A slow old journey along a road wide enough for a bus and a half, the blues of the Caribbean lost in the sky. No sight of a horizon.

‘Modern’ is a word without definition here. If you think Havana is as old as time, you have never visited Trinidad, Cuba. Cobble stone streets, old colonial style buildings standing the same as the day they were originally built. Horse and cart taxis. Phone reception doesn’t exist and internet is minimal for a fee per hour. The locals make use of time playing dominoes.

Similarly to Havana, the young at heart must find a place to congregate. Following a carb heavy dinner and several mojitos and pina colada’s (and not getting caught in the rain) watching the sunset at the Casa de la Musica, a short walk up the hill and you arrive to the entrance to a cave. Entry is 5CUC. Think Wombeyan Caves, south of Sydney, turned night club. Luckily there is no OH&S or RSA because ‘Disco Ayala’ is a hazard with only one entrance / exit. Until now, the Larrikin has never danced intoxicated in a cave.

The Larrikin satisfied his inner ‘Man from the Snowy River’ desire to ride a horse. A local provided him with a gallopy fella for exchange of a few notes and led him to a waterfall. The facial expressions of nearby locals suggested that Budgey Smugglers aren’t very common in Cuba.

Trotting along the dirt road, nuts unintentionally banging against the saddle, visiting a coffee plantation and ‘restaurant’ in the middle of nowhere, the local kept yelling what I thought was ‘how are you?’ Each time the Longitudinal Larrikin responded “good”, with the local correcting “no, the horse”. This exchange of words was like a broken record for half the day. Turns out the horses name was Aradwho, which sounded much like ‘how are you’. The local had been calling out to the horse all day telling it to get a wriggle on.

No hostel here, only Casa’s (local homes) and Airbnb’s. Making friends consisted of walking up to random young people and asking them if they spoke English and if they wanted to get a drink.

With a mojito in one hand and a Cuban cigar in the other, each evening was had watching the sun fall from the sky at the Casa de la Musica. It was exactly what the Larrikin had wished.

Cuban cigar. It begs the question, do Cubans just call them cigars? Similarly, do Turks call just call Turkish bread, bread?

It took some days but the Larrikin found a talking point with all Cubans over the age of 40 years old. As he sat in a restaurant one night, the entertainment, a guy with the guitar stutters “where from?” Bloody Straya mate. His eyes lit and his toothless mouth grinned from ear to ear as he said ‘Skippy!’ and proceeded to play the theme song to Skippy, the bush kangaroo. It was one of the most popular tv shows in Cuba many decades ago. I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. It’s a powerful thing, familiarity.

Next up is Colombia.