Fumes, finances and fire engines - bienvenidos a Cuba: April 5th to 10th 2016

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The morning of the 5^th dawned with our stomachs in a moderate state and tolerant of the local coffee we could brew in our room.



Yet at moderate as the stomachs were, the parting was difficult after such an incredible holiday together, and with swift transfers at the departure gate, both of us went in our respective directions.



COPA airlines, a major in these parts, were my carrier for this flight, about my 12^th in this voyage. Flight food slightly better than Avianca, ham and cheese made its appearance again, to be followed by something local, a Mexican burrito!



In several hours I was at Panama airport, striding the long corridors, hooking into free Wi-Fi and fortunate enough that I could use it to check in with imminent Cuba planning. Last minute changes to my itinerary imposed on me by WOW Cuba, a Canadian based company, a day before resulted in several emails ‘to and fro’ from my troublesome Hotmail account about the new first night, only 30km from Havana and not 100km in Moka as originally intended. A case of the hotel having sudden renovations, and ‘que sera sera’ moment.



So eventually I touched down in Havana. The air was hazy, the greeting lukewarm, and the senoritas checking through our luggage in the scanners were resplendent in fishnets, heavy makeup and miniskirts.



Talk about winding back the clock! The air was thick with sexualised dress and stereotypical Latin behaviours of all the women, and some men, such that I wondered if I had stepped back 50 or more years.



To my surprise, I had. 1950 in fact, with the red décor, old signage, an absence of concern about my declaration certificate (which they never looked at), slow baggage collection, and a smoke laden arrivals hall. The only reminder of being in 2016 was a few mobile phones and unauthorised taxistas outside touting for my business, indicating tourism.



By 8pm dark had fallen, and there was no sign of anyone whom knew about my reservation with Havanatur or Cubanacan, the agencies I was directed to. Missing my imminent rendezvous with senoras Carmen and Cary at their modest lodging in Old Havana was of major concern and once I’d exchanged some Euros as advised (instead of USDs), a man from Havanatur took pity and directed me to an authorised taxi, or so I thought. Two young lads with a stereo blaring lyrics of ‘f’n and blinding’ at women, without a taxi meter, for 35 CUCs (Cuban currency) drove me off at great speed.



Using my infirmity as an excuse to turn the volume down, we navigated the dark city streets to finally reach apartment 12 on number 404 San Nicolas. Here, two women stood at the doorway next to every other citizen in that street, having a gander or canoodling on this weeknight at their concrete doorsteps.



Dragging my pack up 4 flights of stairs, I explained my failed connection at Hotel Astor as planned and settled in to my abode once contingencies for my departure the next day were over



“Bano, aqui”….”cama, aqui”…”duche, aqui”…”papel hijenico, aqui” (motioning to the basura or rubbish bin).



Cary touched the bedside lamp. Touch it and it switches on and off!



Air conditioning, a similar case, and apart from blowing room temperature air all night, the high speed fans managed to dry my rinsed clothes and block out the party that carried on until dawn beneath my balcony



Waking to a clear sky, and vistas of extensive mottled concrete in need of either painting and/ water blasting was Havana’s old town, the night before being dismal and seedy. I threw open the wooden windows, re-packed my bags and tried to force some fluid down my unsettled belly.



Come 7.45am and I left the casa, en route to the Inglaterra hotel for an authorised taxi.



Reading the invoices from my reservation to the taxista caused some confusion such that it was deemed best to take a ride to the bike pick up place. A scheduled 15 minute ride became a half hour one. Arriving in my bedraggled state to a buxom receptionist, at an old Russian building hiring out basic bikes, followed by some desperate Spanish and communication by phone with WOW Cuba later, it was the wrong choice.



Wrongs made right with getting my driver to come to me from the rental outlet, and I could excuse myself with slowly recovering infirmity.



BY now it was mid-morning and with bike rack mounted for the 3^rd time by the attentive hire man, destined not to scratch a pristine VW sedan, and we were off with a list to tick off.



First up, Wi-Fi. “The hotel sells cards” said my driver, Adrian. “Sorry, we sell them but don’t have them”, said the hotel. So I sucked off the Wi-Fi access from his card, and felt the relief that comes from sharing the last 24 hours of news by modern technology.



Next up, a bank. Three cards this time ought to work. With correct pins.



All three got rejected. Then into the bank I went, a cage of green bars, white stucco concrete and an interior to rival the Russian architectural theme of the bike hire place. 30 or so people waited, much like in La Fortuna. “Stop playing with the iPhone” a buxom Cubana said, even if I was revisiting my ‘sent items’ away from coverage areas. Matron with the bright lipstick allocated me to a teller with similar lipstick and less visible cleavage, and with some questions and identification later, I was the proud recipient of 200CUCs.



Service without the smiles, I was back in the car and on our way to, not ride a bike, but buy water at a convenience store.



Walking into the mercado, I wondered if this was a grog shop. Half the shelving was rum, cigars and cigarettes, with a splash of canned fish and peas, overpriced canned fruit and ice creams.



Walking out with water, it was on to the next stop, for advice seeking at a recommended place, Ecotur. Navigating without GPS to reach such a place is normal here. There is a local equivalent, it’s called talking to people.



About 5 stops for Adrian to ask directions, we found it, and were reassured that someone would come to help us. Of the 5 people in the office, and after half an hour later, we found ourselves some help. The tide of helpers went from famine to feast status, and swarmed by 3 of them, we soaked up the info like sponges and determined the next move, Caimito, my amended accommodation town and only 30km from Havana.



Bypassing the suburb of Miramar, it was now looking like a bike tour was being created. Passing embassies and indicators of architectural wealth gave way to a coast-side road that captured glimpses of the turquoise ocean.



On my bike, it was an easy 15km with directions by the driver to our accommodation in Caimito.



Passing several overpriced banana sellers, numerous tuktuks, hundreds of old dunger cars, especially Ladas and Skodas as hangovers from Russian presence, and plenty of pedal or horse powered individuals. This was the Cuba I had imagined.



Caimito after midday was to mark the time I began to feel better. Onwards for the afternoon of exploring, I headed to San Antonio de los banos, south west of Caimito. Via fruit farms, plantations and cattle runs, it had all elements of a rural ‘el campo’ experience without the hills of Colombia. Pot hole after pot hole I pedalled my suspension-less bike on flat roads, routing back once or twice to collect a lost water bottle or missed photo.



RIP the water bottle however, my first gift to Cuba.



Settling in for an evening at Villa Carmen, Adrian and I met the Italian host, Giuseppe, whom splits his time with his wife between Sicily and Cuba. Fluent in several language, he went on a banana mission that evening should I be robbed of $10USD by some local stallholder for a bunch of ‘ladies fingers’ and brought back a fruity gift the next day. His band of pink-skirted disciples whipped up a flash feast of whole grilled fish and salad that had my stomach singing “hallelujah, food!”



The morning of day 2 cycling, April 7^th, dawned as every other winter day I was told. Fine and warming steadily, the sun rises later than western Central America with time zone differences. Start times for work were later also, so at 8.30am we could start having breakfast. Riding out with Adrian in tow in the VW with a full tummy of boiled eggs, fruit and BYO oats and I was primed for the hills ahead



Famous last words. “Me gusta montanas!”



15km first of turn right here left there brought us to the underpass on the main highway to Havana, outside Artemis. Passing onwards towards El Jobo.



And what a job to El Jobo that road was by bike.



Fortunate to be sufficiently padded, the scenery made up for bone shaking corrugations and general tarseal disarray. Vistas of the north coast and port of Havana, hazy at best, gave way to more palms and increasingly dense vegetation, until Adrian asked a cigar smoking farming local again, to deviate back to smooth grounds.



Highway riding for 8 or so km’s later and it was back to a quiet smooth road towards the Biosfera Parque, westward bound.



La Terrazas had a 2CUC entrance fee, cheap. The lack of traffic and gorgeous vegetation was tonic for the past day of exposed riding, although the 1km uphill Adrian warned me brought back Colombia memories. Still, at slow speed, I accomplished it and careered downhill to find him stopped by a road side stall



On a banana mission? No, but a strange new fruit to add to my repertoire, orange inside, ugly brown casing on the outer, sounds like ‘momo’. Delicioso!! I got locals rates clearly, with a huge bunch of bananas, the new fruit, and custard apple for 4CUCs, to last the next few days.



Down I sped, intent on stopping there and quickly we got to Soroa waterfall, a haven of coolness and a great end to the hot riding in the midday sun.



Time slipped by, and soon enough we were on road driving to Vinales, avoiding fake highway policeman whom held their hands up and stood in the middle of the road, with unofficial intent. If approached, they try to weasel you into their lair of visiting their restaurant or accommodation, possibly not with a happy ending, perhaps unlike the many pimps or prostitutes that are to frequent Havana’s streets, so I’m told!



Vinales was touristy at first glance, and the benefit being places to eat and a local park, with wifi! Although I curbed my excitement as iPhone products are not supported in Cuba, so email contact it would have to be. We drove in around 4pm, Adrian’s knock off time, passing the well-known vista of the valley, to our abode, La Autentica.



“No parking, shall I get out and ask?” I said.



Luckily not as Senora Autentica and the tour agency had clearly made a mix up. Allocating us in a room together, I pondered my invoice stating I had paid for two singles, when all that was left was bedding down with the driver. I put my foot down gently, several heated phone calls between Senora and an agency and Adrian and the agency occurred, and after unpacking my stuff from the car, vid farewell until tomorrow for him to get another place to stay.



So my quest to organise and pay for this trip many months ago, payment itself taking 5 weeks of bank processing (resulting in international payment rejection, and then acceptance by credit card) is now explained. Cuba is unique.



Washed up, I took to the sunlit streets at dusk, listening to Cuban music filtering out of restaurants and bars along the main strip. Tourists congregated by the town square using wifi, locals drove their black fumed cars up and down, and vendors carts were taken home for restocking for the next day.

With a good dose of vegetarian food from Las Comidas Vegetariano on the main street, tackling 50km the next day felt a breeze. In the cool air, I left early after sunrise at 7.30 am bound for Santa Lucia, 22km away along the valley smoke filled valley

As horses were driven by señors and señoritas, fields were raked, locals walked roadside to work, and the bizarre rock formations of Vinales came into photogenic light

An hour later along an undulating average road came Santa Lucia, it's locals looking curiously at this photographing foreigner. Fires of sugar cane smouldered, as much as the tobacco plants would when made into Cuban cigars.

By and large, the elders threw up their hands in greeting to my relentless "holas", but with the young I was surprisingly met with frowns. I wondered if it was to do with Vinales being touristy.

An exception it could be, according to my driver Adrian. Commissioned and paid by me (via WOW Cuba) to chauffeur me and a hired bike for three days, we both agreed the owner of La Autentica in Vinales was a rude exception.

Far from a warm reception the day before, equally so was our farewell with Adrian not allowed to park on the driveway whilst loading up the car. Suffice, onwards it was at check out with pleasure, to the bank

A short trip or task is never so in Cuba however

First up, one bank and money transfer outlet rejected any chance of getting money, the wiry man telling me "denegado". Denied. My new palabra (word) for the day.

On I went to try another bank, The Credit bank of Cuba. Sounds promising. An hour waiting later and I'd barely made the front of the queue and lunch plans before an important departure time from Vinales were diminishing

The sneezing and coughing teller hastened me over finally. Sniffling. Probably suffering from the many old bomb cars belching a sizeable proportion of the worlds carbon monoxide.

"Passport?"

Promising. Then we were trying two cards, for three times each, with recurrent electronic communication errors, it was looking grim.

"There's money in there", I declared. Even if I couldn't operate on my online banking here in Cuba, there was money.

The teller sniffed. The repairman kept repairing his cord. The visitors to the bank staff sat in unsecured surroundings and talked and ate their fruit as they were staring into space. The bank vault stayed open. Two ladies in fishnets walked out with trays of eggs. Must have been the 'eggs for sale' day.

Success came at $100, and ending my pain by me getting in the car with Adrian and making haste by the highway for Havana.

Come 3 and a half hours more, no loo stops and much chatter about Cuba and its history brought us to my old hood, the corner of San Rafael and San Nicolas in the old town

Laden with bags of mame fruit, my new addiction, I took a three wheeler ride to the accommodation over deeply pot holes roads, with that bursting bladder feeling. Señor bid me farewell from his tuk tuk free of monetary charge, and I full of smiles for carting me.

Some gesturing and communication later with local neighbours peering from their balconies, and Casa Carmen and Cary opened up for me. Crashing my belongings on the floor, we swapped 25CUCs and the keys were mine

Best not I be responsible for keys in future though, as stepping out to seek the Malecon without my passport or internet card left me returning and then sitting at the top of the stairs without means to get in. I sought help from the blue rinsers next door, and went through their entire photo collection, waiting it out.

Three locks and three key parts with one key that I had failed to work. Accidentally locking the lower handle was my problem, which clearly had no key. A case of no luck with the lock!

Getting a locksmith on a Friday night was impossible. The upstairs neighbour was roused, a portly man with screwdrivers and handy nous.

Señor screwdriver summoned all techniques for lock picking and jimmying without a budge whilst Carmen and Cary also tried in vain to use their old chest X ray film to slip between the door and lock, fruitlessly but with 110% for effort.

An hour later, we were led upstairs to the old bachelor abode of señor screwdriver and surveyed the upper balcony that peered over old the Havana rooftops. Could we jump it? Were the kitchen windows open? No, nada.

Then, a decision was made - the bomberos (firefighters) were called. Cary led me down stairs where we waited in the dimming evening light for a rescue.

Surprisingly our knights in yellow helmets came ready for action within half an hour. Sirens blaring. I thought of Kare Kare beach in NZ when I'd last been around a fire appliance.

Carmen explained my situation, they donned crow bars and implements, and made their way up to the 4th floor.

At street level, neighbours loomed whilst the crashing and banging continued. Excavating the apartment altogether no doubt

Another half hour later, with señor policeman now in attendance, and a young Cuban officer came down.
"Todo bien" he said smiling. I wondered if Carmen and Cary thought that too when they costed out repairing a hole in their door (where the third key less door handle was, in a loose state beforehand)

Hallelujah. I gave him an abrazo grande, climbed the stairs again, and made plans with the tirelessly helpful Cary and Carmen to meet the next day for check out from my now holy abode.

At which point I attempted to share my experience by checking in with email, unsuccessfully, at the local park. 'No go' with any logistical emails or personal ones, and giving in to Cuban internet, I retired after far too much adventure in one day.

A dark Saturday morning was then my only chance to see the Malecon.

Waking early, I jogged out of San Rafael street, passing evidence of fading night life. Then it was past the Capital building, the Inglaterra hotel and then straight down to the water frontage, with the barracks and the old town fringe.

The Malecon at dawn was quiet with a few fisherman and joggers out for the same view I was. In a state of construction, roads were blissfully quiet, and devoid of fumes, a rare chance to take healthy breaths of air.

Back at the casa, I then left Cary who'd come to meet me, dragged my pack down four flights, and walked the short distance to the bus stop outside the Inglaterra, dodging excrement, and puddles from señor water-blaster doing his morning rounds.

The bus to Trinidad finally came an hour later than scheduled, and being lucky enough to befriend a lovely Canadian lady, an academic in microbiology in Vancouver, we shared stories about logistical travel woes to ease our pain and pass the time.

After just one stop in a road house, aguada de pasajeros, we caught sight of the Caribbean coast.

Turquoise sea led into old town Trinidad. I'd arrived in Antigua, Guatemala again.

First up was avoiding the unofficial taxi touts and making our way to the Iberostar which was one of the three bus stops offered

Seeking out reliable communications, we passed on the park option, where every Tomas, Ricardo and Juan were on their phones sucking the life out of any Cuban park internet access, and instead entered the posh Iberostar.

If there is a heaven for the weary traveler needing puffing up in Cuba, it's here and it was now.

My first Cuban coffee, buying Internet cards that aren't a rip off, toilets, drinks and friendly faces. After a joyous connection with email, and making a date for happy hour the next night with Lisa, I took my 6CUCs taxi to La Boca, 6km away on the coast

The best part of my Cuban itinerary came then. A fishing village away from the hype of playa Ancon.

Pulling up at Hostel Sol y Mar, a tidy and modest casa on the water front, I was met by Olga, the partner of Joaquín whom I'd been emailing to confirm my arrival time. A quaint green and red homestead, Olga led me to my room and within minutes I was settled, signed in and ready for a swim

The waters in front are accessed from a pebbly beach, 20m from the door step, and mainly of coral. The balmy ocean was perfect for swimming.

Teams of tropical fish, of blues and yellows, and a smattering of red coral and ginger fluff on the sea floor, completed the underwater scene.

Whilst above the surface it was mixed - roadside tiendas (shacks selling beer, rum and basic supplies), boy racers in Ladas pumping out reggaeton music, leisurely local commuter cyclists without helmets, and teenagers jumping into the water from the rocks. And nobody accessing the Internet or using their phones.

It was time to relax. A hammock, a safe home cooked meal of fish, rice and salad, and a 10/10 sunset and moon rise. Zzzzzzz.....

So I did, for some time, lay horizontal to undo the last few days of strain. I swam, I lazed, I practiced my Spanish talking to Olga about how I found this place and my trip intentions. The difference here is that they are friendly AND authentic, more so than at La Autentica! Highly recommended.

Back in Trinidad, heat rising, locals dragging their quota of dried garlic and onions around, bike taxis on odd appearances being Sunday arvo, locals sitting doorstep side, occasionally bidding 'Hola' and happy hour looming - I have that contented feeling that comes with contingency days - washing, check, communication, check, ready for next chapter, I think so.

The challenges keep coming but a cooling swim awaits the end of this day, without a doubt!

Varadero for the 11th and then Mexico by evening of the 12th.

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