In October and November 2016 I spent three weeks travelling around Cuba. I returned home just days before Fidel Castro died. These posts are written from the scribblings I made in my notebook throughout the trip.
So I’m on a three week whistle-stop guided tour of Cuba. I usually don’t travel in such an organised way but I’d made the decision to go away at the last minute, alone. I’d also been made aware of some of the complexities that could be added to ‘winging it’ alone in Cuba. For one, access to the internet is that much more tricky. For another, card payments and ATMs aren’t terribly reliable. I didn’t really fancy the idea of walking around with a couple of grand stuffed about my person like some kind of lone skinny white cash cow.
I arrived in Cuba just after a hurricane – Matthew – had torn through the eastern most province, devastating Baracoa. Baracoa had been an intended destination on our trip and one that I had been particularly excited about. With the inhabitants still trying to build their lives back up from the rubble, it was both impossible and inappropriate for us to swing through on our shiny tourist bus. Our itinerary had had to be adapted accordingly and the alternative was now giving us two nights in a beach resort. On hearing about the beach resort, I was a little whiney. “I haven’t come to a Caribbean island to spend time on the beach”, was my ridiculous protest.
Ten days of almost solid travel later, however… We’d had no more than two nights in a single spot, bus journeys of 4-7 hours, a flight, late nights and breakfasts before 8am every day. I found that I was actually ready for some relaxation time. I put my boho pretensions of trying to make my touristy guided tour of Cuba into something authentic to one side and settled into the idea of something a little mindless – take me to the beach!
We arrive in Varadero, THE beach resort capital of Cuba, late in the afternoon. It is pissing with rain. I laugh inwardly – of course it’s raining!
It is hard to believe that just a couple of hours earlier I had spent a serene and contented forty minutes with flippers, mask and snorkel (hired – not to be thought too much about) absorbing visions of tropical fish and coral off a rocky beach under the beating sun. This was in Playa Giron, otherwise known as the Bay of Pigs. It is less well known for its crystal clear waters than it is for a US sponsored invasion that took place in 1961. The intention had been to overthrow the recent revolution led by Fidel Castro et al. It failed miserably and was put a stop to within 72h. I’m sure it has acted as some sort of source of Cuban pride and fuel for propaganda ever since.
The morning after arriving in Varadero, the weather, though windy, is on our side. Despite my desire for relaxation, I know a whole day on the beach is out of the question for my lily white limbs (and natural restlessness). A travel buddy and I decide to hop on the hop-on/hop-off bus to ride along the peninsula. Varadero draws thousands upon thousands of visitors every year – it is to Canadians what the Costa del Sol has been to many a Brit. I want to see if there’s anything more to this place than sun, sea and sand.
Straight to the upper deck of the bus for what I expect will afford me spectacular views – and cos the top deck is just better. Effing hell! This is like being on some horrendously perilous fairground ride! My hat instantly comes flying off, thankfully caught by more experienced open top bus riders behind. There then follows many a moment of ducking and flattening myself horizontally to the seats to avoid having my face wiped off by overhanging tree branches. By the time we reach the coast road, I am sure my contact lenses are going to get blown behind my eyeballs and I fear for the integrity of my eardrums. When I finally decide I can no longer hack it, removing myself from my plastic seat feels like having sellotape ripped off the back of my legs.
The top deck views, by the way, have been entirely unworthy of my malaise. They are predominantly of the back end of how the other half lives – or, rather, holidays. We sweep past giant four and five star hotels and resorts that block all sight of the beach and sea beyond. They have cheesy aspirational names like “Memories” and, even better, “Grand Memories”. Disappointingly for the “Four Palms” one of their trees must have died because there are only three palms outside the entrance. These all-inclusive luxurious monstrosities all but quarantine their guests from local Cuba(ns). They starve the rest of the town of the life and wealth that the vast number of tourists should confer as, quite frankly, Varadero town itself is a dive.
We sweep into the fancy pants marina at the tip of the peninsula. It has recently been renovated big style and we feel too shabby to be there. As our bus clearly starts making its way back from whence it came, we decide to jump off at the surprisingly placed ecological reserve; a chunk of preserved nature amidst all this grotesque-feeling luxury.
We wind our way along a shady trail over jaggedy limestone rock, identifying flora and fauna thanks to the help of a mini guide sheet. Highlights include a bat cave where bats swoop almost but not quite at our heads, trees which look to have been infected by cactus giving a gigantic hybrid tree/cactus mutation and little lizards that look like they move in stop motion. There is also some rather eggy smelling stagnant water where mangroves grow, that even luxury developments can’t escape from! The reserve is perfect to wile away an hour or two out of the midday heat and away from the characterless over-developed surroundings.
Back on the bus we head back to town for a late lunch and then finally, finally, it is beach time. Far away from the giant resorts, we weave between smaller more discreet and run down hotels. It is still not yet high season so there is a semi-deserted feel in this part of Varadero.
The beach, after everything, does not disappoint. The so soft, almost white sands are fringed by palm trees. The water is every bit the clear turquoise of every Caribbean island dream that’s ever been had. I step and then swim into the never ending shallows, where I experience pure joy at floating, splashing and marvelling at this wonder of nature…
That is until a couple of very small transparent jelly fish float by me! They abruptly put an end to my carefree cliched frolicking as I’m now paranoid that more of these little menaces are going to cut a stingy path straight through me to get to wherever they’re going. Fine, you can have the sea, you tiny jellied fiends!
I dry off in the late afternoon sun and then end the day walking along the foamy waters’ edge for about a kilometre back to that night’s casa. The sun is near to setting, sending colours into a surreal spin… the beach and sea are photo negatives whilst the sky is filled with intense pastels. I feel relaxed and content. I think it’s fair to say that I’ve enjoyed my one day Caribbean beach holiday much more than I was expecting.
The next morning and it’s time to leave Varadero. We’ve just heard the news that Donald Trump has been elected president of the United States of America… The paradise beach holiday is well and truly over.