See Cuba before it changes, that's the mantra. Alison Shepherd wanted
her whole family to experience the place
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Ramon shouted to Louis, his seven-year-old co-driver: "Mira, mira, el
agua," as we whooshed through a small pool, in a manner English bus
drivers love to emulate. "Look, look, water," followed by "Mas rapido?"
– "Faster?" – was to be the theme of our day-long, exhilarating jeep
safari through the baked, ochre scrubland around Matanzas, the "Venice
of Cuba".
And Ramon wasn't the only Cuban keen to impress Louis, our youngest. Not
a day, not an hour, would pass without someone ruffling his hair,
offering him fresh coconut to eat, or talking football. This is a land
that loves children: always polite and respectful to our teenage girls,
but definitely hands-on with Louis.
"Come, sit with me up here on the front," said Arturo as our family of
five clambered aboard his horse-drawn carriage to promenade around
Havana Vieja. This is the only way to view the city when the temperature
nudges 30C at 10 in the morning and you don't want to bully your brood
around the sites.
Arturo, and his new pint-sized apprentice, showed us Havana's hundreds
of years of history at a lilting pace, cooled by the breeze: the
colonial buildings over-shadowed by a belching industrial chimney; the
baroque cathedral jostling for attention with the art deco Edificio
Bacardi; the claustrophobic streets of Centro and its untold centuries
of peeling paint; and the grandiose, spotless space of the Plaza de la
Revolucion. Adults and children alike, we were all captivated by the
sensory overload: the architecture's dilapidated elegance; the rich
aroma of exotic foliage, with a note of sewer; and, above all, the
rhythm of music, that accompanied us like a movie soundtrack.
It was on that carriage trip on our first day on the island that we
realised, had we ever been in any doubt, that the luxury found in our
four-star hotel was not enjoyed by the overwhelming majority of Cubans.
Through glassless windows we glimpsed family life in tenement buildings
that looked uninhabitable, while the few recognisable shops were
reminiscent of Moscow 20 years ago.
The reality of the situation was only fully brought home to us later.
"Come to dinner with us tomorrow night," said a Cuban friend we had
arranged to meet, "and we'll show you real Cuban food." After an hour of
negotiation with their concierge, involving lots of passport waving, we
finally reached their 24th-floor flat. But there were no tummy-warming
smells to welcome us, just our very apologetic friend. "I'm really
sorry. I took the afternoon off work, even roped in a friend with a car,
because someone had said that a shop across town had some fresh
vegetables – but we couldn't find one potato."
Rice, eggs, fruit and vegetables have all been scarce since hurricanes
Gustav and Ike swept through. So we ate unusual-tasting pizza at a
local, non-tourist restaurant, helped down by the local Bucanero beer,
which, along with rum, is definitely not in short supply.
After three days of Havana, we headed for the beach at Varadero. It is
on the island's roads that Cuba's "otherness" shines through. But it
isn't the landscape itself, for the ochre and scrub is the staple in
hot-country scenes, although the speed at which the scenery changes to
lush forest here is extraordinary. It's not even the huge "Revolucion
Siempre" billboards that are as prevalent as Tesco hoardings back home.
The most striking thing is how often, in the first 10 minutes, someone
says: "Look at that ... horse rider ... pony and trap ... horse and
carriage ... really old American car ... truck full of soldiers." It's
as if Cuba exists in many different layers of time simultaneously, so
the medieval donkey drover plods beside a 21st-century people carrier
along a tarmacked road, which will suddenly become a dirt track.
Then there are the long ribbons of people by the roadside, who, we
assumed, were waiting for buses. Not so, said our guide, another Louis,
telling us that anyone with transport who can squeeze in another body or
two is expected to pick up hitch-hikers and take them as far as is
convenient. Which explained why we, in our half-empty people carrier,
were experiencing the only hostile looks of our whole trip.
Once past Matanzas, the historic two-river city whose many bridges
earned it its Italian nickname, the crowds of patient, roadside hitchers
began to thin as few Cubans have any need to access the long, thin
peninsula which is home to the one part of Cuba specifically designed
with tourists in mind. Varadero, 20km long and just 1.2km across at its
widest, is a continuous run of four- and five-star hotels, all catering
mainly for non-Cubans.
Canadians, quaffing all-inclusive cocktails out of insulated coffee
mugs, are the most evident national group in Varadero, followed a long
way behind by a motley band of Europeans. Our 11 days here passed
quickly, with just the jeep safari and a dolphin trip to remind us there
was an outside world.
For once, we grown-ups didn't have to listen to the "I'm bored" whine,
or umpteen requests for money for drinks and ice creams. Just one
wrist-band gave the kids access to all their stomachs could desire.
Family dinners brought us together, to catch up on poolside news. We got
to know the first names of all the young men and women who looked after
kids by day and became high-kicking song and dance stars by night. And
Louis could update us on his lizard and insect sightings, and produce
the latest gift from a doting Cuban.
The white-sand beaches offered up beautiful conch shells, and the food
was fresh and plentiful. Staff were charming and hospitable and the
swim-up bar a treat. But there wasn't one of us, kids included, who
didn't at some point hanker to return to gritty Havana.
There's more to this Caribbean island than the beach - Americas, Travel
- The Independent (10 January 2010)
http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/americas/theres-more-to-this-caribbean-island-than-the-beach-1862945.html
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