After two weeks I’m beginning to get a bit of ennui. The days are becoming samey, and I’m feeling adrift. I woke from a nightmare at two in the morning, and panicked when unable to find the light switch in my pitch-black, unfamiliar room. I laid awake till six, when I managed to retrieve my bike stored in the casa opposite and slip out of lovely Cienfuegos (pic).
Cubans are remarkably easy-going about getting up to help travellers who have very early starts. The casa owner, Dr Victor, was waiting nonchalantly in his car for me outside with a novel. I suspected he’d been there all night.
Yes, ‘Dr’: he told me that running a B&B is what earns his living, and he’s a medic at the local hospital essentially as a socially responsible hobby.
I was back on the main road out by 7am (pic). I hope my shadow is this shape because I’m taking a picture, not because I’m holding my head in my hands, The Scream-like.
From here it was a half-day of long, hot, empty roads through endless flat fields. Lincolnshire teleported to the Caribbean. Norfolk after climate change.
Traffic was sparse: just the odd car, and the odder horse- or ox-cart (pic). Eventually – after some pleasant relief through woods and tame forests, still on flat empty roads – came the final tedious straight couple of miles into the sea-breeze headwind to get me to the tiny beach resort of Playa Girón.
I found a decent casa and picked up tips from the other guests on how best to go snorkelling tomorrow – this is one of the world’s best places to do it – but there was little to do in the village. I didn’t fancy the touristy hotel, so ate at the locals’ slightly forlorn beach restaurant with straw canopies and a menu in biro.
And then the long afternoon to fill, and not much to fill it with. No internet, no guitar, no books, no shops. I resolved not to fill it with beer, as I’ve done too much of that so far. So I filled it with rum instead.
Miles today: 51
Miles since Baracoa: 758
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