The stifling sun of Trinidad leaves me depleted. Even the avacodo tree in my garden is in sympathy - although it is the hurricane rather than the heat which has stolen its wares. The sea is as warm, but more cloudy; eggs are in short supply in Havana as the chickens were blown away; but life saunters on in the summer humidity and the fiesta continues unabated. The little house is high and catches the breeze coming in from the sea which lies lazily in the distance through the criss crossed lines of the precious, but intermittent supply lines of electricity. Sometimes there is no power all day, sometimes the day is full of it. On these days we catch the senors with the washing machine and wash away the dust and sweat from our clothes. My friend will have none of that. He has washed his clothes by had all his life and is most uncomfortable with anyone else getting involved.

Last night we visited the discotheque in the mountains. The pulsating beat throbs from deep in the bowels of the hill as we climb the road towards the tiny light which marks the spot. The rocks tremble and we gyrate amongst the dripping stalactites in the wonderous cavern and miss the dawn.

Por que?

Is it the man, the post revolutionary culture, the food shortages. Perhaps it is boredom, prehaps it is love. It has taken me 55,ooo words to tell the tale, yet the tale is yet to be told. I will wash my clothes by hand (goodbye nails, hello Omo) and sweep my floor with a broom. Hardship and romance. From one imperfect culture to another and experiences unknown. Food shortages and hurricane damage await me where money cannot buy that which doesn't exist, where freedom is redefined, where heat saps and listening ears betray dissent. Once more into the crushing embrace of the great Orc and the wide blue sky of the Carribean.