193 Trouble in paradise 



whereof he spoke. As his information dovetailed rather well with 

 other rumors, I found myself borne along with the tide. 



My new friend was visiting his family in the vicinity, but on my 

 arrival he gave himself entirely to the business of showing me the 

 flamingo colony. Our first stop was a little place on the coast called 

 Piloto, overlooking Bahia de Gloria. It is a cluster of thatched 

 fishermen's huts around a larger edifice containing rooms and a 

 large bar serving rum and beer. After we had unloaded our gear 

 the first hitch occurred. The boat captain who was to meet us 

 there, one Miguel, was still off in one of his boats and no one 

 seemed to know when he would be back. Another boat, a large 

 sloop, lay at anchor near the wharf, but her crew was also among 

 the missing. Eventually, in midafternoon, two smiling Negro boys 

 came in and were soon talking in animated fashion with Erasmo. 

 It seemed that they were the crew of the sloop and Miguel had in- 

 structed them to carry on in his absence. 



It was blowing briskly out of the east, the direction in which we 

 must proceed, but without further loss of time we clambered 

 aboard and set sail. Both Erasmo and Pupo, his son, immediately 

 became seasick. 



The two boys who made up the crew were known as "Monono" 

 and "Vikini," and they were brothers. Erasmo told me very gravely 

 that, "They are not exactly white but some kind of native. A lit- 

 tle mixed up." As a matter of fact, both were quite black and 

 kinky-haired. Erasmo then asked Monono, the elder, if he was a 

 Cuban. To which Monono replied, very serious of mien, "Yes, I 

 am a Cuban, but I don't know what my brother is." Erasmo trans- 

 lated this for my benefit and we laughed uproariously, both boys 

 joining in, even if they didn't know what the joke was all about. 



The sloop was named the February 24th, after one of Cuba's 

 Independence Days. Twenty-five feet over-all, she was gaff-rigged 

 and open-hulled, except for a tiny, unventilated cuddy in the bow 

 where the boys slept. After beating to windward the rest of the 

 day, we anchored on the far side of the bay, in the lee of Punta 

 Robalo on Cayo Guajaba. There was a typical meal of beans 

 and rice, sweet potatoes, fried bananas, and strong Cuban coffee, 

 and feeling somewhat heavy amidships, we lay down on the greasy 



