After a short break in Havana to collect my main rucksack from my casa, Alice, Mum and I were on the bus to Viñales in the Pinar del Rio valley. I’d been persuaded to visit on the grounds of it being a popular destination, but really had few expectations. The bus arrived in Viñales, and we were met with the worst throng of eager local casa-owners that I’d experienced. It was literally a mob scene, as we wrestled our way through to try and recover our bags from the coach, we were bombarded from every direction by people with their business cards, frantically trying to persuade us to stay with them. We were totally disinclined to stay with any of them, despite the fact that we had no reservation. The Lonely Planet had recommended a place and we had decided to check it out first. They were full, however, the owners took us to another casa two houses up the street, and after inspecting the accommodation were happy to check in.
Viñales is a small town located in a beautiful valley that produces the majority of the tobacco leaves for the major cigar factories. Following a night out at the local salsa bar, where the local hombres did their best to chat up the tourist chicas, we took on the services of Miguel, a local guy who takes people on walking tours of the valley. It was well worth the 10CUC that we paid him each as he guided us off the beaten path through the stunning sights of the valley. He spoke no English which might have been a problem had it not been for Alice’s fluent Spanish. Although interested in what she had to say, it’s still debatable as to whether he was genuinely interested in the finer details of dressage in the UK.
Around midday, after walking for a couple of hours, we happened upon a small shack, where we received a complimentary drink of freshly squeezed (sugar) juice with a healthy serving of Havana Club. We were offered a smoke and I gladly partook. The guy rolled it in front of me using his own specially produced tobacco leaves, which he fermented in rum, lemon, sugar and a couple of further ingredients. And it was hands-down the best cigar I have ever smoked. It’s common knowledge that you don’t inhale a cigar, and even if you don’t, the next morning you generally wake up knowing full well that you’ve had a cigar. This, however, was entirely different. The taste was amazing – sweet, but full, and it was possible to inhale it without the usual reflex that you’d get inhaling a cheap cigar. It was loosely packed and so smoked quite quickly. It was an incredible smoke and I gladly bought a further ten from him for the (relatively) expensive price of 10CUC.
As we continued our trek through the valley, the prospect of getting out of the hot sun for a dip in a fabled cave pool was growing ever more appealing. The network of caves themselves is some 13km long, but fortunately it was only about 1km inside the caves when we reached the swimming spot. The water was so refreshing – it was cold, so cold – but after several hours in the sun there was no question about getting involved. A further 500m through the water in to the caves and you come across a spot where the mud is touted as having medicinal properties. So needless to say we got fully mudded up, looking ridiculous, but the cave was pitch black save for the dim light projected from the torch we had brought, so it made little odds.
My unusual animal magnetism had been working overtime and we had managed to acquire a rent-a-dog. But unlike the majority of stray dogs in Cuba which are flea ridden and covered in mange, Patch (imaginally named owing to the prominent patch of brown fur around his eye on his otherwise white body) was in great shape, despite being a street dog. We picked him up early in the morning (or, rather, he picked us up) and chose to stay with us for the duration. If I could have adopted him and brought him to Mexico with us, I would have done, but sadly we had to abandon him late in the day. I hope he’s doing OK, though.
The whole day was fantastic and the valley and Viñales are a must-see for any visitor to Cuba. We opted to end the day at a nearby hotel at a higher elevation with promises of swimming in the pool, mojitos and superb sunset views. Unfortunately, the pool was green and full of bugs (it didn’t stop me swimming though), the mojitos were off the cards and the sunset was uninspiring. Tired after the trek and with the prospect of an early start in the morning (well, for me) we opted to stay in the casa for dinner and drinks.
I left early the following morning on the first bus to Havana, and was a little sad that my time in Cuba was coming to an end. Fate dictated that things wouldn’t go smoothly as the bus picked up a puncture just outside Havana, and of course the bus drivers didn’t bother to tell anyone this until we started to wonder why we’d been sat on the side of the road for half an hour with two worried looking bus drivers permanently on mobile phones. Fortunately, I managed to get a taxi straight to the airport. Despite having my tripod stolen, the Jose Marti airport is one of the best airports I’ve seen. It has plenty of attractions but don’t forget that you need to pay a 25CUC exit tax, a detail I managed to forget and had zero money left after trying to use up all remaining CUC. I had just enough dollars to cover it and so I was in the waiting lounge for a flight in to Cancun, satisfied that I’d had a great time in Cuba and in great anticipation of what Mexico might yield for me.
-MT
Still slightly bitter from the shirt-stealing-Jewish-Chilean-Mexican experience, I arrived in Trinidad, where even the arrival is an experience. In most towns that you visit in Cuba, there´s a mass panic as you get off the bus, as the locals try to entice you in to their casa. Trinidad is no exception but is made worse by the fact that you´re first paraded through the streets in the coach as the next wave of presumably money-laden tourists. Fortunately, I was booked in advance so I was able to avoid the main throng of the action, but it´s nevertheless a slightly unpleasant experience. Trinidad is described as one of the best kept / restored towns in Cuba, resplendent with its cobbled streets and architecture. However, it is significantly more touristy than Cienfuegos and seems to be a popular haunt for the coach-package visitors. There´s plenty to do and see, but by this point I had begun to get a feeling of “seen one plaza de la revolucion, seen ´em all”. With that in mind, I checked out some of the excursions with the local tour operators.
Ordinarily, you could expect to walk in to a tourist agency and have them try to sell you every trip under the sun. I walked in to Cubatur with an open mind, looking for a recommendation, and was met with a grunt and a “take the steam train, tomorrow, 10CUC” and ushered out the door.
A note on camera envy
The stream train in Trinidad is a peculiar experience. For some reason, it´s natural to find some pleasure in being on an old school train with big flumes of pollution gushing from its locomotive. Well, maybe not the pollution, but being on the train is pleasurable. Not really knowing what to expect (thanks to the grumpy Cubatur man), it was a “sit down wait and see” job. I was at the front of the train, next to a couple. The male counterpart appeared to be an eager photographer, and was certainly sporting the equipment. In fact, as the day wore on, eager wouldn´t describe his fascination with his lenses, so to speak. Photo whore, would be more apt. For the in-the-know photogs out there, he was using a Canon 40D, 16-35 2.8L and 70-200 2.8L. For the non-photogs out there, that equates to at least 3.5k´s worth of equipment. He proceeded to spend the entire day looking through his lenses, and took a photo of everything. Ooh a steam train. *click*. Ooh the same steam train again. *click*. Ooh a tree. *click*. Ooh a steam train. *click*…. *click* *click* *click*, ad infinitum. I genuinely felt sorry for his poor girlfriend, who had clearly reprised said role in favour of “lens caddy”, which, considering the weight of the lenses, is no mean feat. There are two points to this mundane rant. Uno – the guy spent the whole day on his camera, taking a snapshot (and I do mean snapshots) of everything. He did not once sit back and take in exactly what it was he was seeing. When he checks his memory card, he will have (at least) 500 shots of the day, and not a single memory. (I saw him later on during my trip and he was doing the exact same thing. I dread to think how many thousands of photos he will have to wade through when he gets home.) Dos – I used to be a similar photo geek. Heck, I am still a photo geek, but I used to carry all the expensive equipment and think I looked great with it. Before my trip, I offloaded all the professional equipment in favour of the bare essentials and cheap lenses, insistent on learning how to take proper photos with more than sufficient equipment, rather than reckoning that expensive equipment bought good photos. I know plenty of people who can get the most out of the professional equipment, but the vast majority of people buy the equipment, and hope for the best. You might wonder how I know that this guy was not a professional photographer, and that every one of his 500 photos wasn´t going to make him some money. It was quite simple. I surreptitiously had a look at his camera. It was set to “green box” mode, which for non Canon users equates to “full automatic mode.” I have no problem with people using a camera in full automatic mode, even on a digital SLR, but in my opinion “L series lens” and “full automatic mode” aren´t words that should be used in the same sentence.
As for the trip on the train itself, it was a small disappointment. The valley was quite beautiful, and the view from the tower in Iznaga was equally stunning. But otherwise, it was a bit of a non-starter. The train left Iznaga, bound for somewhere, when it stopped barely 500m up the tracks where we were told to disembark for lunch at the Guanchinanga Ranch. It was here that I met up with a bunch of other equally bemused English tourists. Maybe it´s natural for Brits to group together when they find themselves in such a situation. But as is the nature of travelling, it worked out very well, since I met Alice, and her Mum, who eventually became travel buddies.
After Trinidad, I spent one night in Santa Clara, one of the larger towns in Cuba, despite what the guidebooks might have you believe. The plan was for two nights, but for some reason, as is the wont of the solo traveller, on my first morning, I woke up with a sense of wanting to get out of there. Alice and Mum had described the option of some serious beach time in Varadero, and that was significantly more appealing than exploring another plaza. So after a quick tour of the tren blindado (armoured train that Che Guevara had been instrumental in stopping during the Spanish occupation) and the Che Memorial and Mausoleum, I opted to make a beeline for the beach at Varadero.
Varadero itself is a small town on the edge of what is now an enormous resort and mass of hotels. It wasn´t quite as hideous as I was expecting (compared with say Cancún or Honolulu) but the inclusivo hotel packages mean that the area tends to be overrun with fat North American tourists who do nothing but drink and sleep and think they have visited Cuba. Nevertheless, the beaches are beautiful, and the warm Caribbean sea is an effective coolant against the otherwise clima calor and sometimes stressful backpacking lifestyle. As planned, I met Alice and Mum, duly sunning themselves in the glorious weather and doing their best to enjoy the inclusivo bar.
(In fact, inclusivo is something of a joke. The point is that you pay one price, and you get everything. Hotel room, food, open bar, beach and various other amenities. But the problem is that when you have paid your one price, there is no guarantee of any quality. Certainly, the hotel complex was impressive and a far cry from the cheapo no inclusivo hotel I had managed to find, but the food was uninspiring and the selection of drinks in the bar was more akin to a cheap student bar rather than an upmarket hotel. Put it this way, don´t expect any Havana Club in your mojito.) They will try to tell you the complex is full to make you feel like you´re fortunate to be there, but in the evenings it was empty, prompting Alice on more than one occasion to question “where the fuck is everyone?”
Some good times ensued, including a 5am escapade in evading the “you´re not wearing a I´ve paid the inclusivo price green shackle” security guard as Alice and I tried to make the most of the free bar, and a particularly cheesy but nonetheless humourous “Varrrrrrrrradero Fiesta” cabaret show, which mysteriously morphed into a nightclub, including an inexplicable spacecraft-cum-lightshow ceiling adornment.
Beach life definitely has its place and you can´t fault the quality of the beach and water at Varadero (even if a lot of the sand in the expensive parts is clearly imported from elsewhere.) It was a relaxing couple of days (despite the hangovers) but it was time to move on. Alice and Mum were heading to Veñales in the Pinar del Rio valley and the prospect of returning to Havana made it simple for me to accept their kind offer to accompany them.
-MT
It didn´t take long for the scenery to change dramatically. On the bus leaving Havana, you´re no more than 5 miles from the city boundaries when the vista changes from the derelict built environment of Havana to the rolling countryside of rural Cuba. It´s a stunning and beautiful change, not to mention a very welcome one. Instantly you are presented with a different culture – farming and agriculture, usually sugar or plantain, are very much the focus. It´s a simple existence, more akin to some of the places I saw in Africa. People live in basic houses, with mud or clay walls and a straw roof. The roads are dirt tracks and people get around by either horse or bicycle. The country was extremely green, although this might be a positive side effect of the rain that would have been brought by Hurricane Noel. The coach system in Cuba is very good, but to the uninitiated can be a little confusing. There are two operators – Astro and Viazul – with Astro, like most other things in Cuba, being the one that only locals can use. Viazul is the tourist equivalent, and they operate a fleet of big air conditioned buses. They stick to the time schedule well, but in most of the bus stations it´s not obvious from where they depart, since (if they exist) the screens will only tell you about the departures of the Astro buses. Tickets are cheap, though, with most places accesible for between 5CUC and 15CUC. The bus to Cienfuegos takes you through the Zapatos Peninsula, and enormous area of swamp and trees, where you´ll see an assortment of fauna, and even the odd crocodile.
Cienfuegos is a far cry from Havana. My hosts were waiting for me at the bus station and lead me through the quaint streets to their casa. I instantly new I had done OK – the house was well maintained and the room equipped with two double beds and a private bathroom. It was to get better though as Violeta prepared my cena – a feast of soup, fruit, bread, chicken, vegetables, salad, dessert and coffee – all for a mere 8CUC. And she really knew how to cook.
The town itself was the prettiest I saw in Cuba, there is a glorious avenue that runs all through the center, all the way to the end of the malecon (seafront). The central parque is incredible well maintained, with a selection of monuments, churches, museums and other buildings, not to mention a liberal helping of benches and fountains.
Don´t trust a Jewish Chilean Mexican in Cuba
On the opposite side of the harbour is an old castle (Castillo Juan) which is said to be one of the resting places of Che Guevara, not to mention a sight not to be missed. Access to it is via boat. Hanging around the marina, it quickly became evident that things were not going swimmingly, and the boat was caputski. Also hanging around was a local looking guy in the same predicament, and we got talking. He seemed like a stand up guy – originally Chile, but moved to Mexico when he was young and is now studying in Cuba. Boat is broken, any plans? None. Pub? Pub. Seems like a reasonable thing to do.
And for the mostpart, it absolutely was. We spent the day in a locals bar, where you´re supposed to be a national and can only spend the local peso, understandable, considering a beer was the equivalent of about 20 pence. He was a very opionated Jewish guy, but I humoured him and his beliefs. We had a few and as it approached 7pm I had to return to my casa for dinner. We arranged to meet up later, and because he wasn´t going home, he wanted to borrow a shirt. We duly met up later, I lent him a shirt, one of my favourite polo shirts (based solely on it being the least stinky of the few clothes I had taken with me.) We got to another locals bar and got some beers in. At one point, he left for the toilet but came back promptly. Then again, at around 10pm, he left for the toilet again. And that was the last I saw of him… and my shirt. I waited, and waited, and waited, but no sign. With a little perspective, it´s a bit of a non event, despite losing my shirt (which over the last 12 years, I had taken to Australia, Africa and most of Europe for me), but moreso it was a bitter end to what was otherwise an excellent couple of days in a very pretty Cuban town.
Cienfuegos should definitely be on the itinerary for any tour of Cuba, although it seems people tend to miss it out in favour of going to Trinidad, which is exactly where I was headed next.
-MT
With a slight (and when I say slight, I mean massive) sense of trepidation, I was on a flight to Havana. Cuba has such a reputation, which is, in reality, an undeserved reputation, but nevertheless, a reputation that it’s not such a straight-forward place to visit. Touching down, I was expecting to receive the Spanish inquisition as to my motives for visiting, several intensive (and intrusive) strip searches not to mention a free lesson in Communism and why it’s so great. Well, I got none of it, and as I meandered through customs, so began my adventure in Cuba (where I quickly learnt the first of many important lessons.) I’ll say it straight away – everyone should visit Cuba, it is a truly remarkable place, but be prepared for a massive culture shock if you’re at all used to a Western way of life. For starters, don’t take US Dollars with you as your currency. It seems obvious, considering the well documented ‘issues’ between Cuba and the US, but even if you’re coming from the US (or anywhere that uses USD) try and prepare yourself with either Canadian dollars, Euros or Sterling. The USD has even less value in Cuba than most other places in the world (which is really saying something.) Cuban currency can be pretty complicated – there are two currencies, one the ‘Cuban peso’, which is the moneda nacional and can only be used by residents of Cuba, and the ‘Cuban Convertible Peso’ (CUC) which is no less than 24 times less valuable than the regular peso. It can also only be used in certain shops and restaurants and was introduced as a way of increasing the flow of tourist money in to the country*. With CUC in hand, it was time for a taxi to my casa particulares in the area of Havana called Cerro.
Accomodation in Cuba is available in two guises: 1) Big, fancy and expensive hotels, often circa 1950s era or 2) casa particulares, which is moreorless the spare bedroom of a private household and is by far the cheaper option. However CPs are closely monitored by the government (as is virtually everything in Cuba) to such an extent that CP owners must pay the government a premium to even be allowed to offer the room for rent. They tend to make additional money by offering breakfast and dinner, but it is true that staying in a CP is a great way to meet the locals. Don’t even think about staying in any of the non-Government sanctioned CPs. You might save yourself a few CUC at the time, but when you come to leave Cuba, they check the places you have stayed and if things don’t line up neatly, you can expect, well, you can probably figure that out for yourself.
I had booked ‘Ramiros House’ online, which, despite the uninspiring name, was a good choice – Ramiro is an English teacher at the University of Habana, which helped to drop the language barrier. I was already ripped off on the taxi fare, paying 25CUC when it should have only been 20CUC, despite using the airport service to find the taxi. (I think he got his, however, as he was stopped for speeding en route. Although he did then continue to drive at the same speed, so he most likely didn’t learn a lesson, despite grumbling to himself for the remainder of the high-speed trip.)
First impressions of Habana are generally mixed. It is overrun with derelict buildings, stray dogs and rubbish in the street. The roads are potholed and most corners have a group of people idly hanging about on them. Habana is split vaguely in to three areas – residential (Cerro and Vedado), Old Habana and New and Central Habana. Old Habana is generally acknowledged as the place to be, although I spent a day walking around the lot. First stop was the first of many plazas usually of the de la Revolucion variety which generally house a lot of immaculately kept and restored monuments, statues, museums, churches and government buildings. You can’t go anywhere in Cuba, and I mean, literally walk more than a few blocks, without being reminded of some of the great heroes in Cuba’s history and the main 4 or 5 men are massively revered across the entire country. There are still many remnants of the (predominantly) Spanish occupation, as well as the American occupation, but Castro has really done his utmost to wrest the grip of the country firmly in to Cuban hands. The Jose Marti memorial on the plaza is quite striking, but totally ruined by a hideous stone obelisk that towers squarely behind it. Looking out from the plaza is an enormous mural of Che Guevara. Tip: don’t try and take photos of government buildings if they have men with machine guns patrolling the grounds. I was politely informed that it was not permitted, and I believed him.
Without wishing to be horribly cynical, Havana simply didn’t thrill me. For sure, there are many parts which are beautiful but I found the majority of areas uninspiring. The Capitolio building is quite beautiful, and behind it you can tour a cigar factory. And when I say factory, I mean a big room. And when I say tour, I mean wander around, watching them make cigars. The Cathedral is equally beautiful, but other than that, I was left with an overriding sense of the poverty in which most people in Cuba live. You are permanently harangued by people trying to sell you one thing or another and it can get aggressive and extremely annoying. The streets are literally lined with people selling some tat, usually from the doorstep of their house. Shops are an unusual experience, in that they are not a shop in the sense that you would normally expect. Not only are the shelves quite bare of most basic commodities, but you don’t actually wander the shop and select what you want to buy. You will enter the shop, be stopped by a glass counter and then tell the keeper what you would like. Although most shops are generally crowded by locals scoping out what new supplies have turned up and there is certainly no concept of queuing up in an orderly fashion. A pleasant side effect is that you won’t see any of the ‘usual’ sights – certainly no McDonald’s, Starbucks or Nike, but this comes at the expense of some bare essentials.
Ownership of anything in Cuba is an alien concept – houses are not owned by their ‘owners’ – they are merely given a license to live there. Should you wish to move house, then you need to find someone (through the vast amounts of appropriate paperwork) who is willing to swap with you. The same is true of cars, and the vast majority of cars on the road are ancient contraptions, held together with stickyback plastic, cable ties, chewing gum and a large amount of Cuban ingenuity, since spare parts are essentially unavailable. There are many of the old school American gaz guzzlers – Chevvies and Fords – although few are in as pristine condition as the guidebooks will have you believe, not to mention the scarcity of fuel means most are running on fumes.
I never once felt unsafe walking the streets but nevertheless my planned 5 days in Havana were quickly whittled down to barely 3, and my good fortune at selecting Ramiro as my host paid dividends as he was able to propose an excellent route to other parts of Cuba, not to mention CPs all along the way. Other people I have spoken to have a totally different opinion of Havana, so it quite likely suffers from Marmite Syndrome. But I was content with my short stay there, and was soon on a coach to Cienfuegos.
-MT
* Aka Government coffers