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.