Milwauki beer.


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Published: August 14th 2008
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Utila, 07 marzo 1990.
We had to wait another day in La Ceiba due to a small tropical storm out at sea. Normally a small storm at sea should be no big problem to a plane but we're flying with a small 8 seater.
A little arid unpaved field is the landing- and take-off strip with half the little town watching the take-off at the field's side, nice free entertainment I guess.
The sky is a magnificent blue and all the clouds responsible for yesterday's rain have gone inland so soon enough after a bumby take-off and at a mere hundert meter above sea level we can see Utila in the distance, over the shoulder of our pilot.
This being macho country I checked the pilot's breath for alcohol smells before take-off under the stupid excuse of making small-talk.
Upon reaching Utila and circling over the landing strip that is at the far south side of the island and covers Utila from east to west, I can discern one 8 seater at my right hand side having crashed Manitou knows when just before the beginning of the landing strip in the blue/green colored sea.
Another one at my left hand half way up the landing strip on the side topped head over.
"Good thing you checked the pilot's breath for alocohol traces, Hans", I can hear James' raspy voice whispering in my ear.
The landing is even bumbier then the take-off but at least we get off on Utila soil safe and well.
We all agree we need a cold beer before finding ourselves accomodation.
Luckily for us we find that beer in the very first house we come across on our way into the village, shaped like the bow of an ocean going ship with a small garden and belonging to an ex-vietnam veteran, blond bushy hair and a face weathered by years of tropical sea wind, nice friendly chap who tells me matter-of-factly style he's retired here after his stint in Nam where he was part of a special unit having executed several dozen north vietnamese army chaps in secret operations.
I've no doubt he speaks the truth when I look into his watery blue rock-hard eyes.
One very tasty Milwauki beer turns into a second one, and a thirt, and a fourth and while Peter rolls up one split after the other and I listen to one bloody Nam story after the other "special operations" story, darkness slowly encroaches The tiny island of Utila.
Peter and James are slowly getting themselves wasted and Nora is getting to a state where she probably is gonna take off her clothes and starts dancing again singing softly in Louisiana accented french.
Better I get this bunch of semi-professional drunks to a hotel so we can sleep of all that Milwauki beer and explore Utila tomorrow.

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