After months of travelling I passed every possible feeling. From excitement, anticipation, anger, frustration, love, fear, stress, exhausted,lucky, annoyed to thankful. But the hardest feeling I kept in my mind was a big question mark about my coming and going feeling of happiness.
Sitting in a overcrowd ‚Camion‘, what is not more than an old truck with some hard metal reihen to sit on, from Guantánamo to Baracoa in the most eastern part of Cuba i felt too lucky.
After an unplanned night in Guantánamo me and my travel friend finally were lucky enough to get on one of this pre revolutionary trucks, more than 60 years old but still rolling and transporting about 30 crazy school boys, farmers, children, pigs, goats, chicken and us two.
After that seven hour trip our clothes were soaked in sweat, rust, rum and rainwater.
We stopped every 15 minutes because the driver had to say ‘hola’ to some friends on the road, to piss on the street, to eat a pineapple, to drink some rum or just because he wanted to stretch his back.
We were pushed together on the smallest space in the truck and constantly asked by the curious and friendly cuban man where are we from and why we are traveling with the uncomfortable camion.
Even if this trip was hard it was one of the funniest and luckiest experiences we bonded with our rum drinking neighbors, learnt that roosters like flavored ice-cream like humans and that potholes in the size of a cow are the best communication starters.
Other tourists looked at us with a face of unbelief, curiosity and envy when we told them about our trip.