My shortlisted entry in this year's Wanderlust & Lipstick Travel Writing Competition
In the midday heat, we slow down alongside a rugged cowboy with a handsome moustache. His dusty felt hat is tipped low, and he sits astride a dappled mare, leading a long-legged gelding. The gelding shies, and he tightens the rope. For a second our eyes meet, his expression inscrutable.
We are heading out on an adventure across Cuba with our newfound friend, Sandro, acting as an unofficial guide. Our starting point is the main motorway out of Havana, which is filled with a straggling mix of horse carts, cowboys, bicycles and cars. Speed appears to be dictated by the heat of the sun, and no one is in a hurry. The Russian-built carriageways are straddled by crumbling bridges that lead to nowhere. “The money ran out,” says Sandro, shrugging.
The bridges now serve an alternative purpose — providing shade from the sun for locals waiting for a lift. With fuel in short supply, they rely on a government car-share system.
I suggest to Sandro that it would be truer to the spirit of the revolution if all the half-filled tourist buses stopped for passengers too. “We will ask Fidel to arrange it!” he says, nodding enthusiastically. This reply is fast becoming his stock response to any difficult question: diplomatic, yet offering nothing tangible.
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