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.