The train squealed and creaked and rocked on the tracks making it's slow course through the Cuban countryside, east of Habana. We're going to Guanabo, called in the guidebook a rustic village that Cubans flock to on weekends to play on the beach. The train is the old Hersey train, used ages ago to transport workers to the Hersey cane fields. Today it is the cheap, slow, Cuban way to get to the beach. We stop every few seconds, it seems, and let on someone new. In a burst, a group of flashy young Cubanos get on. The girls are dressed in sequined bikinis under extra short shorts and scant tops, the boys wear printed tee shirts sporting playboy logos in bright colors with gold chains, sunglasses, and big watches.

A group of four sit next to us: a light skinned couple and two dark skinned guys; one thin and one fat. The fat one immediately asked us where we were from - to which he howled and smiled flashing us the thumbs up. He wanted to know if we were movie stars. He touched his face and pointed to Michael. Michael rubbed his bead and apologized for not being a movie star, despite looking like he was an undercover Hollywood type.

The fact that we were not movie stars did not bother our new friends at all, they wanted to talk to us no matter what. They pulled out a glass and a bottle from a plastic sack. They filled the glass with a yellow liquid, they each took a sip passing it around and then they handed it across the aisle to me. I sipped I thanked them, they motioned that Michael should have some too and I passed it along. Pretty soon the rotation made it all the way around every minute or so. It was pineapple juice. It tasted sweet and cool in the heat of the train and it had a hint of yeastiness or sourness as if it were a little fermented.

Each kid wanted to be introduced to us and so we went around learning their names and shaking hands. The big guy, Davis, invited us to stay with his family in their casa particular when we returned from the beach to Havana. All of them talked about how much they wanted to go to Miami and had questions for us about it. They had a plan. First the lighter skinned guy would go across and set up house. Then he'd bring his girl over. Later Davis and the skinny kid would come across and from Miami; they would travel north to Chicago where Davis said he wanted to be a lumberjack. Miami is beautiful and warm, he said, but in the north there are more jobs and though it's cold the money would be worth it. He thought cutting trees would be very lucrative; I suggested looking into Washington State.

The pina juice came around again and again and I felt my stomach churn a little. No matter the noise of the train, the squeal of the tracks, the thump of the ancient cars, the wheels skating along under crumbling floorboards, the kids wanted to talk. They told us where they were each from and where they lived now and what they were good at. Soon they told us to get up and get going - we were almost there. They led us through several train cars, over open tracks rushing under us. We jumped from car to car. Finally the train screeched to it's millionth stop and the gang got out at a little platform - "Vamanos!" - "Let's go!" - they called and we all walked off together. It had taken fifty minutes to cover eighteen miles.

The train stop was simply a weedy dirt lot next to an empty road. The gang called out to us, "come with us!" and they took us to the road and down to a bus stop. We found it would be ten minutes till the next bus and it would take us 2 kilometers to the beach after which we could walk to our casa particular. But no, we said, we can walk. So we set off with great cheers from the gang - "We'll see you at the beach!"

We set off walking, shouldering our packs. The countryside was rolling and green, with little shacks and barns and yards of chickens, pigs and goats appeared. My bag, a combo affair with wheels and backpack straps was cutting into my shoulders. The thing was not really made to be carried very far, so on the empty highway, I put it down and pulled it behind me. I was suddenly in great appreciation the wheels as I walked along, a car passing here and there, a cow grazing in the field, my bag rolling along on the asphalt at a good clip.

Michael carried his backpack and had his cameras in his hands. A bus came up behind us and the bag followed me, like a good bag should, right off the pavement and on to the grass of the field beside us. I kept walking and the bag 4x4ed just fine. But the bus pulled up next to us and slowed down. Davis leaned out of the open door - "we brought you the bus!" he called out excitedly - "Get on the bus!" But we refused - "We must take pictures!" Michael called and we waved happily and called out another round of "We'll see you at the beach!" Michael laughed as the bus pulled away and he said to me, "Davis is such a little ringleader - what a guy - getting the bus to stop for us and everything!"

It wouldn't be till much later, after walking a full hour that we would be wishing that we'd taken up Davis' offer and gotten on. When we did make it to town our map indicated that we were some distance from our Casa Particular and that the wheely bag would have to roll on. I wore new leather sandals and they cut into my toes. By the time we made it to our casa, we were sweaty and tired. Daniel, our host, led us through a neat garden to a backyard shed where we would stay. It had a small patio, a kitchenette, a bedroom and bath. He presented us with fresh juice blended with milk and ice which made us instantly all better. We threw on our swimsuits and headed to the beach.

Davis and the gang wasn't there, but about a thousand other rum drinking, flashy, bikini-wearing kids were there having a blast on the sand and floating in groups in the crystal clear waters. Just as we approached the sand the clouds darkened and we felt a few drops. Before we had made it to the waters edge the rain was torrential and drenching. People still played and swam, knowing it would pass soon enough. Many beach goers were holding bottles of rum and little shot glasses and they would pour a shot pass it to a friend over and over. They were well insulated against the rain in rum alone and only we went for shelter on the strip nearby. We ducked into a pizza place and each ordered pizza. The pizza cost twelve cents and came on a piece of paper. They are about the size of a small paper plate and the technique in eating them is simple: fold in half and enjoy. We had a beer and waited the requisite half an hour for our pizza to come, then devoured it in seconds.

While we sat there a family came in and sat next to us. The little girl held a tiny puppy in her lap. She leaned a cup over to it's lips and fed it soda. At the time, it made me grouchy - Who would give a puppy soda! - but, later, I would come to realize that this little puppy needed it, and that it was luck. Very lucky.

It was time to try the beach again, the rain had stopped and the water ran from the streets in rivers. We went down again, following a dirt road to the beach and just as we walked up again it began to rain, just as before. We fled again; Michael said to me, "someone out there is watching us, saying ooopp! Turn on the rain; the Americans are getting close to the beach again!" We went back to the strip to another pizza joint and repeated our lunch. The pizzas are about the amount of a slice of pizza and don't come with much in the way of toppings, even sauce and cheese are pretty limited. So it's like eating warm, soft bread with pizza flavoring. Some come better topped than others and it's always a gamble what you'll get. This time it was pretty good with salty olives and a thin, crunchy crust.

After the second pizzas, we hit the beach again, this time at almost sunset with heavy clouds, beams of sunshine, and a slackening party scene. A bunch of boys drew a ring on the beach and, fortified with much rum, they were staging wrestling matches. They saw Michael's camera and called out to us- "Take our photo! Look at us!" And two boys - a big one and a little one began to play at wrestling, exaggerating the movements pinning each other down grabbing necks and all the time yelling and laughing. The circle around them was hysterical with laughter.

When Michael stopped taking pictures, they stood up, covered in sand, and the big one tried to get Michael to wrestle him. "Oh, no," Michael said, "Tu estas muy furete" - you are too powerful - and he slapped the guy on his big biceps. The guy laughed and said, "Tu estas muy furete tambien, no?" to which Michael could only smile and shake his head. Then the littler guy got into it, "then fight me," he chanted, "fight me!" But Michael again refused, stating that they were all too fuerte for him.

We waved, gave our thumbs up and moved on to cheers and happy goodbyes. Down the beach we ran into another set of kids posing on an old lifeguard tower. They wanted their pictures taken too. They came down from the tower and in a semi inebriated state they posed for more pictures flashing peace signs and hang tens and shaking a salsa beat to a sexy effect. It was one of the girls 17th birthday. Soon they dragged me into the pictures. Each girl wanted a photo with me, just the two of us together. Then we repeated the routine with Michael. They wanted to give us their phone numbers, why I can't say, and we gave them our card with our email and web address. When we get to Miami, they said, we'll call you, and we assured them we would be there, in America, their land of their dreams.

We left them with a wave, lots of goodbyes and a big thumbs up. We turned away from the beach, on to a street, back into town where we saw another group of kids. They saw us coming and began to pose on their old 50s Oldsmobile, wanting their picture taken, they blew us kisses and danced a little salsa.

People everywhere were dancing, singing, calling out to each other. Busses going back to Habana were overflowing with people. They hummed with chatter, singing. Windows were bearded with flowing arms and towels flapping out. By dark the town seemed deserted and alone.

In the morning we were greeted with tiny cups of very strong coffee by Daniel who was watering his garden. We walked down the block, heading for the beach when Michael spotted something in a pile of ruble and trash- six tiny sleeping puppies. We walked up and they looked at us tentatively. There was no mother dog- just the puppies cowering under broken concrete and amid old fruit peels and empty cans.

They looked exactly like the puppy we'd seen the day before in the pizza shop. Their bones showed through and when they finally let me touch them, their skin was tight- dehydrated. But they wagged their tails and licked me. I found a little dish and poured them water from my water bottle, which they devoured in seconds. I poured them a second bowl, making sure the littler puppies got some too. There were two blond ones, a male and a female, that were bigger than the two black ones with white chests, and those were bigger than the littlest, two brown ones with black tails. They looked like they had some pit bull in them, but that they probably wouldn't be big dogs, maybe medium dogs.

I watched, as their tiny bellies filled with water, now the little puppies were round and fat, taunt to the touch. They were happy now and rolled around playing with each other and bringing little sticks up to me. Michael looked around and found a slice of ham pizza discarded in the trash. We ripped it up into chunks and put a little pile in from of each puppy and they gobbled it up. Now all six puppies had fat bellies and contented expressions. They rolled and played until they were exhausted and slept in the sun.

The next morning one is missing - the biggest and the healthiest one. I feel sure he has been adopted. I am happy for him, sad for the others. People watch us and feel for the little pups - "Que lastima!" they say. One man says that whoever did this - dumped baby pups in a trash heap - was out of his mind and had no heart. He thumped on his chest to punctuate his sentence. One couple came and the man tried to get the woman to take one home. I held it up - they're hard to resist. But, no, she would not be swayed. The puppies play and jump on me and it breaks my heart. We give them extra food, fill the water dish, and adjust the cardboard shade we made them before leaving. On the street I found a white rock and wrote on the pavement, "Perros!" with an arrow. By feeding them for two days and getting people to see them and know they are there improves their chances: a little.

We continued on the beach where even in the morning the crowd was out. Big white clouds hang over us and drift out to the turquoise waters. The people gather in groups, they throw sand, kick balls around, swim in the gentle surf. They lounge in groups talking and watching each other, checked everyone out. There are tiny bikinis in bright colors, there are Speedos and there is bling - damn the Cubans love their bling. Even though it's early there are bottles of rum in many people's hands - they carry them around and pour a little into glasses when they feel like it, sharing it whenever possible. Women sun bathe, children run and play, boys make sandcastles in groups, men check out the bathing ladies. Many, many of the people here are beautiful. They have amazing bodies, gorgeous figures, and it is all on display with the smallest of garments and the sexiest of suits. It feels so happy and safe here, families, teenagers, everyone goofing and playing with each other.

It is time for us to go, to take a bus back to Havana, time to say goodbye to the puppies, to the beautiful beach full of beautiful people. While we were here, we were part of the gang, we were folded under the wing of Guanabo and cared for.