... at the side of the motorway

I'm used to the One With the Common Sense nodding away like Red Rum in her sleep during bus journeys, so it took me by surprise when she leaped to her feet and shunted me out of the way.
Moments later, a wild-eyed driver had pulled over at the side of Cuba's Autopista Nacional and watched as she noisily emptied the contents of her stomach into the roadside bushes.
Fellow passengers stood up to get a better view of the impromptu sideshow, with audible "ooohs" and "eeuurghs" accompanying each fresh hurl.
It was typical. This was our 75th - and last - inter-urban bus trip and we had survived the previous 74 without any such emergencies, despite our being ill during a number of them.
Meanwhile, I was in a dilemma. I could feel the eyes of the onlookers burning into me, no doubt querying why I hadn't rushed to her aid.
However, with any travelling partner, it's good to have a fair idea of what they'll need in a crisis.
And I have learned that The One With Common Sense rarely appreciates sympathy. My attempts at providing comfort over a stubbed toe more usually land me in hot water than earn brownie points.
So, feeling slightly useless, I busied myself by preparing a hankie and a carton drink to help wash the taste away.
After she climbed back aboard, red-faced and uttering apologies, several chivalrous Latino men enquired as to her wellbeing.
I swear they shot me looks of disdain.
Later, the One With the Common Sense claimed she wouldn't have shouted at me for offering assistance.
I have my doubts but sometimes you just can't win.

The One With the Common Sense blamed one too many mojitos but I reckon it was the 30p-a-glass beer that did it.
To round off our time in Cuba, we had spent two very pleasant days in the laid-back city of Cienfuegos.
Founded by the French in 1819, the city's wide avenues are home to many handsome buildings and in parts it feels like a much cleaner, less-decayed version of Havana.
Both evenings we strolled along the malecon, or promenade, which was where we discovered a little bar selling drinks in national pesos.
One of the more intriguing - and confusing - aspects of visiting Cuba is its dual currency system.
As a tourist, you spend most of your cash in convertible Cuban pesos (CUCs) which are roughly pegged to the dollar and divided into centavos.
However, most workers are paid in Cuban national pesos (CUPs) and it takes 24 of them to make one CUC.
So, with cans usually costing between 1 and 2 CUC, it doesn't take Carol Vorderman to work out that getting the same quantity on tap for just 6 CUP is pretty good value.
It tasted pretty good, too. Too good, some might suggest.
Nonetheless it was great to sit among the locals, listening to music thumping from an outdoor stage next door and watching couples and families sit and soak up the waterfront atmosphere (and the rum).
With our funds running low, we had tended to buy our lunch in national pesos.
Occasionally this involved some dubious sandwiches but more likely it would be simple "pan con pasta" - bread roll with delicious garlic paste - followed by a 12p ice cream cornet.
Our favourite, however, had to be the pizzas.
Evidently, supply shortages meant the little shops at the front of people's homes could not make proper pizza bases.
But they improvised splendidly to create something akin to a large crumpet, before slathering it with strong-tasting cheese, chorizo and tomatoes, and serving it folded in half.
They can't be good for you - but for 40p, who cares?

It is when you hear that Cuba's renowned doctors - like most state employees - can earn as little as 10 CUC a month, you realise the power of the tourist buck.
That sort of monthly income would buy a main meal and a can of beer in a state-run restaurant.
Of course that is not the full picture. Food staples are doled out as part of the rationing system, while we understand housing, water and power costs are relatively low but it's obvious that most Cubans don't have a lot.
So it's unsurprising that hundreds of people lucky enough to have the best homes - and some are beautiful - are clamouring to rent rooms to tourists.
Success is not guaranteed from this private enterprise - the taxes are heavy and must be paid regardless of whether visitors turn up or not - but the advantages are clear.
It will be interesting to see how this affects Cuban society in the future.
The state clearly relies on taxes brought in through the tourist trade but it seems inevitable to me that the profits available via this fledgling private enterprise will create a new tier in society and undermine the ruling party's philosophy.
Part of it seems to come down to the lottery of which home you live in.
We never got to the bottom of how homes are allocated.
While it's illegal to sell houses for profit, there's nothing to stop people swapping homes with others (no doubt with a bit of cash changing hands on the side).
Every Sunday in Havana, hundreds of people gather on the Prado where people offer home exchanges, with each's house's features listed on a bit of card.
We spoke to one guy who said he and his girlfriend wanted to swap their two apartments for a larger house.
There may not be much money to be made on Cuba's housing ladder but the system can't be much worse than the ridiculous runaway market we have at home.

Perhaps inevitably, we left Cuba with more questions than answers about the way its society works.
We were careful not to ask anything that would put people in a difficult situation - who knows what the repercussions of careless talk might be, we thought.
Yet we found people surprisingly open.
One casa owner talked freely about the pitfalls of communism, saying it clearly couldn't work in its purest form.
Yet he seemed happy enough with the current regime and suggested it had the backing of 80% of the population.
I can't help feeling that the US embargo in some ways strengthens the regime by encouraging solidarity among Cubans in the face of a common foe.
The most impressive propaganda posters certainly concerned "El Bloqueo".
There weren't quite as many of these Party billboards around as I expected but the ones we saw did little to portray the regime as forward-looking.
Che Guevara's face - and quotes - remain a common sight for Havana's commuters, despite him having left the country in 1965.
And the continued reference to the regime as "La Revolucion", half a century after the actual revolution took place, means it retains something of a temporary air.
Society may be opening up, as its ageing leaders look for ways to prop up the economy, but it still difficult to see what will happen next for Cuba.
Unsurprisingly, perhaps, we saw no great stirrings of upheaval.
But neither was there a suggestion of a downtrodden people - the abiding image of Eastern European communism.
In fact, the overall impression was of a fun-loving nation making the most of life.
If happiness could be objectively measured, I'd love to know where the Cuban people would stand in the world rankings compared to us Europeans or US citizens.
(Mind you, you'd need to take into account the fact us Brits are never happy unless we're moaning... and the Scandinavians would inevitably come out on top regardless.)

One British expat we met talked about just how poor some children were in rural areas, with some surviving on sugar water and rice, but we saw little of the abject poverty we had seen elsewhere.
The shortages are noticable. Fresh milk is available only to mothers with young children, while everyone else gets powder, and beef or lamb are pretty much unavailable to anyone other than tourists.
However, no-one seemed to be without a home or truly going hungry.
The few beggars we saw were invariably well-dressed and healthy-looking, unlike those starving and grubby street children of south-east Asia or Bolivia's heartbreakingly thin pensioners.
The great irony is that 50 years of hard-line socialism has bred a nation of entrepreneurs.
Everyone is willing to sell a service - finding tourists rooms, offering them a tour or acting as a taxi driver - or else has a little sideline in buying and selling something.
Casa owners get around the high taxes by encouraging - or, in some cases, forcing - guests to buy breakfast or evening meals, without telling the taxman.
And while Cuba's advanced health system is undoubtedly one of La Revolucion's most significant achievements, in some areas doctors have started illegally charging to let people jump the queue.
According to one Cuban we met, the state is fully aware of all this Del Trotter-esque wheeling and dealing going on under its nose but won't act against people who are only trying to make life a bit better.
(Though it's a different story with opulence, he reckons.)
It's funny that there was only place we visited where we experience more cunning or heavy-handed sales techniques...
Communist Vietnam.

... in the beautiful, sun-kissed (boring?) Caribbean

The Caribbean... crystal clear water lapping gently over fine white sand, backed by palm trees and under a cloudless blue sky.
It's the travel agent's dream and there's no denying that Playa Ancon, one of Cuba's top beaches, is a beautiful spot.
We had decided to head there for our beach time, rather than the package holiday destination of Varadero - on the Atlantic coast, because this could be the only chance I ever get to dip my toes in the Caribbean sea.
However, while Ancon's beauty is undeniable, I couldn't help but find its calm, lukewarm waters, well... a bit dull.
To me, a good beach involves crashing waves, nipple-numbing seas and the wind whipping sand into your sandwiches.
Still, I was glad to sprawl on a sun lounger by the time we got there.
Typically, rather than allowing ourselves a day of complete relaxation, we had opted to walk the 10km or so from our base in the little fishing village of La Boca.
At least we had been able to punctuate the journey with some snorkelling at one of the little "playitas" along the road.
These rocky bays were pretty, rather than stunning, but I almost preferred them to their more famous neighbour.
In fact, we ended up spending more time on the stony sands at La Boca than anywhere else.
A stone's throw from our casa - Cuba's B&B-style private homes - the beach was perfectly placed for a twice-daily dip to cool off and chat to friendly Cubanos spending their holidays shoulder-deep in the sea while passing a bottle of rum between them.
Not a bad life.

We had been determined to get in a bit more beach time before we returned home, not least to finally put some colour into our pasty-white complexions.
Having spent most of our trip in the relatively chilly Andes, then hit the equator in time for the sweltering but largely overcast rainy season, four sun-kissed days in La Boca were just what we needed.
What made the experience for us, however, was the company of casa owners Guillermo and Viola.
Rather than facing the pressure we had experienced elsewhere to book taxis or fishing trips with casa owners - for a commission, of course - we were left to our own devices during the day.
They even loaned us their bicycles without charge one day when we needed to get to the bank in nearby Trinidad.
It was a pleasure to eat in their house. They served delicious meals on the terrace, where we watching little fishing boats head out for the night under a sky tinged pink by the sunset.
Cuban cuisine is often criticised for lacking imagination, no doubt partly because of the shortages.
However, we found the ingredients made up for the lack of variety. The pork - cooked however simply - was easily the tastiest I've eaten, while a whole red snapper served up by Guillermo was tender, subtle and cooked to perfection.
Each night after dinner, we sat in the terrace's rocking chairs and chatted about everything from life in Cuba and the British and Irish economies to pop music and, inevitably, football.
It was so comfortable and really gave us the feeling of being free to relax - something that doesn't happen that often when you're travelling.
It made for the perfect break to recharge our batteries and at the end of our stay, they even presented us with a gift of a garden ornament. We were both very touched.
It's only a shame we are unlikely to see them any time soon.

We were glad of the rest, having been at the end of our tethers by the time we got to La Boca.
One of the drawbacks to the casa system, which allows homeowners to let rooms, is that this relatively new form of private enterprise has created a cut-throat culture.
Everyone wants their share of the highly lucrative tourist dollar.
Tourist information workers may "recommend" one casa, then phone ahead to tell the owner they expect a commission, while your taxi driver might drop you at a different place entirely in a bid to get a fee.
In both cases, it's the guest who's expected to foot the bill.
It all gets a bit wearing when you just want to get to a place you've heard is good.
So when we stepped off the bus in Trinidad, tired and grumpy, to be surrounded by touts trying to lure us to whichever casa would tip them, we just weren't in the mood.
We successfully fended off a few but one guy persisted, following us up the road.
When my unconvincing denials that we spoke English or Spanish failed to shake him off, the One With The Common Sense told him in perfect Spanish that we had a reservation elsewhere.
"It's a good price," he argued.
But it was when he turned to the One With The Common Sense and said: "Baby, listen..." that my patience finally snapped.
"Don't call my wife 'baby'," I warned, pointing aggressively and marching towards him.
I'm not proud of getting so aggro, it was all a bit childish, especially thinking back to how we'd found dealing with nuisances with a smile on your face had worked so much better at the start of our trip in Asia.
But I was tired and had had my fill of the high-pressure approach. While I was sworn at for the first time in a while, I must have looked a bit wild because he retreated to grumble from a safe distance.

We knew the restaurant was a mistake the minute we walked in.
A beautiful colonial building, its courtyard was about as pleasant a dining area as you could find.
But the table was set with too many knives and forks for my liking and it was only after being handed an plush menu that we noticed the wrought-iron furniture was of the size normally found in a primary school.
Meanwhile, feet away, a woman was doing a bizarre dance to the music of the house band. I think she was trying to act sultry but to me she looked like a demented belly-dancer.
While state ownership ensured prices were similar to elsewhere, the elegant decor and overbearing waiting style hinted at the opulence most of its clientele might enjoy.
It just made us uncomfortable - like when a hotel bellboy carries bags when you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself. (Not that we've experienced that too often).
Nothing was troubling the other diners, however, who were bantering with the band. A hefty Italian guy, a few too many chiantis down the line, was proclaiming "Viva Cuba" to anyone who would listen.
The One With Common Sense and I looked at each other and something very odd happened; we acted decisively.
Ditching the menus, we skulled the beers we'd ordered on arrival, paid up and left for somewhere a little less grand where we could relax and enjoy ourselves.

We had intended to visit the Casa de la Musica - the home of the fantastic live music we were keen to hear.
However, we didn't need to.
We walked out of our second restaurant and straight into the path of a carnival march.
It was the first we'd come across since being in Latin America and we watched white-clad musicians pass, followed by guys twirling huge upright batons with gold streamers.
Tagging onto the end of the parade, we marvelled at how the Cuban kids seemed to be born with rhythm - even their pudgy-footed shuffles looking better than the cringeworthy efforts of the few tourists who tried to join in.
Recognising our inability to find time with the thumping rumba beat, we walked at the back until half way along its route the parade stopped.
There began a spectacular display of the most lethal fireworks I've seen since the Catherine Wheel flew off its mounting and rolled across the field, scattering onlookers, at the Guy Fawkes display at my Auntie's hospital when I was a nipper.
Mothers carrying children dived for cover under balconies as loud crackers sent bits of flaming pyrotechnic floating onto the crowd below. It was brilliant.
Then we were off again until we reached Trinidad's main square, where - having played and danced around half the town - our musicians and dancers went through an even more energetic and varied repertoire of Latino music.
It was pretty impressive, especially given they were just one of perhaps a dozen groups in the parade.
The atmosphere was fantastic - with the sort of pure, uninhibted and fervent joy you usually only find at football matches and gigs - and it proved a great way to end our stay in the area.

... with a horse and cart

You don’t expect impartiality when you visit a museum in a communist state but you would think it would be well ordered.
Given the nature of the regime, I imagined Cuba’s Museum of the Revolution to chart a relentless chronology of key events in the revolution.
But while it did contain lots of fantastic photographs, many artefacts such as weapons and, bizarrely, a large collection of trousers worn by Revolutionary heroes, there were massive gaps in the displays.
For example, there was nothing about how unpleasant life had been under Batista’s dictatorship.
And there was no mention of the Florida gangsters who used the island as their playground in the first half of the 20th century. I’m surprised they missed that chance to take a pop at the Yanks.
Instead, there were ill-ordered and confusing references to incidents in the run-up to the revolution in which many of the guerrillas lost their lives.
What was fascinating was the language used in the displays.
You can never get a totally unbiased view of history but this photo caption gives you a flavour of things:
“Butcher commander Arcadio Casillas Lumpuy presented charges against the heroic combatants on April 22, 1957.”
Meanwhile, you’d think from the displays that the socialist leaders had done all the fighting themselves.
In the grounds of what was the presidential palace prior to 1959, preserved military vehicles included a makeshift tank used to destroy railway lines. It had been driven, of course, by Revolutionary commander Camilo Cienfuegos.
The display next to the aircraft used to fight off US-sponsored forces during the Bay of Pigs invasion suggested Castro himself had shot down one of the enemy bombers.
Call me a sceptic but I thought Fidel left the front-line dirty business to his pal, Che.

Backpacking in Cuba is very different to any of the other countries we’ve visited on our trip.
There are no hostels and the only hotels - outside those on package holiday resorts - are state-run and ludicrously expensive.
As a result, the only option open to us was to stay at casas particulares - the homes of ordinary people, allowed to rent out a room as the government relaxed rules on private entreprise.
It’s like a more intimate B&B, giving you an insight to the lives of Cubanos. And while it would be unfair to ask them too much about their opinions of life under communism, most are surprisingly eager to talk.
Our first stop was a beautiful apartment overlooking Havana’s central strip, the Prado.
Hosts, Luis and Fifita, sat us on the balcony and set us straight on a few things.
“You’ve been in Central America, which can be dangerous. But here there is no violence and you can walk anywhere,” said Luis.
It might sound like it comes straight from the Party’s tourist manual but it was no idle boast.
During our few days in Havana, we walked along all sorts of shady streets and dark roads where groups hung around.
Anywhere else, we’d have made a quick U-turn but you always get a feel for a place and here the buzzing atmosphere with so many people out enjoying themselves told us there was no danger.
It seems to be generally accepted that crime levels are low in Cuba and the penalties against those who target tourists are apparently so harsh they prove an effective deterrent.
However, Luis was quick to warn us that it is a quite different story with scams and not to believe anyone with any sob story, such as needing milk for a child.

Indeed, to walk Havana’s streets is to run a gauntlet of jineteros - kindly folk keen to part you from your cash.
These disarmingly charming guys strike up a conversation before offering to help you find a good restaurant or accommodation - who they then charge a commission which is added to your bill.
In other cases, they might just be hoping you’ll buy them a mojito or two in exchange for their company.
Had this been the start of our trip, we might have seen this as a good way to meet locals and improve our Spanish.
But with funds running low and Cuba being one of our more expensive destinations, our patience was limited.
I also have a natural dislike for having things forced upon me, so while I might appreciate being shown a good salsa club I don’t necessarily want to be frogmarched there immediately.
One time we did fall for their charms was when a couple stopped us to ask the time and, when I replied, complimented our use of Spanish.
They twigged that we were headed to an alley famous for its rumba dancing, performed by followers of the Afro-Cuban Santeria religion.
Having led us there, they then introduced us to some people selling CDs, obviously hoping for a commission.
But while it’s interesting to watch the dancers thrusting about to tribal beats, a manic look in their eyes, I can’t imagine anything I’d rather listen to less in the comfort of my own home. Except James Blunt.
So they left disappointed, as we pondered how a religious event could turn into a tourist circus.
The best bit of the show for me was watching a huge woman in bright African dress in the crowd light a massive cigar.
What makes these jineteros bearable is that they are invariably pleasant, often funny and never get aggressive if you bat them off with a stock line about only walking around admiring the architecture.
Some don’t feel the need to explain themselves, however. We met one American guy - on his seventh visit - who said he was known as “Senor No Gracias” on account of his reply to of any kind of conversation.

Another aspect of travel in Cuba is that tourists are pretty much separated from locals.
This makes bus travel less fun for those used to squashing into seats next to people in indigenous dress, people carrying livestock or goods to sell at market.
It means you come across tourists on a much greater budget and can end up visiting places you wouldn’t normally go.
On one such trip, which took in rum and cigar factories, we came across an Aussie couple, senior in years, who gave off the whiff of wealth.
We had marked them out as a pair of eejits when the woman commandeered the tour guide, Marta, to get her to ask for more milk in her coffee at a snack bar.
Fair enough, she might not have any Spanish but a caveman could have conveyed that with a bit of simple miming.
Later, her husband - clad from head to toe in Route 66 merchandise to show off his trip to the states - made a beeline for “Martha”, as they insisted on calling her.
He launched straight in: “What I don’t understand is, you had this revolution to get rid of a dictator but you’re worse off now than you were before.”
You could feel the collective cringe from anyone within earshot.
Marta was unimpressed: “How do you know?”
- “Well, from what I’ve read...”
Now maybe he has studied the subject extensively - and he’s entitled to his opinion - but it strikes me as pretty offensive for any tourist to claim to know what life was like under Batista.
The ultimate irony was that pinned to his Route 66 baseball cap - alongside badges extolling the virtues of the US military - was an image of Che Guevara.

You get so used to saying “no” to all offers that when a farmer stopped his horse and cart to offer us a tour of the area we instinctively refused.
It was only as he rode off that we realised it would have been a really nice way to spend the short time we had in the country town of Viñales.
So, we called him back, agreed a price and hopped aboard.
Think of Cuba and it’s hard to picture much other than beaches and Havana music bars.
But the scenery in Pinar Del Rio province is stunning and our slow ride with Carlos, the farmer, was the perfect way to take in the mogotes - high limestone mounds covered in vegetation.
Carlos also told us about the various crops grown in the area, including coffee, yukka and corn, and explained how its farmers worked in a co-operative, selling their produce to the state.
It was a relaxing ride and Carlos proved a more interesting guide than Marta, giving us a deeper insight into rural life.
Sadly, the view of one part of the mogotes has been obscured by one of Fidel Castro’s more bizarre initiatives.
Years ago, he commissioned a “prehistoric mural” to be painted across the cliff face of one of the mogote's.
It's massive and is supposed to represent the island's evolution but to me it looked like something you might see in a playschool.
Painted in bright blues, greens, reds and yellows, it shows a couple of crummy dinosaurs and blotchy humans.
Still, all the locals seemed very proud of it.