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.