Cuba, Sunday Part 2 - feeling like a voyeur, in the steps of Count Troubadour and finding peace in a sunset.

The small beautiful city of Trinidad is a photographers dream.   And all roads lead to the Plaza Mayor around which a well-preserved collection of historic buildings reflect the grandeur built on huge sugar fortunes amassed during the early 19^th century.   The roads increasingly narrow as we slowly make our way into the centre and after a while become rambling narrow streets with uneven cobbles and tall narrow kerbs.  The mini-bus stops and ejects me out into a street busy with people.  Plaza Major, a short walk away is by contrast, quiet.   A very elderly jinetero (tourist hustler) with skin dark and leathery from the years of sun stands leaning on his donkey which sports a large sunhat topped with plastic flowers.  You can take their picture, for a price.

I am not so interested in the town square which is too picture perfect for my taste but rather am drawn to the streets through which we passed on our way into the centre and in which I think the true story of everyday life for Cuban people lies.  These streets, with houses almost close enough to touch from the windows of the bus are full of families and groups, sitting on the door steps, perched on the low window ledges or seated in chairs on the occasional small veranda which juts out into the pavement.  Doors and windows are open and as I walk by I glance in, curious as to what it might be like inside.   The houses are very small, the amenities basic, the frills few, but the rooms are often full of people, young and old together sometimes watching a football game on a black and white TV, sometimes just sitting and chatting.  If they look up and see me I smile and they respond, often with a wave.  The Cubans are a nice people.

There is a clear strength of community and I stop for a while in the shade away from the glare of the sun and just watch. Then I feel guilty about watching.  I put down my camera and just absorb the sensation of being in a place so different to home.  The quality of the light is different, the clouds of dust kicked up by a passing car or cart make you sneeze and there is a constant dryness in the throat from a heat that seems to envelope you.  It’s like walking wrapped in an electric blanket. I feel wrong about taking so many photographs, as if I am being intrusive.  It’s a world that in one way feels so open and yet in another so private.

It’s a long road I have chosen to wander down with nearly every house attached to the one next to it and only the odd passageway through which I glimpse a small yard and a flash of greenery.  In amongst the houses are shops which are really just windows in which chunks of meat might be hanging from a hook or small baskets of fruit and vegetables displayed on a countertop.  In a doorway a tiny woman, with rheumy eyes and skin lined with age sells baby clothes.  A line of people queue for milk which is one of the basic foodstuffs which are still largely rationed in Cuba, along with eggs.  A young man selling freshly squeezed orange juice wears a white t-shirt which looks remarkably crisp given the heat which has turned my outfit into a crumpled mess.  He smiles and I smile back and see myself reflected in his mirrored aviator sunglasses.  He is keen to have me take his photo so I oblige and order some juice which I stand and sip, glad of the shade.  Across the narrow street a bored and lethargic boy is selling pork and large chunks of it sit on the counter, unrefrigerated and uncovered.  I wonder how long it will stay out in the heat.  At the end of the street I see something that makes me smile.  A small truck, the sunlight reflecting from its aluminium paint job is selling beer in much the same way as the milk was being sold.  The queue is much longer though and through each of two tiny squares cut into the back doors an arm extends, takes the vessel offered up from the front of the queue and then returns it filled with beer.  It reminds us that we are due to meet for lunch back in the plaza and so we decline the mimed invitation to come over to speak to the guy doing the selling and head back to the centre of town.    

At Casa de la Trova we sit out on the terrace which is covered with a rampant vine heavy with small bunches of grapes.  It’s busy, vibrant and loud and most of the tables are full. A band is in full swing and we have to shout to make ourselves heard but mostly we are happy to just sit, absorb the atmosphere and watch the musicians, average age probably about 65. This is Trinidad’s version of the Buena Vista Social Club and they look like they are having as good a time as we are. Some famous people have played right in this spot - Santa Palabra, Israel Moleno, Count Troubadour.  We have ordered the house cocktail which is a combination of honey, mint and white rum called the Canchachara which sounds to me more like a dance, not a drink and after a couple I’m rocking along with the vibe quite nicely.  I am looking forward to spending a couple of nights in this lovely little town whose people seem so relaxed and at one with their place in the world.  I hope some of it might rub off on me. 

In late afternoon we drive up to our night’s accommodation at Hotel Resort Las Cuevas http://www.captivatingcuba.com/cuba/las_cuevas/index.html.  It is high on a hill and before dinner we meet up and enjoy a cocktail looking out over the panoramic view of the Caribbean and the town below us.   It is a beautiful sunset, there is a cool breeze which flutters over my shoulders and the first lights begin to appear in the houses far below us.  Like everywhere we have stayed in Cuba the facilities are idiosyncratic, the aircon in my room is feeble and I have had to mend another toilet.  I am beginning to feel I should ask for a discount on the basis of my plumbing prowess.   But sitting on the terrace, for the first time being a long way from home feels OK.  And I begin to feel a little bit of peace returning.

Find the Cuba photographs on the gallery.