Another early morning bus ride to the isolated town of Baracoa on route we pass through one of the most dangerous places on the planet – a town heavy with Taliban, al Qaeda and mujaheddin loyalists. It is the small town of Guantanamo so I rest easy knowing that all of these software engineers or 'terrorists' as the American government like to call them are safely restrained with hessian sacks over their heads and the boot of a 17-year old cracker from Arkansas on their neck.
In truth there is nothing in the town that would point to it being the site of the worlds most notorious prison, no novelty hand-cuffs, no striped pajamas and no 'my mullah went to Guantanamo and all I got was this lousy t-shirt'.
The prison itself is hidden away from prying eyes (unless you wear a turban, then you'll get the special 5-year grand tour) in an area that the American government hold on a lease. The lease pre-dates Fidel's revolution and as such he calls it an illegal occupation and stubbornly refuses to cash the four-hundred thousand dollars he is paid each year under the terms of the lease.
With that kind of cash I would at least consider erecting an enormous billboard in a field next to the prison with 'KISS MY ARSE UNCLE SAM' written in fifty foot neon letters.
The journey is relatively event-free except for the moment when a goat decides to test whether walking in front of a 300-ton vehicle travelling at 100kpm is a good idea. He does, it wasn't. The bloody and seriously battered ex-goat is simply chucked into the luggage hold – it wasn't just the vegetarians on the bus that were mildly peeved at that decision – and taken to the local police station for much filling in of forms, assessment of damage and preparation of exceptionally big pot.
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