Varadero

Varadero. The final stop on the tour. It was here that we said goodbye to our government appointed driver and our government appointed guide. After 10 days of faithful service we were to tip them for a) not killing us, and b) informing us of what life was like in Cuba for real people. And yes, we wanted to do this. Unfortunately, we all came up against the logic of economics again. Since our guide told us from the outset that she earned 15 (ish) kooks a month (that's 180 kooks a year), and the Saga brochure advised us to tip around 5 kooks per person per day, we worked out that for 10 days of service the 27 of us would be paying each of them 1,350 kooks. Even 1 kook per person per day would be 270 kooks -- so that would mean that for our coach alone for 10 days work we would be paying them around a year's salary. Maybe it's me but the Star Trek Prime Directive kicks in somewhere at this point, doesn't it? I've been told by many not to worry about such things but none of those people have ever studied the philosophies of Star Trek, so I dismiss them all and will carry on regardless.

Now listen up, mes enfants, 'cos I'm going to explain the realities of Saga travel. As you may have noticed we have been somewhat curtailed in our freedoms in return for a more disciplined, schooled and cerebral approach to exploring strange new worlds, seeking out new cultures and boldly going where no one else would have made it because there was a bar in the way. The reward at the end of it all was Three Full Nights in Varadero. We were all looking forward to it. The reasons? Well, for one, the bloody coach had gone. I swear there wasn't a living soul on that coach that loved it. It wasn't a bad coach per se. It was just that we spent so many minutes in each hour getting off and on the damned thing that it just wasn't funny any more. Two: we were overloaded about information about Cuba. It was exactly what we signed up for but for god's sake did they have to be so damned efficient about it? Three: alcohol was snatched at every opportunity before re-embarkation on the coach. Hey, we were getting good at it but always careful because bladders were getting full and you never knew where your next stop would be (in fairness, Niall never let it get past a couple of hours and the toilets were always passable even if missing toilet seats or loo paper). Four: we were fed. My god we were fed. I don't think I've ever crapped so much on a holiday. Five: we were tired. Seriously, you cannot do one of these earnest, cerebral holidays without getting weary. A holiday that merely involves leaping about from one bar to the next is piss easy in comparison.

And six, well, let me demonstrate by reciting a conversation. Niall (or Saint Niall, as I think of him) gathered his flock on the first day of our stay at the Media Varadero All-Inclusive Resort for a "hotel orientation meeting". He told us,
"I've booked the steakhouse restaurant on the last night if you are interested. They do very good steaks but I've had a word with the chef and he can do steak, salmon or pork. I need to get numbers so hands up for who wants steak?"
"Most of you. OK, put your hands down. Who wants salmon?"
"Five of you. OK, who wants the pork?"
One lady put her hand up, but added, "I'd rather have chicken though."
"OK", said Niall, "that won't be a problem I think".
"Oh", said another, "is there chicken? I'd like chicken, too".
"Does it come in a sauce?", asked yet another.
"Yes, mango", said Niall without a trace of testiness. I could tell he was making things up at this point.
"Oh, that sounds nice", said a new voice, "I'll have one too".
"OK", said Niall, "let's start again. We're going to the steakhouse on Sunday night", and I swear there was absolutely no inflection the word "steak". "Who wants the salmon?"
"Is there any sauce with the salmon"?
By this time I was gently massaging my forehead with my fingers, slowly shaking my head. I truly believe no one noticed.

So, Varadero was to be our Shangri-la. Our pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Our peace that passeth all understanding. You can almost see the "BUT" coming can't you? After orientation, we picked up our beach towels and headed for the pools for the first time to get some of those 30°C rays we'd been sweltering in all these days. Just settled down when some shouty twat in a red shirt and a PA system that was far too big for his testicles started booming right next by my left ear, about what I have no idea. With Star Trek still in mind I wished him a horrible death met by all the dumb security guards wearing red. In return, he backed up his shouting with some garage, underground crap excuse for music that went I LIKE TO MOVE IT, MOVE IT! and carried on on a endless loop amongst other WOO WOO music that included meaningless words like "Gangnam Style" for the rest of the day. Firing foul curses and photon torpedoes, none of which pierced the sound shield, we moved to the opposite end of the estate and settled down for the second time.

Now, this will extend your credibility some, but we honestly did not notice the partitioned-off area at the end of our row of sunbeds. With I LIKE TO MOVE IT, MOVE IT down to a dull roar someone started an angle grinder off right next to my right ear. Linda kept her head studiously in her book. I muttered something about going for a walk on the beach. It was, I am happy to report, a nice beach.

Please forgive me for the length of this post, and indeed for the boring, tedious ramblings of all the previous, but this is my last. Tonight, we go for a steak (!!) and tomorrow we fly home (if Donald hasn't blown the world up in the interim). One last observation. I think there are three ways to holiday in Cuba (four, if you include cruise ships, but those that know me know what I think of those -- mind you, who'd have thought we'd end up on a Saga holiday).

One: go to an all-inclusive resort in Varadero for two weeks. As one waiter whispered fiercely to us the night we arrived, "this is not the real Cuba!". Quite. We assured him we knew that. There are probably far better all-inclusive resorts closer to home (although we can understand why there are so many pissed Canadians here -- it's only three hour's flight away and it's bloody cold there now).

Two: at the other end of the adventure spectrum, make your own way across Cuba using the growing number of casas particulares and paladars. You might not get luxury but you will see it from the ground up. If you are young and fit enough, pack a bike on the hold. It's quite popular but hard work.

Three: go Saga. 'Nuff said? One thing's for sure, Cuba is a fascinating place, but it will change quite rapidly in the next five to ten years. I wish them well.

Trinidad

Further east on the south coast road lies the ancient town of Trinidad. You know at once that it's ancient because the streets are entirely cobbled. And also because the Rough Guide informs us that the town celebrated its 500th anniversary in 2014 (it was originally a gold mining town but that dried up pretty quickly). Saga dropped us off at one end of town, the intention being that we would walk through the centre and out the other side thereby avoiding the contraflow of other tour groups who walk in and then back out the same way. Looking back over the first long street was somewhat reminiscent of an old Hovis advert. It got a bit embarrassing when we were encouraged to peer into the narrow openings of people's terraced homes until you realised that they were, in fact, local shops. One sold straw hats, another vegetables, and one was a distribution centre for those ration cards I described earlier. Cobbles are all fine and archaic but after an hour they become hard on those loose collections of bones I call feet. So, upon reaching the first of the old cobbled squares (that had unfortunately been given over to a flea market selling tourist tat) our guide directed us to a bar to recover where, you've guessed it, they had a band.

The main square of Trinidad is an attractive, jaunty affair called the Plaza Mayor. It is surrounded by clean, brightly painted cafes, museums and churches dominated by a rectangular garden in it's centre that is unusual in that it does not have a statue of a revolutionary hero. It is said that the local kids congregate here in the evenings with

a bottle of rum, have a good time, play music, and completely fail to destroy the ornaments or leaves tons of litter. Amazing place. Of course, all this might have something to do with the fact that this is a UNESCO-protected part of the city, Trinidad being a world heritage site. We had a buffet lunch just off the Plaza and then visited the Museo de Historia Municipal (where I was given a sharp rebuke for playing with ye olde rocking chair). This place did have a loft which, if you were prepared to navigate a spiral staircase and a ladder and give way to the crowds coming down, would lead you to a tower and great views of the city.

The next day we left Cienfuegos for our final destination, Varadero. Of course, no Saga coach trip is complete without a few stops. Today's subject was Che Guevara. Now I don't know about you but Che's portrait was all over the place when I was growing up, mostly in psychedelic technicolour, alongside posters of Jimi Hendrix. So much so that I truly thought he was in the band. Turns out he was hero of the revolution over here, mostly for his tactical guerilla genius but also for the purity of his socialist beliefs. He died early in 1967 when a bit of revolutionary activity in Bolivia ended badly. They didn't locate his burial site until 1997 when his body was exhumed and returned to a town called Santa Clara (where he achieved his most famous victory for the revolution back in 1958). This is where we went next to visit the Complejo Monumental Ernesto Che Guevara, a very somber mausoleum (you really do have to take this one seriously) attached to a museum of the man's life. I leave you with this image outside the museum . . .

Cienfuegos

Cienfuegos is at once a totally different city to Havana. The latter, as with all capital cities, can be a depressing, claustrophobic place. In fact, you really have to be able to see wonderful colonial buildings to appreciate them instead, as I do, a decayed

bygone of an obsolescent time. Cienfuegos is, by contrast, a city of wide boulevards with slightly boring blocky, rectangular buildings on either side of the road, but it was built by the French in 1819, so there you go. There are large pedestrianised streets that contain a languid panoply of people of all colours and races (in fact, Cuba seems to have one of the most tolerant, easy-going, mixed race societies I have ever seen this side of the Far East). It seems richer in other little ways: fewer beggars (although begging is definitely not approved anywhere by the government); many of the kids were playing with mobile phones; a gym sat proudly on the high street; and loads of Americans who come in directly by plane or cruise ship and seem to have none of the angst that we do about tipping lavishly. I know they are American because I was trapped in a lift with a gaggle who were moaning about the latest antics of their new president. "You've only yourselves to blame", I opined, "if you'd bothered to vote/not vote the right way none of us would be looking over our shoulders for ICBM trails". They looked down and shuffled their feet. Encouraged, I added, "mind you, all the other contenders from both parties were such a religiously-anal, lying, self-seeking bunch of asswipes with far too many teeth any normal human being has a right to possess, it's no wonder you all voted for the Maverick". Grateful that even an Englishman could get it, they tottered off to their rooms.

OK, that didn't happen because the lifts had just been refurbished and I was kicked off at the third floor before I could open my mouth. *Sigh* another opportunity wasted. Anyway, back to Cienfuegos. They took us to a theatre, the Teatro Thomas Terry, built by some Venezuelan guy (Thomas Terry) in the late 19th century. It had the most amazingly deep stage with auditorium acoustics better than the Royal Albert Hall. We were especially impressed when Niall (our Saga guide, remember?) demonstrated said acoustics with a very passable rendition of something from The Marriage of Figaro (I don't know, don't ask!). It also seemed to have an alarming relief of a manic Brian Blessed staring down from the lintel above the stage. I would have taken a picture with Linda's phone but she would have had to probably donate a kidney in fines. Hah! Bet they've never even seen Flash Gordon.

I've mentioned that the Hotel Jagua is down a long road leading into the bay. Well, if you leave the sunset bar and turn right you can carry on to the end of the road to the point where Cuban kids get together for a quick grope. Ahh! Young love. There's a

small park there where, just as we were walking by a cactus tree, a startling iridescent green hummingbird hovered at arm's reach to take a drink. Beautiful. But the main reason we were here was a little cocktail stand that Niall whispered served the best mojitos in the area. Sure enough, the guy made two that must have taken him ten minutes to grind and bruise the mint with the sugar before "ruining" it with a quintuple sextuple measure of Havana Club. As usual, we were caught by a couple from our party who commented, "fancy seeing you here". "Trailblazing, as always", I quipped. Judgements have been made, I suspect.

Onward

So, from the concrete canyons of old Havana to the misty valley of Vinales in the west now to the beautiful boulevards of Cienfuegos in the south east. Our journey took us

from the H10 Havana Panorama Hotel in the eastern Miramar district of Havana through the residential Kohli district, around the Necropolis de Colon (an enormous walled cemetery containing armies of tightly packed stone sarcophagi), past the famous Plaza de la Revolution where the brightly painted custom car owners line up to take tourists on open-top rides, through the old town of Havana Vieja to the tunnel under the bay. At the other side you can circle around to visit the 17th century fort that dominates the entrance of the bay and take pictures of Havana in all its glory.

Some distance along the south east road we stopped for lunch at the Finca Fiesta Campesina, a jolly little idealised picture of Cuban rural life which also doubled up as a zoo (well, it had a crocodile lounging behind a fence and and a sort of cross between a rat and a capybara sitting in a tree). Spookily, it was not only lunchtime but cocktail o'clock. Since we'd already pigged out at breakfast, Linda and I continued to develop the tricky Cuban skill of pouring our own measures of rum into pina coladas provided by the owners of the park. This practice is not only legal but actively encouraged by the bar staff. Satisfied that we'd finally achieved a satisfactory level of competency, we settled back for the rest of the journey to the Bay of Pigs.

I don't know about you but all subjects like "Bay of Pigs" or "Guantanamo Bay" produce a vague resonance but without much understanding. In fact, I will confess that I didn't really know that Guantanamo was even in Cuba until a few years ago. Since then, that fact has been, I'm afraid, a source of vague confusion to me (surely the US has had a 50 year embargo on the country yet they have a base on it --- wtf?). But more about that later. Most of us I think, lived through, and were aware of, the Cuban Missile Crisis and watched black and white sci-fi movies about the expanding affects of radiation on ants and lizards. And somewhere along the way we all heard about the Bay of Pigs. Well, happily, courtesy of Saga and our local tour guide, we were allowed to visit the Giron Museum on that very subject. Seems that, after Fidel kicked out and Americans in 1959, said Americans sorta held a grudge (unbelievable, I know, to think that they could ever be so petty). Also, it seemed that all the rich, land-owning Cubans who left for the US after an extensive frenzy of nationalisation were similarly cross. So the CIA trained and financed an invasion by said disenfranchised Cubans, helpfully bombed Cuban runways to confuse matters, provided some planes (with US markings removed) and boats (ostensibly mercantile vessels but owned -- ultimately -- by a chap called Bush -- yes, that one) and generally supported the invasion down on the Playa Giron. Turned out Fidel got wind of it and basically kicked their asses. Anyway, I think that's the gist of it according to the museum. Unfortunately, the government recently decided to remove all the English translations in the museum so I can't be sure of the details but all the diagrams and photographs were interesting.

Eventually, we were freed of our history lessons and arrived at the Hotel Jagua, a rather charming place on the end of a long road jutting into Cienfuegos bay. The bay itself is huge affair pinched at it's seaward end by a small inlet. Typically, our tour included a trip around the bay on a cramped noisy boat. Not much to see so most people shuffled to the tiny bar in the centre for a generous Cuba libre. The hotel on the other hand does have a spacious seating area and a bar right next to the swimming pool and the bay itself. We made it just in time for a glorious sunset. OK for the next three nights, I think.

Back to Havana

And it rained. Vinales is good place for farming but a lousy place for an extended stay. In fact, we overheard one young Canadian asking whether she could stay another night. "Certainly", was the reply, "that will be 160 kooks/dollars". Another example of market forces: the demand is there but the supply is limited, at least in the case of hotels in Cuba. So we made our way back to Havana for a stopover at our original hotel before our onward travel to Cienfuegos. And it rained.

Now, listen, about the subject of escaping the Saga tyranny that wiser men have suggested. The Panorama Hotel in western Havana is a fine hotel but it has the dreariest bar in Christendom. I did previously try to escape to building on the other side of the road that I first thought was a derelict 1970s Russian tower block until I saw curtains in some of the windows. On closer inspection, there were yellow taxis parked outside the front. My trusted source told me that it was the Triton, a functioning hotel that has a bar that is half the price of our very own hotel bar. OK, thinks I, let's have a look (while Linda was washing her hair). Alarmingly, it was a bit like the Hotel California; if there were any people there they had been dead for a while and quite invisible. The entrance was huge. And empty. There was a small reception area to the right devoid of any of the usual paraphernalia you would usually expect of a large hotel lobby (computers, room key holders, clocks, living human beings). Further to the right was a mini trio of shops dimly lit with red Christmas lights, all shut with no clue as to what they were selling. Running quickly back to the entrance I saw a sign glowing ominously to the far left saying, Lobby Bar. The glass door was black with none of the suggestive glitter of ambient life. Looking back to the left of the entrance of the lobby there were stairs leading up to a balcony area above the whole width of the lobby. I bravely (by this time) climbed to the top and walked the length to what appeared to be a children's play area at the other end complete with eeriely-muted coloured play equipment but, again, devoid of anything visibly living. Pretty sure that I was about to see two girl children on tricycles singing a malevolent song I fled the whole structure vowing never to leave the sanctity of Saga again.

Except the hotel bar still wasn't that attractive an alternative either. Up the road was a supermarket which Niall suggested we visit to get an idea of the difference between western ideas of buying stuff and the average Cuban's reality. So I did. And I did. 'Nuff said, I think. Past the supermarket looms the Russian Embassy, a structure surrounded by reinforced concrete walls with bits of its reinforcement cheekily showing, topped with a delicate shade of rusty razorwire. Above this monstrosity looms a giant submarine conning tower, if submarines were made of decaying concrete of course. But, success!, beyond that was a little cluster of bars where the locals go to get a beer, listen to pop music or feed their children pizza. Promising Linda that it really wasn't raining (that badly) any more and that the uneven paving stones were quite safe to navigate, we made our way to the entrance where a trio of young guys wondered if we were lost. "Beer?", I asked hopefully. Grins all round as we were led to a table and served two bottles of Bucanero. A few more rounds saw tables of "young people" eyeing us not-too surreptitiously wondering what zoo the old white couple had escaped from. We had the last laugh when they nearly missed their bus home, dashing madly for the vehicle with half empty plastic cups of beer in hand.

Linda was suitably fortified by this time so we retreated to the sanctity of the 11th floor piano bar of the hotel to watch the sunset (if there was one to be seen -- still very overcast). The pianist was a gorgeous Cuban girl who smiled every time she played Gershwin or Billy Joel and we clapped in recognition. I mention this part of the evening only because there were only a half dozen of us in the whole restaurant when it was disrupted by a marching, ranting matriarchal Chinese woman who stormed up and down the empty tables followed by a balding, stooped, hand-wringing shadow of a man, who then both promptly vanished like the aftermath of a typhoon. The pianist looked us. We grinned back at her. No matter the difference in our cultures, we silently agreed that this was weird. The postscript of this pantomime was this: a few minutes later I happened to be at the entrance to the restaurant as they opened for dinner. Mad matriarch and her full Chinese party arrived in force and the poor employees of the hotel had to stand in line to clap them in. We followed them in, but with minimal ceremony I might add.

Anyway, that was our last time in Havana. On our way to Cienfuegos tomorrow.

Vinales

From the architectural jungle of Havana to the open rural valley of Vinales, a journey westwards of 260-odd kilometres. Our guide settled down to explain the complexities of a completely centralised agrarian economy which appeared to most of us as incomprehensible as Europe's Common Agricultural Policy. Basically, no one can own land but they can rent it as long as they sell their produce to the government. Cuba appears to have adult literacy rates, health care and available food-per-capita that are the envy of many Latin American countries. But to achieve the latter they still use ration cards, something our parents would shudder at. After the revolution, evil America tightened its embargo so the only aid for Cuba was from the Soviet Union. They supplied "architects" (monolithic concrete tower blocks are still in evidence), bulk food such powdered potato and industrial-sized tins of vegetables, and, oh by the way, could you look after these nuclear missiles for us, please? Then, when the Soviet Union withdrew its support (they were having problems of their own at the time) the Cuban economy suffered badly for a while. Now, there seems to be a bit of a minor revolution in the way that they are learning to be self sufficient again. Since the relaxations of regulations in the 90s, the privately-run paladars now are offering a greater culinary variety than usually found in the state-run restaurants.

Our ride took us to Las Terrazas, an important ecotourism site for Cuba containing a small working community. Prior to the revolution, the French cut all the trees down and imported slaves to grow coffee. However, they weren't very good at it. Because it rains a lot in this region all the soil was washed away within a couple of years. In 1971 the government promoted a reforestation project and encouraged the locals in farming and self-sufficiency. We stopped here for a walk and an iced liqueur coffee which I am sure was the cause of much use of the toilets for the following 24 hours. Memo to self: you can have as much rum in your drink as you like but lay off the milk. We also had a huge lunch here in a rickety elevated restaurant run by a very happy family that was just big enough to support the 27 of us and, of course, a band. (Actually, they were a lot of fun -- once you get away from the "mariachi"-style of 1guitar + 1 maracas you get more interesting saxophone/trumpet/guitar/bongo combos. In fact, I get the impression that Cuban music is worth a great deal more examination but as my musical tastes, like my tastes in literature, are limited, I'll spare you that.)

Eventually, we arrived at the shocking pink Hotel Los Jizmenes looking over the edge of the Vinales valley. Saga had a good reason for block-booking this place: location, location, location. I attach a picture of the pool bar and swimming pool area to give you a clue. It overlooks the whole valley and as the day progresses the colours change from our balcony (or bar) window. Saga pay the local porters 1 kook per passenger to carry our bags from the coach to our rooms. It is an example of the topsy-turvy economy over here that the manager promoted himself to porter because, as a manager, he would only be paid a monthly salary of around 15 kooks: as a porter he received 27 kooks for our bus alone. One wonders whether tourism, while obviously providing the government with much needed cash for infrastructure repairs, is not also destabilising the ideology of equal pay for everyone somewhat.

From here we are taken two miles into Vinales town, a three-avenue village that seems to be benefitting from the relaxation to renting rooms to tourists (all profits to the government, of course). There are literally hundreds of freshly, brightly painted houses advertising spare rooms. And, as we stopped at one of the many bars to get out of the sun, we watched a large number of backpackers come and go, mostly to queue up at the government ETESCA, the only officially recognised method of using telecommunications (i.e. the internet --- seriously, the Saga-choiced hotels have excellent bandwidth, but the rest of the country . . . Meh!). The tours continued with extreme sports like "let's take the wrinklies down a prehistoric cave and boatload them out to daylight". Amazingly, we never lost a soul but those of us who were still suffering from an excess of liqueur and milk the day before were begging for a faster trip to the surface. Don't tell me these Saga tours are risk free! Other tours included a visit to a mural painted on the mountain side where, spookily, it was also cocktail o'clock: pina coladas for 3 kooks --- pour your own rum (needless to say, they kept running out of rum).

Let me leave you with a view from our hotel room balcony over the Vinales valley at sunrise.

Hemingway

Cuba isn't short of heroes but most of them are revolutionary in nature and to be honest not much fun at a party. So it's not surprising that they adopted Hemingway; adrenaline junky, bon vivant, bull fighter, marlin murderer, war correspondent and all round piss artist.

Delving into the spirit of things we booked a government tour to Hemingway's last residence. The story we were told was that, after the 1959 Revolution he was told by the US government that, if he didn't return home in 1961, he would lose his citizenship (probably didn't like the fact that he was good mates with Fidel). As he shot himself soon after, the Cuban government decided to freeze all his assets (rather than nationalise them) and turn his house into a museum. It is surprisingly well maintained. You can walk around the estate and look in all the windows to see his desks and typewriters and bullfighting posters and portraits and bookcases and bottles of booze in all the rooms supposedly exactly as he left them.

Next we were taken to the small harbour, Cojimar, west of Havana, where he kept his fishing boat, the Pilar, and drank copious amounts of rum with his first mate who was reportedly the old man Hemingway based the protagonist of his Pulitzer an Nobel Prize-winning novel The Old Man and the Sea. (Incidentally, I read that before coming out and think that Frank (Dune) Herbert was robbed.) Of course, to celebrate the fact our guide declared it cocktail o'clock and we drank to Ernest under numerous pictures of him wrestling with marlin and shaking hands with Fidel. It was a tiny pub but they managed to fit in a band as well.

In fact, this tradition was repeated many times on our tour of Havana. The best part of the city is the oldest part, Havana Vieja, which is the block of streets between

Capitolio Nacional in the centre and the harbour to the west where the cruise ships arrive. Arriving from one of the two seemingly perpetually-used cruise ship berths you will see Plaza de San Fransisco straight ahead. Turn right (i.e. north) for 100m or so and you arrive at Plaza de Armas, a key place in the old city consisting of a garden square surrounded by second hand book sellers. There seemed to me to be a lot of duplication; each government approved seller apparently selling the same ancient copy of the lives and triumphs of popular revolutionaries. But there are bars (and mariachi bands) aplenty selling cool mojitos or pina coladas for a fiver. If you avoid all the women in fancy dress demanding money for pictures at the top of the plaza you turn right (north again)you will find Plaza de la Cathedral: great if you are into Cathedral architecture, better if you spot a small but energetic collection of bars just off to the left hand side. 

What's really good about Plaza de Armes is the narrow pedestrian street running eastwards all the way to the Central Plaza. This is Obispo Street, one that has all the life and energy. You start at the famous Hotel Ambos Munroe where it is always cocktail o'clock because, guess what, Ernest Hemingway drank there a lot (or drank a lot there) and supposedly wrote a few things as well. Continuing up Obispo there are  a plethora of old previously-owned American institutions now turned into museums for the revolution. We passed a lively-looking bar called the Cafe Paris where someone was strangling a saxophone (if we were on our own we would have popped in but we were part of a 27-strong Saga conga chain and to stop would have resulted in much confusion). At the top of the road next to small line of American flash cars was another famous bar called the El Floridita where, guess what, a chap called Hemingway had the occasional drink . . . 

Just think, if Oliver Read had taken time to write a few books and move to an exotic country he would be famous too and the English could bask in all the reflected glory.

Havana -- politics and economics

You've gotta be an architecture freak to get the most out of Havana, I think. Even the mandatory government guides allocated to each tour bus spends most of every talk describing each and every building we pass, how old it is, what state of disrepair it's in, what the government are trying to do to get the money to pay for refurbishments, and which American companies owned it before it was confiscated during the Revolution. In fact, the whole of Havana looks like the result of a time storm in a cheap science fiction movie. Century-old, weather-worn colonial wrecks sit side by side with freshly painted renovations. I gather from a trusted "local source" that the government is finding it a bit of a problem. Having appropriated all the property owned by the rich capitalists and donated it to the poor people of Cuba in the middle of TwenCen, they are in something of a quandary in finding the money in the 21st to pay for upkeep and replenishment (not to mention completely fresh infrastructure). If this was socialist Europe it would be a simple case of taxing the rich or borrowing uncontrollably from the IMF or the Bundesbank. There is only so much you can leach from UNESCO claiming "world heritage site". And thereby we start to see the start of the changes in Cuba.

It's hard to describe this place without some reference to politics or political economics as it underpins everything. The State is in complete control of everything. Our hotel, although a quite modern glass structure built in partnership with international investors, is actually run by civil servants in the Ministry of Defence. As are all the tour buses. Nobody owns property. Nobody can even afford to rent property. My "trusted source" says that the population of Cuba has dropped from 13 million to 11 million because no one can afford to marry, find a home and have babies. Many have escaped to capitalist Miami (and move money back to the old country). In the meantime, tourism has just reached an unprecedented 4 million. Unfortunate, because there's no money to build new hotels and the old ones are struggling to keep up with the harsh expectancies of TripAdvisor-educated world tourism.

The local people are putting on pressure for, and starting to see, changes in the rules about ownership. Recently, it has become legal to be able to rent your own home out to tourists and set your home up as a private restaurant. The downside for these nascent entrepreneurs is a hefty tax to pay for all the state workers. But still, a lot of people are taking advantage of it. What next? Private tour companies and guides? My "trusted source" says she earns a good wage of 18 kooks a month. Consider what I was saying in an earlier post about tips; if every fellow lout gives a 1 kook tip for a good tour . . . well, you can do the maths. Apparently, Cuba has a very good health service (sound familiar?) and exports doctors to all over the Americas. Because of that doctors can earn 25 kooks a month's rising to 45 kooks if you are a treasured specialist. Going back to the original question . . . how much do we tip?

Never mind the waiters and room maids. I have discovered a new terror: the peripatetic mariachi band. Look, I'm serious here. If the going rate is a one kook coin for any form of tip then the overwhelming problem for us louts is obtaining a sufficient number of the bastards. One for the barman, one for the waiter, one for the cleaning lady in the toilets (seriously; I was turned way from one because I didn't have change), one for the waitress who serves the midday free cocktail on a Saga tour (it's always Cocktail O'Clock over here, especially if you invoke the name "Hemingway"), and so on. What the tour experts never warned us about was the omni-present mariachi band. No matter where you fancy a drink, or even a sit down -- those cobbled streets are hard on ancient bony feet -- a band will materialise right in front of you and sing ever-so cheerfully. And then, and this where they've got it off pat, present you with a copy of their new CD and ask for a donation. It doesn't matter if you haven't got the required number of kooks (and you won't because you've given every precious one to all the previous people on list) because the whole band stands there like inhumanly patient mannequins smiling expectantly. It becomes a battle of wills in the end and, of course, you lose and pay them the equivalent of a doctor's cost for heart surgery. As my "trusted source" says; "this Cuba; I love it". (I think she's being ironic because she told Linda once that a portrait on the side of a building was Osama Bin Laden, but you can never be sure.)

Economics aside, this is a lively place. Ever so complicated if you dare think about it. But lively.

Saga Holidays

OK, so it took quite a while before we succumbed to the generic OAP holiday. It's official; we are now Saga Louts. It has its benefits. Chauffeured to the airport from home, for one. It wasn't our driver's fault he had to drive us up to Gatwick Monday morning in freezing fog passing miles of car wreckage on the opposite motorway lanes. Only took us 3 hours. And the check in was surprisingly easy. Virgin Atlantic had a ratio of 10 check in desks to 3 passengers. And the much maligned Weatherspoons wasn't a problem either as they had been closed down, separated by the ubiquitous white Gatwick chipboard walls from the rest of the departure lounge. Serves 'em right! And the 10 hour flight to Havana was, in fairness, quite pleasant, especially after paying for extra leg room online. Makes me feel almost guilty for having a rant. Almost.
Havana airport was billed extensively on TripAdvisor as being a nightmare: two hours to get through an officious Immigration regime and/or two hours to wait for the bags to come out one. at. a. bloody. time. As it turned out, our Saga rep said that he'd never seen people come out so quick, so much so that out of 27 of our fellow Louts we were the second and third. The next order of business was to convert some cash. There were long queues at the airport Exchange, he warned. No so. Ten minutes later and I was 118 kooks (Cuban CUCs to you) better off (£100 worse off but that's what happens when Cuba tied their exchange rate to the perennially hated American dollar).
Eventually, our 25 fellow Louts tottered out of baggage reclaim and we marched off to the waiting transfer coach . . .
. . . straight into a tropical storm that was reducing Havana into a state of chaos apparently. Our hotel is in the up-market diplomats' district on the north coast west of the old city (mainly because the fixtures and fittings are less likely to fall off). That evening we patrolled the swimming pool area that was feeling the brunt of the waves. The manager, a solid individual in his best suit, stood surveying the wind and water all alone as if it was a personal affront. Maybe we'll stay in the hotel bar tonight, we thought. The next day we were booked onto a tour of the city which was a tad disrupted because all the coastal roads, including the main seafront, plus the tunnels leading into the old part of the city, were closed due to flooding. As it turned out, it was a bit of a blessing as Niall, our Irish/Cuban tour guide, ditched the bus and made all us old folk get out and walk through the old town. We did see a lot more that way. Mind you, with 27 fellow retirees, all with minds (to some degree or other) of their own, it was a bit like herding cats. Amazing he never lost anyone during all the stopping and triple counting but I'm sure I detected some gnashing of teeth telepathically. So, all in all, everything is going swimmingly, which makes for some boring writing. Never mind, early days.

Cuba -- Anticipation

As always, when travelling to a new place comes the fear: "How am I going to screw this up"? Unless I hide in an all-inclusive resort, the point of travelling to foreign lands is to, well, experience foreign lands. But things worry me (at my age everything worries me): How do I behave regarding dress, speaking to locals, tipping service staff, acquiring the local currency, etc.? More important: How do I avoid getting robbed or stabbed?

So, I did what any normal traveller would do these days -- consult TripAdvisor. Or, failing that, google search "the ten worst things you can do in such-and-such country". And the results are, quite frankly, terrifying. I offer you an example: the dangers of ordering fruit cocktails. I learned that the word "papaya" is a very bad word indeed. Yes, really. It apparently is a coarse reference to a woman's vagina, so when ordering a cocktail you should use the phrase "fruta bomba". Definitely don't want to "do a Romney". (seriously, check the link for a laugh). 

The more I search, the more I am told this a poor, poor country. It will be a challenge, I think, to depend on their technology. For instance ----- Internet: at best, will be slow, expensive and sporadic; at worst, non-existent (so much for this blog, then). Telecommunications: expensive -- Vodafone tell me calls are £2 a minute, texts are 50p + home rate and data is £6 per MB (I'm taking the bloody sim card out!). Credit/debit cards: nobody, but nobody (except maybe the more expensive hotels) uses them -- even the tour companies demand cash for day trips -- so it'll mean taking and carrying huge wads of cash to cover all the two-week bar bills. Oh dear, white tourists walking around with big fat wallets. What could possibly go wrong?

And Cuba is (gosh!) a purely socialist country, one of the few in the world to have lasted unchanged for over half a century in modern times. So, again, how do I behave in regards to my relative wealth and status as a tourist? TripAdvisor, as usual, are full of observations on the quality of service offered at state-run hotels and restaurants . Phrases like "it took 40 minutes to get served" are rationalised by the fact that staff "only get paid 10 cents an hour so why should they work any harder". So, do we treat this visit the same way we would a safari to the poorest African countries? Do we take gifts of pens and soap and biblical literature to the local schools? Do we seek out and generously tip the road sweepers? Do we visit the local prisons with Red Cross-approved care packages? My mind is starting to steam and boggle at the social injustice of it all.

But, apparently, I should not tear my head off just yet. I uncovered a very interesting article here on TripAdvisor called Cuba: Think Before You Gift. In it, the author points out that, unlike, say, Haiti, every citizen has access to the basics of housing, food, water and health care. So, he argues, by these standards Cuba is not the poorest country in the Caribbean region, nor the world. He goes on to suggest that irresponsible "good intentions [by tourists] are only creating a bigger gap between rich and poor in a society in which the system intends that all are equal". Memo To Self: "must curb my good intentions". My wife says I don't have any, so that's OK.

On a slightly connected note, much of the advice concerning tourist hassles in Cuba seem to revolve around the jineteros: the street hustlers and opportunists who target the dumbest tourist to provide all manner of services for a small fee or simply beg for the price of "milk for the baby". The more successful they are, the more of them will try their luck. See? Everyone wants to beat the system.

So, will I find feral armies of children turned into street beggars, doctors posing as bar tenders for tips, attractive teachers plying their charms on street corners? Hmm. We shall see. We fly out tomorrow. In the meantime, I just have to remember not to mention fruit in polite company.

Gatwick Airport -- Welcome to Hell!

Of course, travelling is far better in the 21st century, isn't it? Secure and free from swarthy gunmen diverting one's flights from safe, civilised Miami to the dangerous unknowns of Cuba. Today, you do this . . .

You arrive at the bustling modern airport at the crack of dawn having arisen at an ungodly hour to meet your taxi. Dragging all your worldly goods you make your way to your airline's check-in desk only to find with a sinking heart that 2,757 people with seven times as many suitcases have made it before you. So, because this is your holiday of a lifetime, you cheerfully join the line. First that way for ten minutes. Then the opposite. Then back that way. Repeat. And again. Finally, your papers are processed. You wave goodbye to your worldly goods trundling seemingly of their own volition down conveyor belts into the darkness.

Confused, neck stretching for helpful signs, you join the walking dead to the next choke point. Another check of your papers. Machine, not unsmiling human, this time. Passport face down. Gates explode open. You move forward checking that your travelling companion is similarly freed. More snaking lines. Divest yourselves of your remaining property: much-needed medications in a clear plastic bag; treasured electronics in a plastic tray; half empty backpack containing emergency underwear in another! The Camp Commandant parades up and down the other side of another set of rollers. "Put your feet on the yellow footprints! No! Do not put your tray on the conveyor belt! Wait for my instruction!" You look around trying to find clues to the behaviour least likely to offend. A sign warns that if you fail to present yourselves to the machines in the correct way, "You vill be punished!". Too late you realise you placed your Kindle ON TOP OF YOUR TABLET in the tray. Sure enough, you watch the automatons clunk and shuffle your belongings further into another mechanical dimension, protected by another layer of blast-proof glass.

The Nazi horror is not yet over. As you shuffle towards the arch another Camp Commandant points imperiously at your waist and feet. Off comes your belt. Off comes your shoes. Back to the conveyor belt. Back to the arch. And, yes, just bloody yes, the arch pings anyway. So you are now spread-eagled in full view of the rest of humanity wondering if he's going to check your fillings. You try and reclaim your variously disassociated bits of property, clothing and dignity. One piece is in the hands of a young evangelical who fixes you with an accusing stare: " Are there any sharp objects in this bag?" You bite back the obvious retort. Remember the sign, "You vill be punished". Eventually you escape, sweating with the simultaneous need to dress yourself and reclaim all your stuff before the next pile of property clatters through.

Again, your fellow walking dead shuffle towards the only logical destination. And, Lo!, it is a yellow-brick road, winding through a glittering array of drugs and potions (all of which could be bought far cheaper in the High Street but would be confiscated by the Camp Commandant) while a host of well turned-out servitors wait to pounce on those unwise enough to hesitate and point: thus the economically naive are culled from the herd.

Finally, you emerge into a larger space. On each side are white-painted chipboard panels badly hiding open ducts and hanging entrails of electrical circuitry. An occasional worker stands around wearing a bright yellow safety hat. No head protection for you, so you hurry away looking for some small space of comfort. Ah! You espy a familiar sign. A jolly Weatherspoons. At last, an Inn at the end of a long, harrowing road. Safety, and maybe some refreshment you hope. But as you clamber over too-small spaces filled with families and far too may bags of cabin luggage you wonder why the Tie Rack or Harrods franchises don't seem to have this problem. You make it to the bar and queue in an extremely undignified fashion amongst other muttering, shuffling, pushing clientele. At the other side of the bar a gaggle of foreign students with crisp white blouses bustle around on indefinable tasks that, quite clearly, have nothing to do with serving you a single BLOODY BEER!

Realising again that, at your age, this is not doing your blood pressure any good, you leave, gently pulling your wife away from the throat of a pretty young girl who isn't old enough to know that she needs something solid between her and her beloved customers. Unusually, you find a sort of faux-cafe that serves alcohol and well-overpriced sandwiches with empty, if not exactly clean, tables. You approach the bar daring to hope. An unsmiling young Bulgarian serves you a Bacardi and Coke and a pint of Brahma beer. You are not sure what the latter is but accept it in a spirit of relief. "That will be £18". No "please". No wonder he wasn't smiling. You return to your table with your hard fought-for drinks thinking, "this is going to have to last for a bit".

Eventually, mercifully, your gate number is called. A long, very long, walk down an interminable tunnel with broken mechanical walkways leads you to your departure gate. You notice your fellow travellers, mainly because you are forced to sit knee-to-knee. They all have the air of those sitting in a police station having been recently mugged.

And you know this is just the beginning of a long, long, long flight in this century's equivalent of John Glenn's 1950's orbital capsule.

Oh, I just love looking forward to my holidays!