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.