 By
the time I reach the train station it is dark. The entrance is packed
with lots of other travellers, mainly Cubans. There’s lots of
chatter and excitement in the air. I make my way towards the train
and offload my gear. Back on the platform I have a quick cigarette
and try to engage with the prospect of an overnight journey on the
red eye express.
Ahead
of me a guard blows her whistle and I climb back on board. The train
itself isn’t that bad, it’s fairly clean and comfortable.
When I go back to my seat I find I have a person sitting next to
me. Mariella, a native Santiaguera, on her way to visit her son
in Havana. We chat for a while but my ever restless nature gets
the better of me. I pace up and down the train, bored and smoke
furiously whenever possible. In the corridor a young Cuban man asks
me for a light, which I oblige. As we are talking a policeman comes
over to us. He demands to see the man’s ID card. The poor soul
is unable to find it and goes through his tattered wallet countless
times. The policeman comes over as a bully and humiliates his victim
without any regard.
Thankfully,
he finally locates the card and we go back into the carriage to
chat. It’s about midnight now and the man looks shattered.
I leave him to sleep and go back to my seat. Mariella smiles and
lets me back in. She kindly moves her bag so that we can both use
it as a footrest. All around me families are taking sandwiches and
getting young ones ready for sleep.
Suddenly,
all the lights go out on the train, and a general hush descends,
broken only by the steady rhythm of the tracks. I spend my time
looking out the window at faraway lights and distant settlements.
I try to sleep but it just doesn’t happen. This doesn’t
bother me too much as I’m well used to my virtual inability
to sleep well anywhere other than in my own bed. I think it is a
very small price to pay, in relation to the joy and wonderment that
travelling brings.
Some
time later I sense the train is slowing down. I carefully climb
over Mariella and go into the corridor once more. I put my head
out of the window and I can see the upcoming lights of some obscure
station. We grind to a slow halt. The door opens and new passengers
get on. The lights remain off and these new arrivals are expected
to find their allocated seats in the dark.
Directly
opposite the train is a large fence. Poking through it are street
vendors eagerly wanting our attention. I jump off the train and
buy a small sandwich for five Cuban pesos. I have it eaten in no
time at all and follow it with yet another cigarette. I head back
to my seat and drift off into a light sleep.
As
dawn breaks we arrive in Santa Clara and of a sudden, the train
comes to life. I jump up out of my seat and hop off the train once
more, barefoot. I manage to get a few slugs of water from a fount
on the platform. Back on the train Mariella seems to be coming out
of a deep sleep, lucky so and so. She comes round in her own time
then goes off buy us both a sandwich and a lolly for breakfast.
At
about ten thirty when we begin to weave our way slowly through the
outskirts of Havana. Everything looks grey and depressing. The sky
is leadened with angry clouds. Just about every person I see is
wearing winter coats. What has happened? I can’t believe the
change in only two weeks. It’s like I’ve come to another
country. I direct my attention back onto the train and notice that
here too, people are well wrapped up. Mariella tells me that the
temperature often drops in early December. “But what about
Santiago,” I ask. She tells me that Santiago is always much
more temperate than the northerly located Havana. I then ask her,
“Is this it then, my last couple of days are gonna be cold
and grey?” She replies, “Por desgracia, si.” (Unfortunately,
yes.)
I am
gutted, utter disbelief. I have just left a tropical paradise bathed
in sweltering heat for the grime and cold of Havana. Coupled with
this is my state of near exhaustion. Nontheless, I try to put on
a brave face. I help Mariella off with her bags and kiss her farewell.
I trudge despondently to a phone box and ring Lourdes, who is Lazaro’s
housekeeper. No reply. I go into my bag and dig out another t-shirt
to stave off the cold. I decide to take
a taxi to Lazaro’s on blind faith and just hope that he’s
arrived back home when I get there.
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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