Havana good time

Simon Mills ducks out of the cigar factory tour of Trinidad and discovers empty beaches and impromptu gigs instead.

At last, we are now on the freeway!" said my driver, exhaling proudly, adjusting his sunglasses and revving our little white Hyundai hatchback up to a recklessly exhilarating 50mph.

I allowed myself a little smirk at the liberal use of the term "freeway" - a bold, evocative Americanism that appeared to be somewhat over-selling the rather rudimentary stretch of road ahead of us.

Or did it? This was certainly a free way in that it was free of any number of features anyone from a shiny, capitalist country would normally associate with Route One motor travel.

Free of central reservations, restrictions (hello bicycles, pedestrians and horse-drawn vehicles) free of tolls, speed traps, speed cops, speed limits (no need really when your average car can only do 40mph flat out) free of road markings, road signs and lighting, "freeway" driving not being especially encouraged at night in Cuba.

Unless you count the odd imposing, political image of President Bush disrespectfully (and one has to admit, rather effectively) annotated with a jaunty Hitler moustache and floppy fringe, it was also free of advertising billboards, all but the most basic of service stations and, apart from the odd passing Buick or belching, ramshackle farm vehicle, pretty much free of other cars too. And you know what? All this made me feel pretty damn free too.

Havana, city of Che, sun and salsa, had left me hung-over, hot and happy but slightly claustrophobic and I was glad to leave its crumbling carnival after three days.

Like Vegas and Barcelona, Havana is a 48 or 72-hour kind of place, I decided, and to really "get" Cuba as a country (over 11 million people live on the largest and most diverse island in the Caribbean) you have to leave behind the capital's raucous, elegant decay and head out past the banana trees and crocodile reservations, in search of other beautiful cities.

Santiago de Cuba, I had heard, was less chaotic, more beguiling even, than La Habana. But at 860km away, we decided it was too far for our little Hyundai to cope with.

Instead, we were making for Trinidad on the grandly named A1, flanked by lush plantations of oranges and sugar cane, swamp lands and jungle.

Driving into a city like Cienfuegos (translation "One Hundred Fires" - how terrific is that?) I found a clean, prosperous, well-ordered city set in a tranquil mirror-flat bay with a delightful, colonial square, Parque Jose Marti at its spick and span centre.

I walked alone along the long, seaside esplanade that is the breezy Malecon, past quietly necking lovers, until it turned into the "Prado" on the outskirts of the down town part of Cienfuegos, also known as "The Pearl of the South".

Cienfuegos was lovely, but it was in Trinidad, just 50km further along the south coast, that I really fell in love with la vida loca of rural Cuba.

The driver reckoned I was lucky to have arrived in Trinidad during carnival week, but I got the impression that pretty much every day was carnival day in Trinidad ... and I couldn't get enough of it.

At the friendly persuasion of its street-hawking owners, I ate a seafood dinner at a back alley casa particular, hung out at a couple of corner sound systems, raw with the loud hiss and fizz of the latest salsa and treated endless grateful strangers to endless cans of Cristal beer.

I didn't stay up too late because, you see, I had big plans for Trindad and its surrounding countryside -_hiking trips, 4x4 adventures in big butch Russian vehicles, waterfall photo ops, grotto dives etc (all within easy reach of town).

But when I woke up the next day still dizzy with the salsa, I just wanted to walk around town watching the locals doing their daily thing.

In the afternoon, my slightly bemused driver, who had never encountered any tourist who had turned down cigar plantation visits, showed me an impossibly cute Bounty-ad bay dotted with half-a-dozen parasols, clear water lapping at the white sand and a friendly, unhurried Cuban face manning a sleepy beach bar.

Then, as an alternative, a dirty great hotel beach complex with rows of sunloungers. I got him to drive me back to the first place and spent an idyllic afternoon snorkelling, drinking and eating fresh lobster.

On the way back to my hotel, with dark storm clouds brewing in the hot gusty air, the most beautiful thing happened. It was the rhythmic, swirling, thwocking of the cowbell, I heard first. Then, cocking an ear out of the car window the languid hissing of maracas and the beat of the batas.

A young girl's voice, plaintive, soulful and compelling, big and small at the same time, joined in.

Sensing a once in a lifetime moment, I shouted at the driver to stop and walked over the lawn and into the humble, jerry-built bungalow.

Inside the basic breeze-block construction, by a rusty fridge, a rickety, floor-mounted fan and some rough, wrought iron furniture, a young traditional Cuban folk band, complete with a bald, portly chap playing a notoriously tricky tres guitar (notable for having three closely configured pairs of strings instead of the conventional six set up) was busy rehearsing.

Would they play, just for me, I asked? If I offered to buy a CD and leave some money maybe? Their nods and smiles said "yes".

So, with the deal done and the house's thin floral curtains wafting in the rainy afternoon breeze, they struck up a tune, Nostalgia de mi Cuba, probably something as corny for all I knew, but to these ears a song so touching, so poignant and uplifting it actually moved me to tears.

I sat back for three more numbers, knowing very well that I was experiencing something truly memorable. Then, time to go.

That was that, I thought, as I left my $20 and said my goodbyes. But it wasn't. Not quite.

Much later that same night, walking along the cobbled, carnival streets of little Trinidad, three mojitos and several beers in, a dusty little bus trundles by. I step out of the way but quite suddenly, a few cart lengths ahead, it stops dead.

A familiar face, the dreadlocked bassist from the band, leans out of a window. "Hey! English man!" he yells at me. "Wanna come and hear us play some musica?"

music and art thrives in the capital

Where to find the best music

Always a fun place for live music, Cafe Cantante (Teatro Nacional, Paseo, corner Plaza de Revolucion +7 878 4275) is now managed by Egrem (the state record label) so has an even better line up - everything from mainstream salsa to hip hop and reggae.

If you want to party with the locals, go in the afternoons - where you'll see more up-and-coming bands. Upstairs, the brilliant Delirio Habanero (+7 873 5713) has dramatic views over the plaza. Again, afternoons are more local and cheaper.

If you're interested in new talent (particularly hip hop, which is huge in Cuba now), head to La Madriguera (Quinto de las Molinas, +7 879 8175).

Where to find the best art

A good place to start is at Cuba's Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. Both the building and artistic collection it houses are breathtaking.

Containing the work of contemporary artists such as Alfredo Sosabravo it is a space well worth a few quiet hours of contemplation and can provide information about other localities.