 That evening we arranged to meet up at the central plaza, with the plan of heading to another ‘Costa De La Trova’. Matt and I were a little early, having planned on looking round some more of the town on the way. However the heavens decided to open up, absolutely tipping it down. Luckily we were just passing our coach at the time, where both our driver and guide were waiting out the downpour. We joined them and while we waited, opened a few cans of beer they had stashed there. Not too long after we got there a lad in his late teens and girl of similar age came by. The driver seemed to know him and invited them in.
The rain cleared by the time we finished our drinks, so we made our way to the music house where we met up with the others of our group. The band started playing and I started on the Cuba Libres (otherwise known as rum and coke). By my second drink a group of girls seem to appear from nowhere and sat down with us. By a strange coincidence there were exactly one girl to each of us, which was what first aroused my suspicions that they may have been ‘working girls’. The second thing, that kinda clinched it for me, was the tongue that had found its way down my throat a few seconds later. Now while not a totally unpleasant experience, it was a little forward (I hadn’t even attempted to ask her name).
After the band finished (I was told they were quite good), the boy that had joined us earlier on the coach asked whether any of us wished to join them at the best disco-tech in town. Which by a mere coincidence was the only disco-tech in the town. Intrigued with how the Cuban youth entertained themselves, and a little tipsy by that point, I agreed to go with them, leaving the rest of the old farts (and Matt) to an early night.
Once inside, the place looked like most night clubs in the UK, dark and smoky, lights flashing, seating round the walls and a dance floor in the centre. The main difference was that the majority of the music played was Reggaeton, which gave me a slight problem in that white men can’t dance to Reggaeton. It just isn’t possible. Not to be perturbed I went to the bar. The boy (who was the only one who spoke any English), ordered a bottle of rum that was cheaper than one shot in a UK bar. It was a full litre bottle of pure white, hardcore engine cleaner grade rum. Taking a swig I felt the roof of my mouth go numb, however by this time I had already consumed enough alcohol not to realise I should steer clear of this stuff.
We partied on into the early hours of the morning and I ended up drinking the majority of the bottle myself. When it came time to leave, I was not quite in a fit state to make my own way back to where I was staying. One of the girls accompanied me to a pedal taxi and rode with me back to the guest home. There was however one fundamental floor to this. I was completely drunk and had no idea where I was, or where I needed to get to, and the girl was not much better. The last thing I remember was the two of us staggering off the taxi in a random street.
Later that morning I awoke under a porch on the side of a street with the girl asleep next to me and some guy looking through her purse.
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Back to day 9 - Baracoa |
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Day 10 - Baracoa |
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