To Baracoa

Two Australian (I found out later) girls got onto the Viazul bus at Camagüey. Cuba seems to like compound words for brands, e.g. Viazul (Blue Way) or Islazul (Blue Island). Furthermore the A in Viazul was an icon of a highway vanishing into the distance, becoming the apex of the A. The air-conditioning in the bus was cold, and I wished that I had taken out a T-shirt for my arms.


At sunrise we arrived in Santiago de Cuba. The de Cuba is to distinguish it from other Santiagos, such as Santiago de Compostela and Santiago de Chile; this is common practice with city names that are ambiguous, such as Salvador. I had not intended to stay in Santiago, even though it was Cuba's second largest city. It was said to be full of jineteros and its streets difficult to navigate. That, and the lack of something specific that I wanted to see, didn't make it attractive to me. However it is Cuba's most Caribbean city and has a strong, unique musical heritage. (Note from the future: At that time I didn't know as much about Cuban music. If I were doing the trip today, I would probably take in Santiago.) I got a forward ticket to Baracoa with no problems and never left the bus station.


We transited Guantánamo city, which looked small and underdeveloped. It gives its name to the song Guantánamera (Girl from Guantánamo), probably the best-known Cuban song in the world. The US has a naval base in a nearby bay, an anomaly of history. I didn't actually see it, but there is a vantage point on high ground outside the city for the curious. That name gained world notoreity after the events of 2001. The route got hilly as we crossed the range surrounding Baracoa, almost at the eastern edge of the island. Baracoa is therefore somewhat isolated. It is where Columbus made landfall in Cuba on his first journey.

At a roadside rest stop, I bought a coconut and cocoa confection wrapped in banana leaves and shared some with one of the Aussie girls and J, an English girl sitting in front of me. She offered me a banana, which I accepted, whereupon she held out her hand and said 5 pesos. Sense of humour, that's good. She was currently teaching English in Spain, but had worked for a year in Australia.

At Baracoa bus station, I made my escape from the touts by exiting via a side door. But I was pursued by a woman offering a room, despite my protestations of ya tengo (I already have) until I was out of town. I arrived at the casa that Berta had given me an address for but nobody was in. Probably at the bus station looking for lodgers—what an irony. Eventually an old lady answered the door. She was the landlady's mother. Yumi eventually returned and looked at me in mock exasperation, arms akimbo. I saw you at the station, but you ignored all offers, she huffed. She was a recently widowed mother of two young kids, still young and vivacious; her late husband had been an older man, an artist. There were mosquitoes in the area but fortunately the room had air-conditioning. Still, it took a while for the machine to displace the warm air.

I napped until evening, then went looking for J. At her casa, they told me she had gone to Hotel El Castillo (Castle Hotel). I thought they meant a hotel in town, then I realised that it must be the hotel on the rise overlooking the town. I found J there by the pool chatting with Brits from a UK tour group. I envied that they had all their arrangements taken care of, and they envied us for having the freedom to go wherever and whenever we pleased. I walked J home and went back to my casa for dinner. We had agreed to meet the next day to go to the beach. The landlady was a bit worried when I got back about 10 minutes late for dinner. After dinner I chatted for a while with her and a cousin of hers who was helping out with the housework.