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.