Baracoa - Part 2

That evening, Philip told us that Cuba's one and only Vegan eatery was rumored to be in Baracoa. After some digging around, he managed to get hold of the address. I'm not particularly keen on Vegan food but this was an opportunity too good to miss. If anyone can make a vegetable taste good, it's a Vegan.

Following Phillip's lead, the six of us wandered through the night to the very edge of Baracoa. When we finally got to the house, we were certain we had been led astray. There was barely any sign of human activity. Just a rather nonchalant looking cat.

Then we spotted a dimly lit sign about the size of a post card that said 'Vegetales'. There wasn't an open door, just a dark alley to the side of a nondescript house. At the very back there was a tarpaulin and, once through the rabbit hole, we saw something that resembled a place to eat. And what a place it was.

There was a well appointed kitchen, with a strong dollop of Cuban rough and ready. And a small communal dining space in the back yard. All the stools and tables were made of different sized tree trunks and all sorts of funky flora and fauna were dotted about the place. It could maybe seat ten pretty thin people, if that.

Our host was Aristedes. A charming, charismatic man in his 60s, lean as a greyhound and youthful for his years. He looked like he had been hewed from a single tree trunk. He had lived and cooked in France and spoke a seemingly endless number of languages. He was also quick to mention that he had sired seven children from four women. Perhaps there was something to Veganism after all.

He had run a much more legit vegan restaurant in town but Hurricane Matthew had all but eviscerated it two years ago. This was the dawn of his second coming.

There were three other diners already present. A lifestyle writer from Vogue magazine, her photographer and their guide. Clearly this was not going to be a hidden gem for long.

He had not expected us (you're meant to phone ahead). But thankfully Aristedes had prepared an embarrassment of dishes to impress the Vogue party and there was plenty left to go around. Even for six hungry travellers.

The food was also served in wooden bowls, plates, cups and cutlery. I wasn't sure which had more wood, Aristedes or his restaurant.

In London this would be the very pinnacle of modern dining, probably somewhere in Shoreditch. Walls of exposed brick and festooned with dangling Edison bulbs. All fifteen or so of the dishes came from the local area and were utterly delicious. He had managed to turn yams, radishes, rice, beans, bananas, pineapple, and other slightly B list ingredients into a delightful feast.

The meal was washed down by tea that reminded me of one of my few visits to a spa. There was even some Chilean red wine knocking around for good measure. There was no set price for the food, you just paid what you thought was fair between 5 to 10 CUC/$. I paid the full whack. I was to well nourished to be frugal.

In the food desert that is Cuba, this was an oasis. Add the octopus orgasm I'd had for lunch, plus the delicious breakfast fruits and this could go down as one of the most Epicurean days I've had for some time. All for a grand total of 16.50 CUC/$. The best things in life really can't be bought.

The added bonus for the evening was that the Vogue tour guide spoke fluent English and was a living, breathing encyclopedia of Cuban politics and history.

I hadn't realised that, until the fall of Communism, Cuba had been more closed to the world that North Korea is today. There were only Cuban channels, radio and literature. The outside world was a complete mystery to most people in the country. Anyone with money and education had fled in the revolution. All that changed completely in 1991.

'The Cuban people are bored and they have been waiting since 1991 for some serious change. But it's not happening fast enough.'

He paused, for a moment to collect his thoughts.

'I think there will be another revolution. Probably not violent. But now that we are able to see the world with internet and television, we are more aware of what we don't have as a country. This is immensely frustrating.' He too seemed a little exasperated. Just like many other Cuban's I'd met.

It hadn't crossed my mind that another revolution was possible. But it certainly wasn't out of the question. Given the frustrations I'd experienced here, I could only imagine what a bureaucratic nightmare living here would be like.

On top of that, getting out of the country is nigh on impossible, even for holidays. Visas to the US and Europe are excessively pricey, complex and frequently denied. Even Alejandro, the former government translator, had been rejected three times for a wedding trip to Europe.

The next morning, I sat down to do some work. By midday I'd already invoiced more than double what the average Cuban open heart surgeon makes in a month. This did not seem right at all.

It's easy to see then, why people will do just about anything to get Convertible Pesos from tourists. Cubans have developed a taste for tourist money and it's not going anywhere. Thankfully that taste hadn't yet taken too much hold in Baracoa. Which is one of the many reasons I was so happy here.

The last days in Baracoa were somewhat muted on account of a rainy front coming in. The first bad weather of the trip. I became friendly with two Belgian girls, Angie and Mieke, who were staying at the casa. We pretty much dedicated ourselves to eating well and passing time with card games and idle conversation. There was little else to do when the weather was shite here. I was quite relieved to have some actual down time.

One added bonus of having less to do was that I managed to sort out direct transportation to Havana from Barracoa by collective taxi. Wrangling a 14 hour ride accross the whole country for 60 CUC/$, which was nothing short of miraculous.

Baracoa had been my favorite spot so far and even in the rain it had a cosiness to it that made you feel very at ease. It was a place that I hoped to return to many times. And one that hopefully wouldn't change too much as the country gradually opens up to the world.

Baracoa - Part 1

The taxi collectivo to Baracoa turned out to be a truck, packed to the gills with hot and bothered tourists. Mostly Argentinians and drinking mate tea, of course. It looked like a vehicle had once been used to ferry livestock.

I had learned by now that one shouldn't bother showering or wearing clean clothes for transit in Cuba. It saves quite a bit on washing to have pre-soiled 'travel clothes' and your first shower just gets pushed back to your arrival. Whenever that may be.

The truck ride was about as terrifying as any rollercoaster I'd been on. With the added bonus of potential death thrown in the mix. The views were stunning. Although hard to appreciate when you're thinking about which kin are going to inherit your meagre stash of personal effects.

Baracoa was an expected highlight of the trip and I prayed that it wasn't a let down. Thankfully it delivered in spades. It was by no means perfect. No place is. Travel destinations are a bit like girlfriends. You tend not to find one that ticks every box. Instead you just find one where you put up with their shit better than others. And hopefully they put up with yours.

Baracoa was that place. It had comparatively few tourists, a beautiful seaside setting, ample nearby beaches and hiking, fun nightlife and rumors of good food. My casa was the cheapest I'd had in Cuba so far and it served a breakfast with fruit that had actual flavor. The owner Eugene was friendly and spoke fluent English. There was even WiFi. Yes, I could definitely put up with this place's shit.

You still had the usual annoyances of dodgy service, scammers and people trying to sell you all sorts of nonsense. But it was on a more bearable scale than what I'd encountered before. The place was no stunner architecturally and had been devastated by a hurricane only two years ago. But it still retained a unique charm that I'd been looking for in Cuba. After two weeks of frenetic urban exploration, I felt like I had genuinely earnt some down time here.

In the WiFi town square, I bumped into a couple from the truck ride, Bart from Holland and Mia from Germany. We decided to meet at a fixed time in the square for drinks under a tree. Baracoa tends to be near the end of the road for most tourists so everyone was pretty used to the pre-cellular levels of organisation by now.

That evening, we sat with mojitos and engaged in the Cuban traveler's favorite pastime, namely, bitching about Cuban travel. It was a rich source of catharsis for just about everyone. There certainly was plenty to gripe about and it was a guaranteed source of common ground for everyone here. Maybe if the Palestinians and Israelis all traveled here they could finally find something to agree on.

That said, Cuba also has a wealth of positives that make it a dream destination for travelers.

The people were mostly friendly and warm, with restaurants sometimes being one glaring exception. It's very safe. Prison sentences are quadrupled for tourists related offenses. The weather had been nothing but glorious so far. Its beaches and wildlife are second to none. The when place is steeped in history and culture that was hard to match in the carribbean and beyond. And it was still relatively cheap, if you played your cards right.

The next day I met up with Mia and Bart after breakfast. We were joined by two German girls and a French Canadian called Phillip. His phone had been stolen the previous night so he also had plenty of fodder for our collective bitching sessions.

For 5 CUC/$ apiece we got a ride in a flatbed truck to a beach 20ks down the coast. It was a fine place. White sand, palms, coconuts, coral blue seas and few tourists. The whole package. Phil was strumming his guitar (incidentally a self-composed ditty about the perils of Cuban prostitutes). It felt like I was on an actual holiday with friends as opposed to a frenzied expedition.

I decided to treat myself to a local speciality of octopus in coconut sauce 'San Bernardino'. No one else was hungry so I slunk off to the unassuming, shack that was set back from the beach. Baracoa has a unique climate and is known to produce some of the best fruit, veggies, seafood and spices in Cuba. I was quivering with anticipation.

What followed was one of the best culinary experiences I've ever had. Octopus, tender as butter in a delicious, creamy broth. Absolutely packed with bold, audacious flavors. This meal didn't deserve company. Just quiet, monastic reverence. It wasn't just Cuba good. It was really fucking good. Michelin starred Italian restaurant good.

Tears practically streamed down my face as I delicately savoured each bite. I felt like a blind man who could see again. One of the best meals I'd ever eaten for 6.50 CUC/$. Delicately savoring the experience topless and in swimming trunks, with only the tweeting of birds for company, seemed to only enhance the experience.

Unfortunately my brief moment of ecstasy was not going to last long. I had some planning to do. There were two ways to get back to Havana for my Friday morning flight. One was by air and the other overland. Given that I now had a very finite amount of Cuban currency available, the flight would have reduced my budget to the level of a foraging raccoon.

Overland was the only way then. More spine crushing buses. I'm quite sure I will have lost about an inch off my height and have early onset osteoporosis by the end of this trip.

All told, for long distance travel here, I've taken seven taxis, two livestock trucks and four coaches. This final home stretch would add another three trucks and an overnight bus. I wasn't exactly jazzed about it but I was pretty strapped for alternatives at this point. Cuban travel had helped me become better acclimatised to discomfort so a few more buses couldn't hurt, surely?

Santiago De Cuba - Part 3

Tom and Simon, the Londoners I'd met in Trinidad, joined me at my casa in Santiago for my last two nights. We had stayed in touch whilst we were off busying ourselves in different parts of the country and had planned to meet here. Another impressive feat given the internet desert that is Cuba.

It turns out they had stayed in a dodgy all inclusive resort that was half empty. Most of the guests were middle aged Russians or prostitutes.

Annoyingly, the prostitutes had a habit of not making their vocation apparent until quite a while after they had been exchanging more than just short pleasantries. This had been a source of much frustration.

'It got kind of annoying because you can't really ask someone if they're a prostitute. Kind of throws your game off.' Said Simon

'Maybe they just become prostitutes for tourists?' I suggested.

The food at their resort was also, as you may have guessed, utter shite. They seemed quite relieved to be back in civilisation. I had thoroughly enjoyed their company in Trinidad and it was a pleasure to spend a little time with them again.

I was particularly happy because my British bank card had been swallowed by a cash machine the day before and they were the only way I could get hold of enough hard cash to last the rest of the trip. I don't know what on Earth I did in my past life to deserve the luck I get but it must have involved saving saving a seminary or a children's hospital from imminent peril.

We decided to check out the final resting place of Fidel Castro. This encounter felt necessary for the sake of completeness, given my Che pilgrimage. His grave was the polar opposite of Che's enormous statue on a plinth (although it must be noted that Che did not request either). It was just a six foot high, smooth rock with the word Fidel written on it. That was about it.

The eponymous Jose Marti was also buried nearby in a much more impressive tomb. He was Cuba's answer to Simon Bolivar. The key figure in Cuba's overthrow of the Spanish. It was no accident that they were buried as neighbours. Along with Che and Fidel, the three of them were an inescapable presence in Cuba. Almost every street, park, restaurant, shop, and casa bore some reference to their names and achievements.

After much feigned reverence, we went to a bike taxi and begged him to take us somewhere with good, cheap food. None of us had eaten a decent meal in some time and were at breaking point. We treated ourselves to local fish and lobster to the princely tune of 10 CUC/$ apiece. Tom even had a sachet of Tabasco to hand. We were in hog heaven.

That evening, we played cards over good rum and strong Cuban cigarettes on the casa roof terrace. There was a jazz fest going on and we wanted to check it out. Having all had just about enough of salsa for the time being.

The jazz was surprisingly good. It needed to be for a 5 CUC/$ cover. Although the third act was a cover band. After we had heard Queen, Amy Winehouse and then Mariah Carey, we decided we'd had our fill.

The boys still scented blood and wanted to press on with the night but my hot date with Pico Turquino was still ravaging my body and I needed rest. We said our goodbyes. I hoped we would stay in touch. Tomorrow, an 8am start for my bus to Baracoa. Home to the best food in Cuba, according to the guidebook. Although, given the last few weeks, this could be something of an oxymoron.

Pico Turquino

My day started at 3:30am. To get to the base of Pico Turquino you have to take a two and a half hour private taxi from Santiago de Cuba. Unfortunately it's impossible by public transportation, especially if you want to summit in a day.

There are two routes, a flatter two or three day approach from the north or the much steeper southern approach. We were doing the latter. Most people need to start before 7am if they have any chance of getting down before dusk. It's about six hours up and five down, with a few short breaks for beige snacks.

At the base, it was still pitch black when I arrived. There were two Argentinian ladies in their 40s already there. This was peak Argentinian holiday season and you find them just about everywhere in Latin America around now. Usually sipping a steamy mate tea in put of their personal Calabash gourd.

I remember the same thing happening in Colombia. They were always very genial people, aside from their obsession with Frenet Branca. It could be a lot worse, at least they hadn't just finished three years of military service like the Israelis.

Lucretia, the younger of the two was a government lawyer and Cecilia was a school teacher. We were soon joined by Jean Charles, a rather eccentric Belgian man in his mid-50s. Along with our guide Alejandro we would be the only five people to summit that day. One of the great luxuries of climbing the tallest mountain in Cuba the hard way is the lack of other people silly enough to bother doing it.

As we set off, first light revealed that we were right by the sea and the mountains plunged dramatically into black, volcanic beaches that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a truly beautiful place.

The climb began easily enough but soon grew steeper, wetter and slipperier. Stable flooring gave way to loose, unpredictable rock. It became clear that this was not going to be the walk in the park I'd expected. It was only a few hours into the trek that I realised that this was the highest and most challenging climb I'd ever done by far.

The path we were taking had a good deal of history to it. It was from the top of this mountain that Che Guevara broadcast a series of televised interviews with CBS News that helped win hearts and minds in Cuba and beyond. The surrounding Sierra Maestra mountains were the revolution's base of command. It was also the first place Fidel's men had a military victory.

Slogging through the humid jungle, I could only be impressed. This would not have been an easy place to run a revolution. Both sides of the narrow path were high walled and roofed with a thousand hues of impassable green jungle, barely letting a drop of light in. It felt like it was going to swallow you whole at any moment. Occasionally there would be a small clearing where you could marvel at just how high you were above sea level.

The endless hours of uphill walking gave me little choice but to learn a lot about my co-walkers. Jean Charles was the only English speaker, so I was somewhat tied to making conversation with him.

He turned out to be an interesting fellow, in a very dorky sort of way. He worked as a coach for top level executives in corporations, specialising in emotional intelligence and cultural acclimatisation.

'What exactly is cultural acclimatization?' I wheezed, between our mutually heavy pants.

'When a corporation is operating in a market that has a very different culture, we have to teach the executives how to adapt to it.'

'What was your biggest challenge?'

'A German company setting up operations in Latin America. It drives the Germans completely nuts. They need a process for everything or it does not compute. The Latins don't really do processes.'

Having now spent some time in both Colombia and Cuba, this wasn't much of a surprise. In his spare time Jean Charles (Pancho to his friends) liked to take place in a cross country horse based sport that I imagine very few people have ever heard of, including myself.

It had some silly French name I can't remember. Basically you have to ride a horse cross country between various checkpoints. Courses vary in length but rarely more than 120kms. You are given a range of speed, for example 10-15kms an hour. You want to make sure your average speed for the whole course is no higher that 15kms an hour or you are eliminated. The aim is to be as close to the top of the range as possible.

But wait, it gets even more exciting. An hour after the course, your horse's heart rate is taken. Lower being better. Your final score is the average speed (provided you aren't eliminated) divided by the heart rate. Apparently you are allowed to do all sorts of weird things to slow your horse's heart rate down, including ice baths and shiatsu massages.

Had I not been stuck with Pancho for eleven hours, with no other distractions except a mountain, this sport would have tragically remained a blind spot in my knowledge forever.

He currently owned three horses in France and had three children.

'Those are some expensive habits.' I remarked, jovially.

'Not as expensive as ex-wives.' He said, in a slightly exasperated tone. He had a point.

Eventually I made it to the top, a few minutes before everyone else. I was keen to be the highest person in Cuba, if only for a brief moment. My clothes were all soaked through with sweat and everything below my waist was aching fiercely. I felt amazing nonetheless. This had, by complete accident, been one of the hardest things I've ever done.

And then we had to get down. This was actually much harder and more dangerous than the way up. Our legs were unreliable and feet blistered. And there was the near-constant threat of slipping on loose or wet stone. Almost immediately, we were all taking tumbles in the manner of a town drunk.

After an eternity we reached the small farm where we had eaten breakfast. This meant we only had about an hour to go. We wolfed down a quick meal. Pancho and I left early as we had respective dinners to get to. We said about as emotional a farewell as possible, given our energy levels. As we left, Alejandro warned us to stay vigilant, there was a wild boar on the loose who had a history of attacking trekkers.

About half an hour later we spotted something standing in the middle of the path, staring squarely at us. It was the aforementioned wild boar. And he didn't look happy. Pancho panicked and immediately started running back up the hill.

I, however, had seen a YouTube video where someone was in a similar predicament, albeit with an elk. I prayed the same rules applied. Without hesitation, I picked up two large, leafy branches and held them up above my head. Then I charged at the boar, wailing like a banshee. I looked utterly ridiculous but It worked. His beady eyes bulged and accompanied by a squeal, he scurried down the hill, out of sight. For the time being.

Pancho couldn't quite believe what he saw. Neither could I to be honest.

'What would you have done if he didn't move?'

Probably pissed and shat myself. Not necessarily in that order. I wasn't exaggerating. That boar looked like somebody owed him a lot of gambling money.

After another small eternity, we got to the bottom. Daylight had all but gone and I was relieved beyond measure. I collapsed into the car. My driver knew it was wise to not try and make conversation. For he wouldn't get a bleat from me.

Back at the casa, I hoovered up two ham and cheese pizzas from the local Domino's (the shite Cuban backyard version) and drank three sodas. Once fed and sugared, I promptly crashed into bed in the manner of a felled tree at 9pm. Not even mustering the energy for a celebratory rum. That would have to wait until I could walk again.

Santiago de Cuba - Part 2

I set off in the morning to the train station. The guide book mentioned that there was a train from Santiago back to Havana I could take next week, which seemed too good to be true. Of course, it was. The lady at the station practically laughed me out for the door when I asked for the timetable. I hadn't pegged my hopes on this (one never should here) so it was back to the drawing board.

I still had plenty of time in Cuba so that was a problem for tomorrow, or the day after. I'd already seen pretty much everything I'd wanted to so in Santiago so I spent the day ambling around aimlessly, taking photos and eating beige sacks. Santiago was certainly a fine place to do this. Each street was awash with colorful pillared budings, set against a steep hillside with glorious views of the bay below.

That evening I met up with the rather fantastically named Arquimide Avila (Avila for short). He was a language professor who had fallen upon hard times. We'd gotten talking earlier in the day in a WiFi Park and I promised I'd swing by to chat later over a drink. I wasn't in the business of handouts but I'd gladly pick up a bottle of local rum and share some stories with him over it.

I'd been Keen to spend more time with Cubans since I got here but the language barrier had been much worse than expected. I found Avila sitting under a tree in Cespedes park, where we'd met. He had a rather regal, dignified air and was diligently studying a newspaper. His frame was slight, topped by a round, dark face that was firmly weathed by his years. Speaking with him put me in mind of being in the presence a Native American chieftan.

'Why are times so tough for you? You speak so many languages.'

'After leaving my government job I was in a hotel, but they closed. It's the quiet season for tourists.' He spoke deliberately and with much consideration.

'But I've seen tonnes of tourists in Cuba.'

'See any now?' He gestured around the square and the boulevard, eyes fixed on me. There really weren't any.

'See Alejandro. You are king of the tourists now.' He placed an arm on my shoulder and cracked a half smile.

We were soon joined by George, a very heavy set black security guard who worked at a loal bank. He had a contagious smile and wanted to practice his English.

'Avila is president of the square!' Beamed George.

It seemed that my new friend was something of a local celebrity.

It turned out George was also a baseball player in a top amateur team. Cubans are absolutely obsessed with baseball and everyone I'd spoken to there was rather excited about a deal that had just been signed with MLB in the US.

It seemed that this was something of an after dark public drinking spot and we were joined by Danny the electrician, Pablo the pensioner and a few others. I happily shared the rum with everyone and was taking advantage of Avila's excellent English to ask questions that had been burning in my mind.

'Is there racism in Cuba?' I enquired

'No, there's more of an issue between people who are in professions and those who aren't. We don't really care about skin color here. We are all Cuban.' George nodded in agreement.

I was reassured to hear this. I had seen a lot of mixed race couples around but wasn't sure what the real deal was.

Avilar didn't ask for money but he did ask it I could give him a shirt that would look good for his daughter's birthday in March. I said I really only had crappy Hawaiian shirts and that probably wouldn't be appropriate.

'What about some trousers?'

'You're about a foot shorter than me so I that probably won't work.' He looked a little hurt for a second and then eventually conceded that there were likely better people to get clothes from.

I had a 3:30am start the next day for a planned trek you Piquo Tourquillo, Cuba's tallest mountain. So I said my goodbyes early and hit the proverbial sack. It had been a lovely evening and I only wished I could have done more to help Avila apart from get him a bit pissed on something that wasn't made in a bathtub.

Santiago de Cuba - Part 1

Viazul buses may be the most comfortable way to get around Cuba but that's not saying much. Their fleet was made up of worn out Chinese coaches that had obviously not come with spare parts. The rock hard suspension meant every corrugated little bump and divot (basically the whole route) was transmitted straight through to your spine. It was like trying to sleep whilst being hog tied to a jackhammer.

I arrived as Santiago station at 7am in a state of delerium tremmens, wobbling like jelly and barely able to sting a thought, let alone a sentence together. My promised welcome wasn't there, which wasn't altogether surprising. After fifteen minutes I broke and went with another, very persistent casa hustler called Guzman. Who incidentally had a wife living in Bristol. His place was the same price and more centrally located and he threw in a free taxi in his 54 Buick. A hard offer to refuse.

I was desperate to get to a bed and in my a sleep deprived state, I managed to forget my backpack at the station. I only realised at the casa and we had to frantically dart back. Thankfully some kind Cuban had handed it in. Suffice it to stay, my first taste of Santiago de Cuba was a little hectic.

After a long shower and Cuban nitro glycerin coffee I was feeling myself again. Santiago was by far the most kinetic and lively city I'd been in so far. Cars and scooters ceaselessly whip around street corners, tapping their array of novelty horns. Their favourite party trick seems to be passing you just about as close as humanly possible. It's a city that keeps you on your toes.

This was probably the most unique place I'd seen in Cuba so far. It's more Haiti or Jamaica than Spainish colonial. Some parts even look like the long forgotten first iteration of New Orleans' French Quarter, which burnt down in 1788. I sensed there was much magic and mystery to be experienced here.

The food, sadly, doesn't reflect its carribbean heritage well. Santiago definitely wins the stodgy carb capital of Cuba award. Especially if you're on a budget like mine.

I've been trying to challenge myself to a 5 CUC/$ a day ration the last few days. It's actually quite easy, if you enjoy beige, tasteless, textureless food. I've supplemented this bread, plastic cheese and processed ham diet with a lot of fruit juice so I'm hoping that I've managed to squeeze some vitamins in there somewhere. Plus there's always Cuba's own favorite, Vitamin Rum.

I wandered towards yet another revoltionary museum. The imaginatively titled, July 1952 museum was located at the Moncada Barracks and was the site of first attack by Castro on Batista's regime.

Although it was hard to tell from the museum, the attack was a colossal failure. Several Jeeps in the convoy got lost and only one made it in. After a short skirmish they were all captured, tortured and then executed. Castro escaped but was captured soon after. It was the public outcry from the executions that spared Castro's life and untimely, changed Cuba's history forever.

The museum still bore the bullet holes from the battle and was pretty much like every other Cuban Commie museum I'd been to. A hodgepodge collection of just about anything they could salvage that was associated with the event. Everyone has a friend who likes to show off their crappy souvenirs from every holiday and you have to feign some kind of interest. This was the museum equivalent.

There were the usual military uniforms, weapons, some soiled jeans, torture instruments and more used hankies. As usual the walls were adorned with pictures of Castro, Che and brave looking guerrillas. The occasional map depicted where various minor skirmishes took place. All very familiar. I decided it would be my last Cuban Commie museum.

Braying for carbs, I ate a stodgy pizza at a restaurant with the ambitions tagline of 'elegance and distinction.' It had neither, you'll be shocked to hear. I've found treating food as merely a source of one's fuel rather than a thing to be enjoyed makes this place a lot more palatable.

Later, after a much needed siesta, I bumped into a large group of middle to very late aged Americans staying in the casa. There was only one young person about my age, who stuck out like bacon at a Bar mitzvah.

'How come you decided to join this particular tour group?' I enquired, sensing that she was a little fed up of hearing about joint problems.

'They didn't specify the target age on the website.' She said, with a somewhat pinched face.

'So you assumed a two week organized tour of Cuba would be bristling with fun, young people?' I pondered. I didn't want to make fun of her, as that would be a bit mean.

I got talking to a very sweet man called Chuck, who was just about the most heart warming individual I'd ever met. He had been a middle school teacher and physician and had more degrees than I could count on two hands. He suggested that myself and Claire joined him for dinner. I could sense that they had grown a little weary of the rest of their group. Having met them earlier (especially the cranky couples from upstate New York), I could see why.

The restaurant we stumbled upon was one that definitely had fine dining ambitions, with a Cuban touch. The food was the most edible I'd had in days. It was also the first place that had attentive, friendly service. Another thing that Cuba is very slowly getting aquainted with. The food came out within half an hour. That's practically light speed here.

Later we joined the rest of the pensioners for some live music. This is Cuba's cultural capital and the epicenter of its dance obsession. It was all very jolly and I enjoyed their company a great deal. Some of the oldsters even threw down a few groovy shapes. Although often followed by a moan and the clutching of one limb or another.

'Don't worry, you'll be an old coot like us one day.' One cackled with a toothy grin.

'I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.' I spent the rest of the night trying to forget about mortality. For now, it was still a bridge that was too far away to contemplate.

Camaguey - Part 2

Camaguey was a great place for a one day stopover. A labyrinth of beautiful Spanish colonial architecture with a slightly more lived in feel than many other places I'd been here. Rumour has it, the confusing layout was an intentional ploy to slow down invading armies. I was particularly happy with the lack of tourists here. Which meant being hassled on the street was not regular occurrence.

One pleasant surprise was noticing that I had royally cocked up my exchange rates and the cash machines were quoting me a USD rate, not GBP as I'd assumed. So now the holiday has become 20% cheaper, which gave me a little spring in my step.

Back at the casa I chatted with Onix over fresh papya juice (the fruit not the other thing). He seemed much more willing to talk about politics than just about any Cuban I'd met. We both agreed that Cuba's time to shine was long overdue. Former enemies of America like Veitnam, Germany and Japan were not subjected to the same level of restrictions and monst Cubans were fed up of being stuck in the doghouse.

It was probably only a matter of time until this place will be more open to the world, but perhaps that isn't necessarily a good thing. Who knows.

That evening, I met up with my friend Jorge's brother Alejandro. He had been working for the government for some years, and had an arsenal of degrees in linguistics. His English was better than most native English speaking people. Like many other overeducated, underpaid Cubans he was now focused on private tourism for income.

His current gig was shepherding a gang of geriatric Americans around on a ten day bird watching tour. He seemed a little exasperated.

'All they care about is fucking birds man! It's crazy.' I could only agree. A $5000, ten day birding holiday sounds about as fun to me as slamming my balls in a car door. But then again, I'm not 80.

We talked at length about his divorce, his daughter and his new girlfriend in Jacksonville. He was someone who wore his emotions on his sleeve and truly loved Cuba. Which is why he had decided to stay instead of taking his talents elsewhere.

'Do you see a future in Cuba?' He asked, with a little tremble in his voice.

I said that they had managed to do pretty well with comparatively little, and that I hoped it was only a matter of time until the country would have greater access to the wider world. Like Onix, he shared my view that the government of the US and Cuba had to both shoulder the blame for the sixty odd year impasse.

One of the trickier political sticking points was that there are many pre-revolutiouary Cubans living in America who are a pretty powerful voting bloc. Any sign of friendliness to the Castro regime is met with furious rebuttal at the ballot. And no politician likes that.

I left and made my way to the station for the overnight bus. I could only find a bike taxi which tried a cheap scam by saying his friend would buy the bus ticket for me and get a better price. His friend came back saying that the bus was full but he could only get me a ticket for 30 CUC/$. Thankfully I had done a little research and knew it was half that. I told them both to politely go fuck themselves and made my way to the station for my bus.

Camaguey - Part 1

At breakfast, Marci was very insistent that I listen to the Cuban radio equivalent of Kiss FM (A British easy listening show). The first song was White Christmas being played by a Luau band with no vocals. For breakfast, her cook had created a pair Picasso-esque breasts out if pineapple slices and guava. I kept pinching myself to see if I was still dreaming.

Most of the day was consumed by by Viazul bus ride to Camaguey. The bus was, of course, delayed by almost an hour because the driver needed to have his coffee and lunch.

Eventually a portly man emerged from an office and sauntered towards the bus. If he was concerned by the throngs of irrate passengers sweating in breezeless heat, he did an excellent job of hiding it. As he waddled over, every opportunity to talk to colleagues was seized upon. Sometimes he would stop just to slowly sip his coffee, as if taunting us. There really is no time for rushing in Cuba.

When I finally got to my casa particular it turned out Marci had not actually booked a room there, which seemed very unlike her rather meticulous nature. Thankfully every casa owner has a casa friend to hand. I was soon collected by Onix and whisked to my lodgings.

This was the sixth casa I had stayed in over an eight day period and the first where the owners actually spoke more than a few words of English. This probably has more more to do with the fairly naiscant state of mass tourism in the country than anything else.

'Cuba is only just starting to learn how to do business. It's kind of a new thing for us.' Onix explained. In near flawless English.

'Also, the official rules are that you can't bring home the same chica on more than one night.'

'So basically only hookers?!'

This was odd considering that all of my previous hosts had explicitly told me not to bring chica home. Not that I had much of a chance of that given my rather rudimentary Spanish.

'You want some papaya juice?'

'Si gracias.' I'd made a point of speaking back in Spanish so we were both sort of practicing.

'Here in Cuba we have two kinds of papaya. One is the fruit and the other one is here.' He pointed both hands to his groin and beamed. Sex is seems, is never very far from the front of most Cuban's waking or sleeping thoughts.

I steered the conversation towards slightly more useful information about how these casas actually operate. Casas particulares all have to give a flat 50% of their earnings to the government. Some pay a bit less than that if they have more rooms. This went some way to explain why they are a little pricier than you'd expect, given the relative strength of Cuba's economy.

Although I would add that the situation is a marked improvement on twenty eight years ago, when my parents remember paying $120 a night to stay charmless, Soviet style resorts.

The vast majority are just private homes that have been converted. They could set the rates themselves but I have a suspicion that they are fixed by the government. Everything here still seems to be beholden to their omnipresent grip, in one way or another.

That night I decided to eat cheap and found a hole in the wall that was selling mystery meat sliders for 25 cents a pop. It was manned by a very grumpy Little Person (I'm pretty sure midget is not a PC term anymore). He ignored me and anyone else who came in for a good deal of time, acting as though he'd rather chew glass than serve food. I finally got my dinner reluctantly tossed to me, accompanied by a snarl. It tasted a bit like it was made from dog food, just with less flavour.

I found a bar that was described as the Hunter S Thomson hangout in the guidebook. It was a great little dive, all its walls adorned with art, graffiti and a mural of Hunter S Thomson himself (although I doubt he ever drank here). There were very few tourists in Camaguey and so I was able to read quietly. A fairweather friendless evening for the first time since my arrival. It was much needed and I had my first decent night's of sleep on the trip.

Santa Clara

Santa Clara was a small, curiously hip city in the geographic center of Cuba. Known mostly for its large student population and vibrant gay scene, I was intrigued to check it out.

Cuba, depite being a very Catholic country, seemed to have a pretty breezy approach to homosexuality. Every city I'd been to seemed to have openly gay people wandering in the streets as well as the occasional rainbow flag. In Cienfuegos, all the people selling garlic in the streets were very flamboyant, young gay men. I asked around but no one seemed to know why.

My casa host Marsi was the polar opposite of Ms Odalys. She seemed to think that I was unaquainted with even the most basic human faculties. Treating me like one would a Martian. As we went through the room she explained, in minute detail, how to turn on a tap, lights, shower, flush a toilet, open a door, open a window, close a window.

After an eternity of explanation, she moved on to the map of the city. It's a very compact place, with few sights but this was also drawn out ad nauseum. I finally excused myself from the vice like grip of her well intentioned lecturing and darted into the city.

I was starving and looked around for food. There was a window serving cheese pizza for half a CUC, which was ideal. Practically doubling over with hunger, I joined the line of nattering Cubans. I must confess that if you you are a pizza afficionado then Cuba isn't for you. It tends to just be a stodgy, circular piece of bread with plastic cheese on top. I finally got to the window and was told, unapologetically, that there was none left.

I turned around and saw a giant sign saying 'Gracias Fidel.' I could think of two other, less friendly, words I wanted put in front of his name. I'm the worst version of myself when I'm hangry.

Thankfully this was a blessing in disguise as I stumbled accross a local restaurant that served me the best meal I'd had in Cuba thus far for only 5 CUC. Perfectly cooked lamb on the bone, marinaded in a tomato sauce that was spiced and oozing in actual flavor. A concept that Cuba is still struggling to get acquainted with.

As well as gays and students, this town is also famous for being the epicenter of the 1959 revolution. It was here that a plucky band of only eighteen poorly trained guerillas managed to detail a train containing two hundred troops and forced them to surrender after a fierce battle. This moment essentially lit the spark of the revolution and was the beginning of the end for the US backed Batista Regine.

They were led by the enigmatic Ernesto 'Che' Guevara. Cuba's best known political figure along side Fidel Castro. His face appears pretty much everywhere in this country along with various Communist revolutionary slogans. The site where this battle happened had become something of an interactive museum.

For 1 CUC you could wander around the actual carriages that were derailed, check out the bullet holes in the actual tractor they used to raise the tracks. They had managed to salvage just about anything they could get from that day; uniforms, soda bottes for Molotov cocktails, used hankies. It was a surreal place.

Next was the Che Guevara mausoleum. Situated on the edge of town, it sported a giant statue of the man himself on a plyth about fourty feet high. It seemed quite fitting for a man who is about as close to a God as you can get in Cuba.

Underneath the plynth was the Che museum and his final resting place. Although he was shot in Boliva (in front of US agents) in 1967 it took thirty years to get his remains back, thanks mostly to the US government.

The US also, famously, tried to kill Castro a multitude of times through various ridiculous means, including expolding cigars. You can see why the two countries aren't the best of friends.

The mausoleum itself was very tasteful in a tacky, Cuban sort of way. I had to ask the lady who was overseeing my reverence where he was. Each of the revolutions key figures' faces was carved into an identically sized clay plate, covering the walls from head to toe. There were about sixty of them. I learnt that Che requested to have everyone else involved in the revolution interred with him and to place no emphasis on his section of the wall. I thought it said a lot about the man. There was an eternal flame in the floor with a rather out of place looking garden at the end of the room. The lady couldn't seem to explain why there was an indoor garden, so it will have to remain a mystery. Like many things here.

That evening, I decided to check out Club Mejunje. According to the guidebook every Saturday night it hosted Cuba's only drag show. This sounded too good to miss.

I got talking to Elliel, the bartender. He was razor sharp, a chemistry graduate and spoke almost fluent English and Russian. Incedentally, Russia is one of the few places Cubans can travel to with relative ease. He had lived in Moscow for two years as part of a cultural exchange. I decided to take advantage of his English and get some answers to some of the burning questions I'd had on the trip.

Until 2014 you could neither legally buy property nor cars in Cuba. But that changed once Casto died. Almost Instantaneously, prices of both skyrocketed. Taxis and property were only a few thousand CUC back then and increased around 1000% overnight. Which must have been something of a shock to the system.

Taxis used to be passed down through families. Private taxis are owned by the driver. If someone wants to buy one they will need to scrape together the 60,000 or so CUC through family, friends and unofficial loans. Not an easy feat given that most Cubans make around 20-60 CUC a month.

I was told that the drag show was now on Sunday and every Saturday he had to constantly disappoint tourists who had blindly followed Lonely Planet. In any case, it had been replaced with Cuba's premiere gay and trans disco. So all wasn't lost.

I got talking with some locals, Rafael, Michel, Roberto and a lady called Ismaylay. Soon the place was bustling with many men of all shapes, sizes and persuasions. There was a black, muscular trans person in a tiny white dress who was about seven foot tall. It reminded me of a statue of a Nubian Eunuch I once saw in Istanbul. Except she was wearing a platinum blonde wig.

Outside I bumped into a portly gay man from San Francisco. He was on some kind of cultural exchange and was wearing a rainbow colored shellsuit and a rainbow stovepipe hat. He was very queer indeed.

Strangely, gay Cuban men are not particularly mercenary with straight men especially compared to other parts if the world. I was sort of hoping to be batting them away as all the gringo girls have been on the trip. But alas, I was not to be Belle of the ball.

The rest of the evening passed without much incident, except for a moment when a jealous lover smashed a beer bottle and attempted to shiv someone kissing his man. The whole thing was conducted in just about the campest manner ever so the threat didn't feel particularly genuine. Most of the club just ignored it. I noticed lots of broken glass about the place so this was probably a regular occurrence.

Trinidad

I woke up to what sounded like a farmyard convention. Rafael's casa was on the edge of town so I was roused by a veritable chorus of barn animals that all seemed to be egging the other on to make ever more enthusiastic and irritating noises. The cockrels were engaged in an especially vociferous debate.

Breakfast at casa Rafael was an absolute treat. Every morning in Cuba it had been the same ritual. Banana, guava, pineapple, wake the dead coffee, egg, juice and stale bread. Today had the welcome addition of two whole new fruits and, wait for it, processed ham. I wolfed the whole meal down faster than a Victorian urchin at a buffet. There were even biscuits and pastry like treats which I pocketed for the road.

If anything, Cuba has made me exceedingly grateful for things I have always taken for granted. Access to good and reliable food and internet were now blessings that I wept with joy upon receiving. Traveling in a vehicle that didn't crush your vertebrae into dust was another.

It was hard to imagine what most Cubans thought of us spoilt, greedy Westerners. All Cubans my age or above would have lived through 'The Special Period.' This was the time after 1991 when the Soviet Union collapsed and led to an instantaneous 60% contraction of the economy. The worst of it lasted until 1994, during which the average Cuban lost a third of their bodyweight. This enforced crash dieting has given the Cubans something of a thick skin when it comes to their everyday hassles.

Cubans are, as a result of this and many other of Communism's quirks, a very innovative people. They really have managed to squeeze a great deal from a very short deck.

Whilst life here is by no means perfect, I get the impression that most Cubans are a happy lot. It's hard to be mad when the weather is glorious most of the year and rum is the same price as water. I've also seen far less abject poverty here than most places in the US. And they get free healthcare too. America please take note.

Over the last few days I've been attempting to dip my wick in the spirit of Cuban frugality. This is an incredibly difficult place to travel as a solo traveler on a tight budget. There are almost no hostels so 20 CUC is about as low as you can go a night. There are also very few shops that sell food that is particularly edible on the go. And if find one are you are likely to have to wait in line. A time honored Communist tradition.

One money saving tip I'd started using was to substitute lunch with banannas. Bananas were one of the few foods one could easily pick up for little money. They were filling, portable and bunged you up real good if you happened to have the shits (incedentally my gastric health has been nothing short of phenomenal so far). They are also easily shared and don't spoil as quickly as most fruits and vegetables.

Another little trick I picked up from the Cubans was to buy rum and sneak it into bars. Pretty much every Cuban I'd seen on a night out had managed to smuggle rum in through some cavity or another. One bottle of rum cost as much as two mojitos in a bar. The economics are hard to ignore. It's also a good way to make friends, if the bananas don't work.

My plan for the day was to hike to a waterfall around 15k from Trinidad. I'd heard it was a half decent spot and the surrounding countryside was quite delightful. No sooner had I left Trinidad than I was approached by a man with a horse and cart. He was called Felix and wore a Confederate flag cap with the word 'Rebel' written accross the front. I thought about explaining why his choice of headware wasn't quite Cuban Communist appropriate, but I think it would be have just led to more confusion.

He offered me a ride to the falls and back for 10 CUC with entrance to the waterfall included. Given that the entrance fee to the waterfalls is 10 CUC, this deal was too good to ignore. I decided I would expend the energy I'd saved later in the evening on the dance floor.

I was soon glad for the ride. The path was treacherous and confusing. We had to ford several rivers and deep, liquid mud to get there. Without Felix, I'd probably be halfway to Havana by now. My Spanish had improved somewhat and I was able to hold something close to a conversation. Of course, he wanted to talk about every Cuban male's favorite topic.

'Chicas Cubanos es muy caliente, si?' I heartily agreed, with much head nodding. Although I'd noticed a hugely disproportionate number of Cuban men out at night vs women. I assumed they were all stuck at home looking after their children. Come to think of it, the only Cuban girl I'd really spoken to on a night out to was Jumania the transvestite.

The waterfall was an easy walk from the national park entrance. Although calling it a waterfall was more than generous. This is the middle of the dry season so it was more of a waterpiddle. At the base there was a deep, turquoise pool which I flopped into with great glee. Any solo female traveler who perched themselves by the water was immediately (and predictably) set upon by an amorous Cuban horseman. There was a small army of them perched above the fall, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Back at the casa a group of middle aged French guests had arrived. I got talking with their guide Rosaria. She seemed pretty fed up with her tour group, which was quite understandable after I'd spent five minutes in their company. I told her she should go to the cave club later as we'd had a fun night there and might go there again.

That evening I met up with the two French girls from Vinales, Marion and Gael. We had arranged to meet Tom, Simon and a couple from San Francisco at the town square. Miraculously, we were able to successfully assemble without any access to the internet. Who knew it was possible?

We had something of a squad going and merrily drank mojitos watching salsa on the steps next to the cathedral. It was about as Cuban an evening as it gets. Decent company can really make or break an evening whilst traveling. Barflying or just reading quietly in a cafe is certainly pleasurable but it's great to have a group night out with fun folks every once in a while.

Later, we hit up a salsa joint and gyrated the night away until, and I'm not exaggerating, military police with automatic weapons turned up to announce last orders.

It had been the most fun evening of the trip so far and we merrily said our goodbyes at around 4am.

Back at the casa, as I was changing for bed, I heard a tap at my ground floor window. I opened the heavy metal slats to see the rather startling sight of Rosaria, the French tour guide's eyes bulging bulging through the darkness.

'I go to the cave tonight but you never come.' Even though I could only see the whites of her eyes in the darkness, I could tell that she had supped a few rums too many.

'We went to another salsa place in the end. Hope you had fun. Buesnos noches.' She didn't reply. I closed the screetchy, heavy metal blinds.

After a few minutes lying in bed I heard a distinct shuffling outside the window. It could only have been Rosaria. I hoped she would go away so I could get some sleep but then I heard the slow, deliberate screetching of the blinds opening from the outside. I didn't move and started to make audible snoring noises, hoping this might drive the point home.

Then silence. Some time passed. I noticed a sudden flash of light. And then again. I half-opened one eye and realised that she was trying to wake me up with her phone torch. She started calling for me in a rather raspy, slurred whisper. 'Alejandro....es tu awake?' I snored louder.

Then silence again. I felt something small hit my leg. A moment past and then another, followed by a tapping sound on the floor. She was throwing pebbles at me.

At this point I'd had enough. I got up and walked to the window.

'Is everything OK Rosaria?'

'Yes, are you eh sleepy?' Now I could see a smile through the blinds and it was deeply unnerving.

'Yes Rosaria, I'm exhausted. Buenos noches.'

And with that I re-shut the blinds and the rest of my evening was a short, silent and mercifully Rosaria free.

Cienfuegos/Trinidad

One night in Cienfuegos had been just about enough. I decided I would head out to nearby Trinidad that afternoon after taking in a little more of the city.

Taxis collectivos to Trinidad didn't seem to be much of the thing and I was told by Roberto that I needed to take a bus. Getting a ticket early at the station was essential. Roberto assured me that relying on there being availability when you wanted it was a fool's errand.

At the station I got talking into a German girl called Christina. She too was taking the same bus to Trinidad at 2:30pm and asked if she could join me for the day.

Cuba seems to be something of a haven for female travelers due to its relatively safe reputation. I doubt that the endless amounts on male attention has much to do with the decision making process. Although, come to think of it, I'd quite enjoy traveling around a country where attractive dark skinned women tell me they love me and I'm beautiful almost every waking hour of the day. Throw in the fact that transaction free sex seems to be freely available on tap and you have a real winner.

Finding decent company on the trip had been as easy as breathing. In fact it seemed harder to find time for myself than anything else.

Christina was a from Berlin and gifted with a rye, sardonic sense of humor. A great asset for any human. And particularly impressive for a German. I've found Australian and, in particular, German travelers have always had a habit of rubbing me the wrong way. But all the ones I'd met in Cuba were more than tolerable. Nothing makes complete sense here.

We wandered around in a semi-aimless manner. Cienfuegos' flat, even streets gave our legs and joints some respite. Every other city and town so far in Cuba had streets that looked like they had been hit by an artillery barrage. Everyone I'd met was sporting a scratch, sprain or bruse, courtesy of a mistimed step.

I learnt from Christina that communist rationing for everyday items here was still very much a thing. Every man, woman and child was allocated a share of Cuba's collective spoils. Sugar, bread, coffee and the like were reserved for the majority. You then qualified for free rum and cigars at retirement age. I'd wondered why all the pensioners here seemed so full of vim and vinager.

The Viazul bus to Trinidad was the most civilised mode of transport thus far. Air conditioned, and comfortable. It felt like we were driving on a cloud. I almost moaned with pleasure the whole journey.

My host Rafael was at the bus station waiting for me with an 'Alejandro' sign. I hopped on the back of his scooter and we were on the way. At the casa it turned out that everyone was familiar with Ms Odalys, which isn't a surprise. She makes a lasting impact on everyone in her presence.

Rafael's place was a large, somewhat tastefully decorated, compound on the outskirts of Trinidad. I was relieved to finally have a room that wasn't brightly colored. It turned out I was the only guest which was a bit of a shame as the place was enormous and felt rather empty for it.

Trinidad was, in many ways, the polar opposite of Cienfuegos. A perfectly preserved Spanish colonial town set against a hillside. The place was gifted with beautiful pastel colored homes and undulating cobbled streets. It was very pleasing, in a rough around the edges kind of way. There were the usual throngs of sunburnt tourists but somehow the place maintained a decidedly easy going feel to it. Finding quiet little streets with chirpy Cubans going about their day was easy and I took to Trinidad quickly.

Trundling into town I soon found the familiar sight of a huddled mass of Internet addicts. Unfortunately the WiFi was overwhelmed and I wasn't allowed my net fix for the evening. Even if you find WiFi spots, they are often useless, thanks to armies of gringos, thirsty for their Instagram feeds. Being a porn addicts in Cuba must be an absolute nightmare.

No sooner had I given up then I became aquainted with two Danish girls. They asked me if I wanted to join them for a hike to a beautiful spot at the top of a nearby hill that had sweeping views of the surrounding mountains and the ocean. It wasn't the hardest offer to turn down.

The climb was steeper than I'd imagined but it didn't disappoint. There were already a few people up there and, predictably, a savvy Cuban selling beer for 2 CUC. A small world of young, intrepid travelers arrived representing all corners of the globe. It was one of the most beautiful and jolly sunsets I'd had in some time.

After my evening ablutions, I gently ambled into town. Taking in the everyday nighttime life of Trinidad was a pleasure in itself. Almost every home seemed to be replete with people either salsa dancing or sitting, en masse, in front of Cuban TV.

I managed to get online for the briefest taste of Internet but was cut off almost immediately. I was used to this kind of thing by now so it didn't bother me. Two very genial Lodoners around my age were next to me and we got talking. It seems that the WiFi hotspots are an excellent source of company for solo travelers.

Without hesitation, they invited me to join them for dinner. This was very kind indeed given we'd exchanged all but a few words. Another attractive Dane called Liz and her four year old daughter joined us. An Argentinian called Ricardo was also in tow and was most definitely trying to get in Liz's pants.

After a dinner of Cuban hamburgers, we strode into the night. Incidentally it was the first time I'd eaten non-Cuban fare here and I was in seventh heaven. Although they make the fries out of banana or yuca if you're lucky, so be warned. Also, you'll have more chance of finding Madeline McAnn here than any kind of spice. Which also makes absolutely no sense tiven the climate.

Tom, Simon and I made our way to a night spot that had been heartily recommended by several friends. A club nestled in a cave called Disco Ayala.

It was certainly a novelty. One doesn't get to get drunk in a Cuban cave very often. It became instantly apparent that anything that did not have a penis was closely orbited by at least one overly amorous Cuban. Every time I even tried to make polite conversation with a girl, a Cuban, sometimes two or three, would swoop in and lock their arms around them, putting me in mind of a corcodile snatching a young gazelle by the neck.

Cubans, it has to be said, are mercenary when it comes to anything dance and club related. I'm not good at picking up anyone in a club at the absolute best of times. I was, in football parlance, completely outgunned and outclassed. I found the whole thing very amusing and surreal but Tom and Simon were taking it a little more personally.

I still wanted to dance with someone as I was finally in the mood for it after five days of quiet study. Fortune came in the form of a transvestite called Jermania. Unsurprisingly she was the only lady in the joint without a double helix of Cubans. She spoke fluent English and we got along fabulously. Sadly trans people aren't quite my sexual preference but we were able to throw some decent shapes on the dancefloor and have a few laughs. Simon and Tom looked on with looks of abject confuson. When life gives you lemons, you salsa with a trasvestite. As they say.

Cienfuegos

The next morning around around 7am, I was woken violently by a relentless thwacking sound on my door that could only have been dear Ms Odalys.

Once breakfasted and ready, we had a long, emotional farewell. 'Adios Alejandro, mi amor,' She beamed and my heart fluttered a little. I was stuffed into another collective taxi, along with eight other people, headed for Vinales by way of Havana. Inside were two Brits, two Americans, a Pole, an Austrian and a Swiss lady. A veritable UN on wheels.

Immediately we all began to vent our various gripes with the Cuban bureaucratic machine.

'Vi never know any of ze schedules for anysing!' said the Swiss lady, rather predictably.

One interesting piece of information I learnt from the ride helped explain a little why taxis were so expensive here. The average price of a car is around 60,000 CUC and goes up to 120,000 CUC for something a little more more modern. All exclusively supplied via the government. Everything here is done via the government and is a brazen warning of the consequences of full nationalisation. Nobody was quite sure whether people leased them or were able obtain loans to buy them but either way, this ridiculously high cost was clearly being passed on to tourists.

It was reassuring to know that it was really all the Cuban government's fault. Although America's embargo definitely deserves rather hefty credit for this too. This was a relief. Both are much easer to be angry at than the lovely people of Cuba.

What also became clear from our heated griping was that prices paid for exactly the same thing can vary dramatically, depending on a myriad of factors. I kept Ms Odalys' horse discount quiet as part of our blood oath to total secrecy. This blog doesn't count, obviously.

This collective taxi was by far the least put together of any so far, which is saying something. Whenever we would attempt an overtake he would throw it into a gear that was so loud, I repeatedly checked my ears for signs of bleeding. Predictably, the driver had to pull over a number of times to do some quick tinkering with the engine. But just about everyone here is a trained mechanic so you're always in safe hands.

Outside of Havana, I was deposited in a motorway side lot with a bunch of assorted taxis particulares and the usual array of lost looking travelers. I was herded towards a large bus/pickup truck that was already packed with exhaperated faces. Thankfully I was the last one in so I got to sit at the front with the driver. I felt the piercing heat of many envious stares as I slunk into my high backed leather throne.

The driver offered me some coffee that was in a little bottle that looked like it had once been used for cough medicine. The liquid was deep purple in color and a little viscous. A few sips and I realised that this was the crack cocaine of coffee. I'm not a big coffee drinker on account of my sensitivity to caffene so I was soon twitching like a neurotic meerkat and completely lost the ability to blink.

After a total of six hours on the road, we pulled into Cienfuegos. Everyone who had been stuffed in the bull pen at the back of the truck had weary, thousand yard stares. Like they had been stuck in a tumble dryer for two hours. I averted my eyes for fear of retribution.

My casa particular was around the corner and was the nicest place so far. The owner Carlos, a pale, lithe man in his 40s and his muscular parter Roberto were waiting for me. The room was large and the usual assortment of violent pastel blues and lime greens. It also had a roof terrace with sweeping views over the city, which was very nice indeed. Amazingly, it also had WiFi which made it three casas for three. I've come to learn that this was very unusual indeed.

Carlos cheerfully informed me that another English person was staying in the room below mine, called Harry. Later on, whilst entranced my hour a day internet fix, I met Harry on the roof terrace. To my surprise in was actually a girl called Harriet. She was a freelance set decorator for films and was based out of Wandsworth. I only had twenty minutes to go on my daily dose of net and I was frantically popping out emails and other social media so my first impressions weren't stellar.

We supped rum and chatted away on the terrace watching Cienfuegos gently glide into dusk. Like Marie and Maria, she confirmed that all Cuban boys were generally all fart and no poo and had never really felt threatened.

One thing Iearnt was that Cuba is something of a destination for middle age ladies seeking a little excitement in their love lives. Harriet had met a woman from Hungary in her senior years who had decided that all the men her age back home were lost causes. Apparently a little stint in Cuba is a well known remedy to this problem. The Thailand for old ladies, if you will. Given how quickly Maria the dog fearer had been picked up by young Luiz, this made a great deal of sense.

Before we could head out and hit Cienfuegos, I experienced my first power cut. It was very surreal given that we had a view over half of the city when it happened. Not long after, Carlos came panting up the stairs with portable lights.

'Maybe is fix in an hour, maybe two....maybe more.'

This wasn't quite the reassuring answer I was looking for.

Eventually the power did magically flick into life like a light bulb and we went out to grab a bite. Whilst searching, we stumbled accross a miniature, nine foot high version of the Arc de Triomphe in the main square.

As mentioned previously, this is known as the Paris of Cuba and there is actually a fair amount of truth to it. There is a grid system, long boulevards, wide paved streets and neoclassical architecture that are found almost nowhere else in Cuba. Interestingly, the early Cienfuegos settlers were pioneers in this layout and it was later adopted with gusto by Baron Haussmann (the person responsible for the way modern Paris looks now).

Apparently they even had caberet clubs that were a very loose attempt to ape Mouoin Rouge. After Cuban dinner (where we ordered two different things but got pretty much the same meal), neither of us had the strength for much partying. I had spent six hours being tenderised by Cuban roads and she was making her way back to Havana in the early hours. We said our farewells and I once again collapsed into bed and was instantly enveloped by the delicious, inky cloak of sleep.

Vinales - Part 2

I'd not really taken much time to soak in Vinales itself, thanks to my enforced rendezvous with Pina Colada the horse yesterday. It's by no means an undiscovered gem but it is certainly full of charm. A small town of neat, keleidoscopic bunglaows nestled in verdant countryside hills. It had an easy going feel to it that felt like a good antidote to Havana.

There were plenty of tourists and travelers alike but they were much less gruesome than the kind of ilk you find in places like Thailand or Cambodia. Certainly a good spot for a night or two, nothing more.

Breakfast was the usual dazzling array of chopped fruits, a little bread and wake the dead coffee. There was even a fried egg from on the of the many free range chickens that roam around the town with the haughty air of a Hindu cow.

I was eating healthier food in Cuba than I can remember and was shedding pounds like they were going out of fahsion. Although I'm quite sure my car journey yesterday has quite a lot to do with it. That and the fact that I've stopped drinking beer. Apparently people here consider rum a vitamin and an essential ingredient to one's general sense of well being and happiness. Having been here for three days, I could only agree.

Mdme Odalys, in her usual loving but abrasive manner, had decreed that I was to go to the beach today. As soon as my last drops of coffee had been supped, I was being herded into yet another 1950s behemoth of a car. This time is was a Plymouth that had also been gifted a new engine by the good people at Peugeot.

Unfortunately I wasn't in for a private drive today. By the time we'd left Vinales the car had scooped up a total of seven other passengers, meaning there were nine of us packed in like sardines. The suspension was no less forgiving than yesterday's Ford but at least it was a mercifully short drive of one hour. Long enough only to lose another half inch of my spinal column.

The beach was very fine. Generously adorned white sand, plan trees and turquoise waters that one sees in just about every advert for a Caribbean holiday. There were plenty of tourists but it didn't feel particularly congested. It was the first time I had felt a genuine sense of relaxation since arriving in Cuba and I couldn't be happier for it. No cash machines or government sim card shops for miles. Pure bliss.

After a few hours of writing, reading and general basking, I set off for a walk to get the blood going and take some photos. This turned out to be a real treat as there was a neighboring beach that was completely pristine and entirely devoid of tourists. The added bonus was that the fleet of vintage cars ferrying people over had parked there, which was a sight to behold.

I'm very much in two minds about Cuba's future development as a country. As it slowly opens up to the world, I fear it will lose some of the things that make it such a unique place to visit. This is probably the way I can best rationalise and appreciate the various layers of bureaucracy and transportation issues that drive one batty here. If they were to go away then I think that would likely mean the sight of a fleet of 1950s classic cars strewn across a beach may no longer be that commonplace. Which is kind of sad to imagine really.

It's easy to forget that mobile phones and constant access to the internet are luxuries that the human race have only had for a relatively short period of time. Regulating myself to one hour a day of Internet is honestly not as awful as I'd imagined, especially when you're in a place that's as unique as Cuba.

After some merry snapping it was time to head home to Vinales. The countryside was a heart rendering scene of jades, delicately filigreed with purple early evening mists. All I wanted to do was get out and explore, with only myself for company.

Ms Odalys was waiting expectantly and now addressed me as 'Alejandro, mi amour,' which got me all giddy inside. She briefed me on my itinerary for tomorrow. I was to be housed in a Casa Particulares in Cienfuegos, a mid-sized city a few hours east and, perhaps a little generously, described as the 'Paris of Cuba' in my guidebook.

'How far is the casa from the center?' I enquired.
'Cinque minutes. Mi amor.' She forced out something that looked eerily like a smile.

She then wobbled her hand and shook her head in a gesture that led me to believe that it was likely a lot more than that. But it was hard to challenge her judgement. We seemed to have forged something of a bonhomie since the horse riding incident and I didn't dare leave her good graces.

That evening I trundled from the peaceful isolation of the casa to the town square to soak in the Vinales nightlife. There was only one proper night spot next to the town square and it was awash with Cubans and tourists alike.

The younger Cubans were mostly male and tended to loiter on the outer rim of the dance floor. Every once in a while, they would dive in to extract young gringo girls for a salsa session. It put me in mind of the well-honed expertise of a hawk snatching up a field mouse.

I felt a little tap on my shoulder and two French girls I'd talked briefly to at the beach earlier were behind me. They had also, coincidentally, been sitting next to me and Marie in Havana at dinner. Cuba seems to be something of a Meccah for French travelers. I may not be learning much Spanish but my French is probably as good as it's ever been.

After some jolly francophone mojitos together, I was feeling the welcome sensation of fatigue. We said our goodbyes and I made my way to the casa at a leisurely pace, soaking in the cool, hazy nighttime air. We would try and meet in Trinidad in a few days but forward planning here is about as easy as leaving the EU. So I'm not holding my breath.

Vinales - Part 1

In the morning I continued my search for a working sim card with Ernesto. We went to his local government run internet shop but, of course, they didn’t sell them to non-locals. I would have to go back to the place that makes you wait an hour surrounded by other pissed off tourists. I decided that I’d rather have a spider lay eggs in my inner ear canal than go there again so I went home and waited for the collective taxi to Vinales to pick me up.

As a parting gift to Ernesto I gave him access to my external hard drive that had about 600 films on it. As you may have noticed by now, fast internet is hard to come by so streaming and downloading are nigh on impossible. He seemed particularly happy that the 1973 version of Papillon was on there, which was a little surprising given everything I’d learnt about him so far.

One thing that is relatively good value here are the collective taxis. My fare to Vinales was only 15 CUC, which is the same as a 15 minute night time ride in Havana. Except Vinales is two and a half hours away. And I found out to my delight that I was the only person taking the taxi.

The car turned out to be a Ford station wagon built in 1954. I was tremendously excited at first but that soon gave way to yet more toil. For one, the engine bathed the passenger seat in hot sulphurous diesel fumes that seemed to bind themselves to the inside of my mouth and throat with great ease. The noise was not unlike being inside a World War II era B52 Bomber, a plane that famously made its crew lose their hearing. The roads also made New Orleans look like the German Autobahn and this car had no suspension to speak of. By the end of the journey I was half-deaf, and my muscles had deteriorated to that of a veal calf. I felt like I’d gone three rounds with mike Tyson in a sauna.

In spite of all this I confess that I did still enjoy the novelty of driving in a car that would be in a museum in any other country. Even if I was so dehydrated that me pee was probably the colour and consistency of molasses.

Exhausted and gasping for water, I was greeted by my rather fearsome host Ms Odalys. She was a plump, matronly figure with a stare that always made you feel like you’d done something naughty. Her place had been recommended by a friend in NOLA and it was certainly not wanting for charm and character. She spoke to me in machine gun Spanish, despite me insisting repeatedly that I could barely understand her. Thankfully one of the two other guests, a pair of very sweet middle-aged Italian ladies, was on hand to translate by way of French.

Apparently I was to immediately go on a horseback ride and see a coffee and tabbacco farm, a cave and a lake. She said that it would be 30 CUC for three hours and I politely declined, citing abject poverty. A rather stern look crept upon Ms Odalys’ face and she marched off in a huff, muttering in hushed Spanish tones.

I was shown to my room, a marine themed orgy of bright blues and lime greens that gave one the sense of being trapped in a child’s goldfish tank. After a minute of unpacking she stormed in, slamming the door behind her and said that she would get me a horseback ride for 10 CUC. I hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks and all was right with the world again. She swore me to extreme secrecy and we shook on it. At least, I think she did. Her Spanish was so fast that making sense of it was a shot in the dark at best.

I was still shaking like a paint mixer from my drive and completely exhausted but Ms Odalys insisted that I get in the saddle immediately. And with that, I found myself five minutes later with a guide called Unal and sitting atop a horse called Pina Colada.

The trekking was on a pre-prescribed circuit that was admittedly very beautiful in parts. Unfortunately the horses looked unwell and were badly treated. Pina Colada seemed the only exception as he decided he wanted to canter the entire trail, much to my chagrin. Predictably the ‘trek’ was also a vessel for tourists to buy the local coffee, honey, rum and cigars. I confess that the chap at the rum part was so charming and spoke English so well that I bought a bottle (after some friendly haggling). I considered it an investment as well as a useful tool to make new friends. I decided to skip the cave and the cigar factory as I’d had just about enough. The desire to quietly sip my incredibly delicious rum on the veranda in a rocking chair, soaking in the cool early evening airs was too powerful to ignore.

Later, I dined on delicious fresh fish and pork with the two elderly Italian ladies Eliza and Maria, who had joined me on the veranda for a sundowner (told you the rum was a good investment). As we at dinner I noticed that we were always under the watchful eye of Ms Odalys, who ran her guest house like a dictatorship, randomly barking orders at various family members.

Most tourists on a budget stay in these Casa Particulares, which is basically a Cuban BnB. They cost around 15-30 CUC a night (depending on negotiating skills) and usually include breakfast and, if you’re lucky, a decent dinner. This place had both meals in spades and Ms Odalys was not one to let anyone go hungry on her watch.

Ms Odalys apparently had a reputation for honesty, according to the Italian ladies. Given that she had charged them both three times more for the stodgy horse ride, I had reason to doubt this. I told the ladies that I planned to hit the town square in the evening and the younger of the two (in her mid 50s), Maria asked if I could chaperone her. As we walked through the dead of night it soon became clear that she had a seriously bad fear of dogs. Which I found both amusing and baffling in equal measure. Especially since the dogs in Cuba are tiny and about as friendly and clean as stray dogs get.

We made it to the town square and hit a salsa/rhumba/generic Cuban music club called Il Colonial. Within moments, she had been set upon by a 24 year old called Luiz. Incidentally the bother of Unal, my horse guide. Unal was there too, chatting up tourists, puffing out his broad shoulders and cheeky Cuban smile. Earlier he had told me he had a wife and kids at home but I’ve learnt that that doesn’t seem to count for much here.

I ended up having a blast chatting to a gay Australian around my age called Dave and a British chap in his 60s called Duncan, who looked a dead ringer for Stephen Fry. We traded tales over Mojitos whilst watching Luiz try and work his magic on a lady old enough to be his grandmother. Cuban men will say just about anything to get laid and given the near constant revolving door of tourists, they’ve gotten really good at it. Dave and Duncan were part of an organised travel group that was apparently nursing a 19 year old American girl with a broken heart. She had met a young Cuban chap in Havana and, in Dave’s own words, been ‘fingerbanged’ by him. Sadly he had swiftly fled the scene after said act. During their brief time together she had been whispered all sorts of things about his new found love for her and she’d bought it. I suppose at 19 it’s forgivable, but still a bit thick.

Luiz was not having the same measure of success and soon it was time for me to take Maria the Italian dog fearer home. She told me Luiz had said he loved her and wanted to come home with her. He even said he thought she was a famous singer. Given that she was quite savvy in the ways of the world, Marai saw straight through his thinly veiled bullshit.

As we trundled to the casa in the dead of night Maria shrieked so loudly that I almost had a heart attack. A puppy the size of a Guinea Pig scurried out of the darkness and passed with little interest. I suggested Maria should perhaps seek professional assistance.

Havana - Part 2

My first full day in Cuba would put me in touch with many of the more frustrating elements of being both a local and a tourist here. Very few things are straightforward and many of the things you take for granted whilst traveling in other counties are either a pain to get hold of or simply don’t exist at all. You may also think that Cuba, being extremely poor and cut off from the world for so long, would be a cheap place to travel. Unfortunately, in many respects it’s absolutely not.

During breakfast with Ernesto, he explained that there was a currently an egg shortage in the country. Apparently the grain needed to feed chickens was in short supply and hungry chickens don’t do much laying. It was, as he called it, ‘un poquito crisis huevo.’

His girlfriend’s family owned a farm and he had arrived the day before with a fresh stock of eggs and some cheese made from their dairy cow. Good cheese that wasn’t the consistency of processed rubber was also something of a rarity here too. I never thought I’d be grateful to be eating eggs and cheese. But then again this is Cuba and it mad may more little surprises in store.

The first order of business was to change some pounds to the local currency Pesos Convertibles or CUC. This being Cuba there are actually two completely separate currencies. CUC is reserved exclusively for tourists. Locals deal in Pesos and it’s about 25 pesos to one CUC. The average government employee makes around 20 CUC a month. The Lonely Planet had the exchange rate pegged at 1.5 CUC to the Pound. Ernesto kindly offered to take me to a place I could change money and then drop me off in Old Havana. Unfortunately the current exchange rate was now more like 1.25. Thanks Brexit.

I hadn’t brought all that much cash as the guide book reassured me that European cards were all bueno here. What the buggers at Lonely Planet hadn’t mentioned was that the exchange rate at cash machines was 1 CUC to 1 Pound. Basically, I realised on my first day that this trip was going to be 30% more expensive thank I’d hoped for. Given that I’m a relatively frugal person, this had me in something of a bad mood. ‘Lonely Planet Wankers’ I muttered as I withdrew my CUC, hands trembling with rage.  

On a more positive note I was delighted to see that Cuba still maintained a rich fleet of pre-embargo American classics and Soviet gems, all in varying states of disrepair. There were definitely more modern vehicles around than there had been a few years ago but the majority were still overwhelmingly antique. Pretty much all cars in Cuba seem to be licensed taxis. With prices ranging based on distance, type of car, time of day, your bargaining skills, Spanish abilities and the general mood of the driver. Unfortunately the average price is incredibly expensive, especially in Havana. The journey from my place to Old Havana was no more than 15 minutes long and cost 10 CUC and more at night. About the same as an Uber in London.

Unlike pretty much any other country on earth, taxi drivers here are some of the highest paid people in the country, making more than most doctors, lawyers and bankers. Hence why everybody here seems to drive one. I spoke to one taxi driver called Yuri who drove and fabulous 1952 open top Cadillac (95% original apparently) and he said he made around 100 CUC a day. That’s five times the average monthly government salary or 365,000 pounds sterling a year, if you believe the cash machines. No wonder he had such a big smile on his face.

After I’d made my peace with the dreaded cash machine I decided to go for a wander around Old Havana and soak up the sights. The weather was just about as perfect as weather can be. The architecture, as expected, was gorgeous and replete with weathered, old colonial charm. Although if you’re coming from a place like New Orleans the place feels extremely familiar and doesn’t quite tug on the heartstrings the way it should do.

The streets were bulging with geriatric tourists and hustlers extracting CUCs from them with gay abandon. I even fell for a few myself. Paying half a CUC for a banana the size of my thumb and then 3 CUC to have a look at Fidel and Che’s old collection of guns and knives. The problem is that everyone is so warm and friendly that you end up delighting in their various hustles. I needed to watch out or I’d start bleeding funds faster than a drunken sailor on shore leave.

After a healthy dose of aimless wandering, I needed to get me some Wi-Fi real bad. Again, this is not particularly easy, cheap or straightforward. Just like everything else here. There are a few hot spots located in public squares in the city. It’s pretty easy to spot them. An entire square packed full of people sitting still as statues, transfixed to their phones and laptops in the manner of a heroin addict cooking up their fix is not hard to miss.

You can only get online by buying a scratch card which are sold from government cell shops (of which there are few) and street peddlers. The street price is around 2.5 CUC for an hour online and 1 CUC if you want to wait 40 minutes. A street Wi-Fi hustler saw me an recognized the crazed look of a person who had been offline for a few hours. I bought two hours’ worth and proceeded to join the huddled masses and bathe in our collective addiction to the internet.

My final ordeal for the day was to get hold of a sim card so I could make local calls. They don’t do sims with internet, of course. Even in Iran I was able to procure a fully functioning 4G sim card within 24 hours of landing. But as I repeat ad nauseum, this is Cuba and getting normal shit done here is a royal pain in the ass.  

The government internet card and sim buildings are relatively easy to spot as they have a large throng of disgruntled looking internet addicted tourists in front of them. After forty minutes waiting outside and sharing our collective Cuba frustrations a man stepped outside and bellowed ‘Internet card es finite per la dias…no more internet card today.’ This, as you would expect, was met with an enormous collective sigh of frustration, accompanied by much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Thankfully they still had sim cards and after nearly an hour of patient waiting, I was at the front of the line. The lady at the booth stared at me with the blank expression of someone whose soul had long departed from their earthly being.

‘Passaporte?’

‘Erm, no. No one told me I needed a passport.’ My blood pressure swelling beyond measure.

‘No passport. No sim…. NEASTE.’

I didn’t have time to get a word in. I was glad for the desk between us because I have never been closer to strangling another human being to death as I was in that moment. 

Needless to say, my first day in Cuba had me somewhat frothy with its various frustrations. All of the stress I’d avoided on my journey had been meted out threefold by my first day here.

The small mercy to my day was befriending a charming French lady called Marie whilst sitting in Wi-Fi addict park. We made plans to meet later for dinner, which is tricky when you can neither call nor text and was reacquainting me with a level of organisation I’d not needed since the age of 10. I didn’t feel particularly up for barflying so a quiet dinner in town with good company was something of a relief.

Like just about every female in Cuba she had been privy to a severe amount of cat calling but confirmed that is was usually all fart and no poop. According to Marie my next destination, Vinales, was a welcome respite form Havana but still had quite a lot of tourists, which I wasn’t exactly buzzed about. Unfortunately in a place like Cuba, it’s relatively tricky to go off-piste, especially if your Spanish is as poor as mine. Hopefully there will be opportunities later. I still had nine or so spots on my rough itinerary and 18 days of travel to go. Plenty of opportunity to cock up.

After saying our goodbyes, I made my way home. I was jetlagged and a full day of pottering around and dealing with Cuban bureaucracy had taken its toll. A young chap called Miguel appeared out of the darkness offered me both cocaine and prostitutes, because you can’t seemingly find one without the other. His English was excellent and he seemed an interesting fellow so I politely declined and instead offered him a drink instead.

He had worked in a restaurant that had recently closed and apparently the coke and hookers game was pretty easy to dovetail into if you’re out of work. We discussed how both of these respective products, like everything in Cuba, had wildly different price points for tourists and locals. Everything does. Even drinks at a bar. A ruse which I quietly planned to exploit later in my journey.

We said our goodbyes and it was time for another eye wateringly expensive taxi with Raul, who rather disappointingly drove a newish KIA. He was as friendly and, like all other taxi drivers, had a Cheshire Cat grin that said ‘I got you by the balls now you stupid Gringo.’

Havana - Part 1

As the days began to draw near to my departure for Cuba, a sense of unease began to grow gently inside me. I had every reason to be nervous. The last two adventurous trips I’d taken had journeys that were near disasters. On my way to Colombia in 2014, I collapsed in the Orlando Airport arrivals area in a limp, vomiting heap and had to be taken to a hospital by ambulance. To add insult to injury the doctors were convinced that I was overdosing on opioids. Turns out it’s hard to defend yourself if you can’t form complete sentences. Thankfully it cleared up and I made my connection (I had severe vertigo caused by an ear infection, in case you were wondering).

Whilst traveling to Iran I got to Heathrow Airport and discovered that I had no tickets about two hours before my flight. The travel agent had cancelled on me but Gmail, in an overzealous attempt to protect me from spam, decided I didn’t need to know this. Thankfully that too was remedied by some good luck and submitting my poor credit card to what I can only describe as a severe fisting.

Would it be third time lucky, I wondered? In an effort to avoid this I was gripped by a small fit of due diligence. I had procured the visa for Cuba in advance of the flight, even though I was told by a friend that I could get one on arrival in Havana. When I got to Heathrow Airport, I was told in no uncertain terms that I would not have been let on the plane without one. I wondered if perhaps the curse had finally been lifted.

The only airline that I could find to get me to Havana was Alitalia, the Italian national airline. National airlines seem to have an uncanny ability to reflect just about all the stereotypes of their respective countries. In the case of Alitalia, this was no different. The food and wine on board were, of course, spot on. In all other respects, chaos reigned. After the food was served about fifteen minutes into the flight, the air stewards (curiously all men above the age of 40) disappeared like a frightened spectre.

My antique in flight ‘entertainment system’ didn’t work and I wandered about for some assistance. After some puzzle searching, I discovered the entire plane’s crew huddling at the back of the plane, clasping steamy espressos in little ceramic cups and saucers. They were all gesticulating wildly, as though they had ants in their knickers. I tried in vain to get their attention but their caffeine infused forcefield was too strong. I decided to pilfer the snack shelf in revenge and scuttled off to my seat.

Landing in Havana, I was struck at just how little light there was near the city. It reminded me of looking at the night sky (or lack thereof) in London. No cars either, save for a pair of lonely looking headlights in the distance. They airport itself was a bleak and charmless building with all the style and panache of a Soviet municipal gymnasium. It felt very reminiscent of Tehran airport, a place designed with the sole purpose of eliciting a deep state of malaise. Like Tehran, it also substituted all advertising with pretty pictures of various sites in Cuba. They were by far the nicest thing in the airport.

I had made advanced arrangements through my fiend Jorge, a Miami based Cuban. He had a buddy called Ernesto who could pick me up at the airport and house me for as long as I needed. True to his word, he was there on arrival. Sporting a broad, toothy grin and proudly holding up a sign with my name on it. I had tried to learn some Spanish before the trip using the power of the internet. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken much purchase and I was quickly reduced to the level of ‘gesticulating moron’.

We walked over to his car. As expected, it was a real treasure of automotive history.

‘Lada. 1985!’ He beamed with a sweeping arm gesture.

I hadn’t seen a Lada since I was in St Petersburg ten years ago. They were a parting gift from The USSR before the fall of communism. It looked like a car designed by a child with only a ruler and pencil to hand. However, it did have remote locking, which I imagine wasn’t an original feature. The incredibly noisy diesel engine was taken from a Peugeot that I’m quite sure had been for a tractor in its former life.

Ernesto was a very amiable fellow in his mid-40s and, like many Cubans I had met, was somewhat obsessed with the fairer sex.

‘Cuban chicas is best in world my friend. Better dan French, Italy, Espain… Is chicas good in England?’

‘They are very nice. But probably not as good as your chicas.’

‘Si si, no no is as good as Cuban Chica.’ he beamed and pointed out a particularly short and rotund lady waiting to cross the street.

‘Bery nice chicas...si si’ He crooned

I would come to learn very quickly that having a pair of tits and a vagina here means you are pretty much going to be cat called at all hours of the day and night. Although as far as I’ve heard from the people I’ve spoken to here, it’s generally quite benign and the chances of being assaulted are fairly low. Personally, I’ve never quite understood cat calling as nothing ever comes from it, save maybe for a look of veiled frustration and the occasional request to go fuck yourself.

His apartment was in a soviet era building in a residential neighbourhood west of the centre of town. I had a room, a bed, a view of a neighbour’s wall and a shared bathroom. The place was immaculately clean and, importantly, it had free (but fairly restricted) Wi-Fi. I would soon discover that Wi-Fi here is still a rare and expensive luxury that is both unreliable and mostly only available in designated public spaces.

His girlfriend and her daughter were at home and had prepared a meal of pork, rice with fresh cucumber and tomatoes. It may not sound like much but for most getting hold of fresh, decent ingredients is still not that that easy or cheap for most people here.

After many thankyous and delighted pats of my belly, I was out of the door in search of a bar. I’d only given myself two nights in Havana, so I needed to make the most of it, in spite of my slight state of jetlagged delirium. He recommended a spot called Fabrica Del Arte, a restaurant with a bar next to an old factory. It had only recently been opened and was apparently a hip hangout.

The streets were eerily quiet and so dark that on several occasions I nearly ran into a few rather frightened pedestrians. The place itself was an impressive sight, set over three floors with an effortlessly styled décor with hanging fairly lights. It was clearly a spot for boujis Cubans and tourists. Disappointingly most of the people there were English. I departed hastily after a much needed beer and wandered into the dark street of Havana.

There were a few more options that I’d pre-loaded on Google maps but as I trundled through the humid evening air, repeatedly tripping over potholes, it became apparent that many of them either did not exist or were not correctly addressed. I would soon discover that frustration and disappointment were two feelings that one would have to get well acquainted with here.  

Eventually I stumbled across a decent spot in an old colonial home bristling with happy, chattering locals. The décor was gorgeous and the drinks were strong and well made. Old radios and record payers were fixed to exposed, high ceilinged brick walls and giant painted canvases of Marylyn Monroe covered walls from top to bottom. Not a gringo in sight.

After a little more bar hopping, I bumped into some folks who looked about as lost as me. They were from Holland but one of them was born and raised in Cuba which was music to my ears. After a few false starts we found a great little music joint replete with gyrating Cubans and live music. I made a rather pathetic attempt at dancing, but my limbs were stiff as boards from the journey and I looked alarmingly like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Soon I called it a night and flopped into a taxi. It was 3am and I had squeezed all I could from my first night. Flopping into bed like a rag doll, I fell into a deep and luxurious sleep.