Travel diary by
Richard & Agnes
October 2004

Other travels::::
India and Nepal
Morocco
Prague

Cuban Links ::::
Matt's s travelogue
Matt's links
Sailor's trip (in French)
Some gorgeous photos
Postcard diary
Cuba - travel stories
How to roll a cigar
Trainspotting
Arty pix (click on frames)
Fidel's newspaper
In-depth article

> Getting There
We booked flights and hotels from England with Captivating Cuba, not trusting our poor Spanish to do the trip properly, i.e. staying in people's spareroom and having a deeper experience of the country. We can't wait to go back and do it, as we now know that Cuba is a delicious place to travel into (especially after travelling for 6 months in India!).

Bloody long flight - 12 hours plus 2 1/2 delay at Gatwick as they changed the front wheel (jacked the plane up like a car!). Met pilot from Cubana Airline at bar - likes his new Airbus A330.

Late night taxi from Havana airport. Tropical smells, alien land, strange language. Arrive at hotel 5.30 am UK time and have a beer - seems the right thing to do!

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Earplugs / eye mask / a/c night not too bad but.....

• 2 zombies at breakfast
• strange looking fruits
• rationed bread bits
• stifling heat
• shower and go off to explore...

Fag break 10 mins from hotel in Bolivar square, a pitted colonial buildings ring restored plaza.
First tout - nice old guy with Cuban bank notes with Che Guevara printed on one side. We have no idea if they are just regular circulation currency, turns out it would be the cheapest we would be offered the whole holiday.
Tout number two; visit cigar factory, must be today - closes from one month from tomorrow, do we look like beginners!
Tout three - the baby milk scam - knew about this one!
All start - which country?, what is your name?, you like cigars?!

Fag break and Ag helps young boy with first steps, agonising pauses and rebalancing between every stride. Capitol Building - ironically looks just like the White House.

Prado-deja-vu, deja vu indeed, Ramblas anyone?!. Many artists and wide variety of styles, first feel of the creative culture of the country.

Quick glimpse of the sea, locals swimming from the rocks, the scorching sun has scrambling back in to the shade.

Meet Ryder and Daniel - students in English - we are wary at first after all the touts but soon warm to them when we realise that what they really want from us is English practice. Take them for beers and cocktails. Intense Afro Cuban band plays in the bar, R is dragged up for a jet lagged dance.

Agree to meet new friends to see a free concert that night on the Malecon to celebrate the end of the summer. La Van Van headline, one of the most popular modern salsa bands.

Big crowds, buying rum both Ag and R suffer attempted pick pocketing - technique; 2, 3 or more people squeeze around you as though pushing, quick hands. Other attempts throut rest of evening, conga lines a speciality.

Drink much rum and coke - Cuba Libre! - on the Malacon wall then dance to La Van Van. Circles form around the best dancers - not us!

• Realise Cubans don't clap
• Skimpy outfits
• Rolled up vests for men - just below nipples
• Much rum, buy Daniel an extra bottle as it is his birthday
• Log walk then cycle rickshaw

Musicians playing along harbour wall hit the sack at 2am (7am UK time) - jet lag, what jet lag! rum converts hot sweaty night - 27 degrees

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Visit colonial history Museum: beautiful building, grand sweeping veranda, peackcocks in courtyard, stiff Spanish portraits. A 16th century map of the world drawn sideways (America at top). Roosevelt's letter handing over Cuba to the Cubans, battered American flags.

Lunch in Cafe de Paris, a great 40's cafe with dark woods, fans and a sweet live band playing an acoustic set. 2 very strong mojitos and ham&cheese sandwich.

We then wandered of south of the old town, crumbling colonial buildings not touched yet by Havana's restoration project. Really poor neighbourhood. Stopped in garage full of old cars, snapped away drunk and merry at these beauties.

We met up with our students again to strike a cigar deal, in the tiny flat of a dealer they knew. Buy 2 boxes of cohibas and which much more difficulties, a box of "lady's cigars", at abound one tenth of the price in the official shops. On the roof terrace, the owner kept "special" pigeons apparently cherished for their fat necks. Went for mojitos and beers in a locals cafe, air conditioning blasting. We gave each student a cigar and their faces were of young children at Christmas, as they told us of their dream of eating a burger at the only McDonalds at Cuba. Back outside, Agnes' glasses steamed with the blast of heat and humidity of Havana.

We say goodbye to the students, took a taxi back to the hotel and ate a sumptuous paella cooked by the reigning world champions. We then headed to one of the beautiful 40's bar (La Lluvia de Oro), seemingly untouched from the passage of time. We sat at the end of the wood panelled bar and discovered for ourselves the pleasure of smoking a cigar. We talked of literature - the Hemingway effect?

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Agnes' birthday, she gracefully became a beautiful 34 years old.

The water was out at the hotel again, so we borrowed another room to take a much needed shower. Heading out, we stopped for a fresh melon juice at the Plaza del Cathedral. Its weather beated frontage complementing the ice-cream architecture.

We then headed for the cigar factory, and we sheltered from the blistering sun under an umbrella most used to London rain. The cigar factory was another time warp, this time of the late XIX's century. In the top room, closely packed workers crafted cigars of every size. Four minutes per cigars, 20 cigars per hour, 120 a day. Each cigar was made using slightly different techniques, particularly in the wrapping of the cigar cone using tobacco leaves selected for their smooth texture. The workers sat facing a platform where from behind the desk they were read in the morning from a newspaper, and in the afternoon a book. They were allowed to vote for the book they wanted to hear and with the slight majority of women, more often than not is was a romantic novel. The camaderie of the workers echoed of the communist ideal. The two cigars each employee was allowed to take home at the end of the day was probably the source of the black market on the streets below.

Having enjoyed our Cuban style lunch yesterday, we decided to indulge again in another Hemingway hangout. We had a classic cheese&ham sandwich and sucked our way down a number of mojitos. Agnes wiles away the afternoon shooting photographs of the passing street life.

We decided to have a cigar but needing a cuter, an old man was summoned from the shadows. He has few teeth, a warm smile and crooked fingers. He scoffed at our cigar as we tried to get it going. He's smoking a Romeo and Juliet and pulls another one from out of his pocket. Its leaf wrapping comes loose when he cuts the end and discussed he throws it into the street! The next cigar he passes to us taste fantastic. Who is this man? We buy him a beer and start talking in faltering Spanish. It turns out he worked in a cigar factory all of his life and his fingers were bent in a gesture of permanent cigar rolling.

More cigars - which we first exchange for dollars and later with promises for clothes! The rendezvous was fixed for the same place and time 10 days later. He seems keen on acquiring some new shoe but with Richard's size 13 this wasn't looking too promising.

It was now time for Agnes' birthday present and Richard decided that what she would most like would be a tour of Havana in a 50's American convertible (it being purely a coincidence that this was one of R's all time fantasies). A 57's Ford in metallic blue fitted the bill, and we cruised through the suburbs of the new city. The views are uncontained, a 360 degrees sensual experience. Dirty salsa on the stereo, onlookers stares and tree lined streets looking for all the world like middle America. Plaza de la Revolution looms. An imposing communist spike towers over a vast featureless square, an empty parking lot that echoed with the revolutionist fervour of the Nation's past (and present). Fifty's movie star moment as Agnes is photographed, umbrella in hand peers under the hood at the lovingly maintained 8 cylinder engine.

Havana's fun loving past was evident in the cruise back to the old town as cinemas and disused casinos spooled by. We had an elegant dinner that night in the dining room of an old countess. Four courses, wine, lobster and formal stuffiness which we did our best to mildly disrupt. Later on, we sat in a rich silence on a bench, savouring the warm night, with its drifting sounds of Cuban soft ballads.

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We make an early start and catch a cab to the bus station. The cab's meter clicks over refreshingly slowly. The tourist bus service rewards dollar spending with the ease and comfort denied to locals. The loping ride and gently passing scenery induced horny day dreams - lovely (for both of us). We are dropped off, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, the hotel finally appear after a sweaty struggle with heavy bags.

From the hotel's terrace, prehistoric landscape in the expensive valley below. A flat plain punctuated by limestone monoliths. These 120 million year old mounds had been created by erosion, now covered with pines and palms. You half expected to see dinosaurs prowling in this tropical plateau.

For the first time we are amongst the storms, seen but not heard from Havana. The humidity of the day finally breaking in the afternoon with electrical fireworks and bouncing washes of thunder.

A tight son band played under the stars, each instrument and voice perfectly balanced in both influence and ego. This is the real magic of Cuban music. The perfect interplay within the band expresses harmony with playfulness.

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After stuffing ourselves on the buffet breakfast and catching an ear infection in the pool, we walked 3 kilometres to the village of Vinales, under the blazing sun - saving $3 on the taxi (Richard's idea). Out of a bush from seemingly nowhere appeared a farmer selling cigars - how long had he been waiting for the mad dog and the Englishman out in the midday sun?

We met Alexi who was our guide for a walk into the valley. Another couple joined us, an English guy and a South African girl from East London - yah! with Alexi's good humour, and the refreshment of fellow travellers, the 3 hour walk turn less into sight seeing than a chatty banter down the valley floor. We managed to (accidentally?) bump into most of Alexi's relatives, including his mum who was the only person able to subdue him. The running game was a quiz on identifying any number of familiar fruits and crops that we had only even seen on supermarket shelves: pineapple, coffee, grapefruit, avocados, tobacco, bananas... We even caught sight of the world's smallest bird, the colibri or bee bird . At one point, we climbed up to the cave of the cow's head, so called because of the shape of the overhanging rock formation. You needed good imagination. The cave wound its way, sometimes in disorientating darkness, through one of the limestone towers of the valley- dissidents used these caves to hide and escape persecution. After the shock of seeing fresh coffee growing in the rich red soil, we passed by a small hut. In the backyard over an open fire, a woman was "roasting her beans" and invited us in her rustic home for a cuppa. The room had no partitions, just a bed, a few wooden seats and a kitchen. The conversion went on like: "Buenos?" "Buenos, Buenos!" for a while, all smiles and warm hospitality.

Back on the high street, sweat pouring from our brows, the only solution was a cool fresh beer. So we had three.

Having to get back to the hotel, we hailed a taxi "Cuban style", i.e.:

• standing in the middle of the street and looking lost
• make a random selection from any of the people who approach you
• clamber into the back of a battered Lada with bigger speakers than it has engine
• watch taxi driver insert cassette into the stereo and sing faultlessly along with the acoustic song, too faultlessly....?
• discover taxi driver is a talented musician and you are listening to his own recording
• hand taxi driver £3 and leave the taxi with a huge grin on your face

The night under the sky full of stars turned out to be quite erotic...

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Agnes' ears are getting worst, she consults her first doctor. Richard turns the conversation towards acquiring a large quantity of Valium. The deal is struck and Agnes gets some ear drops as well.

Arrange to go horse riding down town that afternoon. Arriving late, we are greeted by a John Wayne born in the tobacco fields of Cuba. His skin was leathery, his moustache bushy and his hat damn impressive. Nice horse too, and Agnes is drooling over hers. Underway, it turns out that Richard's horse had a competitive streak and always wanted to lead, even resorting to deliberate blocking tactics to prevent Agnes' filly from getting its head ahead. The scenery unravelled like a Technicolor western, red earth tracks, lush green vista. Rivers were forded, and cowboy fantasies lived out. We stopped and had another fresh coffee and smoked homemade cigars at a friendly farmer's outpost.

With our faltering Spanish, the farmer's life story slowly revealed, as was his unique recipe for cigars in which he soaks the leaves in a mix of rum, sugar and fruit before drying.

Back on the high street, sweat pouring from our brows, the only solution was a cool fresh beer. So we had three. (deja vu?)

Our date with a lobster meal had been fixed the day before. All we knew was that it was to be in a family home in the village (a paladares). On arrival, we were greeted by our host, and led through to the back garden where our table, perfectly set for two, awaited. All the food arrived at once, plate upon plate of home cooked fare:

• rice and beans
• fried plantain
• sweet potato crisps
• stuffed lobster (divine)
• salads and fruits

washed down with cool beers, we gorged ourselves under the stars. It was to be our best meal in Cuba.

The power was out in the whole village, and as we passed in our taxi home, the Friday night crowds spilled out onto the streets from unlit bars.

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Time to move on again. We had an early but pretty chilled start. Our taxi transfer arrived on time but was happy to share coffee and cigarettes before we left for the North Coast, where a boat will take us to the deserted island of Cayo Levisa.

Time for another quick coffee at the barracks on the shore, watching a new hurricane forming on the CNN channel. By then, Ivan the terrible was still a child but developing fast off the coasts of South America.

Crossing the short stretch of sea, a floating green island appeared. The thick mangrove forest covering its side, looking like a plate spaghetti curling below the water line. There appeared to be no solid ground at all. Is it real? Memories of the floating "living island" in the Life of Pi came to mind. Walking down the wooden plank way, an extension of the jetty which caught our boat, the encircling roots emerging from the swamps looked carnivorous. The island was so narrow that it took a few minutes to reach the other side and the contrast as we emerged from the vegetal tunnel into palm lined white beaches was complete.

The resort is made up of individual huts, the old ones with brick and thatch, the new Chilean kits on stilts. The sea glimmed aquamarine and while the sun was as intense as it had been in Havana, the cooling breeze tamed its oppressiveness for the fist time in Cuba. Paradise indeed.

The first thing we did and for the first time during this trip, we unpacked properly and made our beach hut our nest. Home for the next 5 days.

We had to try the water - it was like walking into a warm swimming pool, 30 degrees and even so limpid. We then swam along the 3 kilometre beach, marvelling at our first glimpses of the famous Caribbean beaches. Rarely more than 4 people in sight, just beauty and perfection. Quite quickly, the beach changed to mangrove swamps or pine forests, with no one in view. At the horizon, waves crashed on the coral reef surrounding the island. Further away, the tiny Paradise Island, Hemingway's fishing ground shimmered.

Back at the bar, we met the top man of the island a doctor/barman who simultaneously give Agnes a some antibiotics (the ear infection), a formal introduction to scuba diving (a dream wish) and a few excellent Mojitos (for the soul). He did then closely monitor Agnes alcohol consumption as she started her course of treatment!.

The dinner was a ghastly affair in an over lit room and under the glares of uneasy tourists.

The sea is warm enough to make night time skinny dipping a pleasure and not a horny intentioned shock. The water sparkled with static as we swam in the moonlight. An island for lovers....

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Lounging in the sun, reading books, trying to capture Miami radio on our portable radio.

Back in the hut and starting to think about dinner. Its a quiet night with a light breeze rustling the palms. Suddenly the phone rings. Agnes is closest and a lady starts babbling away to her in Spanish. "Habla englese?" Ag says. The voice then explained that a hurricane was shortly to arrive and we should stay in our room, where workmen were about to arrive to board up our windows. Agnes gives concerned "yes's" and "really's". We are told that we are not allowed even to go to the restaurant to eat. The phone call ends and we sit awestruck on the bed, worried and confused. We decide to look outside and gingerly opened the door. It was still strangely calm outside and we looked for some acknowledgement and support from some people. Then Ag sees two people swimming in the placid sea and rushes back inside to alert the hotel staff. Somewhat confusingly we are assured that our shower would be fixed shortly!. At this point R said "fuck it' I'm hungry - let's go to the restaurant". On arrival, a scene of utter normality greeted us as the full dining room was attempting it's nightly struggle to digest the local fair. Laughing like idiots we checked out every single member of staff attempting to discover the joker in the pack. We were none the wiser later while smoking a fat cigar at the bar .

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Inspired by a German lady who had filled the terrace of her chalet with a stunning array of seashells, we went off on a hunt of our own. At the western edge of the island, the beach was wild and the sand seemingly untouched. A sand bank stretched out to sea and the shallow water was even warmer. It seem natural to take off all our clothes and explore our patch of paradise.

Believing we will be undisturbed, we wandered far only for two French guys to appear from the direction of the chalets, trapping us from our bags. Running into the water, we gave our best impressions that the water was a lot deeper then the fifty centimetres it actually was. "Swimming" on your knees!

They realised quickly their intrusion and wondered off, but the look they gave us in the bar that night told all!

Dark clouds that have been forming in the horizon where now undoubtedly heading our way. We made to leave, too late. Huge drops of rain first splattered then poured down. A sharp wind blew and we huddled cold under the umbrella we had brought to protect us from the sun. That is when we realised that what we actually needed to do was to head into the sea to warm up! The surface of the water fizzed with cloud drops and the sea turned milky as the fine white sand mixed with the waves.

Using a short break in the clouds, we ran bodingly the scarily close lightning, back to the bar. We found everyone huddling together, sheltering from the tropical downpour. Forced together we starting chatting to a cool couple from London. We liked them and our paths were destined to cross for the rest of our holiday.

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Possibly luckily for you readers, our diligently kept diary stopped here, but because you've got this far, we are going to make an effort to write as we remember it, 2 months later!

So where were we - ah yes, paradise...

We can't remember much of this day before early evening, maybe this was because we were now mixing our own cocktails and being more generous with the rum than they were at the bar! What we do remember is the sunset - check out the picture. The sky was literally on fire.

Oh, one more thing. Richard spent a fascinated two hours on the beach trying to entice one of the hundreds of hermit crabs to upgrade its shell. To this end, he gathered the best empty examples he could find; des res' for any discerning crustacean. I wish I could report he was successful but, despite a number of interesting parties, he had to satisfy himself with witnessing his best chance moving into a rival's abode.

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Early start. Off on the snorkelling expedition organised by the hotel. One these Caribbean double deckers took a bunch of us and we crossed the lagoon with a Mojito in our hand, feeling quite akin to Hemmingway.

The clear water around the reef allowed a spectacular underwater panorama. Weird coral architecture was alive with swarms of colourful fish and two threatening Barracuda at least 1m long. We followed the edge of the deep ridge further and further away from the boat floating above an alien world. Shame that the coral itself was covered with green algae - not the cathedral of white expected.

The other event we remember of this day was our midnight swim where every movement was accompanied by thousands of sparkles of light. If anyone else has experienced this or knows what this phenomena is we would love to hear from you. It isn't light from the moon or shore, nor was it continuous, only when you made a movement - the faster the more pinpricks of light so maybe not plankton. Our best guess is static electricity but you tell us...

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Time to head back to Havana. We shared a cab with the couple we met at the bar and ended up at the same hotel. Returning to civilisation after a few days in the wild, Havana lost some of its charm - the heat, the pollution, the noise. Nevertheless, we fought the gloom with a bar crawl, Cuban style.

Rum museum: serving up neat dark 7 year old rum - Havana Club Beautiful traditional music bar, the band played to an audience of two, us! This one was really posh and the cocktails extremely nice :-) 30's gangster bar it said in the guide, like a submarine inside - even the windows were aquariums! This one had its own microbrewery serving light and dark beers - that will be one of each then please... El Floridita the home of the Daiquiri and Hemingway immortalised in bronze sitting at the end of the bar, things were getting messy

It was also a time of careful Hurricane watching. Ivan, one of the strongest for years was just to the south of Cuba and heading straight for Havana. People crowded around TV sets analysing the garishly coloured satellite images with it's ominous swirl of cloud. The attempts made of protecting property, mainly consisting of sticking large crosses of tape across windows, looked hopelessly inadequate. If it hit the predictions for Havana were dire. Everyone was saying early Saturday, our plane was due to leave late Friday - it was going to be close....

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The last day, or was it...

Well what does everyone do on their last day - naturally we tried to do all the shopping we had been putting off for the previous two weeks. It's easy to find things for the boys, frustratingly little apart from cheap jewellery for the girls. The shopping centre looked surprisingly western but the queue for the TV and audio store just to get inside and look at the electronics was a small reminder that the shiny products were still beyond the means of many.

Meeting again with our new friends we made our way to the airport, got in line and waited. We were nowhere near the front but as time ticked slowly by the queue behind us gradually snaked it's way around the terminal. Still we didn't move and tempers started to fray as a bout of queue jumping broke out. It transpires that everyone with planes due to leave in the next few days was trying to get on that nights flight in order to escape the storm. The hurricane's course had actually slowed by then and was now not due to hit until Sunday but people were not taking any chances. Cans of coke and duty free rum at least created serviceable Cuba Libre's...

Information was hard to come by but from a series of conversations scattered around the building we pieced together the developing events out at our plane. It's front undercarriage had a problem and they were trying to fix it, images of the brown sticky tape seen all around Havana earlier flitted across our minds!. At one point they said they had done it but an exchange of fax's with the plane's owners in Switzerland revealed they weren't happy and we were stuck, a new part was needed from Europe. The hurricane edged ever closer.

At this point in a British airport you would now be expecting a long and very uncomfortable night in the airport but in Cuba they treat their tourists all together better. All travellers whether on an organised tour or independent, even with just a plane ticket, are covered by the national travel body and everyone, quite efficiently in the circumstances, was found all expense paid 5* hotels to stay in until the problem was solved. Maybe it is just people and airports but that there were some still complained was incredible and unedifying - don't they know what would have happened at home? We were extremely impressed and grateful, and are happy to be able to complement in print the protection Cuba extends to its visitors.

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