On to Palma Soriano - "The Mountain", Bayamo and back to Camaguey

We left Santiago in a cloud of diesel and other assorted fumes for a climb, climb, climb. At least the diesel fumes became less the further away from the city we rode.

We went to a church with the endearing name of Church of the Yellow Virgin where there was a pilgrimage of sorts going on, people resplendent in hues of yellow paying homage. Various prosthetic items had been left as thank you gifts from people who felt their prayers had been answered. The pile of armbands and stethoscopes was however a bit puzzling. Along the way to the church people sold bunches of huge sunflowers and other yellow flowers; other roadside stalls sold religious artefacts.

The diarrhoea that had been plaguing me since we set off from Havana was getting more serious and by the time we reached the church I was totally fatigued so stayed in the bus and slept until we reached our lunch spot in a dusty village. As per usual our packaged lunch contained twice as much as we could eat and so we usually distributed it to any locals who were nearby. 

Palma Soriano, nestled high in the hills, rain falling, waterfalls gushing and darkness descending we sat in a covered outdoor eating area for dinner. Joelle our driver took our bus slowly up hills, roads potholed and water running every which way.

I had previously ordered fish for dinner, Arley phoning the hotel ahead of time as we would be the only guests. Little did I know that the fish woudl be a can of not very good quality tuna in brine. Fortunately there was a cat prowling and I was most relieved the next morning to see it was still alive, failing to explode overnight from the generous helping of tuna.

After a plentiful breakfast the group set off for Bayamo, but not me, still recovering or trying to from the explosive diarrhoea. Since learning that mushroom cook, Erin Patterson suffered from the same complaint, I was careful not to wear white pants in case anyone suspected me of malingering. Our trip into the city to yet another stately hotel set on a spacious square, was by horse drawn and/or bicycle powered carriages built for two. I did feel very sorry for the bike rider who sweated Des and I to the hotel's front steps. A big ask on a hot day. 

I asked Arley to see a doctor as I knew this persistedt gut issue was not going away without the assistance of antibiotics. In time a woman doctor and a plump nurse arrived at the hotel and after examine me for all the life signs prescribed mango root juice. I swallowed the requisite dose and promptly threw it all up again in the bathroom sink. The doctor and the nurse apologised - no medicine available in Bayamao apart from herbal remedies. I later strolled to the pharmacy with the nurse. There was a billboard on the footpath advertising what was available and once inside I gazed at the dark timber shelving in this lovely old shop. Not one thing in store. 

Paul gave me his prescription for antibiotics which was a life saver as it turned out and enabled me to ride on. I'd already finished all my lomotil and most of everyone else's supplies. I was tired of a diet of bread and rice by that stage.

We began our 70+km ride back to Camaguey after a short bus transfer. Flat riding, hot, sunny. We rode through rich agricultural land with sugar cane, rice paddies, tomatoes - banana sellers on the sides of the road. Much physical and manual labour involved and some oxen as well pulling plough shares, guided by a farmer. Rice was drying i every flat space - front yards, on the verges, on the roads themselves. We rode beside the drying rice; chooks pecked at it, and bad luck if a horse dropped dung on it.

Heavy rain in the afternoon which made the sky come alive with rainbows.