The sun was already hot and with Matt not 100% we paid for some overpriced water before heading towards a deserted photography exhibition. Ostensibly it cost to get in despite what the adult guide had informed us, but it was more than worth it for the spectacular black and white photos of Cuba during the time of the revolution as well as the stunning photos of Che Guevara. Many of them had English captions and mentioned specific times during the coup when Castro and Guevara were making their push across the country. After being suitably educated we headed outside to the tranquil plaza and sat on some steps taking in the area.

Another part of the plaza had caught our eyes which seemed to house some very professional looking exhibits and being free only made us more curious. It turned out the setup was all about a place in Brussels which apparently held some kind of appeal but we were unable to grok precisely why there was an entire floor dedicated to this place as the descriptions were all in Spanish and French which was a bit of an odd combination, especially when the technical language bamboozled Matt’s attempts at deciphering them.

Figuring that we had been baffled enough by the morning’s events, we headed into the playing card museum which demanded a relatively expensive “donation” that was enforced by a coven of ladies chatting quietly behind one of the desks/counters. To call the place a museum would be a stretch given that the entire area was no bigger than an average sized living room and the majority of the sets were not on display, usually only the ace and picture cards were shown. Even then most of the cards were faded and yellowed by age and bright sunlight. All this made for a museum which could be wholly taken in within ten minutes and not even a gift shop available to buy a pack of cards so that jilted tourists could gamble away the time they thought they were going to spend in here. The saving grace was the trio of ladies who cooed over Matt, calling him “beautiful” and all but spiriting him away to a mysterious back room for an illicit encounter (or three). Matt seemed more shocked at this than I did and we quickly egressed and took stock back in the plaza.

Leaving from the casa later than usual meant the morning was drawing to a close so we decided to head to the Capitolio building which involved walking down the bustling O’Reilly street. The street seemed like a tourist twilight area, all the familiar ice cream parlours, trinket stalls and knicknack shops but still filled with more locals than foreigners, many on bicycles with little regard for those on foot. With such a steep drop between curb and road, navigation was sometimes a life or death situation, especially when a car felt the urge to plough down the street as fast as the crowd would let it.

While the Capitolio building again cost money to enter, it was apparent within the first few seconds that it was money well spent. The central foyer of the building was dominated by a statue that stretched over thirty metres towards the ornate dome ceiling, clad originally in gold leaf the statue reminded me of the figure usually associated with Britannia than it did Cuba. Based externally on the US Capitol building, it was as if the architect had got the proportions wrong and made the building immensely huge. The space available for exploration within was immense and with no tour guide or guide book to help, Matt and I wandered the halls taking in the bizarre assortment of displays. Some ranged from the room where Castro had asserted authority to an art store selling large paintings and tiny statuettes. At times we doubled back on ourselves, randomly finding ourselves on the opposite side of the building that we thought we were on, and other times we found almost hidden areas like the government area where laws were passed and meetings held. Thankfully nothing was being held that day otherwise I doubt two young, male tourists would have reached so far into the inner sanctum.

It took us a great deal of time to explore the building but it seemed to take equally long to leave it as we tried to find our way back to a suitable exit that didn’t have us traipsing around the exterior of the building in the midday sun. The Capitolio building was on the cusp of the centre of Havana which housed a six lane speedway as well as a dirty, grimy feeling far apart from the obviously tourist friendly area Matt and I were staying in and had explored. We headed towards the familiar Cathedral Plaza, grabbing a peso pizza along the way as well as some drinks, a foolish order to do things in considering how hot the pizza was to hold. Little energy and even less to do dictated we head back to the casa for an afternoon siesta, saving our energy for the evening where Matt had organised to meet up with Chloe and Juliet, the two girls from the previous evening.

Matt more or less collapsed into one of the deck chairs on the balcony when we got back and fell right to sleep. I positioned some shade to keep the sun from cooking him while he snoozed and started on another book that Matt had brought along; the combination of my smaller rucksack and packing for preparedness meant books were unable to fit in my bag although Terry Pratchett was far from unwelcome holiday reading. A short time later and Matt made the journey to the bedroom for a more serious nap while I continued to wait for tea time to roll around.

Despite our early approach to the agreed meeting place, we more or less ran into Chloe and Juliet where we went to a restaurant and were early enough to bag a good table which let us wait out the sunset and listen to the lilt of far away live music. I had come to the conclusion by now that waiters in Cuba exist in a different time-zone to the rest of us, the restaurant was far from busy but it still took us almost an hour to get wine ordered and receive the first of our, thankfully delicious, meals.

The talk between us turned to our reasons for visiting Cuba and Chloe mentioned that she was visiting her boyfriend’s parents; apparently he was a Cuban band member who had managed to escape the confines of Cuba to tour, however his papers had not been in order when she had booked the holiday and hence had to stay put (the expatriation laws in Cuba are apparently byzantine to the say the least). Of course this revelation made Matt’s heart sink but he was characteristically upbeat about it. Being plied with suitable amounts of red-wine made me more malleable and so we adjourned to a nearby bar after finishing up at the restaurant.

The bar was a large room looking out onto the street and contained a good mix of tourists and locals as well as a live band and plenty of seating so it suited our purposes for further drinking and relaxation. I was getting progressively more squiffy as the evening wore on and before I knew it we were being shooed by the owner out of the bar and on to the street where an impromptu modern band session was taking place and had drawn a mesmerised crowd. This wrapped up fairly swiftly after which there was muttered talk of heading towards “El Morrow”, apparently a music event that was held each week; of course when asking around we were shown to all manner of hotels and private restaurants that were certainly not what we were looking for. I was mid-way through my indecisiveness routine when Matt wisely shunted us all into a taxi which took us across the river to El Morrow which had all the hallmarks of a live festival but was apparently a regular occurrence.

The castle across the bay from the Malecón had been transformed into an event the like of which I hadn’t seen. A stage with accompanying light show had been set up blaring out music and projecting the star’s visage across the castle; amongst the throngs of people were bars and glowstick vendors dishing out their wares whenever new stock arrived. Matt attempted to go get us some booze while I stayed with Chloe and Juliet, stunned as to exactly where I was and trying to take everything in. Matt returned a significant time later with two cans of freezing-cold beer each which we took over to a quieter area that had imposing cannons and a view of the bay.

While I pined for my camera for a shot of the night-time city we all continued talking and tried our best not to look in the direction of the man who was getting a not-so-inconspicuous blow job. In my rapidly sobering state I came quickly to the conclusion that Juliet was wholly uninterested in me and seemed more enamoured with Matt; had we not been marooned on an island I would have made good on my disappearing party trick. The event ended abruptly sometime after midnight at which point a horde of people all tried to get into haphazardly parked cars and a limited number of awaiting taxis. In what can only be called a Mattastrophe, he managed to woo a girl and then be accosted by two others, the three of which then tried to drag him into nearby bushes for acts best left unsaid. Thankfully Chloe and Juliet were trying to flag down a taxi at this point so it was only me who stood, mouth agape at Matt being abducted by girls. He seemed to be enjoying it so I decided not to cock-block and stood around looking uninterested.

We finally managed to find a taxi with which we could hammer down a price for taking us back into town (a very advisable thing to do if you don’t want to be left penniless by the drivers) and we were off, through the underground tunnel and into a neighbourhood I had not seen before to drop off the girls. By now I was needing to pee something fierce and the driving of the taxi was not helping matters so by the time we reached the casa, I bolted upstairs to use the toilet after which both Matt and I drank a substantial amount of water and fell asleep.

Matt had arranged for us to meet with someone he had met when he had come to Cuba before, a bicycle tour guide. Explaining some of the options for us while in Havana (including a bicycle tour of a flower show that would be happening on Sunday), we then recounted our abortive journey into the city the night before to which he told us unequivocally to never go the route we did which put a healthy amount of fear into me as to just exactly where we were. Bidding farewell and heading back up to the casa, I proceeded to empty my wallet of anything valuable and secrete it away within the room after which we set off for a rum museum, apparently a mere stone’s throw from the casa.

After a short journey, which covered some streets we had blindly explored the night before, we were at the museum and after convincing Matt that I didn’t speak a word of French which would make the French tour rather taxing, we were sitting in the spacious lobby waiting for the English tour to start. Around the three storey space were decorations of old rum bottles and barrels as well as assorted paraphernalia I would ordinarily associate with TGI Restaurants. A bell rung and the tour started with less then eight people in the group with Matt and myself the only native English speakers, the others seemed to have arrived from various parts of Europe; unfortunately our group consisted of males and the middle-aged which was disappointing given the German tour group which seemed to be stacked out (in all appropriate senses of the word) with young, nubile females.

Touring the museum we were given the full history of rum and its introduction to Cuba as well as the creation process which Matt and I were already familiar with after Santiago (and Holguin, and Sancti Spiritus) but this tour splashed out on a room-sized model, complete with working miniature train and lights. After various exhibits we were all deposited unceremoniously into a cosy, dark-wood bar where we were all given half a shot of 7-year old rum and encouraged to buy something from the adjoined gift shop. Having not expected to be done with the tour so soon, Matt and I lounged around in the distinctly chair free bar once again talking random nonsense until the next tour group appeared and failed to reveal anyone of interest (read: any one of the feminine persuasion). Looking around the gift shop at the suitably overpriced alcohol and accessories we were barely half-way through the morning which threw our afternoon plans out of synch; we headed back to the casa to reconnoitre.

Deciding to leave the afternoon free for exploring, we set off for the nearby cathedral which held some kind of significance in terms of age or seniority amongst cathedrals. On the way we grabbed a peso pizza from a glorified hole-in-the-wall which, while tasty for the money we paid, was intensely greasy and surprisingly hot. Finishing lunch in the cathedral plaza let us take in the surroundings which were dominated by a stage either being set up or being taken down, work was moving so slowly it was hard to tell without some kind of time-lapse photography. Around the edges of the plaza were garishly dressed entertainers and stall owners as well as several artists selling their completed wares while working on their next. Amongst all of this tourists swarmed dressed in uniform white or sky-blue t-shirt and khaki shorts adorned with the carbon black of cameras, cases and rucksacks.

Moving north past the cathedral we headed towards the Malecón and looked out across the bay towards the lighthouse and attached island, a place we would get to know a little better in a few days time. In the baking midday heat both Matt and I, hatless and hatted respectively, were running out of energy until we stumbled across the most serene and welcoming park that I had not only seen since entering Cuba, but in a long while. The grassed central area could be crossed in a thirty second walk, overhead it was surrounded by lush and leafy trees and populated by all manner of bird life. The fountain in the centre was joined by copious amounts of wrought iron benches and places to sit which were all flanked by a sedate, open-air market of books and sundries. After rejuvenating ourselves for a spell, Matt went to fetch an ice-cream while I watched some of the other park occupants. Parades of people wandered by: school children out on a trip, old people sporadically feeding the birds as well as a pair of musicians and a single guitar who played fractured, soulful melodies.

Suitably enamoured, we headed into the Palacio which was just off from the park and turned out to be a varied and massive museum. We declined the offer of an overpriced tour (I once again hid the existence of my camera) and both set off our separate ways to explore the museum, first spontaneously shown around by a wandering curator and then managing to catch up with an English speaking tour. Trying our best not to look like we were mooching off the tour-guide, the museum contained everything from black marble busts of various import to chandeliers and wholly reconstructed rooms with paintings and desks still in tact. Moving on from the tour group we kept bumping into two very attractive French ladies whom we then summarily lost in the labyrinthine building. After exploring what I assumed was the bulk of the museum I unearthed a lower set of floors containing all kinds of ancient weaponry and art works, sometimes both in the same room. As I wove through a set of sculptures, I scratched one of my shoulders only to realise that they were peeling from apparent sunburn, an oddity as I had always kept my shoulders under clothing while on the beaches of Trinidad. Of course once this was revealed to me, it was hard to keep my mind on the museum and more and more I tried to fathom why my shoulders were peeling, and surreptitiously try to get rid of the persistent shoulder sweat-itch that was probably mostly psychological rather than physical.

Heading out of the museum and over to Plaza San Francisco, we stopped at an al fresco café for a sugar-packed orangeade, the first unhealthy thing either of us had consumed since arriving in Cuba. Certainly Havana was a major city with all the trappings came with that: junk food, crime and inflated prices, far different from the country life we had indulged in the rest of the holiday. After getting our bearings we headed back to the casa, managing to stumble across an area we had “found” the night before in our directionless wandering. I snoozed while Matt filled in his diving log book then went for a run, training for a triathlon he was participating in when he returned to the UK. After this, he tried to phone his girl from Cassilda, only to be fobbed off yet again with news that she had gone to Santa Clara; by now he was beginning to get the picture that either she was a Cuban jet-setter or his time with her had been a one off and she was trying to keep it that way. He dejectedly decided to give up trying to contact her.

With no meal available at the casa, Matt and I went out during twilight to an Italian restaurant he had visited before and that apparently did stellar pizza. Eating outside in the cool evening the pizza was indeed excellent, and just as we were finishing up, Matt recognised a girl on the next table from Trinidad; I conjectured it was probably a time I wasn’t around as she looked wholly unfamiliar to me. Striking up a conversation, the girl had a blonde friend and both of them were from the UK which made cultural differences minimal (even if they were from the south). We had plenty of time to chat as it seemed the waiters did not want either of us to pay for our meals and spent an age bringing the bill and then finally taking the money away. I was still unsure about going out in a strange city at night which meant while everyone else in the foursome wanted to go out, I was going to head back to the casa which gave us the perfect opportunity to use the line “You want to come see our balcony?”. Suitably impressed by the view of Havana at night, I adjourned to bed while Matt chaperoned the two of them, eventually returning sometime around 3am.

Finally biting the bullet and deciding not to dive, I was about to assume the position on one of the sun loungers when the early morning cool caught my fancy and I decided to do a full exploration of the peninsular I had burned my legs the previous day partially exploring. With no tourists or other denizens of the beach to impede me I made good time, only to find the crest of the peninsula barren and uninteresting, only dried seaweed and abandoned buildings were present; I took the opportunity to capture some photos and sauntered back to the area around the dive hut.

Once again settling in to read and listen to music, I was blissfully ignored by the roaming security guards, and before I knew it the dive boat had come back and departed again, meaning my parting with the dive team was enforced rather than chosen. Before the downcast Matt could join me I noticed by legs had developed a slightly worrying selection of bubbles beneath the skin, a lovely byproduct of my intense sunburn, most telling because my skin had not turned the familiar pinkish red yet…

Picked up by our previous taxi driver, once again on time and affable as ever, we took a brief detour into the nearby Cassilda for Matt to make one last attempt at hooking up with his girl he had met before. I watched the scene unfold from within the taxi as the driver attempted to translate into fractured English what the girl’s sister was saying while Matt tried to grasp the situation; mutterings of still being in Sancti Spiritus or Havana were mentioned as they exchanged addresses and/or phone numbers. Disappointed by upbeat, we were dropped off at our casa and said muted goodbyes to the casa owner, his wife and daughter as well as the taxi driver who departed shortly before the Havana taxi rolled up outside.

The eight seater mini-van had a spare set of seats for Matt and I but also housed a couple of Canadians who we had met on the beach a number of days prior as well as two other middle-aged people we were unsure spoke English or not. The mini-van quickly took us out of Trinidad and into the beautiful rolling countryside of Cuba; while bumpy at first, the majority of the initial part of the journey seemed to be overtaking vehicles who were slower than us. A couple of hours in we stopped at a pleasant rest-station for toilet breaks and refreshments, after which we were straight onto the Autopiste.

While the Autopiste has all the hallmarks of a major road, it is in fact just a larger area of asphalt than the other roads in Cuba, it has sporadic, worn road markings which are duly ignored by all involved and is just as pocked and cracked as any other road only more noticeably as you’re now hurtling down the road at whatever top speed the vehicle will do. The central reservation is little more than patches of shrubbery but thankfully other vehicles seemed to keep to their own side of the road. As the sub began to set on the horizon, a pure white cadillac pulled up alongside us containing what looked like four musicians, replete with instrument cases and sharp suits. What ensued was a pseudo race as both our driver and theirs gradually increased their speed until I’m fairly sure the minivan would have overheated had the musicians not thoroughly overtaken us with no hope of catching them.

Pulling into Havana a short while before sunset, the first overbearing feeling I got was that of a large city. Over a third of Cuba’s population is located within Havana and it is the largest conurbation in the country and I could instantly notice that “big city” vibe. Matt and I were the first to be deposited outside a convent, our casa was supposedly located somewhere in the area, unfortunately Havana has buildings over two stories tall which meant locating our casa was a trial in itself. Surrounded by locals and standing out with our huge rucksacks, we were helped by a local boy who took us to what he thought was our casa, however it turned out it was simply the only casa paticulares he knew. The high ceilings and almost tasteful decor was a far cry from the other places we had stayed in and the kindly lady phoned around and finally caught the gist of what Matt was trying to convey with the address he had clutched in his hand.

The old lady’s casa was occupied by a selection of young ladies who looked European in origin, as well as a computer nestled near the seating area, the first computer I had seen since arriving in the country. After a brief respite and some crossed wires we were back outside and managed to find our casa which was at the top of 6 storey building after the owner had dropped a set of keys for us to gain access. The building had a locked outer door as well as a security gate before getting access to the roof and an inner door so the set of keys was certainly necessary to get anywhere within.

The casa owner was a slim, young man who had an excellent grasp of English but had the unfortunate notion that Matt and I were gay when he presented our room with only a solitary double bed. By this time I was happy simply to have a space to collapse in, whether that was the floor or otherwise, however Matt insisted we have another bed, to which the owner apologised then set about retrieving one. As we both vegetated on the spectacular balcony, taking in a more or less bird’s eye view of Havana, the owner seemed to pull a bed out of a cupboard no bigger than a shed followed by a mattress and other parts, Matt and I mused that there were probably gnomes within the cupboard helping him out.

It transpires that our original casa was to be on the fourth floor with a rugged looking gentleman, however it turns out that he’s in the process of decorating which meant we were moved upstairs which, given the view, didn’t seem such a bad thing to me. I took the opportunity to gather my bearings and finally put to use my map of Havana while Matt tried to orchestrate his cosmopolitan love life by conjugating verbs and eventually going down to see if he could make use of the phone. Our “original” casa owner was absent which meant that we were short of a meal and despite my apprehension at being in a large, foreign city at night, we set off in search of sustenance.

Unfortunately due to some bad map reading on my part (my point of origin was, to put it mildly, “skewed”) we were instantly lost and wandered through some highly dodgy areas which earned more than a few untoward glances from passers by, were thankfully free from being hustled by the local populace and eventually returned to the casa and made do with a survival bar each in lieu of a proper meal.

As Matt and I sat on the balcony drinking some rum and talking about nothing in particular, the other occupants of the casa appeared, two friendly Hungarian blokes who spoke excellent English and were more than likely the reason the casa owner had assumed Matt and I were gay. Chatting with them for a spell, I eventually excused myself sometime after midnight and finally headed to bed.

Before heading towards the beach we stopped off at the supermarket to grab our usual ration of water; on our way we spotted a western looking tourist group filming a school classroom through a window at arm’s length, it certainly wasn’t something I would have considered a tourist attraction and came across more as voyeuristic than genuinely interesting. Even before we had a chance to choose a taxi for our journey to the beach, Matt was greeted by one of the drivers who recognised him from the night before when he had tried to find his lady friend in Cassilda. Piling into the taxi, the driver first hurtled through the streets of Trinidad with little regard for anybody’s safety, ourselves included, then took us the scenic route to the beach taking us through La Boca which looked pleasant enough for a ten house hamlet. In the distance we could see what looked like the dive boat which meant the dive hut was quiet and empty by the time we arrived.

The security guards were out in force today and it took precise timing to slip by them into the hotel swimming pool toilet, ordinarily reserved for guests only. After which I settled down with a book only to be outed twenty minutes later to which I responded by moving further down the beach, evidently they were either intensely bored today or they had changed their routes. Being ousted again a couple of hours later annoyed me enough to sit against the palm-tree leaf parasol in the sand, simply to spite the guards who were so precious about the abundant sun loungers. Matt meanwhile had gone with a small group on the afternoon dive at some far off location.

Breaking from reading I wandered down the beach more out of interest than anything else, almost cresting the peninsula but stopping when I felt the sun cooking my legs; this would be a short excursion I would regret for the rest of the holiday. Snapping a few photos I headed back and awaited the return of the dive boat which arrived with little fanfare and duly deposited a very unwell Matt. I headed back to the Casa at around half past five, followed an hour later by a still queasy Matt. After a brief snooze tea was ready which consisted of a dubious assortment of prawns as well as the usual garnishes of fruit and vegetables.

After food, Matt lurched around the room in the casa, still not 100% but intent on going to woo his lady friend in Cassilda, along the way he managed to convince Madeline, the English speaking tour operator who was the daughter of the casa owner, to phone a recommended place in Havana ahead of us travelling there tomorrow. It was only after he had left that Madeline came and informed me that the place she had phoned was full but there was another place she knew of that was available and she would give us the address the next day. Meanwhile, I understood just what sunburn was as my legs became hypersensitive to everything, including the fan which was the only item keeping the room cool. Slathering layer after layer of after-sun on them my legs would now be subject to all sorts of interesting ailments that would last over a week after I travelled back from Cuba.

With the taxi arriving in the afternoon, I had to decide whether to indulge in one last dive before departing, possibly erasing the memory of my mishaps on my last dive. While pondering this I managed to find a selection of English books in the casa that seemed to have been left there by guests or possibly gifted to the owner; the only one I thought possible to read in a single night was the novelization of “Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels”. While I hadn’t seen the film, being able to churn through the book in a few hours was testament to its quality (or lack thereof), especially for someone who isn’t a voracious reader such as myself.

Matt certainly seemed despondent leaving Trinidad and the hedonistic lifestyle but understood that it was probably necessary; I did mention the option of staying put while I went on to Havana which he declined after little thought. Truthfully I’m glad he did but tried not to make that overtly obvious. After a short spell Matt returned having no luck finding his girl having been fobbed off by her sister or somesuch, for the first time in a while he would be getting a full night’s sleep.

Gathering together and inspecting my equipment I lugged it onto the rowing boat and found out that the others in my group would be diving deep (beyond thirty metres) and moving through a tunnel, which after only three dives myself sounded worrying. The two Britons were back on this dive and we were to be led by Leo around a black coral reef known as the Black Wall. A little too eager to show my competence, I managed to put the wet-suit on incorrectly then applied too much force to my set of flippers, irreparably breaking one of them in the process. After this amazing display of aptitude we were underwater and moving as a group in no time; the sporadic checks by Leo usually caught me off guard, more often than not swimming vertically as opposed to horizontally or terminally fiddling with my petulant buoyancy jacket. Matt mentioned later that he had never seen anyone slouch while diving until he had seen me. Once again I ran out of air, despite my long and balanced breaths meaning once again I was attached to Leo by his secondary breather.

Surfacing incorrectly but without incident, I was back on the boat and mulling over how terribly the dive had gone when I caught Leo fiddling with the broken flipper which only cemented my view that things had gone less than brilliantly. After, what I assumed was a disastrous examination, I indicated I only wanted to do a single dive and Leo started running through the paperwork once back on shore with me. This involved explaining the intricacies of the log book and the license application as well as filling in some personal details. Following on from yesterday’s “talk”, I spotted the written test beneath Leo’s hand; having never been taught any of the theory it would have been difficult to complete the test had Leo not vetoed this using his instructor authority. While it was good to hear the Leo had faith in my diving ability despite the morning’s disastrous attempt, I got the distinct feeling that he was omitting the written test more because of the time it took and the effort involved rather than a solid belief in my ability.

Now 2pm, the second dive was already returning and I managed to slink off just as beers and boats were mentioned, deciding to explore Trinidad rather than succumb to the energy draining sun on the beach. Taking a jaunty yellow coco-taxi back to the casa for a swift change of clothes I headed off in the baking heat, starting my exploration in Plaza Mayor. Unlike the other Cuban towns I had visited, Trinidad was loaded with tourists of all types; Asian and European alike explored the winding side streets stuffed with a technicolour assortment of stalls selling everything from linen to doilies to hand-carved statuettes. After less than an hour of this one began to notice a distinct similarity to the items being sold, almost as if they were government-approved or perhaps less hand-made than they were claimed.

Taking few photos and just exploring the surprisingly small town, I stumbled across a one-room art gallery which housed an artist painting an excellent picture of a nearby archway, and the Casa de la Musica, once only found in the dark via a memorised route. It took on a different tone during the day, far more pleasant café than crowded bar. Even with my newly cleaned hat, my head was cooking in the sun and with none of the standard assortment of museums appealing I headed back to the casa for a shower, only to find the water supply in our room lacked any amount of pressure and the air-conditioner was malfunctioning (not surprising given the gung-ho approach to wiring practised in the room). It wasn’t until later when I mentioned this problem to the English speaking tour-guide that she was able to discern it was the pump that plied our room with water. Why this also made the air-conditioner work I was mildly afraid to ask.

Nipping out before tea to stock up on bottled water once more, Matt returned in time for tea which he wolfed down, eager to commence the evening frivolities. The devouring of pork steaks was interrupted by a power brown-out, the lady of the house ready with candles for just such an eventuality. Matt had decided to go and see the girl he had been with on the beach, only to find that the piece of paper that had her address on was still in his shirt pocket, the same shirt which had been subject to a vigorous cleaning by the casa owner’s wife. Picking apart the slightly damp, crumpled bit of paper, it wasn’t until my memory for random tidbits came into play that Matt was off like a shot for Cassilda. In no time at all he was back, having discovered the girl was apparently in Sancti Spiritus (our previous port of call) until the next night.

Eager not to waste the evening, we both headed out to the Casa de la Musica which was heaving with tourists, all of whom I suspect had been wandering the town in droves earlier in the day. A troupe of local dancers were performing, what I can only describe as a “slave dance”, recounting no doubt their history and now subsequent well earned freedom. Ostensibly we were there to meet Lester whose birthday it was however I departed shortly before midnight when it became apparent it really wasn’t my “scene”. Following my memorised route back I didn’t hear Matt return so assumed it was late, or early depending on your point of view.

Both of us still dopey from the escapades last night (one more than the other), we headed out after breakfast and tried to get some water from the supermarket but again found it closed. With nary a coco-taxi in the sight, we relinquished and paid the extra cash for an air-conditioned, “proper” taxi which whisked us to the beach swiftly and without incident. The dive hut was already open by the time we reached it and a group were suiting up; I decided to join the afternoon dive only, still reticent after yesterdays brush with the bends. Watching the boat pull away from my sun-lounger lookout, I listened to some music and began to realise just how boring the beach can be when you don’t have anything to do but wait.

The hours peeled away and when the boat returned I managed to scavenge most of the equipment I had used yesterday, including the blister preventing dive boots with a broken right zip. For some reason Leo stayed ashore for the afternoon dive and the bronzed figure of Obi would be taking myself and Matt out. In a tighter than normal wet-suit and a short trip out, I was equipped and in the water before I knew it. With only Matt, Obi, myself and another person, the group was blissfully small and I was now getting the hang of my prior buoyancy tribulations. Exploring the immense reefs replete with valleys and chasms was made all the better after mastering cleaning my mask. The reefs were oddly light on life and the realisation that I hadn’t checked my secondary breather (“octopus”) gnawed at me for some time; despite my mixed fortunes, my air once again depleted quicker than everybody else’s forcing me to ascend first.

Wondering what it was that depleted my air so swiftly having now gotten over the raw nervousness I felt in the first two dives, I watched the other divers’ bubbles, noting their measured length evidently making better use of the available air. This time clinging to the guideline on the boat, my ascent was a far cry from the riotous one I had performed before, slow and controlled was all the better for both my ears and my stomach. The short journey back to shore and I began to acclimatise to the rowing boat by helping transport and clean the equipment after which I was duly summoned back to the dive boat where Matt had stayed post dive.

In between rapid Spanish chatter and mouthfuls of a strange assortment of seafood and rice, Leo mentioned that he wished to speak to Matt and I about the diving course I was currently undertaking. It wasn’t until we were back on shore that Leo elaborated, saying that he placed more stock in my ability in the water rather than book smarts; at the time it was good to hear and kind of went without saying but it wouldn’t be until the next day that I would find out the subtext to the “talk”.

The evening was looming and by now booze was beginning to surreptitiously appear in the hands of the dive team. I half-feigned illness and took a coco-taxi back to the casa in Trinidad. Swinging by the now open supermarket I came out with no less than six 500ml bottles of water, three of which I drank in the first few hours languishing in the casa. After a welcome cool shower I pottered about the room, scrubbing my suitably filthy hat, listened to music and finally snoozed for a spell, waiting for Matt to appear for the pre-arranged food time of 8pm. With no sign of him, I headed down myself and tried to explain to the owner where my compadre was. Sometime between the minestrone soup and chicken dish, a group of four stereotypically German occupants arrived and disappeared into one of the many rooms within the casa complex.

It wasn’t until after 10pm that Matt stumbled back into the casa, drunk as a fish after having partaken of three bottles of rum and an errant bottle of vodka, his evening was far from over when he invited the group of Germans out to the Casa de la Musica and once again disappeared. It wasn’t until after midnight that he returned and, for once, managed to sleep for a reasonable length of time.

Apprehension reigned as more people arrived and we began to gear up, slinging more and more familiar paraphernalia into the surprisingly sturdy rowing boat. The Britons from the introductory lesson before had come along and with a wet-suit on, the weighty kit wasn’t so destructive on the shoulders. The dive site selected for today was a long boat journey out and flaking paint of the boat and the rapidly warming sun made for a pleasant trip around the Ancon Peninsular. I watched as many of the passengers, Matt included, took the long step off the boat and into the water until it was only the three learners and Leo himself who ran through how the dive would proceed. Slipping on some ill-fitting flippers, then shouldering the buoyancy vest and tank, then the mask, then a weight belt to assist said buoyancy, I felt nothing if not extremely burdened. Waddling to the edge of the boat, the TV friendly back-roll off the boat was eschewed for a more mask friendly stride.

A taste of salt water still in my mouth, Leo clustered the three of us around a guide-rope leading beneath the water from the bow of the boat and took us below. Leading us down, things which seemed taxing yesterday were now easy in the vast expanse of the ocean; all the while new problems such as my arch-nemesis: buoyancy, and newcomer: swimming horizontal were of new concern. The dive site floor was little more than rust coloured coral and formless reefs but as an introduction to diving the experience was unparalleled. Towards the end of the languid swim in translucent blue waters I began to run low on air and perhaps due to the crushing pressure of less than 15 metres I was nonplussed at this development and continued onward until the signal was given to slowly ascend.

In what seemed like no time at all we had surfaced; the climb back onto the boat was excruciating, moving from neutral to laden while attempting to climb a ladder was less than fun. Despite scraping my knee on some of the rampant coral and sporting a wicked blister from the flippers, it was an exhilarating adventure if not entirely different to my patchy imagination. Heading back to shore, some departed the boat, laden with kit, for different escapades; while others like myself were to go on another dive in the afternoon meaning only a change in tank was necessary. Heading back to shore myself, I grabbed some cold and damp diving socks and different flippers before heading back to the boat which chugged out to a closer site for the afternoon dive.

Suiting up once again, swimming shorts bunched up around my groin, Leo gave a bit more freedom to me on this dive and with the Britons gone and Matt in tow it was back into the water. With my buoyancy almost mastered, the combination of prior experience and a wholly different site made this dive an altogether different adventure. Hundreds of species of fish and a landscape of coral rolled out beneath us as I followed Leo down with Matt exploring nearby with a waterproof camera. Leo managed to temporarily capture a blowfish which duly expanded, much to the delight of its audience, while others pointed out fish of all colours and denominations. With so many other divers in such a close area my main concern was bumping into them and, once again, my rapidly decreasing air. When prompted I took Leo’s secondary mouthpiece which may have given me further time beneath the waves but tethered me to him which had the unfortunate side effect of showing just how slow and non-athletic I was.

Despite the calm and enjoyable atmosphere, as I began my unsupervised ascent, my buoyancy skyrocketed and I found myself rapidly rising on a collision course for the boat. I avoided introducing my head to the keel and shunted air out of the vest and swum down, eager and slightly panicked into maintaining my controlled ascent. My ears rang and with little air left, I rose to the surface and quickly scampered onto the awaiting boat, my yo-yo surfacing hopefully not noticed. I prayed for the boat to stop rocking as it made its way back to shore, a merciless combination of decompression sickness, nervousness and an unfamiliarity to the nitrogen mix in the air tanks.

Back near shore I continued scowling at the sky hoping for my queasiness to abate while I busied myself by helping hang out and tidy up the equipment, all the while avoiding the brutal glare of the sun. After everything apart from my nausea had quietened down, Matt and myself were invited back onto the boat where the dive team was having a late lunch of freshly caught seafood in a spicy sauce with rice. The term “gumbo” came instantly to mind. Devouring strange smelling, slimy and unidentifiable creatures was not what I wanted when feeling under the weather but that and the freshly plied water certainly made me feel a lot more human.

Rowing back to shore, I managed to complete the day by falling face first into the sand when climbing out of the rowing boat. I headed to one of the many vacant deck-chairs, camera bag nearby and decided to await what I hoped would be a spectacular sunset; Matt meanwhile began to socialise with the dive team, rekindling old friendships. With the sunset looking less and less likely to be awe-inspiring and more “glow behind clouds”, Leo returned from wherever he had dashed off to with two almost attractive girls, one of whom he shared lips and a less than inconspicuous hand-job with. Throughout my time in Trinidad I would never find out the truth of Leo’s marital situation yet the niggling thought he was being unfaithful to somebody never quite left me. As Matt is wont to do, he invited the two girls out in the evening, as he put it “by accident”. Leo disappeared and I was summoned to the formative party in the dive hut and handed a rum and coke in a disposable cup. The evening had begun.

Drinks were poured, music was played and jokes shared as the light dwindled and I gradually began to get to know the dive team. While undeniably good guys, it was hard for me not to feel like I was the snobbish toff mixing (unsuccessfully) in with “the locals”; crass and boorish were the first adjectives to cross my mind, especially when two other girls showed up shouts of “black pussy” were directed to no one in particular. I spent most of the time talking to the affable Igor who was pleasantly social and also had an excessively attractive girlfriend whom he had argued with earlier over their new dog, a golden retriever. While still young and sprightly, the dog was as thick as a bunch of rocks and it wasn’t hard to see there was little going on in his brain.

As I imbibed more and more rum I began to laugh harder and harder at the lewd jokes that were being spoken in uncharacteristically good English. Whether some sort of social survival mechanism kicked in or they were genuinely funny jokes I was unsure but the party began to wind down and the sunset was a non-starter. It was well past the time we had stipulated with the casa-owner for dinner, and despite my protestation to Matt, we stayed longer, drank more and my confusion as to what I was doing continued. Past 9pm the gathering concluded and we followed Lester and his friend to a bus which was either waiting for a driver or simply immobile.

After what seemed like an age we crammed into the bus with an inordinate amount of people on board and I remember wishing for everyone except the driver and myself to vanish into the night. A stifling and lengthy journey later we jumped off the bus in an unknown locale which, blissfully, was close to our casa. The owner and his wife were genuinely pleased to see us and went as far as to feed us the meal we were now two hours late in attending. Post food, Matt dashed out while I attended to a very sunburned foot which, as I was to find out, was only the start of my sunburn. With me in bed, I expected Matt to arrive back late so was surprised when he came back early (I was still awake) only to dash out again and sneak back an indeterminate amount of time later…

We spoke to the casa owner, an amenable and good natured man, and his daughter who managed a lot of the translating given her job working with tourists; after which we headed downtown to try and scavenge some water all the while being offered cigars with questionable origins. Sparkling water in hand (the only water left in the picked clean supermarket) we nabbed what the guides referred to as a coco-taxi which would ostensibly take us to the beach. As I was to find out, a coco-taxi is an egg-shaped fibre glass go-kart with two seats in the back and a set of handlebars and seat for the driver in front of that; sounding like a hair-dryer filled with jet fuel and going about as fast as a moped, the realisation that the driver was wearing protective gear and we weren’t was disconcerting to say the least.

Arriving at the beach for a little after 10am the dive team had already gone out on the first run of the day so there was little else to do but wait. Matt was no more animate than when he had woken up so we picked a spot between the hawk-like gaze of the security guards and he settled down to snooze. With little else to do I watched the patrons of the beach move back and forth and worried about storing our day-bags in the back of the dive house. Around noon the boat returned to the hurricane wrecked pier and deposited a menagerie of people including Leo who informed us as to the state of play regarding me learning how to dive. A couple of other recent additions to the beach, Britons no less, had dived before but had requested a refresher so an introductory lesson was set up after the afternoon dive sometime after 3pm. Matt meanwhile had perked up somewhat and decided to go on the afternoon dive despite the possibility of throwing up into his mask underwater.

I busied myself watching the ebb and flow of equipment from the dive house and the interchange between pockets of people milling around. Several very attractive females seemed interested in going diving which made for good viewing, especially when one of them seemed to have tremendous difficulty keeping her breasts under control and in the scrap of clothing she was using as a bikini. As the marina emptied, I padded back to the still vacant sun lounger I had used in the morning and continued people-watching, breaking up the sun-drenched monotony with sporadic wanders down the beach.

Returning at just after 1430, the boat emptied and I waited for Leo to finish up, helping move equipment when I was sure I wouldn’t get in the way. The two Brits, a clean cut male and dreadlocked woman, were joined by a well-set Spaniard and a bubbly Korean who seemed all but inseparable compared to the other more aloof homelanders; meanwhile Matt had ingratiated himself with the two young and busty females who I had spied earlier. Leo instructed the five of us to shoulder some equipment, a weighty and painful task with sunburned shoulders, and follow him into the hotel courtyard to a sizeable and still occupied pool.

Running through the function of the vast array of equipment, Leo managed to be humorous and eloquent in English as well as his native Spanish. Confident we were now aware of what all the tubes and pressurised canisters did, we were let loose into the pool a little earlier than I was expecting. Re-learning mouth breathing was made all the more difficult when practising mask cleaning underwater and, despite the relative depth of the pool, buoyancy training was difficult and would be something that I would never fully master; all of this compounded by tourist children who seemed to be constantly crossing our paths in the pool.

Leo worked past his usual leaving time meaning after the pool session and requisite tidying of equipment he dashed home, leaving Matt and myself to head back to Trinidad in a taxi which we shared with a wide-eyed, red-haired woman of indeterminate age. Getting swiftly changed, Matt had organised to meet with the nubile, Norwegian females and summarily forgotten a significant portion of their address in Trinidad. Making a considerable detour to a supermarket to acquire some rum, bumping into the shock of red hair we had shared a taxi with, we found Radio Trinidad (the sole part of the address Matt recalled) and began to narrow down the casas where they could be staying. After only a single false positive, we were sitting with two Norwegians and a Scandinavian in the cool but humid evening. The clothingly challenged young woman from the beach was content to sit, draped over her uni-brow boyfriend while the blonde (and apparently single) one seemed to delight in contorting herself into as many positions as possible which displayed her striped, multicoloured underwear.

The small talk over rum made me realise just what being bi-lingual really meant; far beyond being able to simply speak another language, the idioms and colloquialisms were uncanny, broken only by their painfully European outlook on the world. Avid smokers and suitably unimpressed by Cuba, they were condescending but surprisingly naive given their loquaciousness on all matters. Agreeing to meet up with them later at the Casa de la Musica, Matt and I headed back to our own casa for camerones and all the usual trimmings.

Suitably stuffed and falling asleep (or as Matt referred to it: a power nap), we headed out to the CdlM in the encroaching darkness, I busied myself memorising the route there. Lightless streets, wandering dogs and ankle-high obstacles littered the path which, all things considered, only took ten minutes at a brisk walk. The supercilious blonde was already seated in between two very well-set British men who had evidently followed her siren call, the other woman and associated boyfriend were no where to be seen. Small talk and Cuba Libres ensued as Matt buried himself in climbing talk with one of the men while I tried to stop time using only the power of my mind, then started associating famous faces to patrons. The live band started up and the CdlM began to fill, at which point a Cuban Leonardo di Caprio prostrated himself before the resident female for a dance.

My ambivalent and futile adoration cemented as she showed off enticing hips in a blue and white dress, I quickly enacted my party trick of disappearing without a word, even before the two other members of the group could arrive despite saving them seats in the packed CdlM. Platitudes were muttered as I made my away back to the casa with Matt following sometime after 1am.

Breakfast that morning consisted of the usual suspects, however with the patio doors open, a proliferation of flies buzzed annoyingly around us while we tried to eat. It was this breakfast where I came up with the mad (or genius, depending on your perspective) idea of constructing an automatic fly incinerator, most likely involving lasers. This was one of the ideas that I moulded throughout the holiday (at one time it was a sonic device, others I would muse over the preciseness of the targeting system) then as soon as I touched down in Britain, realised the ridiculousness of having a laser powerful enough to kill a fly around people, possibly children.

Talking with the casa owner about our journey to Trinidad today, he seemed certain that there were no buses running apart from the daily bus which we had previously used to travel to Sancti Spiritus. The adult guide to Cuba indicated that a Viazul bus ran mid morning and the prospect of staying in Sancti Spiritus another day certainly didn’t appeal. We headed down to the station shortly before 0830 and, sure enough, no buses were running to Trinidad; the age of the Lonely Planet guide we had was beginning to show. However, with the help of a genial security guard we were able to organise a taxi to Trinidad right from our casa (which was apparently known around town by its name of Las Americas). We pushed for an early departure of 9am, but the taxi driver said later was better due to the lessening of police on the roads, 1130 it was.

With a few hours to kill we headed back to the casa where Matt made a concerted effort to learn more Spanish while I listened to some music. Packing and saying goodbye to our overly friendly host, the dirty-yellow taxi rolled up right on time and, after I ran back to grab some water we had bought, we were on our way. Before even leaving Sancti Spiritus the taxi driver picked up a police officer, quickly stating that we were his amigos; the driver’s conversation with the police officer was far more languid and laid back than the Santiago mechanic’s was.

Matt had asked before how long the journey would take, and an hour and half seemed perfectly reasonable. The taxi itself was an order of magnitude more road-worthy than the Lada we had previously ridden in. My only gripe was the speedometer didn’t work, well, it certainly measured the strength of the cross-wind on the car but as far as measuring speed it was useless; given that most cars in Cuba would strain to go above 50mph, this wasn’t exactly a worry. The journey itself was uneventful and took us through familiar farm land and across winding, hilly roads.

Matt had been to Cuba before hand with one of his relatives and as such, had a good idea what to expect within the country and also gave him a bit of head start on the language. Throughout his previous holiday he had spent most of his time in the western part of the country and a large amount of time in Trinidad attending a diving course. He had fallen in love with the life-style and the people and I was certainly up for learning to scuba dive, so Trinidad was where we had planned to spend the longest amount of time. Trinidad was also the place where our list of casas from our busy Holguin host ran out; no matter, Matt had been in contact with a friend previously and our accommodation was sorted. I could tell that Matt was nervous about meeting up with his friends by the amount of Spanish he was trying to cram into his head in such a short span of time.

We would be meeting Matt’s friends on the beach which was on a peninsula a few kilometres outside of Trinidad town; however, our current taxi driver wouldn’t take us all the way to the beach due (once again) to police presence, so he dropped us in the centre of town and flagged down a local (government authorised) taxi driver. By now it was the time of day when the sun baked any and everything, so I was in no mood to haggle with our new driver who, despite Matt’s protestations, probably charged us above the going rate.

The peninsula was pure tourist, with large plush hotels and well-dressed security guards roaming the grounds, you could tell where the tourist money was going. Slogging across the hot sands with our huge bags we finally met up with Matt’s friends who, without being derogatory, I recognised immediately as beach-bums. The people we met were made up of a group of diving instructors and a hotel concierge named Carlos who had pitch-perfect command of English and informed us that he would take us to our accommodation in the evening. After some jovial greetings, we placed our bags in the dive-hut while the instructors took a group out on the boat for the afternoon dive. We had nothing to do until evening so we headed for a nearby sun-lounger to pass some time.

We were then promptly evicted from the sun lounger by an over-zealous security guard who stated that we needed to be a patron of the hotel to use their precious loungers. Patrons were easily spotted by the coloured wrist-bands they wore which unfortunately changed colour each day, and as correct as the security guard was, the beach was public and there were a vast number of other loungers available. Unfortunately this activity would become the norm for our time on the beach for the remainder of our stay in Trinidad.

Matt was the first to take to the ocean, I followed only to realise how out of practise I was at swimming, floundering before getting back into a rhythm. Waiting for the divers to return we built up an impressive sunburn and ogled some topless female sun-bathers from afar; we felt better about ourselves for this when a rotund, middle-aged man took to walking back and forth in front of them, pro-active ogling if you will.

The dive team returned some time after 4pm and the real introductions could begin. Matt offered up gifts of music and traditional English beer (ale) while we all chatted and integrated. The dive team had a good command of the English language, obviously learned from the number of tourists passing through the hotel, of course this meant they also know a wide array of swear words and lewd phrases which they dotted liberally about their speech. Amongst the smutty stories, Leo, the “head” dive instructor (if there was such a title) related to us that the phrase “ChupaChup” (as in the lollipop) was slang for blow-job; this became all the funnier when we saw a young woman walking down the beach wrapped in a ChupaChup beach towel. Carlos dropped by and said that he would be waiting at the marina to take Matt and I to our casa, at which point Lester, who ostensibly tended the dive hut, and Igor, a slender instructor with an impossibly gorgeous girlfriend, decided it was time to bring out the rum and coke. This of course made us late in meeting Carlos, which I was far more worried about than Matt seemed to be.

The journey back into Trinidad was in the back of an old Transit van which served the dual purpose of hiding us from any police and being large enough to comfortably stow our backpacks. It turned out the casa we would be staying in wouldn’t be ready until the next day so we would spend one night next door. Our host let us snack on some fruit and plied us with coffee and rum (in that order) before we were shuttled off next door to our one-night casa which thoroughly confused me. The one-night casa resembled the Tardis from Doctor Who in that despite its outer appearance, inside it was spacious and seemed to stretch on and on. Our host for the night proceeded to offer us beer which, coupled with the rum, made me utterly squiffy and sleepy. Matt began to talk to an elderly gentleman who lived in the casa while I relaxed on the balcony, at which point an immense tropical downpour ensued.

While the rain continued, the evening meal arrived which consisted of soup, rice, potatoes, soup and a meat which took all our deductive reasoning to identify as pork. Now stuffed, squiffy and sunburned, all my energy allowed was to make it to our room, collapse on the bed and fall fast asleep. Matt on the other hand was eager to get out and re-experience Trinidad and see if it stood up to his memories. I woke up a few hours later incredibly thirsty and managed to stumble through to the main area of the casa and ask for a bottle of water from the owner. Rehydrated, I cranked up the air-conditioning and fell asleep completely.

Matt returned from his escapades in and around Trinidad around 4am.

Matt and I stumbled off the bus into the morning twilight and, after searching for our luggage tickets, we were dumped unceremoniously in Sancti Spiritus bus station. It was just past 5am which was, unfortunately for us, far too early to head to the casa we had been told about by the matriarch back in Holguin, so we sat in the cool morning and watched the ebb and flow of the bus station. During intermittent bouts of swatting swarms of mosquitoes, a man in a crash helmet wandered the station and finally came to us, spouting something rapidly in Spanish at us. With a less than firm grasp of the language and the early morning blur, I managed to say “No” to him (usually a safe bet) and he continued roaming the station before puttering off on a scooter.

Just after 0630 we set off from the bus station on foot and started to look for the casa. We had been gesticulated at by a man near the station that our destination was in a straight line down, what passed for in Cuba, a dual carriageway. Even in the early morning horse-drawn carts and bicycle-taxis careened up and down the road with little regard for lanes or common-sense; two foreign tourists lugging backpacks as large as themselves made good dawn viewing for the local populace. Sure enough, after about half a kilometre we hit what looked like our casa and decided to wait until after 7am before calling in. Camping down near the entrance we watched the steadily increasing traffic (a car every few minutes instead of every ten) until we decided it was high-time to ring the doorbell.

Still bedazzled by the journey and new locale, I could tell that the man who greeted us was the same one who had approached us in the bus station when we first arrived. By some stroke of luck he either didn’t recognise us (I was no longer wearing my trusty bucket hat) or was too polite to say anything; it wasn’t until later that Matt and I realised that for him to come and get us meant that there had been phone-calls and organising being done by our previous casa owners, all the time with us unaware. The home we were let into was absolutely beautiful, with comparatively tasteful decorations in the spacious reception room and a well-tended garden at the back. Our host was a tall, well-set man in his mid-to-late fifties, well spoken and was a very good English speaker.

Both Matt and I were tired, so we arranged for breakfast at eleven and were shown to our room: another gorgeous space with modern air-conditioning and clean, white linen on the beds; the bathroom was a lurid pink in comparison to the sky-blue bedroom but that was of little consequence. Both of us fell asleep after immediately hitting the pillow and I only woke up out of habit at half ten. After showering and having, what was by now, a typical breakfast, both of us came back to life and were ready to take on Sancti Spiritus.

The adult guide had little information on Sancti Spiritus, however the pop-up guide informed us that we were in a very historical and picturesque part of Cuba. It was this which first instilled me with a healthy amount of distrust in the pop-up guide. After looking at the church in the centre of town (picturesque) and the bridge (history) we came to the conclusion that there actually wasn’t anything else to do in Sancti Spiritus. Sitting down in a cafe near the bridge we enjoyed a cold lemonade, yet even here away from the hustle of the town, we were approached by a slurring drunkard who was chased off by the café waiter and a silent and imposing man selling cigars.

Wandering the town square in the afternoon heat quickly sapped our energy, not helped by the fact I wasn’t wearing my hat and could feel I had caught the sun on my face. People-watching passed the time, listening to a local couple arguing over (what sounded like) something minor or the sight of a huge lorry trying to unload and navigate the tiny, one-lane streets around the park. Giving up on Sancti for any entertainment, we tried to navigate ourselves back to the casa, but managed to get spectacularly lost and ended up wandering down dilapidated suburbs and labyrinthine streets. Even trying to head back to where we had been proved fruitless and we were eventually approached by a well-meaning but unlistening man who indicated he knew where we needed to go. Our past experiences with jineteros meant we were wary and eventually just paid the man to leave us alone once we’d gotten our bearings.

As much as I like to think I’m not, I do get nervous about being in strange places and not knowing my way around, or as I usually put it: not having an exit. My situation in Sancti Spiritus, not knowing the way back to the casa, was more uncomfortable than I wanted to let on, thankfully Matt was very understanding and we headed straight back once we found the way. Back at the casa and significantly happier, I applied some after-sun and took a nap while Matt continued his Spanish learning on the patio. I joined him after the nap and basked in the tranquillity of the garden, replete with a large, elderly dog roaming around.

The meal that evening was immense: olive-stuffed meat, rice, banana fritters, soup and the usual assortment of fruit and veg; it swiftly defeated both Matt and I who felt slightly ungrateful for leaving food, but considering how much we had eaten it didn’t seem so outrageous. Over this meal and the next morning’s breakfast we found out about our host: he was part of a local theatre group and showed actors (local and foreign which explained his English abilities) around Sancti Spiritus; he was certainly slightly effeminate which fitted the stereotype of a theatre actor however he seemed to have little regard for personal space and seemed to spend a great deal of time patting Matt on the shoulder…

We had planned to head back to the bus station after letting our food settle and organising the journey to Trinidad for the next day, however the heavens had other ideas. After a brief shower of rain, sheet lightning rippled across the clouds for over half an hour, thunder sounding all the time. We both sat outside the front of the house and watched the spectacle, during which we did our best dirty old men impression and ogled our host’s daughter who, from what we could glean, was spending the night out with her car-owning, trendily-dressed boyfriend. The sky’s light-show culminated in a massive downpour, the likes of which I hadn’t seen before, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last.