The return to Havana

10, Havana once more. 

The oddly familiar streets of Havana are a surprisingly welcome sight after my final bus trip. Cuban bus stations are crowded, boring, soul-less places,  I never want to set foot in one again but, for once, the bus is on time. As I am back on the tourist circuit, the roads are good, the lush green scenery makes a welcome reappearance, I enter Havana in mellow mood.

My high spirits are short lived. Yet again this frustrating, complex country throws up more challenges. My original host, Hilda, the kindly lady whose advice shaped my itinerary, was fully booked and  had recommended 'friends' in a neighbouring block. 

Yet again, when I arrive, the room cost had magically shot up to extreme amounts, much too high for me, breaking the bonds of my loyalty to Hilda.  Too many of her 'friends' have seen me as a 'walking wallet.' Once more I leave with my case unpacked to trawl the streets for a room. 

I am now eeking out my money as I have no intention of standing for hours in a bank queue whilst locals are ushered in before me. The exchange rate is dismal and the customer service even worse. Using an atm is playing with fire here, the odds of losing your card are sky high. So even if I wanted to I simply cannot afford this 'new' extortionate room rate if I want to eat and, more importantly, get out to the airport for my flight home.

 I realise in Cuban eyes I am rich, but I am not stupid. I truly hate this occasional 'rip off' attitude , especially as it is so easy to find a alternative room run honestly.  Within the hour I am settled happily in a nearby home at a reasonable rate, with a  lovely owner keen to drive me to the airport for a generous cost, phew, I can relax and enjoy my last few hours.

Havana' s faded charm ebbs and flows around me as I wander the streets for the last time. I sincerely wish I had seen this country in its glorious heyday, past times when the communist dream was a true reality. Even a decade ago I am sure I would have seen a different Cuba, a people full of purpose and pride.

Today, as the country sinks deeper into economic mire, dragged down by Venezuela's desperate plight and unable to complete trade deals with the west, a pervading sense of dread swirls around, fueling rumbling discontent. 

Shortages of every basic essential bites deep. The Government cannot fulfill its socialist promises: there is free healthcare but with no medicine, free education with no books, rations with no food, buses with no petrol.  

There is massive racial tension here, especially in Santiago. The usual prejudices, made worse. There are massive class divisions, increasing by the day, surreal in this communist so called classless country. There is palpable anger and unrest here, especially among the young, and the poor who are getting poorer by the month as shortages deepen and prices rise. 

Street art satirizing the national slogans, graffiti urging rebellion, all show a seismic shift in Cuba's perception of their past, present and future.  Although the Government still rules with an iron fist ( I was advised repeatedly not to publish anything until out of the country as bribes to exit are common) I wonder for how long, now Fidel Castro is dead. Will Cuba's beautiful plazas transform themselves into spaces of revolution rather commemoration parades? 

Tourism, originally offered as the salvation to the peoples  woes, is now an industry in crisis.  The cholera outbreak has stopped many cruise ships coming here, the poor infrastructure has driven many tour operators away, the ghastly customer service means mass tourist discontent. The two currency system is vastly unfair, creating universal waves of anger among visitors, as it distorts Cuba into a disproportionately expensive place to visit, especially  given its total and complete lack of any natural wonders.  

The Cuba I expected to visit is clearly gone, maybe for good. Now it lingers as an haunting image, a cloak cast over and concealing a country now in crisis. Dire poverty, exhausted, angry people, a government teetering on the brink of collapse, a country riven by class and race divides, by generational mistrust and dragged down by corruption.  This is certainly not the trip I had planned, but it has been an absolutely fascinating, eye opening month, a truly absorbing, intriguing, experience.

 The raw reality of life here today is grim. There is nothing romantic about hardship. Even the music is muted.  This is one country I do not intend to return to. However, I have had good times and, most importantly, met so many wonderful people. People who have welcomed me into their homes, welcomed me into their hearts and minds, taught me much about their culture, their history, and their dreams for the future. As always, this has been an amazing privilege.  Thank you, Cuba,  I sincerely hope  the promised trade deals with the west you yearn for do come to fruition.* 

Here's wishing you all the best for the future, you deserve it.

 Good bye Cuba, and good luck!!

** Since I visited, Trump has rescinded the trade deals with Cuba formed by the Obama regime, the embargo on US travel has been reinstalled, and Russia has come to Cuba's aid with an oil deal.  Everyone I spoke to in Cuba, regardless of generation, gender, class or race,  longed for Americanization. This was their worst nightmare. My heart goes out to you, Cuba. 

Varadero

9. Varadero 

Alas, beaches in Cuba, outside the private all inclusive resorts of the cays, leave a lot to be desired. I am craving a few days of sun and sand so the best I can do as an independent budget conscious traveler is head to Varadero, where there is, as well as the ubiquitous resort hotels, a small town offering limited rooms.

Until recently staying in Varadero outside a tour package was banned, but times are desperate here so the restriction was lifted to allow us backpackers to bring money in to local folk rather than line the pockets of private hotel companies. 

Many luxury hotels in Cuba are owned by off shore consortiums who even fly in their own staff, with the complicit consent of the politicians, and whilst the Government lines its coffers the villagers are in dire straits. Moves such as the one in Vardero have lessened criticism of the ruling classes and dampened down revolt but there are so few backpackers here, it is not too hard to find a decent room just a few hundred metres from the beach.

Prices are high, as usual,  but I bargain for a free breakfast. It is small, obviously , being free, but it was lucky I negotiated this, as what little is available to buy outside the expensive hotel strip is extortionate. 

The only food in abundance in the shops is out of date Pringles, retailing at over 5 CUC (£5 ) a tube. Even the affluent package tour visitors strolling the local streets draw the line at that, so row after row of bizarre flavour crisps remain gathering dust in otherwise empty shelves.

I sigh with my by now normal resignation to Cuban hospitality and  spend 3 days on bananas, breadsticks and as many soft cheese rolls as I eat at breakfast. 

This local end of the beach is relatively empty, the chain hotels line  the far end of the 20km strip of sand, so I spend a blissful  ( albeit rather hungry ) few days walking and even swimming in the warm shallows.

I am delighted to see pelicans, though literally just a handful. Wildlife here is so sparse the silence of missing birdsong has bothered me from the outset. There is not much to do on the beach so I make a hobby of following the pelicans. The little group stay together so tracking them down gives my walks a purpose.  I relish my tranquil time. 

Santa Clara

8. Santa Clara

My Che Guevara pilgrimage. This buzzing university town is an obligatory pitstop for anyone with an interest in Cuba's history and culture. Che s statue dominates the city, an impressive towering monument to this remarkable man.

As internal unrest in Cuba rises following Fidel Castro's death, I have been struck by the enduring, intense loyalty here to Che himself, whose body lies in peace here in a beautiful mausoleum.  
The absorbing museum next door is a shrine to his life and times, a fascinating archive of a moment in history. 

This charismatic revolutionary hero is revered for his passion and dedication to freeing Cuba from dictatorship and paving the way to the communist government.  Finally shot by American soldiers in Boliva whilst pursuing his dream of socialist rebellion across continents, Che's memory is untouched by time,  it remains unsullied by the allegations of corruption, past present and future, which mar the Castro regime

My own journey to 'worship' at the Che shrine was not an easy one. Frankly, nothing is ever easy in Cuba. There is one Viazul  bus a day advertised from Holquin to Santa Clara.  Unsurprisingly, it is not running. Surprisingly, for once, I am told I can travel on the national bus, with Cubans.  When it appears. 

By now I am resigned to the appalling infrastructure here and join a gaggle of stoically patient Cubans plus a few (not so patient) fellow backpackers to lurk hopefully in the bus station. Eventually a bus appeared, we boarded with relief,  only for the driver to stop ten minutes later and insist on an hours lunch break. Rules are Rules. 

And yes, yet again, 4 hours into an 8 hour journey and already running 4 hours late, the bus broke down. A rare silver lining, it did so in a town. So only a further 2 hour delay. Or, as they say here 'just 5 minutes, madam'. 

By now I am thoroughly out of love with Cuba. The scenery this side of the island is boring, endless barren fields and scrub land with barely a bird or animal in sight. The darkness of night fall comes as relief from the sheer monotony of the dustbowl view. Fortunately we roll into town in time for me to find a decent little casa, and today my spirits lift as I enjoy this upbeat lively town. 
It is easy to explore on foot,  steeped in Che Guevara history at every turn, a refreshingly absorbing, stopover.

Holquin

7. Holquin

 The journey from hell

The six hour trip from Santiago to Holquin takes twelve to complete, and plummets me to the depths of despair.  Our ancient bus breaks down over and over again. I sit despondently in the dust in the barren wastelands of rural Cuba.

The only bus from Santiago left at 3pm. By nightfall we are in the middle of nowhere, stranded. In the pitch black darkness, enterprising villagers ride up to sell honey bars but this is the only help to hand. This is horse and cart territory. There is no phone signal and no landlines here. No petrol, no tools, no passing cars. Help is not forthcoming.

The only other vehicle to pass for two hours is a state run local bus. The driver stops, but cannot help. It is illegal for him to take foreigners.  My dislike of the Governments treatment of tourists increases still further. These people are lovely but this system is ludicrous! Not only have I paid a vastly inflated price, but the bus us 'internationals'  have been allocated is even older than the state one. 

There is no leeway, no compassion, to save us from spending the night by the roadside.A forlorn request from a hopeful fellow traveler to obtain a taxi met with hollow laughter.  Fuel is expensive and hard to obtain. Tour groups take the lions share for their minibuses, a situation increasingly resented by locals unable to run even the most basic motorbike. We simply have to wait. 

A brief respite as the bus splutters into life after much tinkering by the driver. Everyone cheers up and we crawl on for another hour before it dies again.  There is nothing to be done. There are no spare buses.  There is, apparently, a mechanic , told of our plight, who is riding out to our aid.  Until then, we wait. Again.  I and my disparate band of fellow travelers, assorted age, creed and nationality,  are so tired, so hungry, so fed up.

On the plus side, there is a strong communal atmosphere. Anyone who has food and drink shares it. We swap conversation in diverse languages over bread and orange juice. There is a Cuban postgrad , Jose,  among us on the bus, accompanying a visiting student from Mexico. As the Mexican cannot travel on the state bus , his Cuban friend has been given rare permission to travel with him on the Viazul.  

Jose is keen to practice his English  and keen to share his woes. 
It is well nigh impossible for Cubans to leave the country, passports are expensive, visas hard to obtain, and many previously visa free 'Friendly'  countries such as Ecuador now ban Cubans from entry to stop large numbers fleeing here. He say he is resigned to being " trapped" here.   I empathise with this lad's genuine anger, I have heard this tale before.

The further East I travel the more I appreciate the depths of poverty and despair here. The economic crisis in Venezuela has dragged Cuba down to the bottom too. There is no oil, no food, and no import deals yet with America, the promised land.  Fidel Castro's death has marked not just the end of an era but the end of the glorious socialist dream. 

Eventually our knight in shining armour appears, a mechanic gallops in on horseback, a hero riding to our aid. He coaxes the reluctant bus into life, it is a miracle! 

The first rays of dawn shine down as we limp into Holquin. I share a taxi from the isolated bus station with a lovely young Argentinian couple and we all collapse into a grimy, exorbitantly priced room, the only place we can find open at 4am, for what is left of the night.

After a few hours fitful sleep I wander out to explore.  Holquin is a charming small town full of tree lined squares, churches  and markets. There is not much to do here but sit quietly under the cloudless Cuban sky, breathing in the clear air after the smog of Santiago,  climb the hills above the town to sit under the cross and gaze over the valley floor, and munch local bread and cake. Just what I need. I find a beautiful room with a delightful garden for a reasonable rate to rest and recover.

Santiago

6. Santiago de Cuba

900 km south east of Havana lies the sweltering city of Santiago de Cuba. By far the hottest spot in the country, in more ways than one.  A hectic, heaving, seething mass of humanity trapped under a grey pall of smog, this 'natural' dust bowl exists  in stark contrast to the beauty of surrounding mountains. 

My six hour bus ride here from Camaguey passes in a whirl of Cuban intrigue and gossip. I sit next to an Italian who has lived and worked here for five years and hates Cuba with a passion. Tales of duplicity, black markets, generational strife, Government corruption dominate our conversation, alongside interesting hints on surviving Cuba, tips which prove invaluable once we arrive in Santiago. 

This is no Havana. Here tourists stand out like a sore thumb. Racial tension seethes in the humid air, youths lurk in shadows, there is a darkness to the alleys and lanes which is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. This is the home of Santeria, rituals and creeds, the heart of Afro Caribean Cuba.  The atmosphere is unlike anywhere I have been so far, fascinating, yet also, frankly, scary.

I arrive after dark to find, as usual, the casa I phoned ahead to reserve has sent me elsewhere. I am too tired to care. But these kind home owners do care, a true Cuban trait, despite everything.  It is not their fault the room is occupied,  previous guests returned unexpectedly when their internal flight was cancelled, not unusual here.  

My hosts meet me at the bus stop with profuse and genuine apologies, ensure I am settled for the night with their neighbour, then the next day collect both me and my luggage. 

Their home is a delight and for two nights I have, by Cuban standards, a palace. A large bedsit with a private (ish) roof garden and a little shady terrace which catches the rare wind drifting from the mountains. 

The family too are delightful. As in all my homestays, I have more space than they do, and I often welcome them up to my cooler space from their own subterranean living quarters.  I find welcome sanctuary here from this troubled, fraught but undeniably charismatic city and enjoy the company of this lovely family.

Santiago was the birth place of the revolution and now is Fidel Castro's final resting place. At his request a simple rock marks his grave, alongside the chapel of heroes in Santa Ifigenia Cementery.

I visit early on my final morning, the blazing sun already high in the sky,  to witness the twice hourly ceremonial changing of the guard and join the queue to stand in quiet contemplation at Castro's memorial.  

Santiago is a salutary learning curve on the complexity of Cuba. Cubans are mestizo, mixed race, hence my being able to pass for a local. But not in this city.  To use a Cuban term, this is 'negro' territory. It is safer to be an international, especially given the high police presence here.

This is a city where I see real Cuban poverty first hand. Its not the stark desperation and starvation of India/Asia, but the grinding exhaustion of people worn out keeping themselves alive. Essential rations allocated by Government do keep starvation at bay but in return everyone must work, work and work in a country on the brink of economic collapse.

Santiago is a ghost town, the port area is empty and the money poured into a new boardwalk for the Cruise ships has, literally, gone down the stagnant drain underneath the deserted planks as tourists are not coming.  Oh the irony, it seems these developments to draw in visitors have put the already creaking infrastructure under too much strain, thus putting off many tour companies. 

Daily power cuts are bad enough, but recent outbreaks of cholera have made the island a no go area.  

Water is Cuba is, literally,  poison, even the poorest local will not touch tap water, even the poorest shack has a water filter. Black slug stench permeates everywhere, overpowering even the incense in the beautiful cathedrals.

It is during the inevitably power less evening I invite my hosts to join me on my roof top garden to free them from the hot stiflingly  room downstairs. Both are professional university lecturers, with good English, who have invested much in their casa, and their main anxiety now is the dearth of tourists. 

As is usual here they ave no wifi and depend on day before phone 'bookings' via word of mouth, the way I booked. They now depend on home stayers, as their Government paid salaries are low and their casa takes considerable expenditure to maintain, but this year few have come. I came because of a recommendation, and promise to spread the word, it is all, bar a large tip, I can do to help.

My own account of dire customer service during my travels and how much I hate the ubiquitous two currency system which makes Cuba ridiculously expensive is a familiar one. They nod sagely, knowing all too well their country, with its lack of natural wonders and wildlife, is nowhere near as special as the Government insists.

The Government, they say, are in a bubble, persisting it is the duty of 'imperialist' visitors to pay exorbitant costs to visit Cuba, resisting calls to end the two currency system which locals feel is driving away tourists, as holiday firms abandon the country and backpackers pop in only to leave for the greater attractions of central and South America.  

This is an intriguing time to visit, as Castro's death and Trumps election throws the future of Cuba into chaos. I am shocked by the actuality of Cuba, the reality is so far away from the representation in holiday brochures. In Santiago I really see first hand just how hard life is here. This is a country held fast in the grip of the past, desperate to move forward, but caught in an impossible present, trapped by dire economic crisis and at the mercy of internal and external politics. 

Camaguey

5. Camaguey

I depart Trinidad on a virtually empty bus.  Um. Only the curious travel out of Trinidad heading this way, it seems. I soon see why. The further East we go, the more ;roads' abandon any attempt at deserving the term 'highway'.  I sit pensively on the near deserted Viazul as the affluent lush landscape of the West fades into barren dry wastelands.

Yet my next stop, Camaguey, is an unexpected delight. Eclectic mix of architecture, with a extravagantly designed catholic church on every corner,  this is the religious and artistic centre of the island, art galleries at every turn, sculptures, wall art, exhibitions, crowding the tiny maze of alleys.

The casa I find here is perfectly located by the main square where nightly crowds gather for music and dancing. I like  this town, with its crowded lanes emerging into wide open spaces full of art work, lofty spires, market stalls crammed with artisan products and , for me, by far the best music scene in Cuba, excelling Trinidad in its nightly extravaganzas.

Unusually, this casa has three rooms, so I share the communal space, a tree lined roof garden, with other guests, an English woman of a certain age and a Danish couple, all of whom eat here but me. I stick to my cheap and cheerful street food feast.

I do not feel guilty refusing supper. The casa system here is fraught, long conversations with Hilda, Merlyn and others has taught me how complex the Governments relationship is with the casa  tourist industry, how little the owners make from our stay, how angry they are with the current system.

Food wise, the bitterness  stems simply from the plain fact that there is not enough to go round. Cubans are used to shortages, hence the tiny monthly ration coupons issued by the Government to avoid actual starvation in the poorer areas, but lack of available goods makes offering catering hard.

However, a casa  licence is stringent, rooms " must" (should) be well provisioned (even have a/c facilities, although in my experience they do not have to work!) and offer at least breakfast. The Government 'cut'  is considerable, but sourcing food to offer as regulations demand means families dealing in Cuba's vast black market economy.   This then forces prices up and increases shortages for everyone else.  

Imposing tax on casas has been the last straw for many who ploughed everything into renovations, incurring spiraling debts, promised instant wealth by a Government promoting tourism.
As Cuba sinks deeper into recession the sense of betrayal is all too obvious.  Cubans are loyal to the ideology of communism but all too aware their country is no longer classless, with the Government widely seen as corrupt and out of touch with the people. 

I am privileged that Cubans articulate this to me, as to be openly critical is not a good idea here! Yet people share their anger with me, both in Spanish and in English. All want the west to know more about the trials and tribulations of Cuba and want to know more about the west.

There is also a generation gap emerging here, and a well known growing skill shortage. Universities half full as young people turn their backs on careers for a more lucrative future in tourism. 

In Camaguey  I listened to all this with fascination, sitting with several generations of my host family on the roof under the stars, as they shared worries for their future.  This is absolutely the best upside of travelling solo, sharing personal conversations with strangers who become friends.  

Trinidad

4. Trinidad

Trinidad. The jewel in the crown of Cuba's architectural heritage, a UNESCO heritage site, ensuring the preservation of this historic gem of a colonial town. 

Cobbled streets surround the beautiful Plaza Major, with its atmospheric cathedral and soaring bell tower. Flower filled squares, art galleries, music drifting from every corner.  A tourist mecca but undeniably the most photogenic place in Cuba, an irresistibly charming place with an infectious bubbly, lively, ambiance.

For the first time in Cuba I feel welcome as a guest,  my wonderful host family treated me with such kindness.  Merlyn, despite having a three week old baby, and her mother continually ply me with free food and drink, sharing cake, yoghurt, smoothies, every time I go in and out of my room. And oh this is a lovely room, large, well equipped, comfy bed,  blissful, constant hot water.  

I decide to pay for breakfast, a gastronomical feast,  enough for picnic lunch and even supper , taken away with their blessing. No pressure to buy extras, no extra charges, just straightforward kind hospitality. 

On a roll with the cycle theme, I negotiate bike hire to wander the 15 km to the sandy shores of Playa Ancon. Swim in the warm clear waters and pedal back under the shadow of the red earth hills. 

A perfect day trip, one I repeat. relishing the ride through the rocky coves, past deserted seaside 'villages', across the raised ridges of the wetlands, awash with birds.

Between cycling forays I trek up the hills surrounding the town. The views are fantastic, especially at sunset. The sun vanishes suddenly here so the descent down in the dark not such fun but achieved without incident, thanks to my a) remembering to carry a torch and b) the help of incidental companions, fellow backpackers from the bus.

Trinidad itself comes to life in the evening, when crowds gather in the open air from dancing and drinking. Mohitas are cheaper than water, fun for the masses, annoying for teetotal me. The salsa draws me in, I leap about on the steps with gay abandon, drunk only on bottled water and adrenaline.

The downside of Trinidad is the cost of living. It 'plays' to its audience in more ways than one. There are upmarket hotels outside the historic centre, it is a popular two night excursion from the all inclusive beach resorts of the north, bringing wealth and prosperity .  
The classic car, emblematic of Cuba, the icon of advertising imagery, reemerges in Trinidad. Alas, such cars are definitely not an everyday site here, where in reality authentic modes of travel are either by four legged beast or by decades old fiats  minus windows, brakes or bodywork, held together by rust and trust. Petrol is short so these beautiful classic cars are the preserve of high end tourism, at high end prices. I admire from afar.

I love my host family and enjoy my time here, I have now completed the tourist 'golden triangle of Havana, Vinales and Trinidad where government funded user friendly roads encourage visitors to admire the best of Cuba. But by declining guided excursions and heading off solo in each location I am increasingly aware of the deep divisions in this apparently classless communist state, increasingly aware that there is a bleak reality of dire shortages and a growing economic crisis bubbling uneasily underneath the tourist gloss and increasingly keen to understand more of what it means to be Cuban today. 

I leave a generous tip for my fantastic hosts and set off to discover what lies beneath, heading out to the Cuban hinterlands.    

Cienfuegos

3. Cienfuegos

So, a week after my arrival in Cuba, with my Spanish now of necessity much improved and with a growing awareness of the vast subterranean  complexities of Cuban culture, I am brave enough to venture beyond the well trodden tourist route. 

Thus in the pitch darkness of sleeping pre- dawn Vinales  I lug my rucksack along the rutted roads to board a bus for the long haul to the bay town of Cienfuegos.  As dawn breaks our ancient coach  lumbers through a magical countryside illuminated in the golden glow of the rising sun. 

I am traveling on the only option for independent foreign travelers herebackpackers here, the Viazul,  a state run bus system for non Cubans . It is not exactly comfortable, all buses are Chinese imports which have seen many better years. It is, however, very expensive, especially compared to local public transport, or 'omnibus nationale' which I , as an international, am not allowed to use. Tickets on these more frequent buses are payable in CUP which technically I am not allowed to use, and drivers refuse to make exceptions for fear of being fined.

This is vastly unfair, but Cuba has the tourist trade neatly sewn up.  
As I can only travel on the Viazul ( or by exorbitant taxi) and I can only stay in designated, segregated casas, universally priced at between 20 -30 CUC ( @ 20-25 pounds) per room, I am finding Cuba is by far the most expensive of any country I have visited outside the first world.

I am already deeply resentful and angry at a system designed to exploit visitors, anger which only increases during my stay as I realise how little of my CUC find their way to locals.  The casa owners pay a high % of every stay to the Government for their licence, as do restaurant owners per capita and businesses, all CUC is declarable and ends up funding the Government rather than the people. Their words not mine, and I appreciate their sentiment. 

Ironically the money I pay which is most valuable to individual Cubans is my local currency, CUP they can pocket freely. So, with  my illegal CUP I enjoy Cuban street food sold by willingly complicit locals.

Street pizza, my favourite, is fresh, hot and delicious perfect for supper at 50p a slice, served rolled up like a sandwich. I have not yet perfected the Cuban knack of not letting the red hot sauce drip out, and my clothes are now dotted with red tomato stains. Ice cream, a national obsession, is equally cheap and equally delicious, the perfect desert.

Backpacking in Cuba is not encouraged, tourists on all inclusive or package tours are ushered in as resorts use only CUC. Independent travel here is possible, but the only way to cut costs is food and market shopping, there is just no way around the lodging and travel costs without exposing Cubans to the risk of fines and myself to expulsion. 

Hence my journey on the battered Viazul coach involves sharing a moan with my fellow passengers in diverse languages about the cost of our ticket, the cost of Cuba, discussing the surreal weirdness of contemporary Cuba and communally sharing our street breakfasts of Cuban bread sticks and guava filled pastries as we watch the vibrant wetlands of the East gradually fade into the dusty barren plains synonymous of most of the countryside.

The journey gets more painful as the hours go on. Tarmac peters out as Havana fades into the distance. Tourist route from the capital to Vinales are well maintained. Normal Cuban roads are not. The  Government rest stop half way between Havana and Vinales, with its well maintained toilets and shops, turns out to be the only one of its kind in the whole of Cuba. Roadside 'restaurants' with dodgy plumbing, seating optional, for this trip which ,with the benefit of hindsight, I should have appreciated more.

I arrive in the harbour town of Cienfuegos mid afternoon, bottom sore and dehydrated.  In Vinales my casa owner had phoned ahead to reserve me a room here with her friend, as per Cuban social etiquette. Needless to say, yet again, as before, when I appear I am sent on to another house.

I can understand why I am not entirely welcome.  Although I pay the same room rate as a couple, I actually am less valuable,  because I do not spend two people's money. In my case I do not even spend one person's money as, beyond paying for the room, I do not take the water left out for guests at inflated prices, I do not accept the offer for supper, at inflated prices (as a vegetarian, impossible anyway) and I do not take up suggestions for tours from family and friends, at inflated prices. 

My reluctance to part with liberal amounts of cash is no doubt already noted by the informal casa network. The cash itself does not filter down to them,  the Gov cut is notoriously high, but the casa books show less profit. 

I prefer to contribute to Cuba in a way that suits me too, i.e. paying locally, even happily over the odds,  but in the cheaper national currency, money which benefits Cubans not the Government, who are seen to be distant and disconnected from everyday society, having abandoned all but the  artifice of communism once the money ran out.

Anyway, exhausted and fed up after my ten hour journey, when I finally found a tiny cell of a room, I shed the first of several Cuba induced tears.  

Unexpected result: much nicer room, a free breakfast, and the family who own this house kindly offer to pay my bicycle taxi fare from the bus terminus. My genuine upset also makes me realise Cuban folk are generally truly lovely people, full of empathy and keen to help when they can.

Cienfuegos is a wealthy town with well preserved architecture thanks to a thriving port, and the shops actually have stock!  By dinting of queuing with locals the next day I acquire shampoo, body lotion and toothpaste. Very happy!

My free breakfast is surprisingly filling, fresh fruit, rolls, cheese breads, fried sweet pancake drops, fresh juice and coffee. The young family work hard to ensure I am content, I am one of their first guests, and I really do appreciate their efforts, writing a good review on tripadvisor and leaving a generous tip!

This harbour town is fun. Not many tourists, good natured, well heeled Cubans in party mood, wide, french inspired promenades, shops with real items, I feel as if I'm on holiday with the locals here, sunshine, summer atmosphere, sunny mood prevails.

vinales

2. Vinales

Four hours to the West but a world away from Havana lies the stunning valley of Vinales.  Lush, vibrant, agricultural, landscape, tranquil, rural bliss after the city madness. The low mountain outcrops (mogotes) soar over fertile plantations, tobacco crops, sugar fields, market vegetables. Here horse and cart dominate traffic flow (our bus followed this one for the last five miles into the town) setting the tone for a welcome slow down in the pace of life.

My new homestay  room is with a "friend of a friend " of the family Hilda reserved for me.  Um. Cuban  casa mafia is hard, even impossible,  to challenge but in this small bustling market town rooms seem identical so I see no reason to worry when I am directed to an alternative home and contently settle in to my tiny little bedroom (alcove). This is it, tucked into the nook of the main home,  see, I even have my own wicker chair.

I resist the constant sales pitch from the ever present touts for walking tours of surrounding tobacco fields or the sugar plantations, guided hikes, treks, etc, irritatingly promoted by the casa family, friends and ,frankly,  anyone and everyone in Vinales 

Instead I  insist I will find a bike to rent. Magically,  despite early denials, when it becomes apparent I will not pay for anything else, a bike appears from another " friend of a friend". Lo, I can cycle freely in this national park  after all. Funny that.

A blissful few days. Ten minutes ride from the town and I have the valleys and fields to myself, The heat is not too intense, the hills not too steep, and I follow dusty tracks through the stunning red earth landscape, winding my own way around this gorgeous scenic valley.

I sail past all but one of the advertised giant caves, visiting one to reassure myself I wasn't missing anything ( I wasn't).  

I eat my picnic lunches under the shade of swaying palms, admiring the colorful chattering birds, the dragonflies darting over the abundant streams, the lizards sunbathing on the hot rocks and as darkness falls I sit peacefully under the bright stars absorbing the sounds of this small but busy market town, the hub of this rich agricultural area.

Vinales is a haven, secure in its UNESCO status, a national park protected from development where the well cultivated farms are prosperous and the small town comfortable with tourists.  Mind, body and spirit duly revitalized.  With hindsight I appreciate this even more, it is by far the most beautiful spot in the country, the highlight of my trip.

Cuba 2017

Cuba

Introduction

My rambling jottings from my 4 weeks in Cuba. A trip which turned out to be substantially different to the one  envisaged when I left home. A country substantially different in reality to the image I had in mind. Fascinating and frustrating in equal measure, this was not the month I had planned, although it was certainly an experience.

The arrival

1. Havana

I arrive exhausted after a 10 hour flight with no entertainment (thank god for podcasts). Two hour wait for bags to be delivered as staff were on a 'break'. Welcome to Havana. My first inkling that all would not be as glorious as the tourist posters suggest.

My taxi driver gives me a tour of the darkened city accompanied by impassioned rhetoric. Honesty, I am to find,  is a true genuine Cuban trait. Patriotism, I am to find, is sadly no longer common.

My first 'casa particular' (homestay) and my only pre booked item. Genuine lovely couple, Hilda and Alejandro, whose spotless apartment. alas, adjoins a massive hotel construction site. 

Welcome to Cuba, where the status quo is widespread destruction and construction. Wide ranging architectural glories disappearing into the dust, under the hammers of ever hopeful entrepreneurs.  The symbolic gleaming classic cars touting for tourists in Parque Central are iconography for western eyes, not everyday fare.

Over the next few days I wander this bizarre, chaotic city.

The most striking contrast to home is not the weather (35 degrees here) or the filthy, polluted, streets, but the empty shops and markets.

It is not just the lack of Americanized goods and services,  the Macdonalds and Starbucks which have crept into most major cities across the world, but the stark lack of anything much at all. 

Shops full of empty shelves. Or rows and rows of the same item. For reasons I never did fathom, jars of mayonnaise being the most common, hence no doubt the popularity of mayonnaise in Cuban diets. Mayonnaise sandwich anyone?  Cubans, I realize, thrive of adaptation. 

This first week I endeavor to master the two currency system. Foreigners must (should) use CUC , the convertible peso, commonly known as the tourist dollar. Locals trade in 'money nationale', or CUP.  The 25 CUP to 1 CUC deal is a technicality purely for exchange purposes. After that, its simply two currencies. There is very little bridge between the two apart from cafes in tourist areas which also serve locals. Mostly there are two different markets, two different goods and services, and locals pay less, much much less, than tourists. 

By dint of stalking people in the street I discover how to barter in CUP, how to buy street pizza for less than 50p (as opposed to £7-10 in a restaurant), how to enter the co operative markets and bargain for bananas, breads, cakes and ice cream, my diet staples. I have two purses (the notes are very similar) and throughout my stay in Cuba I use mainly the money nationale for everything apart from transport and lodging, which are rigidly segregated and I cannot blag my way as a local.

It saves  me a fortune as this is an incredibly expensive destination now, the exchange rate is dire.

Also in Havana I come to terms with the fact that it is it is impossible to find coffee ( huts serve tiny, wee cups of
 very strong, pre sugared expresso for 1 CUP ,so I drink several at a time. I yet again am grateful for my beloved  travel kettle, worth every inch of space in my rucksack.

My host Hilda has good English and between us we plan my route around the island. I hunt down the bus station and emerge triumphant hours later with a clutch of tickets. 

Hilda phones her friends to pre arrange my casas. In theory, all is good.  In practice I am to learn the hard way the casa mafia have their own system and transport here is erratic but at this time I am happy and optimistic. 

Five days after leaving England I am ready to move on, I have adjusted to the heat, spent many hours wandering the crazy, dusty, chaotic streets, peering at the eclectic architecture, ambling the malecon (sea wall) listening to music, salsa, jazz, rumba, drifting from cafes and bars , eating street food, and dodging the ubiquitous touts keen to persuade me to travel in their ridiculously overpriced classic cars or visit an overpriced restaurant. 

Ambivalent emotions. Havana is not the city I expected. The two currency system engenders a sense of injustice which lurks throughout my stay, despite the knowledge that I am rich by Cuban standards.  I sense, accurately, a lack of natural wonders and wildlife.The abundant animals are functional ones, the horses which are the main form of transport, the cows, pigs and chickens for sustenance. Stray dogs and cats are everywhere, a pitiful sight 

There is a buzz here, amidst the seething mass of humanity packing the crowded streets of dusty Havana, there is a pulsing sense of a country on the cusp of change.  Patriotic slogans adorn every street corner, but the word on the street is of moving forward not looking back. Graffiti hails the heroes of the revolution but the Government are openly criticized as corrupt, blamed for the dire economic state of Cuba today.

The oil price has quadrupled over the last year as Cuba's long running deal with Venezuela collapses, sugar crops, formerly a major export, now fail after years of neglect, and the much hyped tourism industry is clearly failing too, the recent cholera outbreak, food and energy shortages and extortionate rates, literally twice as much as nearby Mexico, have led many holiday companies to stop listing Cuba.

Hilda has been a great host, I shall miss my little room, the safety net in the middle of hectic Havana. She has helped me understand, as much as any outsider can, how to function here alone, in a country where solo travelers are unusual, especially women.  

Until recently the only way to see Cuba was by package deal, lone backpackers, especially women,  are unusual . Its going to  be an interesting trip!

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