Even the fireworks can’t be arsed in Cuba. I counted 4 in total that barely rose above the rooftops of the Plaza Vieja, making just made enough sound and light to constitute being a firework. Then it was all over, and it was 2018.
The next day we get a taxi to Vinales, cigar country. It’s the last house, down the last street. The dog welcomes us by taking a horrible green shit on a pile of broken bricks outside our cottage, then runs off crying. The shit stayed there for as long as we did, 3 days in all.
We got a couple of horses and wandered out further into farmland. The trail was cavernous and tricky even for the horses. Then the rain came and the ground turned to mush. The horse lost it’s back legs a few times trying to get any kind of purchase. If it went, I was going with it and it was going to end in tears. Luckily my horse was on his game. He reared once. I took the rope around his neck in a cavalry knot and rose with him on his hind legs as he stood up. From a distance it must have looked fucking fantastic.
We hired two bikes and cycled out to the caves of Caveo Del Indio. We were there within the hour. Now Cuba is not the sort of country where you need to lock your bike. There’s no crime here. Not in that sense. But if you fancy leaning your bike up against a section of nondescript fence, out in the middle of nowhere, some asshole will come out from his porch and tax you a buck. I handed over a single Cuc to some chief. No ticket, no receipt, just asshole tax.
Please don’t take anything on this blog seriously. This is not a blog to be taken seriously. I don’t write seriously on here. These are just stories. Not even good ones.