in the recent past - or not. For some reason going up had left me relatively unscathed. Going down seemed to result with my getting aquianted with every thorn, vine, spike and insect I had missed on the way up. I have a scar from a thorn I thought was caught on some loose clothing. Precarious, the slope seemed steeper than before.

But anyways, I did eventually reach the bottom - though this time it took more like twenty minutes. But what a great feeling! Walking down the gravel road back, my arms were covered with scratches and hives, my head was sore from the heat and the unyielding tree branch it had struck. I was completely dreched with sweat and my clothes torn - but I had done it! - and in due time. Then I turned around to see an eight-hundred pound (this is a guess here) bull charging me. After letting out a girlish scream, I bolted down the road. I was running as fast as I could but the bull hadn't even exceeded a gallop before it had almost overtaken me (it's horns were huge!). Desperate, I dove into the folliage in the hopes the animal's momentum would carry it past me. Not only did the bull continue past me but carried it's leisurely pace down the road to the set of winsome cows that had probably initiated its 'charge' in the first place. Two Cuban women stood nearby, chuckling.

The bus had already arrived and I got on. It was before seven so I had won the bet. For sure I had caused more than twenty dollars' worth of damage to my clothing and body. Not to mention hives which had gone from itchy to painful. I also felt bad for the woman who had to sit next to me. I probably smelled like tarzan and she soon died from exposure to my man-musk. None of this mattered of course, for I had fulfilled my stupid man-quest for the trip and had my machismo placated for a time.

I have no pictures yet. But I think Ted brought along every piece of recording equipment he and his family own so they will be forthcoming and excellent. There is much more to tell and see.