Missing Havana

cuba-havana-city-wallpaper (1)

Yesterday I was searching for some music to listen to. I was listening to Rodriguez, because I’m slow on the uptake of what’s cool and I’d only just heard the soundtrack to Searching for Sugar Man and loved it. I began poking around in different genres, and I stumbled across Buena Vista Social Club. I threw on their album, and sat still, amazed. Man, those guitars, those soft, complex nylon strings. Those soulful voices, those drums. Chan Chan. I knew that song, or I had once known it, somewhere far away. I’d heard it before, two years ago on the far side of the world. I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes and I was there again. Continue reading




I am furious.

Fidel Castro died earlier this week at the age of 90. I have been busy over the weekend and have therefore missed the majority of news on the subject. However, when turning on my laptop this morning, I am appalled to see the ferocity of attacks against the Cuban leader. As the days go by, I am growing increasingly apoplectic at the state of the political world. A vain, unintelligent, and cruel television star is president of the USA, Britain has voted itself poorer in a referendum based on lies, the far right is on the rise around the world, and hateful rhetoric is growing, palpably. Now, Fidel Castro is gone. Cue the outpouring of hatred against him. Continue reading

10 Best Attempts to Murder Castro

With cigar chomping Fidel Castro at the wheel, Cuba has been defying the USA for decades without ever declaring open war. Both countries have imposed sanctions and trade blockades like they were going out of style, leading to a resource-strangled Cuba and a not-very-affected-economically-but-quite-embarrassed United States. It seems the CIA decided it would be a lot easier for everyone if Fidel was dead, and have poured a lot of time and money into attempts to make it so. Continue reading

Post Cuba

Actually no, that title’s shit. Need something edgier.

Cuba: A Look Back In Anger

No that’s wank.




Dan After Cuba

Oh forget it.

So. Assuming you have now read all 15 days of my diary (God bless your patience), you will now have an idea of why I find it so hard to sum the country up in a nice little manageable sentence. Two weeks after the first manic taxi ride took me plunging into the jaws of the mysterious communist island, Cuba belched me back out again, shivering and bewildered and wondering what the hell I’d just been through. Continue reading

Cuba Day 14 – At Last, Some Culture… Oh, And A Flailing Tramp

The 14th day and penultimate entry of my Cuban diary, and I discovered Havana’s empty Chinatown & met a furious hobo. We’ve nearly made it to the end of this slapdash, sun fried, rum stained voyage. Enjoy!

Crawled out of bed. Sammy was dead to the world, bless ‘im. Headed out with John and got breakfast from a few different street stalls. A sandwich here, an ice cream there, dodging fume belching cars and whistling hustlers and steaming bins – even breakfast in Cuba is an adventure.


Advertising just doesn’t exist in Cuba. It’s exciting to walk down the street trying to spy the local conveniences. The person who invents the sandwich board over there is going to be a billionaire.

Met a couple more Isreali girls who are travelling after finishing their mandatory army service, as is common among Isreali twenty somethings, and a guy from Lebanon with a tattoo commemorating the Cuban revolution. Give him a week of seeing constant Fidel and Che posters plastered over every available service and he’ll be sanding it off.

We said goodbye to Sammy, who was so drunk last night that he couldn’t even remember having anything to be embarrassed about. So I reminded him. As with many of my experiences in Cuba, while last night I was quivering with rage watching the smashed Canadian stagger around Havana offending literally everyone, with hindsight it’s pretty hilarious.

Sanya and I were planning to explore Habana Vieja – the old town. Luckily, John decided to tag along, and thanks to his Spanish made an excellent tour guide. Walked the length of the malecon, saw the castle, the Capitolio, cannons in the bay, and wondered around the police station – which is bizarrely open to explore. You can literally see into the cells from outside. Morose (and mostly black) faces watched us from behind iron bars, some in bandages, presumably (and hopefully) just from boozey antics the night before.


The Capitolio. Capitol building of Cuba. Just across the road, a crumbling old hovel.

Found some cool town squares. A guy came up to us as we lounged on a bench and told us he was a champion boxer from the Olympics and we could take a photo with him . He had left his medal at home unfortunately. Between this and the fact that I’ve seen more muscle on a ferret, we were rather skeptical and soon hurried off.

Had a beer in the cool but touristy Floridita, Hemingway’s old haunt. A bronze statue of him at the side of the bar watches the sunburnt tourists arrive by the coachload and spend four hundred pounds on a beer.

After, headed to a backpacker bar I had been recommended called El Chanchullero. Had the best meal I’ve had in Cuba. Chicken, sweet potato, Cuban salad (AKA cabbage), and a fuckload of avocado. Backpackers were queueing to get in. The decor wouldn’t look out of place in Camden, with currencies the world over stuck to the walls and a defiant poster reading ‘Hemingway was never here’. I tried to ask the exquisitely bearded Cuban waiter how such a hipster, independent restaurant could possibly exist in the country, but, as is the hipster way, polite conversation is too mainstream and he answered only with a few non-committal shrugs, the self satisfied knob end.

Wandered through Habana’s Chinatown, which looks exactly like every other Chinatown in the world, except for one small detail. A complete and utter lack of Chinese people. They all jumped ship after the Revolution and subsequent breakdown in relations spanning the next 20 years.


Chinatown. Which is neither remotely Chinese, nor a town.

Got the local bus back to nearby Ania’s. Cost just one peso nacionale, and you can see why. At the first stop began ‘the crushing’, as John put it. What seemed like 400 Cubans with faces like slapped arses piled into the double length bus. Imagine peering inside a clown car after a troupe of them have hopped in and finding 12 clowns molded and crammed right into each other’s orifices, big shoes sticking out of windows and red noses trapped in automatic doors. This is a Cuban bus. A bleeding tramp sat on the floor of the second carriage, kicking people who walked past. Thankfully we got off after two stops.

Had a group meal at Ania’s which was delicious – yet more chicken, avocado and rice. Personally I could eat it every day – and after a fortnight of the dough and ketchup creations that the locals call peso pizza, even a Tesco value macaroni would have been a godsend.

We bought a litre of rum but they wouldn’t let us drink it – apparently in the last day or so Ania’s has decided it’s now a bar as well as hostel and drinks are prohibited. Bah.


Despite my invariably white photographs, rest assured that Cuba is actually sun drenched and sweltering 90% of the time. My shitty camera just seems to ignore it.

All roads lead to the malecon. Joe, Lesley, Sanya, John and I passed the rum around for a few hours. I was intent on getting smashed and ruining my life with one big fuck off last night, but Lesley hadn’t recovered from the previous night (she threw up and woke up wearing a different set of clothes in a friends bed) and Joe was experiencing the right of passage for all Cuban backpackers that is explosive diarrhoea.

Made a valiant effort with the rum, but in the end called it a night and headed back. Sat up with John for an hour or so looking at his photos from Bolivia.

Not quite the blow out I was hoping for, but a nice night nonetheless. Joe was originally planning on a pool party that he was going to bring us to, but you can’t blame the guy for not wanting to loudly shit his swimming trunks in front a hundred mortified strangers.


Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 15 – I Fuckin’ Made It

“One last scam. I’ll almost miss them.”

Cuba Day 13 – Malecon Wankers

Only a couple of days left of my Cuba diary now, and it’s been a whirlwind up to this point. Today’s entry features a storm on the beach, a concert on the University steps, and a drunken Canadian falling off a very high wall into the sea…

We all woke up nursing a dreadful collective hangover. Got a taxi to the Capitolio building with Martin and Sanya. Got a disgusting ‘meat’ sandwich thing which I ate two bites of before binning. Threw some to a stray dog, which hungrily ate it and hobbled away retching.

Went to a park to get wifi (the parks, for some reason, have wifi) and swapped a hundred or so quid over into my bank. Got cash out and met up with Joe before heading to the beach. The beggars where we got the bus from are the worst I’ve experienced. They refuse to leave even after being told no ten times. One old woman was pleading with us, showing us dirt on her skin. Everything I have read has said tipping beggars harms the economy. Doctors earn 20cuc a month – a beggar can earn twice that easily.

Everyone and their mum's piles down to wifi hotspots. Who are they all texting? Nobody has any bloody internet!

Sanya, Martin, Joe and I got to the beach on a lame tour bus with tourists frantically snapping photos of every building, bush and bird we passed. Got some beers and were metres from the beach when it started to rain. Waited it out in a restaurant, where we cracked our own tins as a frowning waiter looked on.

Beach was gorgeous and quiet, and the sea was warm. Would have been idyllic had furious black clouds not been rapidly approaching from the horizon. Had a swim and a long conversation with Joe about pretty much everything. Started to piss it down again so hopped on the bus back.

Nice, huh?

Oops, spoke too soon. Catastrophic thunderstorm.

At the hostel, we met everyone else, including an Australian guy called John, born in Hong Kong. He’s a doctor of astronomy studying galaxy formation, 28 years old, and is 8 months into a 2 year world trip. He’s done almost every country in South America so far, and is planning on going basically everywhere. He saved ten years for this trip.

Lesley, the German girl I met on my second night (whose name I absolutely cannot remember every time I speak to her), visited the hostel to meet Joe. We all got food from a local paladar – a licensed restaurant. Chicken, rice, avacado and potatoes. Took about an hour waiting for it. Some of the best advice I’ve had was from Kurt in Vinales – you need a lot of patience in Cuba. Nothing happens quickly. It was worth the wait. Delicious. One of the tastiest meals I’ve had in Cuba (although that’s not difficult).

Martin left for the airport. Said a very efficient German farewell.

We bought rum after and I headed to the malecon with Lesley, Sammy and Sanya. Drank rum on the wall. Talked to Lesley about her time in Cuba and it’s effect on her relationship with her boyfriend in Germany – she’s here for 7 months. Told me she has previously had open relationships and considers it completely normal and healthy. Sanya, Sammy and I couldn’t comprehend the idea of our partners sleeping with someone else and being fine with it. I’d be horrified. In theory though, I understand her views. Really interesting conversation in a gorgeous location.

Headed back at 9 to meet Joe and John. Had mojitos at the hostel, then, armed with more rum, we set out to the university amid rumours of a concert taking place there.

The street was packed full of people heading to the university steps, where a huge stage had been erected with a full light show that could be seen all over Havana. Police had made a perimeter a hundred or so metres around the centre and were frisking people as they went in – almost exclusively black people. We passed through without even an eyebrow raised.

Apologies for the blurry photography. I was hammered.

We smoked and drank rum and danced, enjoying watching the locals hanging out of windows, cramming onto balconies and clustering on rooftops to see the show. The booze turned on Sammy and he went from Cliff Richard to Keith Richards in about 10 minutes. We had to hold him back to prevent him running onto the stage. Told him he would most definitely end up slung in a Cuban jail.

Peepin' Cubans

Went for more rum and met a friend of Lesley’s, a dreadlocked Cuban guy called Louis. The longer we stayed, the more locals latched onto us and soon it snowballed into half the street giving us cigarettes, telling us about their cousins in Europe, and asking for rum. Louis was really cool. He works in television editing and works with Avid and Premiere – the same programmes I used at uni. He’s currently working on a documentary about a Dominican man who has collected 5000 handprints from every country in the world.

The show finished and we stayed to chat in the street as the crowd trickled away. As we floated drunkenly back toward the casa, screeching tires gave us all a heart attack. Police cruisers flew past and skidded to a halt fifty metres ahead, and officers jumped out and started knocking some Cubans about. Two groups were busy braying each other but were soon scattered and the main culprits slapped in irons. I already assumed, but now had it confirmed, Cuban police do not fuck about.

We grabbed yet more rum and stumbled to the malecon. Had a pizza each on the way, and lost half the group. Lesley wondered off with Louis, Joe disappeared to find wifi, and John made best friends with a family in the takeaway.

Sanya and I were left babysitting the paralytic Canadian on the sea wall. Any potential conversation was soiled by his constant drunken interjections and subsequent apologies. He began repeating that he needed the bathroom. I told him to go down an alleyway, vaguely hoping he might get lost and not come back. Nice guy, just an annoying drunk.

Lounging drunkenly on the malecon with a warm night breeze - there's no better way to spend an evening.

He ventured off into a dark alley and came back exclaiming that he needed to wash his hands. He tried to reach down to the sea from the malecon, failed due to the sea wall being 10 feet high above the water, dropped his keys to the rocks below, and, before I could even say ‘moron’ he had hopped over the wall.

Miraculously he didn’t die immediately from landing badly on the sharp, slippery rocks. More and more bemused locals were gathering to watch the floundering halfwit scrabbling about among the rock pools in the dark like a pissed up Gollum on his stag do. We shone our torches down for him, and, god knows how, he found his keys.

He yelled up and three squinting Cubans put their beers down and heaved him back up onto the right side of the wall. He repaid them by flopping his arms around them and asking the same questions fourteen times.

Sammy, looking rather like Gollum.

Had a monosyllabic conversation with the Cuban guys, who were refreshingly chilled and gratefully turned Sammy down when he tried to shove a fistful of coins their way. Swapped a cigarette for rum, said goodnight, and Sanya and I carried Sammy home.


Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 14 – At Last, Some Culture… Oh, And A Flailing Tramp

“A bleeding tramp sat on the floor of the second carriage, kicking people who walked past.”

Cuba Day 12 – Havana Good Time (I’m not sorry)

Day 12 in Cuba, and I’d fallen in love with the country. The rough ride at the start of the trip was kind of necessary in order to properly appreciate the second half. Just because I was no longer getting robbed and/or electrocuted doesn’t mean there wasn’t an adventure or two left, though…

Very disturbing thing happened last night. Was woken up by a woman shouting in the street at maybe 4am. She was shouting in Spanish, the same thing over and over. I could hear her as she came up the street and as she got nearer, I could hear something in her cries that was chilling. Her voice sounded desperate and fearful, repeating the Spanish phrase over and over, louder and louder, echoing around the silent street. A couple of voices called back to her at one point. I wish I knew what she was saying. It sounded like cries for help – or possibly the wails of a mad woman. Either way, it was horrible and I lay awake in bed long after her screams had faded away into the distance.

At 5am, I was woken again by hammering on the front door, over and over, and then the doorbell ringing frantically. I heard my casa owner answer the door, but heard no conversation. It truly is an intimidating country when you are unable to speak the language. My number one piece of advice to any traveller wanting to visit would be to learn at least basic Spanish, and not to travel alone. Really underestimated the difficulties I would face here, alone and unable to communicate.

I got up for breakfast at 7, moron that I am, because my casa owner speaks no English at all and refuses to slow down her rapid Spanish, meaning I agreed to eat at the crack of dawn by accident in garbled Spanglish. Woke up still hammered again and was subjected to breakfast that was merely huge, rather than the usual gargantuan offering. Consistency is not a concept that exists in Cuba.

After a joyous 30 minute fiesta of a toilet session, which is becoming part of my daily routine as my stomach slowly packs in, I shoved my things in my backpack and left quickly, with the casa owner waxing lyrical about something that I hope wasn’t important because I stared blankly and left.

Went to the bank, asked for 30 cuc, she tried to withdraw 300, took some explaining but got there eventually. Some old guy flogged me a cigar for a cuc which I sat and smoked in the town square as various stray dogs asked for food and stray Cubans asked for my sunglasses. The dogs were considerably less persistent.


The town square. Filled with shuffling priests by day and gyrating prostitutes by night.

Found a taxi to Havana for 15cuc – very cheap, like a 2 hour journey for a tenner. Joining me in the knackered old classic car was a German girl called Hannah who has been here for a month. She is visiting Cuba in memory of her late father, who listened to salsa music all his life, sharing his passion with her. He never got to visit the country. Really touching. Silver lining – he never got electrocuted and impaled in the shower, either.

We had a great conversation about Cuba, music, politics, films and sociology – it’s her degree. She was impressed by my media production degree – I was reluctant to shatter her illusion of it having any practical use. She asked me my three favourite films. Not necessarily favourites, but I recommended Scott Pilgrim, Airplane and American Beauty. Hopefully she’ll enjoy at least one of those!


At one point our driver pulled over in the middle of the motorway. The gentleman pictured wandered over across the six lane motorway and sold him a string of garlic. They argued about the price for a while. To this day I am yet draw a satisfactory conclusion as to what the hell anyone would need that much garlic for.

Back at Casa De Ania now, Martin and Sanya are exploring the city somewhere. Will no doubt see them later and then it will be party time.

Part 2

Went out and grabbed something to eat from a street stall and had a beer walking through the city. Didn’t hang about as the heat was fierce.

Met a Canadian guy called Sammy at the casa who had just arrived after fleeing the unfathomable dullness of his all inclusive week at Varadero.


A street. Marvel at it.

Two familiar bronzed German faces arrived back at the casa. Was great to see them again. Martin has a sunburned lip that has become infected. Looks a mess. He’s mortified. Hilarious.

Writing this two days later. Past two days have been a rum soaked blur. Met more people as Ania’s – a 38 year old Chilean woman called Fransisca who visits Cuba all the time, and an English artist called Joe who’s 22 and has been funded to go to Cuba to draw the country – pretty epic.

Fransisca told us about some local place by the seafront and we all piled in a taxi there, four of us crammed in the back on top of each other. Was a cool salsa bar overlooking the ocean with a large dancefloor. As soon as we arrived we grabbed some beers and were dragged onto the dancefloor by Fransisca, where a group salsa lesson was being led by a yelling Cuban man. Failed miserably to keep up with the locals and soon sacked it off and slumped on a wall nursing my beer, watching the Cubans flinging each other about.

Got pretty smashed pretty quickly and somehow lost everyone in a bar about the size of a tennis court. Assumed they’d gone home for some reason and got a taxi back by myself. Driver tried to rip me off by pretending he had no change. Refused to hand over the fiver he was asking for and he soon miraculously found a couple of Cucs in his pocket.


This photo isn’t relevant to anything. It’s the national ballet theatre or something. It’s a nice photo though. Shame not to include it somewhere. Pretty lights.

Drunkenly woke a homeless man while stumbling past and handed him five Cucs. He was still bleary from his sleep and held the money up to a light to see if it was real. Seemed grateful and confused.

Everyone else got back around 12 and angrily told me they had spent 30 minutes trying to find me. Whoops.


Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 13 – Malecon Wankers

“Cuban police do not fuck about.”

Cuba Day 11 – Tanning with Belgian Riot Police

After the meteoric crash at the end of my first week, by the time I reached Viñales, things had started to look up. After 11 days, Cuba didn’t seem to hate me anymore. My time in Viñales was spent hanging out with police inspectors from Belgium and choking on massive cigars…

Today is the day I’ve been waiting and hoping for.

Woke up still steaming for breakfast before a horse riding tour organised by my casa. Breakfast is becoming less of a joyous banquet and more of a forced feeding. Crammed myself full of bread, fruit, cheese and coffee before a car arrived at ten. Mojito hangovers are fierce and I struggled to even keep my eyes open as we drove to the horse trail.

Hopped on a horse that didn’t want to walk. Guide kept shouting something at it in Spanish and it eventually started to drag it’s heels (hooves?) in a slow plod that felt almost sarcastic.

Tour guide spoke no English and my Spanish is wank, so the two hour tour was pretty silent, apart from my guide occasionally pointing out various fruit plants.

‘La banana’

Nothing to see here. Just me looking like an absolute alpha male. Move along.

Saw a cock fighting arena, where two men stood thrashing each other with their genitals. Just kidding. Cockerels were wondering about, but thankfully no fighting was taking place. Gross ‘sport’.

Eventually got saddle sore and wished I’d just gone for the one hour tour. The horse riding itself doesn’t compare to my experience in New Zealand – that felt like I was really controlling the horse and working with it, rather than being ferried along like a sack of spuds on a conveyor belt. Turns out that what I have heard shouted at horses all across Cuba is the word ‘Caballo’. They shout this to get the horses moving. Presumed it means go, or faster. Turns out it means ‘horse’. Ingenius.

Was getting dizzy from the heat, so thankfully we stopped and wondered up to a tobacco farm. Had a delicious mango juice, and met a handful of other horse-trekkers. There was an older Belgian couple, Kurt and Sharon (their names sound much more exotic when they pronounce them) and a young German couple. Watched another cigar being rolled, and passed it around. Had honey on the end, and you could actually inhale without choking.

This chap rolled us a magnificent cigar inside the tobacco drying house. Allowed us to smoke it... inside the building made out of dry leaves. Cubans just don't give a fuck.

The others bought cigars (at jinetero prices, but I didn’t say anything) and we got chatting. They all spoke English – I hate only speaking one language. It feels so ignorant. The Belgian guy spoke French, German, English, Dutch and some Danish. They said they were going to a beach later and invited us all along.

They dropped me back at my casa in their rental car and I chilled for an hour, then met them at the town plaza at 2.30 after grabbing a quick peso pizza from a stall out of someone’s living room window. The peso pizzas here are essentially dough with some cheese on, but it fills a hole, and for about 70 pence I can hardy complain.

The Belgian and German couples arrived, I hopped in the car and we sped off to find some distant beach. Took about an hour, through mountains and pine forests on treacherous old roads. The beach was gorgeous – calm waters and white sands. Unfortunately, snorkelling was crap, as the locals think nothing of lobbing beer cans and other litter into the sea. Littering is a pet hate of mine, and many a time during this fortnight I’ve winced watching the locals finish a can and lob it carelessly over their shoulder without a second thought.

Not bad.

The Belgian couple are police officers, Sharon is an inspector and Kurt is chief inspector working on the French Belgian border. You can tell they love their work – Kurt enthusiastically told me stories about his days in the royal guard, the riot police, and mounted division. Really interesting stuff.

Headed back to Vinales before it got dark and only got lost once or twice. Saw the sun set behind the mountains, turning the whole sky pink.

Cop car photo bombed my shot of the gorgeous afternoon haze. Fuck the po-lees.

Texted Sina and met him and Marie Claire in the same salsa bar as last night. Martin came down too, and Kurt and Sharon joined us. Sina’s Cuban tour guide from his horse trek joined us also, along with his girlfriend. A real motley crew, with three or four languages criss crossing the table constantly and me nodding sagely, smiling knowingly, and pretending I had a clue what anybody was on about.

Stomach started churning after a couple of beers. Entry was a cuc, and so I was loathe to run home to shit and pay in again. Instead braved the bar toilets, grabbing a fistful of toilet roll off the female attendant slumped outside.

Toilet door kept swinging open, didn’t lock, toilet had no seat and no top, so you could see straight into the plumbing. Shat myself down a belt size, and then realised the flush didn’t work and she had given me one square of toilet roll. Somehow, thank christ, I was able to make do, and after many attempts was able to flush away the shame. Fuckin Cuba.

A nice sunset, to help cleanse your mental palette after that unfortunate last paragraph.

Had more mojitos and chatted to Marie Claire in between her enthusiastic if rhythm lacking salsa excursions. Left around 1am and got everyone’s names for Facebook, all agreeing we could stay with each other if we came to each other’s countries. Sina and Marie Claire live in Amsterdam, so if I ever get around to travelling there that would be great.


Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 12 – Havana Good Time (I’m not sorry)

“At one point our driver pulled over in the middle of the motorway. The gentleman pictured wandered over across the six lane motorway and sold him a string of garlic. They argued about the price for a while. To this day I am yet draw a satisfactory conclusion as to what the hell anyone would need that much garlic for.”

Cuba Day 10 – Viñales Vagabonds

Day 10 in Cuba, and after more than a week of having my ego constantly buggered, things started to look up. More or less. Enjoy!

Was woken at 2am by voices and music next door. Heard a familiar drum beat – someone was playing Alt J! Nearly wept with joy and went to find whoever it was, but alas, their door was closed. Could hear multiple people speaking in English. Was desperate to speak to them but didn’t dare knock and enter their room for fear of looking like a lonely maniac. As I got back into bed, Arctic Monkeys came on. Hearing that familiarity, my favourite band, and with potential friends so close but so far, was probably the lowest point of my trip.

Got up early as I farted in bed and nearly shit my pants. Turns out I have diarrhoea now, to add to my top trumps card of various ailments, maladies and inconveniences.

Paid the casa girl and left. Couldn’t find anywhere open selling food or water, so didn’t drink or eat. Went to Casa de Ania to wait for the taxi. Met a German girl and a girl from Nottingham who were very friendly, on a five month world trip.

Taxi arrived – a big old brown Chevrolet. Picked up six other passengers – two girls and a guy from Isreal, a German guy, and a Dutch couple. Starting to notice a theme here.

We all got chatting as we sped down the deserted motorway, banging our heads on the roof as we bounced over various potholes and being flung to either side as we skidded around trotting wild dogs. We all got on well. Stopped for a break and the Israeli guy went for a shit in a bush.

Waiting for the Isreai guy to poo.

Drove on to a tobacco farm just outside Vinales. Saw the owner roll a cigar in front of us which we passed around amid much photograph taking. Had rum and coffee in his house and bought five cigars for a cuc each – bargain, and very high quality. Not that I would know.

Tobacco farm.

We each got dropped at our casas, mine has a great mountain view in a quiet street. Sat in a rocking chair on the porch and aged 50 years. Was meant to meet the others but I’m bloody knackered.

Part 2

Heaved myself out of bed. Went to find the Dutch couple, Marie Claire and Sina, who is originally Iranian. They’re both doctors. Sky was thundering and lightning but not a drop of rain. They arrived late after getting lost, and had already been on the mojitos, so were pretty relaxed.


Bumped into the German engineer, called Martin, in the street. We all went for a cerveza or three. Met another German couple whose names escape me. Went to a restaurant but didn’t bother eating, partially due to lack of funds.

Everyone, especially Sina, got hammered. Had a fascinating talk with our Cuban waiter. He used to be a high school teacher but left to become a waiter as the pay is better, enabling him to support his family. He works long hours and lives miles and miles away in the city, as does his wife. He doesn’t think Cuba will change when the Americans arrive – although he hopes it will. He told us that Vinales, Trinidad, Veradero are not real Cuba – this is just what tourists see.

After the waiter's warnings, the sight of these 30 police officers standing stoic on a street corner in the middle of the night was made all the more eerie.

The nation is the most contradictory and enigmatic I have ever visited. The more we talked, the more his frustrations with the country came out. He isn’t supposed to voice his opinions, and kept checking around as he spoke for authoritative ears. He doesn’t like Castro. He said school aren’t incentivised, poverty is rampant and the system doesn’t work. Something in the way he spoke – secretive, passionate, desperate, made me uncomfortable. Every Cuban says something different. I want to see behind the curtain.

As Sina put it when we left the restaurant, ‘A look into the eyes of real Cuba’.

After, we headed to the casa de la musica for drinks. Was forced to have a mojito by the barmaid despite asking for a beer. Meh. Was a good mojito. Spoke extensively with one of the German guys about immigration and Syria, which I pretended to know far more about than I actually do.

When the music started up I heard English accents at the bar and met two English girls. Had a brief chat before the music got too loud and they were whisked away to salsa. Having an extended conversation with a female at any casa de la musica is nigh impossible.

I can't dance Salsa, but I can sing the first few lines of Justin Timberlake's Senorita, which is basically the same thing.

Got pretty smashed with Sina and Martin. Girls don’t ask guys to dance, so if you lack the confidence to ask a girl or the know-how to salsa, you ain’t gonna salsa. The three of us guys stood at the side of the dancing, acting like we didn’t want to dance anyway. Eventually we just said fuck it and got in amongst it.

Booze started to turn on me and we thankfully left just as I was reaching my well documented monging stage. Sat outside with Martin for a bit and were solicited by prostitutes – which Martin turned down because they were too expensive.

Said goodnight and staggered off home, only getting lost briefly in the sleepy streets of the small mountain town. A good day.


Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 11 – Tanning with Belgian Riot Police

“We were a real motley crew, with three or four languages criss crossing the table constantly and me nodding sagely, smiling knowingly, and pretending I had a clue what anybody was on about.”