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.