Ultra Inclusive and Infinite in Varadero - Part Two

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Ultra Inclusive and Infinite in Varadero - Part Two: The Return of the King

Thurs 22/05 - 25/05/08

The next couple of days at the Paradisus pass without a whole lot of incident. I get to know my new home, relaxing by the pool, swimming in the sea, going to the gym and coping with painfully explosive diarrhoea (don't drink tap water in Havana, unless there's something precious up your arse that you need to get out in a hurry).

I get relatively up to speed on what's been happening. Apparently, there has been some controversy surrounding the restaurants. Some of these have to be booked in advance, and a few people have become concerned that they might not be able to eat in every one (the Italian, Steak House, Japanese, Caribbean and Romantica). A complicated solution is devised, involving the pooling of booking slips, a chart and a detailed Powerpoint presentation. I sense irritation in Barney - at the end of the day, does it really fucking matter? I guess that I'd prefer to try each restaurant, but if I don't get to, I'll learn to live with myself. I don't attempt to understand or get involved in the booking system. I'll go where I'm told to go and eat what's put in front of me - those that do care are adults, and should be able to sort themselves out without bothering the groom.

The afternoons are usually spent in the pool bar, and the evenings, after dinner, in the lobby. It's here that I'm put under intense psychological pressure by Ben to remain at his side and act as his drinking partner and wingman. We're the only two single guys in the party, and so fate throws us together, laughing.

Normally, I'd be only too happy to stay up late and milk the free bar. Right now, though, I'm tired and hurting. I try to convince Ben that I just need a couple of early nights to recharge, and get back on my A game. He's a merciless bastard, though. Looking at him, there's not much to Ben, and you get the impression a strong wind might see him off for good. But I know better - pound for pound there's more evil packed into that slight frame than in any man you're likely to encounter. Imagine the anti-Christ with a video camera, and 24 hour access to piña colada.

Since my arrival, I seem to have been given the task of looking after this force of nature. Quite why anybody would think I'm the right man for the job is beyond me. I'm weak willed, and easily pulled to the dark side. Ben has been worrying that he might have upset a few people in the party by speaking his mind. I don't think he's so bothered about those he may have offended - it's more that he doesn't want to upset his brother as a result. I ask for a brief summary his fears, and apparently there were some comments about pretentiousness and something about the state of the Cuban economy.

Tonight, Ben is trying to convince me to stay out drinking, informing me and anyone else who cares to listen that "the aqua gym girls are getting 'em out in the fun bar later." We pop in and out of the fun bar, just to make sure. Nothing is going on in there tonight. The place is more than half empty, and twice as hollow. I make a break for it around 1am, and Ben reluctantly follows.


Sunday evening. We're all assembled in the lobby bar, having been for dinner. We begin talking to a French man, suspiciously named Elvis Fontaine. He's come on holiday by himself, having broken up with his girlfriend. He latches onto our group with the skill of a practised stalker, handing out business cards. In spite of myself, I find I quite like Elvis. He's rich, pretentious and clearly a dangerous psychopath, but there's something quite charming about him, and his laugh is infectious, like a rash.

"That's bone. And the lettering is something called Silian Rail.."

Elvis approaches me. "That's a nice shirt. I think I have one the same make." I'm wearing an blue and white striped Abercrombe and Fitch long sleeved shirt, which I bought in Hanoi, meaning it's not genuine. "Thank you. It's actually a fake," I reply. Elvis laughs. "Oh, well in that case, I don't have one the same."

"Eggshell with Romalian type."

Nothing could better sum up the Paradisus Varadero than that little exchange. Elvis is a wealthy business man, living in the fashionable centre of Paris. He liked my shirt, until he discovered it was a fake. Why should that make a difference? Why does the skirt loose it's aesthetic allure once it's true colours are revealed? It's just a shirt. I bought it because it looked good. Whenever I wear it, people tell me I look good. Does there need to be anything else? I like it because it looks good, and because it reminds me of Vietnam. I'm glad it only cost about £8. I'm proud of the fact I managed to get something nice so cheaply.

"Raised lettering, pale nimbus white..."

Why do people feel the need to wear their affluence like a badge of honour? Does Elvis really believe, as it appears, that he is better than me because he can afford the real thing? The way I see it, money is like a gynaecologist - it turns out a fresh cunt every day. Who knows where Elvis has come from? I suspect he was born wealthy, but maybe he grew up on a farm. Maybe he came from humble roots. Either way, he picked up the scent of money and ran with it. Now, it defines him. He talks with contempt about the hotel's "champagne", saying it's nothing like the real thing, and reeling off a list of his favourite makes and years.

All of this is done, of course, for effect. He says it to let you know he has class, and by class, he means money. Ladies and gentleman, the Paradisus, wrapped up in the giant frame of an overweight cannibalistic Frenchman. It's all about effect. It's all about image. People check in here just to show they can. It doesn't mean I don't like it. It doesn't mean I'm not pleased to be here. I just wish people would accept the reality of their situation.

Money does not equate to self-worth. You can't measure your value as a human being according to how much you can afford. If you live like that, you will struggle to achieve happiness or to live with any dignity and humility. You will look down on others who don't deserve you're condescension, and aspire to be like those who have it "better", without ever taking the time to just be grateful for what you've got and enjoying it. Millions of people are born and die every day without ever having the chance to make money. Millions more will live their whole lives without seeing as much as Elvis makes in a week. It doesn't mean their worth any less as human beings. It's just the way the world goes.

"Look at that subtle off-white colouring. The tasteful thickness of it. Oh my God, it even has a watermark..."


Most nights, there's a show on the stage. This usually involves scantily clad women, and men in tight Lycra prancing around to various musical numbers. This evening, there's an air of excitement going around the bar. We've heard that tonight's show will take place in the pool. At 10pm, we make our way over there. Ben has made the mistake of leaving his camcorder in the room, but I have my camera at the ready. What follows is such pure, pornographic filth that I'm shocked that they call this a family show.

I stand with Elvis, Ben, Rick and Louise and watch it all unfold. More importantly, I capture a lot of good footage for the wedding DVD. Towards the end, the dancers call for audience participation. A showgirl in a pink swimming cap runs towards us, and takes Ben by the hand. I try to follow to keep filming, but they're lost in the crowd.

The show finishes, and we head to the fun bar. Apparently, they're getting it all out. Soon, the couples slip off to bed, leaving Ben, Elvis and myself. I'm watching the king carefully. He's out on the prowl, looking for victims. As I said, I like Elvis, but he's got heads in his fridge and underwear made from human skin, and I don't want to get caught up in one of his murderous rampages tonight.

"Why don't you get a job? If you're so hungry, why don't you get a job?"

Elvis grabs a girl and starts to dance. I'll hand it to him, he's quite a mover. Ben's drinking strawberry dacaries. The Fun Bar is struggling to live up to it's name once again. Aside from the three of us, there's just one other group and a few couples. The music is as bad as ever. Latino disco-dance, mixed by a DJ who smells of vomit. Ben keeps going to ask for requests. We get Madonna and Bon Jovi, but when I try to ask for the Prodigy, I'm waved away by our sick-splattered friend.

2.30pm comes and goes, and the fun has to stop. Elvis bids us goodnight, no doubt off to return some videotapes. The English are made of sterner stuff. Or maybe we just don't have frozen heads that need attention. We settle in the lobby bar, now totally empty but for us. The bar maid is feisty and friendly, and seems happy enough to put up with our drunken lounging.

"I like to dissect girls. Did you know I'm utterly insane?"


I'm hungry, and ask if there is anywhere we can get something to eat. The bar maid (she's too nice to be anonymous, so we'll call her Ida) tells us the snack bar is still open, so we walk back over there. The guys behind the grill don't look pleased to see us, but they make us burgers anyway. Two young cleaners, both female, are hanging around the place. Ben goes and sits next to one, a black girl. She gives him the cold shoulder and when he returns to the grill, one of the cooks asks if he likes black girls, and tells him she's his for 200cucs.


We take our food back to the bar, and continue drinking. Shortly after 4am, there's some activity at reception. A group are checking in - four or five guys, and maybe six girls. After a while, they walk past. The women are all highly attractive, and not shy, strutting past us at the bar. All of them look like their sporting expensive fake breasts. Ben has been to get his video camera, and as they return to reception, he zooms in. One of the girls sits at the end of the bar, and watches us from behind sunglasses. I find the whole scene a bit weird. Why have they turned up at such a late hour? And why are there more girls than guys?

After a bit, they all disappear, and once again Ida is left with two customers. Ben turns the camera on me, and I'm forced to give my candid views on tonight's events. I'm kinda keen to go home, for once having found someone with longer lasting batteries than myself. However, the skies open wide, and the rain comes down, and we're hemmed in, the last watchmen of the Alamo. With no where to go, we turn back to Ida, and order another drink.

Eventually the storm subsides, and as 6am rolls around, we say goodnight to the morning. Welcome to the hotel Paradisus. Any time of year. You can find us here.


"I'm just a happy camper. Rockin' and a-rollin'."

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