Departures from airports are almost always inauspicious. In my case, the trip I had been longing to make began with a bad-tempered New Zealander at the check-in desk at Gatwick, who asked gruffly for my passport and visa; an unpleasant cup of stryrofoam tea, and a bottle of water that leaked on the notebook and books in my bag. At length I boarded a plane full of families and old couples. Destination: Cuba.
This had long been a priority destination for me. It had been a year already since the country began to normalise relations with the United States. It took me that long to save up the money to get there. I wanted to go, to see the extraordinary place before the deluge.
Perhaps, though, I was already too late. I took my seat on a Thompson Holidays flight to the resort town of Varadero, a new route that had only just opened. I was only able to afford to go as they had leftover seats on their package holiday flight, and were selling them cheap. It was a sign of where the country was heading.
The flight was interminable - at 9 hours it was the longest I have ever been on - but comfortable. They brought food and alcohol and tea as I read and watched the flight map, unheard-of towns passing by below. We reached Newfoundland and headed all the way down the East Coast of the United States to Miami and the Florida Keys, all invisible: I was on an aisle seat, next to an ageing couple from the north who set out on a determined effort to drink the plane dry of alcohol.
We began our descent - I watched as the island came nearer, and, to my dismay, the temperature rose into the 30s. And there it was - I saw scorched fields below, my first glimpse of Cuba. After a long wait we stepped off into a searing glass corridor, under a white-hot tropical sky. Into a biege terminal and an interminable queue for customs. Repeated announcements called for Ahmed Farrah to present himself at the information desk, and reminded us that rum cannot be carried in hand lugage - a problem I suppose they often face.
My first contact with a Cuban was with the grey border guard in a uniform with stars on the shoulders, sitting in his tiny cabin. "You go to Africa last month?", he asked me.
"Er... Morocco in February", I answered, confused. It only struck me later that they were probably screening for Ebola. I passed through, and stepped out of the terminal into the hot sun.
"Can I help you sir??", a holiday representative pounced on me. I told him the name of my hotel, and he directed me to a bus with Chinese writing on the side. A large Afro-Cuban woman told me that this bus did not go there. The rep came over. There was an obscure exchange; they shook hands. The woman turned to me: yes, this bus did go to my hotel after all. $15. I was suspicious, but having no alternative, paid and got on board. They sold me two cans of beer for a further $5. A British rep boarded, and extended first an ungrammatical welcome to Cuba, and then an invitation to a 'What's On' meeting the next day. Is this where Cuba is headed?
We set off. Within five minutes I had seen a donkey cart and several American cars from the 50s on the roads. Under the strong sun we passed rows of palm trees and scorched fields; low, unkempt woodlands and red dirt tracks; a sun-browned concrete village where topless, perspiring boys carried buckets of water from a well. And the sea - such a brilliant blue as I had never seen, breaking on the rocks to my left.
We pulled up outside a blocky hotel, the Mar del Sur, that flew the Cuban, French, Russian and Canadian flags. I had to finish the second can of Cerveza Cristal that I had unwisely opened, so I sat for a while, drinking in the steamy courtyard. Consequently I was tipsy enough to attempt to speak Spanish to the woman on reception when I went in. "Buenos tardes! Tengo una reserva acqui."
"Bienvenido! El pasaporte, por favor?", was about as far as that went before I had to ask her to switch to English.
The downside of the bargain flight was that it did not go to Havana, but only as far as the beach resort of Varadero. Reasoning, as the flight arrived quite late in the afternoon, that it would be better not to risk missing the last bus to Havana, I had arranged to stay in Varadero for the first night. Thus I had to fork out £40 for the rather dank room to which I was shown, with defeaning air conditioning and an ancient TV on which, in the absence of the BBC, I watched a fuzzy Canadian channel. It was, however, all-inclusive. So, until the restaurant opened, I went to the free bar, where the waitress took me for Spanish, the TV was Quebecois French, and the only other patrons were two Russians, and drank a beer in the warm breeze.
Thence to the free restaurant, which would perhaps be better described as the Fly-blown Buffet of Questionable Meats. I realised at this point that the Mar del Sur was actually pretty terrible.
After dinner I sneaked out of the resort, into the vast, livid Caribbean sunset, starred with the tall, cold streetlights. I ran across three wide lanes of dusty highway, dodging the 50s cars, to stand in the cacophany of insects and the hot wind by the tranquil Straits of Florida, and take the photo above.
I came back, covered in insect bites, just as the night's poolside 'entertainment' was kicking off (as far as I could decipher, this was a woman talking over songs). Tomorrow, Havana; I have no idea how...
