Santiago De Cuba - Part 3

Tom and Simon, the Londoners I'd met in Trinidad, joined me at my casa in Santiago for my last two nights. We had stayed in touch whilst we were off busying ourselves in different parts of the country and had planned to meet here. Another impressive feat given the internet desert that is Cuba.

It turns out they had stayed in a dodgy all inclusive resort that was half empty. Most of the guests were middle aged Russians or prostitutes.

Annoyingly, the prostitutes had a habit of not making their vocation apparent until quite a while after they had been exchanging more than just short pleasantries. This had been a source of much frustration.

'It got kind of annoying because you can't really ask someone if they're a prostitute. Kind of throws your game off.' Said Simon

'Maybe they just become prostitutes for tourists?' I suggested.

The food at their resort was also, as you may have guessed, utter shite. They seemed quite relieved to be back in civilisation. I had thoroughly enjoyed their company in Trinidad and it was a pleasure to spend a little time with them again.

I was particularly happy because my British bank card had been swallowed by a cash machine the day before and they were the only way I could get hold of enough hard cash to last the rest of the trip. I don't know what on Earth I did in my past life to deserve the luck I get but it must have involved saving saving a seminary or a children's hospital from imminent peril.

We decided to check out the final resting place of Fidel Castro. This encounter felt necessary for the sake of completeness, given my Che pilgrimage. His grave was the polar opposite of Che's enormous statue on a plinth (although it must be noted that Che did not request either). It was just a six foot high, smooth rock with the word Fidel written on it. That was about it.

The eponymous Jose Marti was also buried nearby in a much more impressive tomb. He was Cuba's answer to Simon Bolivar. The key figure in Cuba's overthrow of the Spanish. It was no accident that they were buried as neighbours. Along with Che and Fidel, the three of them were an inescapable presence in Cuba. Almost every street, park, restaurant, shop, and casa bore some reference to their names and achievements.

After much feigned reverence, we went to a bike taxi and begged him to take us somewhere with good, cheap food. None of us had eaten a decent meal in some time and were at breaking point. We treated ourselves to local fish and lobster to the princely tune of 10 CUC/$ apiece. Tom even had a sachet of Tabasco to hand. We were in hog heaven.

That evening, we played cards over good rum and strong Cuban cigarettes on the casa roof terrace. There was a jazz fest going on and we wanted to check it out. Having all had just about enough of salsa for the time being.

The jazz was surprisingly good. It needed to be for a 5 CUC/$ cover. Although the third act was a cover band. After we had heard Queen, Amy Winehouse and then Mariah Carey, we decided we'd had our fill.

The boys still scented blood and wanted to press on with the night but my hot date with Pico Turquino was still ravaging my body and I needed rest. We said our goodbyes. I hoped we would stay in touch. Tomorrow, an 8am start for my bus to Baracoa. Home to the best food in Cuba, according to the guidebook. Although, given the last few weeks, this could be something of an oxymoron.