7. Holquin
The only bus from Santiago left at 3pm. By nightfall we are in the middle of nowhere, stranded. In the pitch black darkness, enterprising villagers ride up to sell honey bars but this is the only help to hand. This is horse and cart territory. There is no phone signal and no landlines here. No petrol, no tools, no passing cars. Help is not forthcoming.
The journey from hell
The six hour trip from Santiago to Holquin takes twelve to complete, and plummets me to the depths of despair. Our ancient bus breaks down over and over again. I sit despondently in the dust in the barren wastelands of rural Cuba.
The six hour trip from Santiago to Holquin takes twelve to complete, and plummets me to the depths of despair. Our ancient bus breaks down over and over again. I sit despondently in the dust in the barren wastelands of rural Cuba.
The only bus from Santiago left at 3pm. By nightfall we are in the middle of nowhere, stranded. In the pitch black darkness, enterprising villagers ride up to sell honey bars but this is the only help to hand. This is horse and cart territory. There is no phone signal and no landlines here. No petrol, no tools, no passing cars. Help is not forthcoming.
The only other vehicle to pass for two hours is a state run local bus. The driver stops, but cannot help. It is illegal for him to take foreigners. My dislike of the Governments treatment of tourists increases still further. These people are lovely but this system is ludicrous! Not only have I paid a vastly inflated price, but the bus us 'internationals' have been allocated is even older than the state one.
There is no leeway, no compassion, to save us from spending the night by the roadside.A forlorn request from a hopeful fellow traveler to obtain a taxi met with hollow laughter. Fuel is expensive and hard to obtain. Tour groups take the lions share for their minibuses, a situation increasingly resented by locals unable to run even the most basic motorbike. We simply have to wait.
A brief respite as the bus splutters into life after much tinkering by the driver. Everyone cheers up and we crawl on for another hour before it dies again. There is nothing to be done. There are no spare buses. There is, apparently, a mechanic , told of our plight, who is riding out to our aid. Until then, we wait. Again. I and my disparate band of fellow travelers, assorted age, creed and nationality, are so tired, so hungry, so fed up.
On the plus side, there is a strong communal atmosphere. Anyone who has food and drink shares it. We swap conversation in diverse languages over bread and orange juice. There is a Cuban postgrad , Jose, among us on the bus, accompanying a visiting student from Mexico. As the Mexican cannot travel on the state bus , his Cuban friend has been given rare permission to travel with him on the Viazul.
Jose is keen to practice his English and keen to share his woes.
It is well nigh impossible for Cubans to leave the country, passports are expensive, visas hard to obtain, and many previously visa free 'Friendly' countries such as Ecuador now ban Cubans from entry to stop large numbers fleeing here. He say he is resigned to being " trapped" here. I empathise with this lad's genuine anger, I have heard this tale before.
The further East I travel the more I appreciate the depths of poverty and despair here. The economic crisis in Venezuela has dragged Cuba down to the bottom too. There is no oil, no food, and no import deals yet with America, the promised land. Fidel Castro's death has marked not just the end of an era but the end of the glorious socialist dream.
Eventually our knight in shining armour appears, a mechanic gallops in on horseback, a hero riding to our aid. He coaxes the reluctant bus into life, it is a miracle!
The first rays of dawn shine down as we limp into Holquin. I share a taxi from the isolated bus station with a lovely young Argentinian couple and we all collapse into a grimy, exorbitantly priced room, the only place we can find open at 4am, for what is left of the night.
After a few hours fitful sleep I wander out to explore. Holquin is a charming small town full of tree lined squares, churches and markets. There is not much to do here but sit quietly under the cloudless Cuban sky, breathing in the clear air after the smog of Santiago, climb the hills above the town to sit under the cross and gaze over the valley floor, and munch local bread and cake. Just what I need. I find a beautiful room with a delightful garden for a reasonable rate to rest and recover.
There is no leeway, no compassion, to save us from spending the night by the roadside.A forlorn request from a hopeful fellow traveler to obtain a taxi met with hollow laughter. Fuel is expensive and hard to obtain. Tour groups take the lions share for their minibuses, a situation increasingly resented by locals unable to run even the most basic motorbike. We simply have to wait.
A brief respite as the bus splutters into life after much tinkering by the driver. Everyone cheers up and we crawl on for another hour before it dies again. There is nothing to be done. There are no spare buses. There is, apparently, a mechanic , told of our plight, who is riding out to our aid. Until then, we wait. Again. I and my disparate band of fellow travelers, assorted age, creed and nationality, are so tired, so hungry, so fed up.
On the plus side, there is a strong communal atmosphere. Anyone who has food and drink shares it. We swap conversation in diverse languages over bread and orange juice. There is a Cuban postgrad , Jose, among us on the bus, accompanying a visiting student from Mexico. As the Mexican cannot travel on the state bus , his Cuban friend has been given rare permission to travel with him on the Viazul.
Jose is keen to practice his English and keen to share his woes.
It is well nigh impossible for Cubans to leave the country, passports are expensive, visas hard to obtain, and many previously visa free 'Friendly' countries such as Ecuador now ban Cubans from entry to stop large numbers fleeing here. He say he is resigned to being " trapped" here. I empathise with this lad's genuine anger, I have heard this tale before.
The further East I travel the more I appreciate the depths of poverty and despair here. The economic crisis in Venezuela has dragged Cuba down to the bottom too. There is no oil, no food, and no import deals yet with America, the promised land. Fidel Castro's death has marked not just the end of an era but the end of the glorious socialist dream.
Eventually our knight in shining armour appears, a mechanic gallops in on horseback, a hero riding to our aid. He coaxes the reluctant bus into life, it is a miracle!
The first rays of dawn shine down as we limp into Holquin. I share a taxi from the isolated bus station with a lovely young Argentinian couple and we all collapse into a grimy, exorbitantly priced room, the only place we can find open at 4am, for what is left of the night.
After a few hours fitful sleep I wander out to explore. Holquin is a charming small town full of tree lined squares, churches and markets. There is not much to do here but sit quietly under the cloudless Cuban sky, breathing in the clear air after the smog of Santiago, climb the hills above the town to sit under the cross and gaze over the valley floor, and munch local bread and cake. Just what I need. I find a beautiful room with a delightful garden for a reasonable rate to rest and recover.
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