11th of May - from Havana to Santiago de Cuba

During breakfast we informed Ana of our plan to, later that day, make our way to Santiago de Cuba. The two emblematic cities are separated by approximately 900 km of road and there are two viable alternatives to cover this distance: train or coach. Ana discouraged us from taking the train saying it was not safe, that tourists often got robbed whilst sleeping and that it had no air-conditioned. This last con sounded more like a pro, given the absurdly low temperatures that the Cubans set their air-conditioned. On the other hand the coaches were reliable, had air-conditioned (!) and were slightly cheaper. Afterwards she told us of a friend of hers in Santiago that could rent us two rooms.

We left the flat for a morning walk and decided what the plan would be. To us the train sounded like a more romantic way to travel in Cuba and, according to Lonely Planet, there was a reliable regular train service called el Tren Frances (the French Train), departing at 6 pm from Havana to reach Santiago early in the following day. On the other hand, the state-owned coach company, Viazul, used modern Chinese-built vehicles and, due to its elevated prices, seemed to serve only the tourists. Thus, we all agreed that the train would be a more genuine way to travel.

Our first stop outside was an agropecuario. These are small markets scattered around the country where you can buy locally produced fruit, vegetables and meat. To the ears of an eco-friendly Westerner this may sound like a green idea but it merely reflects the lack of a transport infrastructure in Cuba and, of course, the absence of products coming for other countries. Nevertheless, over the years Cubans have prioritised food production in order to become self-sustained. During our time around the island we saw no food deprivation or starving people. If anything, a bourgeois born and bread in the capitalist system like myself could only complain about the limited choice of food, but thats what you get when you are self-sustained. You eat what you produce. In the market we bought carrots, bananas (the smallest I've seen but by far the tastiest) and other fruits. Around the corner from there we bought bread from a local bakery. We found only one type of bread in Cuba, a soft baguette-like bread that, despite being almost tasteless, kept our stomachs full. All our groceries were bought with Cuban pesos to an equivalent of less than 2 €. 

From there we walked once again towards old Havana, got some money from the bank and visited the Chocolate museum. This museum is ironically located in calle Amargura (Bitterness street) and is, in all trueness, a cafe that serves amazing chocolate. We had a cold chocolate and milk drink and watched one of the employees making artistic chocolate figurines. For me, watching melted chocolate flowing up and down with its viscous consistency is an hypnotising experience. 

Rui and Rocha standing outside the Chocolate Museum.

Making chocolate at the Chocolate Museum.

Afterwards we walked back to the flat to pick up our bags. Ana came to us saying she had already arranged for everything with her friend in Santiago and that someone would be waiting for us outside the coach station to take us to the casa particular. Shit, we thought. Earlier on, Rocha tried to comfort Ana by pretending to take her advise on taking the coach rather than the train. He told her we already had coach tickets. So now we had someone waiting for us at the wrong place and at the wrong time on the other side of Cuba. Maybe it was Ana's maternal look that pushed us to lie rather than disregard her advice. Now we couldn't admit that we had lied. Nevertheless we decided to stick with our plan and take the train.

We walked from calle Neptuno to Havana central station carrying our bags, the food and, of course, the three-person tent. The station was, of course, another magnificent building restored to fulfil only the most basic functions. It was 4 pm and the station was crowded with people buzzing about with heavy bags. In a corner some kids (and other not so young men) were playing in an old arcade video-game machine. I remembered some of those games from my childhood. We approached what looked like the ticket stand but the man told us that for the French train the tickets were sold in a separate building, 300 meters away from the station. Rocha and I went there while Joana and Rui looked after the bags.

A man with a serious case of cataracts told us it was too late to buy tickets for the 6 o'clock train. Last tickets were sold at 3. Cuban transports are far from simple to deal with. We brought the bad news to Rui and Joana and together decided that we could still make it to the coach station. If it worked out fine we would actually do what we promised to Ana. Not that we cared that much but it would be nice.

After questioning a few people around the station we were told that the coach station was near the Plaza de la Revolucion (Revolution square) and we could reach it using bus P-15 which we could get just across the road. We waited for a while with other commuters and eventually a packed P-15 showed up. In good Cuban style peopled started to cram themselves by pushing their way inside of the bus. Confused and uncertain of what to do we approached the front door with all our bags. I was holding the two Cuban pesos for the fare but wasn't getting any closer to the door, let alone the driver. A man partially inside the bus noticed our distress and said I could give him the money while we entered through the back door. I gave him the two coins and ran back while Joana and Rui were still looking to enter through the front door. Confusion was beginning to build up. Not being able to see if people were still waiting, the bus driver began to drive away. Joana ran, at the speed anyone can run with the luggage for two weeks on their back, yelling "Stop! Stop!". Rocha and I looked back and saw another P-15 arriving behind, this one with much less bodies in it, so we ran to it. Joana didn't notice and kept screaming at the first bus as it drove off. Rocha and I entered the second bus and Rui was stranded between the two groups, dazzled. Once more, I payed the bus fare and the driver took off before Joana could realise we were gone. All I remember is Rui's confused expression looking up at us as we drove past.

Having the group broken in two, Rocha and I decided to leave in the next stop and walk back hoping that Joana and Rui wouldn't hop on another P-15. Fortunately they were still waiting when we got there. Live together, die alone, Rocha said, remembering the TV show Lost (it was a running joke to relate our trip to Lost).

Arriving at the coach station we sat in the artificially chilled office of Viazul. We were told that we might have a seat but we would have to wait and see. This happened every time we asked for Viazul tickets. And so we rested for a while, playing cards, reading our books and watching Cuban cartoons on TV. Eventually we were allowed to board the coach, paying 51 CUC each. I didn't see it but Rocha said they went straight to the driver's pocket rather than the company's safe. As expected, the coach was occupied mainly by tourists. It was fairly modern and had comfy seats but was, as expected, overly air-conditioned. As we drove past Revolution square leaving Havana I could see the horrible obelisk that stands right behind Jose Marti's statue and, above it, five or six vultures flying in circles. Perhaps this was the graphical representation of a decaying Revolution...

The coach trip lasted for 12 hours. During the first four Rui and I engaged in conversation despite sitting diagonally from each other.  We spoke of history, politics and different realities we had lived. Rui gets particularly excited when making a point the resulting in increased tone of voice. Close to ten in the evening some people asked us to shut up and so we did. 

Predicting cold during the trip I took my sleeping bag with me and used it as a blanket (the rest of our luggage remained in the boot). At some point, while most of the passengers slept, the coach stopped in the middle of nowhere. Drunk of sleepiness some people walked outside to stretch their legs and smoke a cigarette. The middle-aged lady sitting next to Rui addressed me in Spanish and asked me if  I was Iranian. British of origin, she claimed to be living in Cuba for 7 years where she owned an alternative tourism company and gave me her business card. I went back to sleep...