A day at the beach

An early start - before dawn - and a long drive west of Havana for a day trip to the beach.  We had a 'modern version' of the classic song Guantanamera playing in the car to keep us awake, and a taxi driver with a rather boyish sense of humour who told corny jokes most of the way there.  Apparently they lost a lot in translation, and weren't very funny to begin with.

Capitolio before dawn

The Valle de Vinales

The Florida Straits at Cayo Jutias.  90 miles to the free world.

We travelled through Pinar del Rio province, the Valle de Vinales, and out to the sandy white beach at Cayo Jutias.  Blissful and well worth the long drive.

And the day after

Moody skies in Havana: a storm brewing over the Malecon

Back in the city and a late afternoon stroll along the Malecon.  A mighty storm was brewing!

Hemingway's haven

11km south east of Havana is Finca la Vigia, a pretty little estate with the late 19th century villa in the centre of it where Ernest Hemingway lived for twenty years up until 1960.  We braved the P2 bus to get there - a bit of a crush getting on, but the atmosphere was very good natured.  Public buses in Cuba play Latino pop ballads to keep their customers entertained - many of whom sing along.  Marvellous.

Bamboo graffiti in Hemingway's garden

Graves for Hemingway's four dogs

Hemingway's home is beautiful, and eerily, exactly as he left it.  The table is set for dinner in the dining room, his typewriter and bookshelves in place, and all the furnishings still the same.  He had a thing about hunting, and most of the walls are adorned with stags' heads.  He used to write standing up, onto the skin of the deer, as he believed he drew the strength to write from the strength of the animal.  A true eccentric.

Once again, Havana!

I love the combination of beautiful old tiles, Christmas tree and yellow retro stereo 

I loved my room with its big shuttered window

Ah, Havana.  I've missed you.  And after the epic journey of the night before, arriving at our new Havana home was a treat.

Seven hours in a bus station - or, practising the lost art of waiting

We hadn't been able to buy bus tickets for our journey from Camaguey back to Havana.  It wasn't a route where you could buy advance tickets and we couldn't get our names 'on the list', but every Cuban we met said we would have no problem whatsoever arriving at the bus station at 9pm and waiting for one of three night buses - at 10pm, 11pm and 12am.

The trouble was we followed their advice, but all three buses were full.  There was, however, to be a fourth bus arriving at 3.40am.  Another three and a half hours.  Shortly after hearing this I had a sense of humour failure and started to plan alternative routes - the train?  a plane?  Neither was a workable solution for reasons I won't bore you with here.

Bored almost to tears by a combination of tiredness, the hard metal seats of the bus station and bad Cuban television broadcast for our entertainment, I was delighted when a friendly Norwegian guy who we'd met earlier that day turned up early for his 2.30am bus to somewhere else.  I chatted to him for another hour, soon after which the 3.40am bus to Havana did arrive, there were two spaces on it, and we jumped aboard, happily continuing our journey north.

Never in my life have I been so pleased to see a Viazul bus.

Sights from the streets

Delicious homemade cakes bought for the equivalent of pennies from a hole-in-the-wall shop

The street is definitely for play in Cuba 

Just loved the colour

Pieces of metal waiting to be made into something useful

Pretty flower stall

Lovely artist's workshop

Once a pharmacy