"Pablo walked me to the bus station- all five doors down, and started chatting to taxi drivers about taking me to Havana for the same price. I finally got sick of being puppeteered and told him and the taxi driver thanks, but I'd get the bus. Hell, the taxi may be quicker but at least on the bus I don't have to talk to anyone or deal with the driver chatting me up. Or so I thought.
"Trinidad is pretty and there is a great salsa atmosphere at night, but I think it's a place for couples, really. I got a bit fed up walking around and being thrown comments left right and centre. Even a security guard who sits (day and night, it seems) by a gate near my casa particular beckoned me over the other day. Seeing as he wears a uniform and was at work and all, I thought maybe he had something valid to tell me- but no. He asked me if I wanted a boyfriend. [May have been repeating myself here!]
"Last night I was walking up to the plaza and a woman peering out of the shadows asked me if I wanted a job in Trinidad. I can only think of so many jobs she might have meant, and I don't think I look much like a salsa dancer. This bus smells awful. Karma for leaving the taxi driver hanging.
And that's the end of most of my notes! I have a feeling I got distracted at this point by the many drunk and leery men on the bus, one of whom insisted I have a swig of him rum.
Receiving the phone-call from Stefan was really quite nice. Although I had decided to go to the beach regardless on this day, I knew that going alone would result in another day of agitation due to the unwanted attention I would inevitably receive. I also found it hilarious and uplifting the way in which this hyper-active and oblivious Austrian man managed to find his way down to the south through such a ridiculous means, find the phone number of where I was staying and communicate his wishes to call me despite knowing absolutely no Spanish, and at times insisting on trying his luck with french words. I'd found the man fun yet insufferable over the past few days by the ways in which he managed to (and enjoyed) childishly winding me up so that we would bicker and I would snap in what I imagine to be a sibling-like fashion. Despite this, I'd missed him- and it was lovely to be met by a familiar face once I hopped off the bus to Cienfuegos.
We spent the day at the local beach. The day trip we'd taken together before was to a private island off the north coast, which locals were not allowed to visit. Here at Playa Ancon, the atmosphere was certainly different- busy and cluttered, but better for it. Huge cuban families (both in number and physicality) gathered along the beach, eating barbecue food and ice-cream. Hundreds of them stood in the sea together- under parasols, beer in hand. Quite a funny sight.To get in the sea was a delight and cooled me down both physically and mentally after my building irritation towards people over the week. When I got out, I shared a parasol with a friendly family on the beach- everyone is so trusting of valuables etc. Stealing from each other is just something that would never cross Cuban minds, and so there is no rota of paranoid bag-watching as one might find in other places. Of course this attitude may indeed be different towards tourists, as with most things in the country. Most enjoyably, I didn't receive any comments, propositions or gormless staring eyes- most probably because Stefan was there, but also because by being on this beach we were seemingly accepted as locals. "Comrades".
After polishing off a litre of chocolate ice-cream each, it was time to make our way back to the city. Locals had made their way to and from the beach by sharing cars, as always, and I was determined to do the same. Not only did I not want to be overcharged in dollars, but with only a couple of days left in Cuba I still had a purse full of local money which I wanted to use up. We stood around for a long time, laughing at the most pointless roundabout in the world before analysing each car and its owner, wondering if there were in "collectivo" mode. Nobody seemed to be leaving at this point, until one guy in a more modern looking golf turned up. I tried to bargain with him to take my local pesos, but he refused. This made me very angry, because I knew that he would have taken anybody else there for 10 pesos- the equivalent of about 30 US cents. Stefan is too laid-back and European to argue over such matters, and we finally agreed to let him take us for $7 US, since we had no idea when the next car would be available.
For the whole duration of the journey, the driver whinged on to me about why it was necessary for him to charge us so much money, and I practised my Spanish debating skills in return. I was just in the middle of telling him how much it costs to run a car in England and that no, my Papá did NOT buy it for me, when the engine made a chugging noise and we ground to a holt. In the middle of a long, deserted motorway, we all hopped out of the sweat-box and our driver assessed the engine. I found the whole thing very funny, which yes, I know is cruel. Once I had managed to stop cackling like a witch who had placed a curse, I did my bit of standing in front of the bonnet, peering in and scratching my head like the men. I gave some suggestions as to how we might push-start it (I have experience of this from my own beaten-up little car...) but hark lest we forget I am a WOMAN and was therefore completely ignored. I don't think I was this man's favourite person during this moment.Eventually another car passed, stopped to talk to the driver and made a phone-call. Stefan and I hopped into this car, which took us to our requested destination. I handed him $5 and jumped out. Poor Mr. Sweat Box was not destined to receive any of our dollars. And the moral of the story is...?
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