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The power is out again, a common occurrence it seems. I sit here in an oily darkness and my only light comes from a small brown medicine bottle full of petrol, a torn rag for a wick. It sputters and flares, and gives off thick, cloying smoke. The smell is foul and the fumes hang heavy in the close, humid atmosphere. It is impossible to read in the dancing light; its only dubious advantage is that it succeeds in keeping away the bugs. Almost.

By day the weather is hot and dank - venturing into, as I am, what has to be the world's greatest living humidor. The region east of Havana is the centre for the island's tobacco production, concentrated around the town of Pinar Del Rio. It is the wrong season for tobacco though, and the faded wooden frameworks that are used for drying the leaf lie empty. In the fields a motley collection of crops are in evidence, mostly yucca or maize; staples of the Cuban diet.

I have ventured a little further West, to Vinales, a place where Insight guides describe the landscape, as 'large breast-like hills'. Known locally as 'mojites' (not to be confused with 'mojito's' the fatally innocuous rum and mint cocktail attributed to Hemingway), these limestone karst formations are rhapsodized over throughout the country as one of the wonders of the nation. Unfortunately however, I suffer from an affliction of the modern traveller and cannot help but compare them to the hills I saw around Guilin, in China. Although there are strong similarities, these are lacking not only the soaring drama of those Eastern prominences but also the spectacular 'limpid' Li River, which meanders between, and sets them off to perfection.

Perhaps also my lack of appreciation is affected by the trials of traveling here, a constant challenge in this post-soviet era of decay and socialist mismanagement. The pages of the Lonely Planet - an increasingly pervasive guidebook that defined my journey through China - have not however yet covered this, the largest of Caribbean isles. Without those maps and pointers, the amount of guesswork and the margin for error involved in everyday decision-making have increased exponentially. It adds to the sense of adventure without doubt, but in a land where public services such as running water and basic transport are infrequent and decrepit, and food for a backpacking tourist hard to track down and unreasonably expensive, the romance of it all soon wears thin.

But I am out with real people at least. On occasion out on these country highways an air-conditioned minibus passes me, and wind buffeted as they speed by I can see into the hermetically sealed capsule, to the gaggles of camera toting tourists with their guide, hurrying from one highlight to the next before heading back to a buffet meal at the hotel. My days are spent in the company of ordinary people, endlessly helpful, curious and welcoming, and in taking in the perspective from the street, walking endlessly, absorbing the patina of everyday life. And at night, when the electricity fails again, I retreat underneath the mosquito net in my rented room to attempt reading by torchlight, and to sip at warm 'Hatuey' beer.

I have in fact been trying to leave Vinales for almost three days, my enquiries into the schedule of the bus back to Havana becoming confused by the ever-conflicting information I am given, and by the omnipresent "mañana" attitude. As is often the way however, the delay has provided for some interesting insights that I may otherwise have missed:

I was given a contact name while in Havana, of someone who would get me a reasonably priced room here. I never found him, but am approached fresh off the bus by Junior, a fresh faced young man, maybe two or three years younger than me, with a head of unruly curly dark hair, a faded shirt and black Wellington boots beneath his frayed cutoff denim shorts. He offers me a house to stay in, at $10.00 a night. Certainly an entire house is more room than I need, but certainly appealing after the slightly claustrophobic attention directed at me in Havana. It is basic for sure, but Junior and his family (Mother and younger brother) live just across the track and extend their hospitality for the duration of my stay. I eat with them on several occasions; bowls of thick white beans, boiled up with chunks of ham the most enduring memory. They will accept no offer of payment, but cannot resist when I proffer shampoos, soaps and other items that I have brought with me for this eventuality.

'My' house is certainly basic, raw concrete painted white, now peeling in places from damp. The furniture is basic, and the fridge has probably not worked in a decade. Still, it is a base, and from here I am able to take off and explore the local countryside - by bicycle if I can find one to rent, but more often by foot. On occasion Junior will accompany me, and I am always impressed at his ability to traverse muddy fields or climb steep hillsides in rubber boots, or worn 'flip-flop' sandals.

It is after one of the more demanding of such excursions that I face the realities of life in this part of the world. Clothing soaked with sweat after a hard climb up and through a hill (these limestone formations are riddled with caves and tunnels), and streaked with mud and dirt, I return to my house to find that the water is off, again. While it is no longer a surprise, in this instance I do start to feel uncomfortable. I am living out of a backpack, clean clothing is at a minimum, and I have no choice but to sit and smell, and I even begin to offend myself. I do not make any pretence of being a religious person, but 'divine intervention' seems to be an appropriate phrase in this instance - it starts to rain. And with an entire house to myself, I am able to go into the back yard, in some semblance of privacy, and shower in the water running in rivers off of the corrugated roof.

On another day, I am wandering down the main road through town in the mid-afternoon, after having had coffee with a family that I fell into conversation with, thick, bitter coffee, heavily sweetened and served in small white espresso cups. The sun overhead is fierce, and there is little breeze, but the trees that line parts of the street do provide some measure of shade. Towards me comes a gaggle of children, boys, maybe 8 or 9 years old, and they walk in crocodile fashion - just as I remember from primary school, anytime there was a class trip outside the grounds.

After the first glance however, I am so shocked that I barely register what is wrong with this picture, something so stunning that it takes a few moments for the brain to catch up. Two of the boys among the group are carrying assault rifles, to my eye, full sized AK-47's. In a state of bewilderment, I follow them, down a side road and into what seems to be a school sports ground. Some of the group head off to a track and start exercises. A dozen or so however stay with the boys with the guns, and sit on concrete steps beneath a rough tin roof - presumably the stands for any sporting events. While they wait, they willingly pose for a photograph, faces solemn as they brandish the weapons. Then an adult approaches, glaring at me as if to convey that this is something I should not be party to, and I beat a retreat. I can only suppose that military training is an integral part of the national curriculum, but my mind reels at their obvious youth and seeming innocence, starkly incongruous against the violent image the rifles present.

Junior takes me on an outing to the local cinema one evening. We enter a fairly ramshackle building, but it is hard to tell because of the poor lighting outside. It is obviously quite an event, as the auditorium is packed, the seats to overflowing, and with more people sitting in the aisles. There is so little space in fact that we join a few of the younger people who lie on their backs on a cold concrete stage, directly below the screen. The movie starts, and it is some obscure Chinese kung fu action flick, with poorly dubbed voices and dubious action sequences. The viewing angle is utterly unique however, and then about 30 minutes in, just as a semblance of a plot seems to be emerging from the confusion of high kicks and slurred dialogue, the power goes off, and the room is plunged in to utter darkness; cigarette lighters spark, and cat calls fly. It takes perhaps 15 minutes before it is restored, just long enough to lose any interest in the film, but also to take a moment and absorb the atmosphere, the good natured acceptance to the interruption of what is feasibly a big night out locally. I cannot help but reflect upon the angry words spoken and demands for refunds that would occur if this were to happen back home, where a stable electricity supply is taken for granted, as ours by right.

Havana.

It would have helped if I spoke more Spanish when I arrived here, not realizing just how out of practice I have become since scraping through as pass at High School. My vocabulary grows exponentially by the day however; as with no printed information I am reliant on the help of locals to achieve things. In itself this is fine; people are more than willing to go out of their way to help me, and indeed it seems that many have nothing more important to do than to spend their entire day walking around in my company.

They do however seem to expect me to be a big dollar-spending tourist and seem genuinely puzzled by my reluctance to behave in this stereotypical fashion. I suppose that it is a perception that will not be easy to change - not while foreigners are afforded the best food, the most comfortable and available transport, and immediate access to hard currency stores. I encountered several of these during my forays onto the streets of Old Havana (Habana Vieja), queues of locals outside, kept there by a security officer, and with faces pushed up at the glass windows - trying to catch a glimpse of the clothing, confectionery and imported produce inside.

Out on the street however, as a foreigner I am fair game, and the seemingly constant barrage of demands - 'give me a dollar/ a pen/ a cigarette/ chewing gum/ your hat/ your t-shirt/ your sunglasses/ your shoes' exasperates very quickly, and I find myself craving anonymity.

Despite all this, there is still a sense of adventure to be had, out and about on foot. Even in it's decay, Habana Vieja is a beautiful city, with it's colonial Caribbean buildings lending to a somewhat raffish atmosphere. It is a city of contrast too though, with imposing and grand edifices along the narrow streets, succumbing to gravity and neglect, yet often with delightful original finishes such as large brightly coloured tile-work mosaics, ornate wrought iron fittings, or grand stone staircases, tread worn and chipped.

Around one corner it is reasonable to expect to find an immaculate mahogany bar, tended to by smartly dressed staff in white shirt and bow tie. Behind them big steel reach-in coolers that may date from the 50's, and fans that swing lazily from the ceiling. Around the next corner however may be the facsimile of a war zone; the shell of a building, strewn with rubble and mortar, children clambering over the debris, dogs sniffing at stinking piles of garbage. Then the next corner, where you are faced with a superb courtyard, bedecked with wrought iron tables and chairs, and a rainforest of potted greenery. Through it all however pervades the vitality of the people, a diverse racial mix. The streets teem with humanity and life.

I am conscious that I am skipping the newer parts of Havana. I have driven through them, and first impressions have not been encouraging. Large concrete blocks dull and grey, characterless and uninspired.

The hospitality of the Cuban people however is a pleasure, and although a cynic inside of me questions how much has to do with my status as a 'rich' foreigner, their obvious friendliness opens up a world that may otherwise have passed me by:

I meet Pedro Luis on Prado, the street near where I stay. My presence locally is a source of curiosity and people are encouraged to approach. He is a sports presenter for the local TV station and lives with his mother and brother just down the street. I am brought home to meet them, to have some food, and taken out to parties - so long as I can find some money to put petrol in his brother's decrepit Lada car. We stroll along the waterfront some evenings, with his girlfriend and a friend of hers if she has brought one, practicing our conversational skills, and taking in the ambience. It is usual that we will stop at some point and have some fried chicken from a small café or stall on the roadside. It is somehow understood that I will pay for it. I don't resent it, but it is difficult to be on a tight budget in such circumstances.

José is a Rastafarian who approached me in the bright light of the morning of my first day and offered me cheap accommodation. Wary at first, I followed him to have a look. Soon though, I felt slightly ashamed of my doubtful feelings, and I took it; with a family on the 6th floor of an apartment, my own room, sparsely furnished and with intermittent water supply in the bathroom, but with a shuttered window overlooking the Malecon boulevard and across the mouth of the harbour to the Moro fort and to blue skies. He was obviously hustling, but seems to be friends with the woman of the house, and sometimes stops by to see how I am getting on. If there don't seem to be too many police about in the streets he will occasionally accompany me for a short while on my wanderings about the city. One evening we gate crash a "Saint's day" religious party and I dance to salsa thumped out from an ancient reel-to-reel recorder for one. Bodies sway in a dimly lit front room and rum is passed around in the bottle, while in the back a shrine to no gods that I have ever heard of has been built. A heavily built black woman sits next to it, her eyes are unnaturally wide and staring, and she seems to look straight through me.

José explains one day through a combination of Spanish, fractured English and hand gestures that being of mixed race (mulatto) he is perceived of being of lower caste than both the local whites and blacks. His dreadlocks further define his position in society and single him out for attention from the authorities, as he is not supposed to be touting for business from tourists. On a later trip back to Havana I look for him where he usually hangs out, over on the bottom right hand side of the Prado near to the sea front, but I can find no sign. I later establish from familiar faces on the street that he has been taken into custody. My language limitations mean that I can get no more information than this, and I feel impotent and angry that I can do nothing to help this person who has shown me nothing but warmth and friendship.

Cienfuegos.

And so I learn why 'Cienfuegos', which I translate loosely as "hundred flames". From the window where I sit, overlooking a concrete urban sprawl of low-rise apartment blocks and tumbledown housing, I see candles twinkling, flames fat in the languid heat of the late evening. A multitude of them, their dull orange glow is feeble and casts the further reaches of rooms that I overlook into darkness. The streets themselves are for the most part in deep shadow; no current flows to the overhead lamps and they stand, impotent. Few people are moving about; sometimes small talk drifts languidly up from below, but most seem content to simply sit and wait, stoic, patient.

It must be a curse on this city, to have a half built soviet power station just over the horizon, millions of roubles poured in to the project, but only half completed when the funding dried up as the soviet state collapsed. To have this huge white elephant, a reminder of what was, and what nearly might have been - out of sight, but never out of mind. Impossible that, with these inconsistent offerings from the national grid.

I like Cienfuegos though. It is on a manageable scale for someone on foot and has touches of old world charm, such as the clip of horse drawn carts on the streets. It isn't really a city, but seems to qualify by Cuban standards. The lack of motorized traffic is noticeable, although many of the old American "yank tank" classics are in evidence. Packard, Plymouth, Oldsmobile, Buick. Huge chrome grilles, polished paintwork, and fins trailing shark-like to the rear. Cyclists make up the balance, throngs of them on almost Chinese proportions - and appropriately enough, astride their Chinese made "Flying Pigeon" or "Forever Bicycle" Raleigh Roadster types.

It is a fairly flat place, with a couple of speed bumps that might be called hills with a stretch of the imagination. What make's it exceptional though are the rows of houses that line some of the narrower back streets. Once brightly painted their external walls are now bleached by time and the fierce Caribbean sun, faded to crumbling pastel shades. Colours that glow and come alive in the softer light of the evening. The same decay that was noted in Havana exists here too, a national malaise. At least there are no high concrete towers though, so the effects of gravity are felt less.

As in Havana however, my being on foot means I am exposed, and the hustle here seems to have a slightly more desperate edge to it; a little more determination and less willingness to shrug the shoulders and leave for a more opportunistic target. It is hard to know what to do sometimes, a dollar here and there is not going to make much of a difference at the end of the day, and may only serve to reinforce the perception of tourists as an opportunity to beg. I feel bad about it, but after a few hours of endless attention just end up feeling harassed. A lot are just trying it on I am sure, but then earnings of Pts.800 a month (about $16.00) and rationing for basics such as bread, soap and meat probably pushes a lot of people in that direction too.