'Today we will be having a walk in a national park, swimming under a waterfall in a cave, taking a dip in the Caribbean and visiting Trinidad de Cuba, a UNESCO heritage city. I am sure you will love it.'
What I really like about Ainsley is his enthusiasm. He's been a guide for ten years and must have done this trip over a hundred times at least, and despite the difficulties behind the scenes, he really wants to look after you and to give you a good time. That's why we tried to keep what else happened in Trinidad a secret until one of the family slipped up and spilled the beans a few days later. It was then I think he went from seeing us as responsible mama and papa to being the troublesome teenagers of the family. All in jest of course.
Trinidad is said to be Cuba's best-preserved colonial town. It sits in the lee of the mountain, within sight of the Caribbean. It's hilly cobbled streets are paved with stones that once served as ballast for ships on the empty outward journey from Europe. We had two days staying in the countryside outside the city, going in for sightseeing, eating and music. On the second afternoon while we were wandering about aimlessly, a beautiful woman approached me and asked me if were looking for somewhere to eat. We agreed to go and have a look at her family home, a casa particulares, where she could provide a banquet: fresh fruit, salad, with a choice of chicken, fish, lobster, pork, followed by pudding- all for 8 pesos-little more than a fiver. Up to that point Ainsley had arranged places for the family's evening meal. We walked through the living room, decorated with pieces of ceramics and stuffed animals, out to the back yard, where tables were laid for dinner. It looked clean and comfortable. We promised the woman that we'd let her know how many of the family wished to eat there later, by arranging to phone a neighbour and leaving a message. She also asked if we had any soap and clothes that we could give her.
It was the usual sub-group of the family who were up for it; mama, papa, the renegade, bolshie teenager, and uncle, with the addition of the blonde Czech woman and the quiet athletic couple. He wore a canary T-shirt which said, 'Lean, mean, squidgy machine,' referring to the race he'd run with a prize of 16 malt loaves.
Rhys handed over his worn denims and a jumper I'd given him for Christmas the year before. The woman gave her apologies and said she had to go back to the square to seek more business. We sat down, wondering if indeed this was her family home. She'd looked quite poor and this place seemed relatively affluent, with a large kitchen and lots of people milling about. Four men tumbled down the stairs into the yard, picked up their instruments and started playing. Apart from a couple of other guests we were the largest party.
The food and the drinks started to flow. One of the band did a long riff on his guitar using a glass ashtray. The renegade shouted out requests for ABBA, greeted a young man he'd met earlier, and the band changed track from Guantanamera to Fernandez. One of the musicians handed Rhys his guitar and Rhys did a short piece (Those guitar lessons from Dewi next door hadn't been wasted after all). The singer asked the Czech girl to dance. I asked the singer to dance and the singer asked the bolshie teenager, while 'Squidgy' played the maracas and his partner videoed us all.
I was just wondering when Rhys would start singing Calon lan as he had on the coach on our wedding anniversary. But at that point the singer pointed at Rhys feet. They were wearing the same style of baseball sneaker. Except the singer's were black, old and torn and Rhys' were in relatively good nick and were green. Rhys took his shoes off and the singer ran off to the kitchen with them, coming back a few minutes later smiling and wearing the green sneakers. He offered Rhys his own, but Rhys declined. They had their photo taken with their arms around each other as if they were blood brothers. We paid the bill and Rhys stepped out barefoot on to Trinidad's cobbled streets.
We hadn't gone far when Squidgy insisted Rhys have his socks. At least he wouldn't injure himself quite so easily. I was just worried that Rhys might decide to give other items of his clothing away before we got home. So we hobbled to the square holding each other up laughing and wondering what Ainsley might think if he knew. Cubans and tourists were sprawled on the steps of the square watching the dancing and appreciating a band with a loud brass section. We had another drink or so and when the band stopped around midnight we stumbled down the cobbled hill to catch a taxi back to the hotel.
As we reached the corner we now refer to as 'machete corner, something started to kick off between two taxi drivers, one who owned a 50s American car and the other who owned a Lada. Machetes flashed and members of the respective gangs rushed forward to offer restraint and support. For a moment I thought I was in a scene from West Side Story. Squidgy was pushed by a man who thought he was chatting up his girlfriend, a drunk with a bottle lurched through the small crowd, and bolshie teenager ran to the restaurant on the opposite corner to ask for help in getting a taxi. She later told me that she was trained in responding to major incidents. The owner stepped forward and indicated to the Lada gang that we wanted to a taxi. I would have preferred an American car, but it seemed churlish to argue. Two Ladas thundered out of Trinidad. When we arrived at our hotel other Ladas were already there waiting. Safety in numbers I suppose.
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