 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.
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