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.