Day 4
We get up early again, set for another 8 hours on the water. That seems to be about the average, except for the few days when we have jumped from Puerto Rico to the Dominican Republic, and then the Dominican Republic to Cuba. The fisherman arrives at our boat with 2 lobster and a huge fish, from which we cut about 2-3kg of fillet.
We go to his house for a picture with him and his wife. Its funny, you could easily imagine these guys at a Kiwi BBQ, or sitting at a cafe having coffee down town the Mount, but instead they live in this house that looks lucky to be standing - the walls propped up with sticks, and aluminium pot that is pitch black on the outside bubbling away over burning wood.
He waves goodbye to us, and we head onwards, up to a place called Vita, where we can check in.
We get there in the afternoon, and are greeted by 4 army men, 3 dogs, a doctor and a vet. They want us to give them the exact same information we gave the last guys, then they search the boat, though not the engine room. I mention that we have an engine room. One of the men looks surprised, and asks that I show him. The engines are still hot when I open up the trap door that is under the main room, which is the lounge/kitchen. He commands the dog to go in. It whimpers and sits on the floor, so he closes the trapdoor, never mind the ton of cocaine, weapons and contraband pornography that we are hiding under there. The dogs go wild over a cushion that they find in a mouldy old cupboard, so they lay out all our lifejackets and cushions, and find nothing. The whole process takes about 3 hours.
Day 3
We leave early for a place called Tanamo, not Guantanamo, just plain old Tanamo. The Cuba Sailing guidebook says that we may not be able to enter, as the Guardia are fussy.
After about 8 hours sailing we reach the entrance to the bay. Its a very calm and beautiful bay, reminds me of lake Waikaremoana. A few small shacks are dotted around the shore. We look for the guardia, but all we can see is a gutted watch tower, an old rusted concrete wharf and a couple of sunken ships. The book is about 8 years old now, so I guess a lot can happen in 8 years here.
A fisherman and his young son see us, and call us over to the wharf, indicating we can lash ourselves off there. The guy looks like Manuel from Faulty towers on steroids, he has the upper body of a gym junkie and not an ounce of fat on him. He sees our broken wooden/metal band, and indicates he can fix it. He rushes off at full pace, to return with a wooden stake that is flexible, yet hard. He and my father get to fixing the boat, my B.A. degree fitting me only to make the drinks. A small group of locals begin to gather. They marvel at the boat - a 40ft trawler, that would be considered in New Zealand to be a nice old boat that needs a bit of work. The fact that it has 2 bedrooms, lights, a fridge and a stove is amazing to them. It must look like a palace.
Before long the boat is fixed, and with a bit of bog and fibreglass, it won't look much different. We give the guy some beers, some fishooks, soap and $5 US. The fishhooks are prized here, as like most other things they are hard to get.
My father goes to his house for some coffee. He comes back and tells me the place was about as simple as you can get - a shack with dirt floors, hammocks and a small wooden fireplace outside.
We sleep troubled by the mosquitos. That's what you don't see on the brochures, the masses of hungry mosquitos that live in these temperate climes.
Day 2
We are anchored near the "Navy" wharf. The navy seems to be a conglomeration of coast guard, immigration and navy. Cadets play soccer on the wharf, piss off it, get haircuts, go swimming. They don't actually seem to do a hell of a lot.
There is a bit of the swell, so the boat rocks moderately all day.
My father goes into town to get some money for the diesel. As we cannot be cleared by this port, which is the logical place for tired sailors to clear into, he is accompanied by 3 or 4 officals. He said the town was very ramshackle and dilapidated, people travelled by horse and cart and bicycle tuk-tuk.
Later in the day they bring us the diesel - having travelled 20km in a taxi with big drums. We move the boat closer to the wharf, but there is a bit of a swell, and 6 guys look on as the boat crashes into the concrete wharf. It just goes to show that when you are boating you can't rely on anyone else. The boat is OK, as the damage is pretty superficial. It is to the band of wood that goes around the boat, a band that is much like the band you find on car doors, about half way down, in this case its made from wood with metal over the top. It may take a bit of fibreglassing, and bending of wood, which may be expensive.
We get the petrol, and spend the rest of the day sitting on the boat. We manage to buy 3 large fish of a local fisherman for about $4, not bad at all.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Hola at your Amigo
Cuba- day one
We arrived in Cuba after a back breaking 32 hour voyage from The Dominican Republic. The night was stormy, and one engine and some of the electronic naviagtion gave out as we wre going past Haiti in the dark. According to everyone we met, you never enter Haiti at night, as being one of the poorest countries around, people will come on board and take everything.
The first possible port in Cuba was a place called Baracoa. From a distance the place seemed to be a bunch of style apartments, with a narrow harbour entry. We made our way in, and parked the boat behind this shipwrecked container ship, which sheltered us somewhat from the swell entering the bay.
We were contacted by the local coastguard, who said we couldnt land, as this was not an international port. Three men - the captain, a doctor and a soldier were ferried out by some local fishemen in a tiny dinghy, and they came aboard to have a brief search and do a lot of paperwork. We gave them some cordial and some salted mixed nuts. The doctor was very impressed by the mixed nuts, and commented that they were very expenisve, and asked if he could have a large bag of them to take home. An odd request from a doctor, but in Cuba the average wage, as given out by the government, is about $12-14 NZ dollars a month.
We sat out on the boat for the rest of the day, as we were very tired, and we were not allowed to go ashore until we had gone to an international port and checked in. The harbour is quite beautiful, the hills are covered with coconut palms, the larger, straighter kind, and the mountains in the background are misty.
We arrived in Cuba after a back breaking 32 hour voyage from The Dominican Republic. The night was stormy, and one engine and some of the electronic naviagtion gave out as we wre going past Haiti in the dark. According to everyone we met, you never enter Haiti at night, as being one of the poorest countries around, people will come on board and take everything.
The first possible port in Cuba was a place called Baracoa. From a distance the place seemed to be a bunch of style apartments, with a narrow harbour entry. We made our way in, and parked the boat behind this shipwrecked container ship, which sheltered us somewhat from the swell entering the bay.
We were contacted by the local coastguard, who said we couldnt land, as this was not an international port. Three men - the captain, a doctor and a soldier were ferried out by some local fishemen in a tiny dinghy, and they came aboard to have a brief search and do a lot of paperwork. We gave them some cordial and some salted mixed nuts. The doctor was very impressed by the mixed nuts, and commented that they were very expenisve, and asked if he could have a large bag of them to take home. An odd request from a doctor, but in Cuba the average wage, as given out by the government, is about $12-14 NZ dollars a month.
We sat out on the boat for the rest of the day, as we were very tired, and we were not allowed to go ashore until we had gone to an international port and checked in. The harbour is quite beautiful, the hills are covered with coconut palms, the larger, straighter kind, and the mountains in the background are misty.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Tainted love
Today I went to provision for our trip to Cuba, as on Cuba, you can't get basic things easily, such as soap, toilet paper, and food. This is mainly due to the embargo the U.S. has put on the filthy communists. This means that anyone who wishes to trade with Cuba cannot trade with the U.S., and most nations kowtow to the mighty dollar, so the Red Menace must languish in poverty. However, it is a relatively peaceful and safe place, said to be the safest place in the Americas, which is unlike Haiti, a country we will be giving a wide berth on our way to Cuba.
The island of Hispaniola is made up of two countries, Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Due to environmental mismanagement, Haiti is said to be a dustbowl, with grinding poverty. We have heard only negative stories from other sailors, who say it is very dangerous, and armed men will board your boat and strip it of everything, which is really no-ones idea of a carribean holiday, I mean, we all want the friendly guy to pour us a Just Juice as the steel drums play, not to pistol whip us into revealing the location of our money.
So to avoid this situation, we are going to head out to sea, and keep a 5 mile gap between us and Haiti, which means that this little town will be our last chance to get provisions. I may also not be able to write so frequently, dear readers, but will do my best.
I went into a small supermarket to buy our goods. A guy wearing an "I sail for Jesus" T-Shirt came to help me with my goods. He then made the universal hand gestures for lovemaking, and suggested that I could obtain this for $10 U.S. (this means he would settle for about $5). I searched my phrasebook in vain for "No, I do not want to sleep with your girlfriend/wife of dubious venereal hygene, thank you very much" but had to settle for "No, gracias".
The island of Hispaniola is made up of two countries, Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Due to environmental mismanagement, Haiti is said to be a dustbowl, with grinding poverty. We have heard only negative stories from other sailors, who say it is very dangerous, and armed men will board your boat and strip it of everything, which is really no-ones idea of a carribean holiday, I mean, we all want the friendly guy to pour us a Just Juice as the steel drums play, not to pistol whip us into revealing the location of our money.
So to avoid this situation, we are going to head out to sea, and keep a 5 mile gap between us and Haiti, which means that this little town will be our last chance to get provisions. I may also not be able to write so frequently, dear readers, but will do my best.
I went into a small supermarket to buy our goods. A guy wearing an "I sail for Jesus" T-Shirt came to help me with my goods. He then made the universal hand gestures for lovemaking, and suggested that I could obtain this for $10 U.S. (this means he would settle for about $5). I searched my phrasebook in vain for "No, I do not want to sleep with your girlfriend/wife of dubious venereal hygene, thank you very much" but had to settle for "No, gracias".
Thursday, November 8, 2007
It's so damn hot
It is, I tell you.
The locals all sit around in groups, talking. Is it because they are too hot to do anything, because they are unemployed, because they like talking, or a mixture of all three. I should ask someone, but I'm not sure how to prhase the question, or whether they would even understand what I am talking about, because most of these people have never and will never go to another country to compare themselves with. However, the people seem happy enough, the children seem well fed, and are give free reighn to wander around. A small boy attacks a chair languidly with a machette, a small girl plays about a foot from the road. I guess she's used to it, and her grandma is probably around somewhere. It must be nice for kids, there are always several friendly adults sitting on the porch talking or playing dominos. Dominos here is quite a popular game, guys slam the tiles down on the table, as they finger chips that I have not quite figured out the use of, save they represent money. A person looks on, like a waiter, who has change, and a piece of paper. I shall play soon, and show them how we do in New Zealand.
I ask the owner of a local ex-pat/sailor bar, and he says people sit around because they are lazy. He also says there is heaps of prostitution about, and that guys pimp their girlfriends. Thats enough hearsay for now.
They have hairless sheep here, immune to the devistating effects of fly blow. I walk with them a way down the mainstreet, then our paths diverge, me to to a shop, and them across a vacant lot. Well, not entirely vacant, it contains a hell of a lot of rubbish. The Dominicans have the attitute to rubbish that it's good, and should therefore be strewn everywhere.
In the main street there are some roadworks going on. About 30 guys stand or sit around talking while one guy digs a hole. I come back later, and the whole town is out to watch. I cant blame them, now a digger and a steamroller have joined the fray. Someone else is helping now too, he throws down cement mix to add to the clay and dirt that is being dumped upon the clay/dirt foundation.
Dogs are seen a little differently here, in that they are not. They seem to exist independantly of humans, like big stupid rats or something, eating scraps, fighting, and attacking the multitude of fleas that surely line their mangy hides.
I purchase some sweets in a shop from a stunning girl, one of the many I have seen, who could quite easily be a profesional model. Here though, if not lured into prostitution she will probably be a shop keeper. Which,. when you think about it, is for the best really, because models are unreachable, have nasty drug habits, and cause many girls to get complexes about themselves, whereas hot shop keepers will always say hi and they make buying the milk and newspaper more pleasant and while it's possible they have a drug habit, they are not role models, so its really their own buisness.
I head back to the boat. A teenager sits at the dock, looking longingly at a boat. I ask him if the boat is his. He responds in a kind of caw, I guess he cant talk. I ask him if he can take me to my boat. He caws again and raises one finger "one peso?" I ask. I figure the boat is not his. He then shakes the empty tank of the boat, takes a funnel, and searches other dinghies, which are undoubtely those of the other cruisers for extra fuel tanks. "No, its OK" I say.
A haggard looking girl in her late twenties calls me over. "No, gracias" I say, not wanting to buy whatever it is she is selling. Nice girls are shy, right?
I got the sweets for the Cuban officials, who we shall be bumping into in a few days. Buerocracy, which is really a euphemism for institutionalised bribery, is rampant, and we are going to be boarded many times by guys who want coca cola and dolores americanos. That means dolores American, for you non native speakers. My theory is if we give them some sachet orange juice, biscuts, and some sweets for their kids, they will find it harder to ask for money. Either that, or they will think we are weak, and they will demand a higher tribute. Anyway, this gringo is going to find out one way or the other.
You get all these people over here who want money off you, for the most ridiculous things. This kind of crap happens all the time, so I have made a few simple rules for gringos:
1. It's best to say "no, gracias" to everyone who wants your attention, because they want to sell you something that a) you dont want or b) you want but they will put a mark up on it which you could save if you walked around the corner to the shop that sells it
2. People who say "my friend" all the time are actually not your friend. Though it may seem charming in a kind of dopey way, and may make you feel kindly to this person who has so quickly taken you into their confidence, in New Zealand the word that would be used in this instance is "mate", or perhaps in America "Buddy" or "Pal"
Now compare:
Juan: Hey, my friend. Come over here! I have something to show you, my friend, just for you, my friend!
to this:
John: Hey, mate, come over here! I have something to show you, mate! Just for you, mate!
You see? The normal distrust that we have for strangers is lost in translation.
3. Always ask for the price first. Repeat it several times, and make sure it is for every thing. "Es precio final? Es precio final?". Act like you are a sincere drunk. Then, give the person a big cheesy smile, say "Mi amigo! Tu es mi verdad amigo!"(you are my true friend") and shake his or her hand. Theres no way they can ask for more money later with a water tight agreement like that.
The locals all sit around in groups, talking. Is it because they are too hot to do anything, because they are unemployed, because they like talking, or a mixture of all three. I should ask someone, but I'm not sure how to prhase the question, or whether they would even understand what I am talking about, because most of these people have never and will never go to another country to compare themselves with. However, the people seem happy enough, the children seem well fed, and are give free reighn to wander around. A small boy attacks a chair languidly with a machette, a small girl plays about a foot from the road. I guess she's used to it, and her grandma is probably around somewhere. It must be nice for kids, there are always several friendly adults sitting on the porch talking or playing dominos. Dominos here is quite a popular game, guys slam the tiles down on the table, as they finger chips that I have not quite figured out the use of, save they represent money. A person looks on, like a waiter, who has change, and a piece of paper. I shall play soon, and show them how we do in New Zealand.
I ask the owner of a local ex-pat/sailor bar, and he says people sit around because they are lazy. He also says there is heaps of prostitution about, and that guys pimp their girlfriends. Thats enough hearsay for now.
They have hairless sheep here, immune to the devistating effects of fly blow. I walk with them a way down the mainstreet, then our paths diverge, me to to a shop, and them across a vacant lot. Well, not entirely vacant, it contains a hell of a lot of rubbish. The Dominicans have the attitute to rubbish that it's good, and should therefore be strewn everywhere.
In the main street there are some roadworks going on. About 30 guys stand or sit around talking while one guy digs a hole. I come back later, and the whole town is out to watch. I cant blame them, now a digger and a steamroller have joined the fray. Someone else is helping now too, he throws down cement mix to add to the clay and dirt that is being dumped upon the clay/dirt foundation.
Dogs are seen a little differently here, in that they are not. They seem to exist independantly of humans, like big stupid rats or something, eating scraps, fighting, and attacking the multitude of fleas that surely line their mangy hides.
I purchase some sweets in a shop from a stunning girl, one of the many I have seen, who could quite easily be a profesional model. Here though, if not lured into prostitution she will probably be a shop keeper. Which,. when you think about it, is for the best really, because models are unreachable, have nasty drug habits, and cause many girls to get complexes about themselves, whereas hot shop keepers will always say hi and they make buying the milk and newspaper more pleasant and while it's possible they have a drug habit, they are not role models, so its really their own buisness.
I head back to the boat. A teenager sits at the dock, looking longingly at a boat. I ask him if the boat is his. He responds in a kind of caw, I guess he cant talk. I ask him if he can take me to my boat. He caws again and raises one finger "one peso?" I ask. I figure the boat is not his. He then shakes the empty tank of the boat, takes a funnel, and searches other dinghies, which are undoubtely those of the other cruisers for extra fuel tanks. "No, its OK" I say.
A haggard looking girl in her late twenties calls me over. "No, gracias" I say, not wanting to buy whatever it is she is selling. Nice girls are shy, right?
I got the sweets for the Cuban officials, who we shall be bumping into in a few days. Buerocracy, which is really a euphemism for institutionalised bribery, is rampant, and we are going to be boarded many times by guys who want coca cola and dolores americanos. That means dolores American, for you non native speakers. My theory is if we give them some sachet orange juice, biscuts, and some sweets for their kids, they will find it harder to ask for money. Either that, or they will think we are weak, and they will demand a higher tribute. Anyway, this gringo is going to find out one way or the other.
You get all these people over here who want money off you, for the most ridiculous things. This kind of crap happens all the time, so I have made a few simple rules for gringos:
1. It's best to say "no, gracias" to everyone who wants your attention, because they want to sell you something that a) you dont want or b) you want but they will put a mark up on it which you could save if you walked around the corner to the shop that sells it
2. People who say "my friend" all the time are actually not your friend. Though it may seem charming in a kind of dopey way, and may make you feel kindly to this person who has so quickly taken you into their confidence, in New Zealand the word that would be used in this instance is "mate", or perhaps in America "Buddy" or "Pal"
Now compare:
Juan: Hey, my friend. Come over here! I have something to show you, my friend, just for you, my friend!
to this:
John: Hey, mate, come over here! I have something to show you, mate! Just for you, mate!
You see? The normal distrust that we have for strangers is lost in translation.
3. Always ask for the price first. Repeat it several times, and make sure it is for every thing. "Es precio final? Es precio final?". Act like you are a sincere drunk. Then, give the person a big cheesy smile, say "Mi amigo! Tu es mi verdad amigo!"(you are my true friend") and shake his or her hand. Theres no way they can ask for more money later with a water tight agreement like that.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
In the Country
Today we hired a motorcycle from our local ¨go to¨guy, who looks like a young Forrest Whitaker, who was one of the guys driving the officials to our boat yesterday. This guy wants to do everything for us, and wants to get paid. he pretty much flagged this bike-taxi dude down and told him to get off his bike so the gringos can have it. While I worried about the niceties of insurance and liability, my father rented it off him for about 15% below the market rate for bike rental. We set off into the coutnryside on a 125cc yamaha, which protested to no avail, roaring past all these simple houses. I always thought dirt poor was a figure of speech, but when your floor is actually made of dirt, well, then you dirt poor. The people are all lean and muscular, with near perfect skin. Now how do you feel? Bad huh? Don´t worry, me too. Seeing 5 year old kids lug water, and every guy with a washboard abdomen is a little disheartening. Yet the odd paradox about his place is that half the people are doing hard manual labour, and the other half are sitting around shooting the breeze.
In this country, if you want a girl, you got to have a motorbike. Then you can drive around with her on the back. If you don´t have a motorbike, you are stuck walking in the head, making ssurly, suspicious faces at foreigners. Why they do that, I don´t know. They are all healthy, have the physiques that office workers pay thousands to TRY to obtain, and the sun was shining. Is it cos I is light brown?
The history of these islands is terrible. Almost without exception the story goes like this - Native people arrive on islands, live together with various degrees of harmony for a thousand or so years, Spanish arrive, enslave, kill and give disease to populace, wither wiping them out entirely, or leaving less than 5000, many many african slaves are imported to work on sugar plantations, slaves win independance, vicious dictators rule, tourists pour in and sit on the beaches. I can understand why they may feel some greviances for such things, but it´s not my fault personally. Anyway, I carry liberal middle class guilt! Can´t they see that?
We got a flat tyre whilst driving, and got our bike fixed by what seemed to be a 13 year old mechanic - the guy was running his own store it seemed. Man, it just makes me think that I´ll be first up against the wall when the revolution comes. We tried to get the money back from the guy who rented us the bike, but he wasn´t having it at first, until we went to a regular genuine rental company with him, and the guy there told us that he, a genuine rental bike shop owner, would have paid. So the moral of the story is, go to geniune rental guys.
The chicken here tastes just great. They live outside you see, and enjoy sunlight, bugs and scraps.
I´ll write more when I know more.
Your friend,
Miguel
In this country, if you want a girl, you got to have a motorbike. Then you can drive around with her on the back. If you don´t have a motorbike, you are stuck walking in the head, making ssurly, suspicious faces at foreigners. Why they do that, I don´t know. They are all healthy, have the physiques that office workers pay thousands to TRY to obtain, and the sun was shining. Is it cos I is light brown?
The history of these islands is terrible. Almost without exception the story goes like this - Native people arrive on islands, live together with various degrees of harmony for a thousand or so years, Spanish arrive, enslave, kill and give disease to populace, wither wiping them out entirely, or leaving less than 5000, many many african slaves are imported to work on sugar plantations, slaves win independance, vicious dictators rule, tourists pour in and sit on the beaches. I can understand why they may feel some greviances for such things, but it´s not my fault personally. Anyway, I carry liberal middle class guilt! Can´t they see that?
We got a flat tyre whilst driving, and got our bike fixed by what seemed to be a 13 year old mechanic - the guy was running his own store it seemed. Man, it just makes me think that I´ll be first up against the wall when the revolution comes. We tried to get the money back from the guy who rented us the bike, but he wasn´t having it at first, until we went to a regular genuine rental company with him, and the guy there told us that he, a genuine rental bike shop owner, would have paid. So the moral of the story is, go to geniune rental guys.
The chicken here tastes just great. They live outside you see, and enjoy sunlight, bugs and scraps.
I´ll write more when I know more.
Your friend,
Miguel
Monday, November 5, 2007
Break on Through
After two days of back breaking slog on the ocean, with a stop on a wee island in between, we have arrived in the Dominican Republic in a place called Samana late at night. In the morning we could see it was a pretty little bay where a bridge led out to a beautiful coconut palmed island, and, had the water not looked like that of a neglected aquarium, it would have been truely lovely. As it is, at night with a few cocktails in you, I doubt most people notice.
A wee while later, 5 dudes boarded our boat, and sat around, asking questions, though if we had been smuggling contraband, it would have been well unloaded by then. After filling out a few forms and giving them some corn chips, they left, satisfied, though one of them did say that he wouldn´t have minded having a cold coca cola from our fridge if we happened to have one, at which point I cursed him for his insolence, attempted to wrest his firearm off him, and was pistol-whipped until bloody. No, really.
This town seems more like the Carribean I remember from my last trip here, with tons of dudes roaring around on motorbikes, and/or trying to sell me stuff. The beer here is cheap, as is the food. The place is swarming with palm trees and heavy rain. The people seem pretty nice so far, relaxed, and yet hustling. It has an interesting history, this small town. A lot of Africans freed from slavery in America landed here on their way to Liberia, where they were being sent or wanted to go, I don´t know, and many of them stayed in Samana, making an English speaking community in this otherwise Spanish speaking country. However, a while later, and angry and paranoid dictator burnt the town down twice, and made them speak Spanish, and by that, I dont mean that he asked in a pleading tone of voice. However, one of the semi officials that boarded our boat said that his parents were from the USA, and spoke English in his home as he was growing up, so he had a reasonably good grasp of it.
Speaking Spanish is fun, and I take to heart the advice of an old sailor who said to gesticulate vigorously and waggle your eyebrows alot. Already I feel a lot more expert than I actually am, which really is the point of speaking a foreign language.
Well, I´ll write more as I see more,
Uncle Traveling Mike
A wee while later, 5 dudes boarded our boat, and sat around, asking questions, though if we had been smuggling contraband, it would have been well unloaded by then. After filling out a few forms and giving them some corn chips, they left, satisfied, though one of them did say that he wouldn´t have minded having a cold coca cola from our fridge if we happened to have one, at which point I cursed him for his insolence, attempted to wrest his firearm off him, and was pistol-whipped until bloody. No, really.
This town seems more like the Carribean I remember from my last trip here, with tons of dudes roaring around on motorbikes, and/or trying to sell me stuff. The beer here is cheap, as is the food. The place is swarming with palm trees and heavy rain. The people seem pretty nice so far, relaxed, and yet hustling. It has an interesting history, this small town. A lot of Africans freed from slavery in America landed here on their way to Liberia, where they were being sent or wanted to go, I don´t know, and many of them stayed in Samana, making an English speaking community in this otherwise Spanish speaking country. However, a while later, and angry and paranoid dictator burnt the town down twice, and made them speak Spanish, and by that, I dont mean that he asked in a pleading tone of voice. However, one of the semi officials that boarded our boat said that his parents were from the USA, and spoke English in his home as he was growing up, so he had a reasonably good grasp of it.
Speaking Spanish is fun, and I take to heart the advice of an old sailor who said to gesticulate vigorously and waggle your eyebrows alot. Already I feel a lot more expert than I actually am, which really is the point of speaking a foreign language.
Well, I´ll write more as I see more,
Uncle Traveling Mike
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)