 I
head off to the town and hire a bicycle. En route I am aware that
Trindad is completely different from all the other places I have visited.
The streets are cobbled and narrow. And while the place is full of
the usual tourists there is an unhurried feel about it.
I pay
a visit to the bank to cash some travellers cheques. By the time
I get back to the Casa the heat makes me think only of he beach.
I take directions and find a tiny village called 'La Boca' (the
mouth). The place is almost deserted. On my way in I pass an old
man stood on the porch of a one roomed house. Immediately my heart
goes out to him. He looks so lonely and defenceless. I shudder at
the thought that this tiny husk of a man surviving on his wits.
There's a kitten is weaving around his legs and the two of them
look in need of a good dinner.
Down
at the water I negotiate the volcanic rock and dive into crystal
clear waters. Visibility is good and I am able to see a few fish,
though nowhere near as good as on La Isla. Lunch is fresh pineapple
and half an hours siesta. Suddenly I am awoken by a commotion behind
me. A local fisherman has harpooned a big fish. He is only just
able to land it on account of its sheer size. He dumps it in a wheel
barrow and stands there breathless. I go over to take a look. It's
a beautiful creature with brown mottled skin. It stares out at me
with its big sad eyes. I have never seen anything like it. The great
shame of course is that this once majestic animal will soon be reduced
to a few cutlets and a pile of skin and bones. I feel my old vegetarian
guilt complex rise.
On
my way home I pass the old man once more. This time he is surrounded
by a group of people I take to be his family. You can see the resemblance
in some of their faces. The kitten is doing somersaults and other
mad stunts desperate for attention. The old man looks different
now, safe and secure with his family around him. this pleases me
and I head back.
Supper
is a simple affair of bread, cheese and ham. So much for the earlier
vegetarian guilt trip. As darkness descends I go onto the roof and
have a smoke. Up above the night sky is littered with tiny stars.
I locate the plough and other constellations. I wonder what kind
of night sky they're having back in England. Sleeting rain, ground
frost, dull and depressing. It hardly seems worth thinking about
so I don't. Instead, I reflect in the fact that I am soon to
arrive in Satiago De Cuba, a hotbed of Santeria, culture and music.
The
views expressed on this page are those of the contributor and the
opinions expressed are not necessarily those of the BBC.
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