lock up your cows
One wall of the room is painted with a pirate ship
prominent and in the corner an open chest brimming with treasure, the gold
trinkets falling to the floor. “Were these pirates English?” we ask our
hostess. Oyudaniz has cheered up a
little after we have negotiated a price for our room and evening meal. She was hoping for more but we are already
paying more than we want to. We’re in a
village next to the big resort of Guardalavaca, which literally means watch the
cow. This was because in days gone by
marauding pirate ships would call in to steal supplies. Now, the small beaches are overshadowed by
large resort hotels that look out of place.
Anna had warned us “Otro mundo!”
Another world indeed.
However,
there is a nice stretch of beach completely undeveloped and as we’ve had a
tiring day we’re happy to stop. We could
camp. We should camp. Instead we take a room. I think Gayle can’t face the thought of
eating my fried cabbage and onions with instant mash.
 |
| the road's looking good |
Leaving Gibara we took a cross-country route through el campo. The countryside is lush and
verdant. It’s all farmland. The land is often fenced, sometimes with
barbed wire, but mostly with large cacti planted tightly next to each
other. Goats wander in small packs. In
the distance we can see the hill known as the Chair. It really looks like a saddle to us. It’s the name Colombus gave it when he washed
up here on his first ride over. The road
is dirt, and it’s been chewed up pretty badly by the horse and buggies that
everyone is riding in. It’s like
stepping back into an old cowboy movie.
There’s been a lot of rain here too, judging by some of the swampy
mudpits we have to push around. Everyone
says hello when we greet them. It seems
odd when I look at a white European face and see how poor these farmers
are. We haven’t seen such rural poverty
in white people since we passed through some Russian villages in Siberia. Now I
can imagine more clearly how it would have been for the Europeans who settled
in the parts of Canada and New England we visited.
 |
| ho-hum |
We arrive at a village which has a better dirt road
leading to the main highway. Here there are newer houses, schools, some small
shops. In Fray Benito we buy fresh bread
at the bakery and continue in the baking sun towards the resorts. We see and are passed by quite a few tourists
riding road bikes. They don’t generally
let on and only wave in response to us.
What are they doing here? They
are clearly just out for a day ride but there’s enough of them to have a
race.
When we reach the resorts it’s a
shock to see the mouldy concrete appartment blocks for the workers, stuck up on
one side of the road. We turn into the
‘hotel zone’ which is all very green and tidy, if a bit scruffy around the
edges. Our host’s husband works in one
of the hotels. After dinner they invite
us to join them in front of the TV to watch a three year-old rowing competition
with an English commentary overdubbed into Spanish. Strange. We chat.
They ask us questions. Why don’t
we stay in the big hotel? Apart from the
blaringly obvious cost factor, it is true that we’d rather stay in a
guesthouse. Are there guesthouses like
this in England? We describe B&Bs. Are
the bikes new? Before we sleep they insist
on bringing the bikes indoors.
