My sleep was fractured at best, the air-conditioner sounded like it would tear itself apart while still managing to cool the room down; at times I woke and wondered if it was cool enough to turn it off or whether I could endure the cacophony for the sake of being at a comfortable temperature. Eventually rising at 7am I showered and was treated to another excellent cup of coffee accompanied by a breakfast of bread, Spanish sausage, an omelette, that same unidentifiable jam/preserve and some butter.
I skulked around, waiting for Matt to get ready and preparing myself for the journey to Santiago de Cuba, after which we paid the Casa owner and were cheerfully reminded that our choice of travel ("truck") would not take us all the way to SdC and that we should definitely stay with her friend in Bayamo. Undaunted, we decided to trust the Lonely Planet guide and headed off to the truck stop, jauntily indicated by a small lorry on the map. The truck stop was exactly as the name implied, a place for trucks to stop and little more; if you need a clarification of "truck" in this context: a cab which belched acrid fumes and a (sometimes) covered trailer at the back with a steel bar for seats, more than likely used for cattle in a past incarnation.
Looking entirely out of place, we caught the attention of a driver heading to Bayamo and managed to negotiate the very reasonable price of 2CUC for the journey. By now I was ready to accept that we would get exactly what we paid for and that by hook or by crook, we would get to Santiago de Cuba today. Shelving our rucksacks, we skipped the queue by virtue of being tourists and after a brief wait in the rapidly increasing heat, we were off. For the next couple of hours we were treated to (what I can only imagine) is a very realistic simulation of being cattle as we were jostled, bumped and probed along our journey. At various points the truck stopped, once to be inspected by police, another to allow battered foodstuffs to be bought by the other passengers and then again just because.
When we finally arrived in Bayamo we were immediately addressed by a friendly looking passenger who had been on the same truck from Holguin. After some fractured Spanish he took both Matt and I into his care and vowed to get us onto another truck to Santiago. This involved herding us onto a horse-drawn cart which took us from one end of Bayamo to another and, sure enough, an already partially full truck was heading to SdC and a mere 20 pesos (not tourist money, 25 pesos to a CUC) got us passage on this truck.
Our new transport was already filled with other cattle-simulator enthusiasts which meant finding somewhere to store our rucksacks was tricky. As we set off I took to gripping the bag with my knees to try and prevent it from falling onto the shins of the two official looking young ladies seated in front of me. Having exhausted landscape watching in the first hour of the previous journey there was nothing to do but inwardly curse the Cuban tarmac and construct backgrounds for some of the other passengers. One of the stops along the way involved the driver hauling large bags of, what looked like, paving slabs into the already crowded trailer, much to the chagrin of the displaced passengers.
By the time the truck hurtled onto a main road (like other roads except wider and with deeper potholes) the passengers had thinned out somewhat which meant I could cautiously move my rucksack and give my knees a respite. In the final 12km (as indicated by sporadic signage) to SdC, the heavens opened and heavy rain began to fall. This would have otherwise been fine had our truck not been open to the elements at the back and covered haphazardly (at best) meaning by the time we were unceremoniously deposited in Santiago, both Matt and I were thoroughly drenched. Replete with conspicuous dry patches where we had been sitting, we walked away from the truck stop, unaware of exactly which direction we were supposed to be heading; the rain steamed as it struck the road giving the entire scene an eerie, if slightly sauna-like quality.
The rain subsided and we were able to liberally orientate ourselves; our overbearing casa owner had provided us with the name and address of a casa in Santiago; but with no idea of the layout of the city and heavy backpacks in tow it was going to be a hard trek to find it. We took perhaps the longest route we could have to the nearest landmark we could glean, a park. No sooner had we sat down were we accosted by not less than three people: one who simply offered us an alternative casa then left us alone, another who tried to get us to buy a Granma (the national free newspaper) and another who could only be described as a persistent beggar. After politely telling him we didn't need nor want his help a number of times, he appeared to get the message and merged back into the throng of people which pulsed through the city.
The afternoon was wearing on so our rest was brief before we shouldered our rucksacks and set off again to find the casa. Our search was joined by the assiduous beggar who provided the opposite of help, even when we showed him the address in a vain attempt to make some use of him. Consistently chattering away in a mix of Spanish and English, it was Matt's superior navigation skill which landed us in the cool of the casa we had been searching for. Alas, this casa was full as we were booked in for the following night all thanks to the Holguin casa owner who had insisted we stay in Bayamo...
Thankfully the softly spoken woman phoned around some of her friends and managed to find us an alternative domicile, much to our delight. Not only that but the owner called and took us there, removing any chance of us getting lost again. Despite all of this, our limpet beggar remained firmly attached to us until we were well within our new, stunning casa. While not particularly fancifully decorated, this casa was a, exhilarating labyrinth of corridors and stairs and rooms, all a full story from the ground; the crowning glory was a roof-top balcony overlooking the entire city.
Matt and I were both filthy from the two truck journeys and impromptu rain storm and dehydrated from the walking in the afternoon sun, but a shower and some bottled water later and we were ready to explore our immediate area. The proprietor of our casa was a well-set woman with a piercing voice and a knowing demeanour and after some confusion, we managed to discover we were having prawns for tea.
Our exploration took us around Parque Céspedes, our previous landmark, which inevitably lead us to an al fresco restaurant. Sipping beers in the twilight, we were once again approached by people, this time a dance instructor whom had an excellent command of the English language. I listened dutifully while he eulogised about a London friend, how he wanted us to dine in his "private restaurant" or other menial topics while Matt took the opportunity to continue with his Spanish. The other person in this duo seemed content to smoke his cigar and chip in with spasmodic English when he picked up the thread of conversation. We somehow agreed to meet the pair after our tea at 10pm which seemed like an expedient way to escape without seeming rude.
Our tea was a hearty combination of prawns, cucumber, fried bananas (which must have been terribly unhealthy considering how delicious they were), beetroot, tomatoes and rice. Wholly stuffed, Matt and I relaxed on the balcony, reading our relevant guide books for things to do in SdC and discussing the finer points of the differences between a cemetery and a cementery. Matt seemed to be mildly allergic to something we had eaten and felt his throat closing up slightly, I assured him my Worst Case Scenario calendar at work had prepared me for performing a tracheotomy should the need arise.
While we had agreed to go out and meet up later, both of us were exhausted from the days' events and we ended up falling asleep a solid half hour before 10pm, helped along by the fact that we were doubtful we actually wanted to meet up with the duo again.