 I
woke with the birds, get myself packed and off for seven thirty. The
journey down to Santiago is uneventful other than meeting a very strange
looking German, who reminds me of the archetypal scientist you get
in bad films. It’s dark when we hit Santiago and the bus station
is busy. As we get off the bus, we are marauded by the usual suspects
of taxi drivers and casa proprietors. Standing patiently at the back
of the melee is a very attractive middle aged lady. She winks at me
and calls me over. "Hola Pedro, Soy Isabella." Seems my
previous landlady had pre-arranged my next apartment for me. I wasn’t
going to argue.
We
take a taxi across town and arrive in a quiet street. We go into
a spacious colonial style house and take coffee. After the paperwork
is completed, I flop into bed and sleep off the days excess of miles.
The following day I begin with a walk into the city. Boy, it’s
hot. the place is pretty intense, just like Havana - "Amigo
this, Amigo that," when all I want is to be left in peace.
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Anyone
up for a dance?
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I head
out of the centre and find myself in front of a lovely building,
a maternity hospital that looks like something out of a Hollywood
film. I take shelter from the sun under a tree and consult the travel
book. The nearest beach is at a place called Ciudamar. There is
a bus service to it so I find the bus stop and wait. I get chatting
to a young man called Jonathon. He tells me his mother and father
left for Florida some years ago and he intends to join them there.
He is hoping to get work as a translator.
Forty
minutes later and still no bus. I go back into the city and do a
bit of food shopping. The crowds and jintero’s are getting
on my nerves by this point and I need my space. Back at the apartment
I head for the rooftop garden and do some yoga. Peace is mine again
and I spend the next couple of hours reading.
By
9pm I’m restless and go in search of a music club. Opposite
the Bacardi museum I find a joint that’s positively jumping
and go in. This place is bereft of tourists and has an authentic
feel to it. The band are playing hard African rhythms and one man
dominates the dance floor. Presumably local, he’s small and
sports a pair of large white sunglasses that would look stupid on
anyone else. He dances crouched over with an almost tribal energy
about him, turning occasionally to acknowledge the crowds appreciation.
I leave
about midnight and man in white sunglasses is still going strong.
I like the city at this hour, all the  traffic
has subsided and you are left in peace. I take a leisurely stroll
back to the apartment and call it a day.
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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