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‘I ’m not supposed to be here.’
Such was the thought running through my head the first several hours upon our arrival in Cuba.
As a US citizen, travel to Cuba is essentially illegal. Well, technically it’s not the travel part that can land one in hot water, it’s that spending money in Cuba is illegal, unless one has a special licence granted by the Treasury Department’s Office of Foreign Assets Control (OFAC).
‘OFAC you,’ was my response to the Travel Ban. Not that I drafted a letter to Uncle Sam to state my protest, or dialled up Washington to voice my say.
For years I’d wanted to visit Cuba. "Go before Castro dies," is what everyone seems to say. Not that life in Cuba, or the tensions that span the Florida Strait, will change overnight El Comandante en Jefe goes. Still, as one who’s seen countries in various stages of Communism and post-Communism – and as an aficionado of cigars – I knew I wanted to get to Cuba sooner rather than later.
Years of online research, on-and-off plans to go, finally culminated in a booking with a holiday airline here in Canada where my travel connections secured us a package from Montreal at a summertime bargain.
see our Cuba photos
What seemed like just another flight down to Miami, as if we were catching a cruise, slowly morphed into reality as we flew over the length of Florida, past Key West, then began our descent over those waters in which so many Cubans have perished trying to flee. Minutes later we made out the lights of Cardenas and the Hicacos Peninsula, circling around the bay and city of Matanzas before finally touching down at the Juan Gualberto Gomez international airport.
As the eager crowd of vacationing Quebecers applauded our arrival, I felt several emotions – unusual for a seasoned and admittedly jaded traveller such as myself – and even noticed a tear or two beginning to well up. We were finally here, in Cuba, in that land just 90 miles to the south of the States, yet so far away politically and economically. And of course we were here in violation of US law.
2am, and it was Cuban legal authorities we’d have to deal with for now. The immigration officer insisted on seeing my wife and me separately; for the former, with a Canadian passport, no worries. I didn’t know what to expect, however, and asked in rusty Spanish if the senora could kindly not stamp my passport. The officer smiled and said, "claro," leaving the passport clean and stamping only the tourist card. She did have several questions for me before wishing a pleasant stay – how long have I lived in Canada, what do I do, why am I visiting Cuba – but certainly par for the course in travels worldwide.
All baggage is x-rayed upon entering Cuba, and a friendly customs official asked if I was bringing in any apples. "Manzanas?" I asked, seeking clarification. "Si," she said, "there’s something round in your bag." I thought for a moment, then opened the suitcase and produced a half-dozen baseballs, my contribution to the national sport. The officer laughed, and said she hoped I’d find a pick-up game somewhere.
Exiting the terminal, we were met both by our holiday rep – who would subsequently take care of us at the resort and help facilitate our donation of medical supplies – as well as by a blanket of oppressive heat and humidity. We’d expected as much, in the middle of summer in Cuba, but nothing quite prepares you for the instant weight of the air. It would take a couple of days to get accustomed to the climate, but we’d planned it so that the beach was nearby, and that we wouldn’t be in the city until the third day of the journey.
Our van rumbled through the dark for several minutes, after which we reached the Bay of Matanzas, with the lights of the city of the same name becoming increasingly visible on three sides. A sign in the grassy median welcomed us to this city of some 125,000 inhabitants, and a series of large signs followed with patriotic slogans such as "Viva Cuba!" "Sovereign," "Proud," "Socialist," and "Independent." As if we held any doubt as to where we were, two or three 1950s vintage American cars passed by, and we saw others parked on the sidestreets and in front of houses and apartment blocks, in varying states of repair.
The buildings of Matanzas themselves, both residential and commercial, reflected a general state of dilapidation. That’s putting it kindly – actually, our first reaction was more to the effect of, ‘it’s like a bomb exploded.’ None had, of course, not since the revolution a half century ago. And in fact, despite the late (early?) hour of 2:30, the streets were not empty of either autos or pedestrians, and eventually we came upon a park where a large gathering of youth were taking in a concert. With the nearly unsufferable heat in the daytime, and from what we could see very little to do at home, it made sense that people would be out and about at night. Occasionally we’d be able to see into a living room, bedroom, or kitchen – many of the windows barred – and noted that only some had television, very few had air conditioning, and none were more than minimal in decor.
Matanzas gradually faded behind us as we went uphill and up the coast a bit, crossing the gorge at Bacunayagua (lit up by the moon) on an otherwise desolate highway – the main thoroughfare from Varadero to Havana, yet still only two lanes and not well paved in places. Eventually we turned onto a dirt road and headed a few clicks towards the beach, passing groups of young men walking alongside the road. Where were they coming from, a night at the beach, and where were they headed? Minutes later we were waved through the security gate and onto the grounds of Breezes Jibacoa, a four-star resort that we’d chosen for its proximity to Havana.
A quick check-in, and a mojito at the 24-hour lobby bar, and we were led across the property down the beach and to our accommodations (not facing the beach but a 30-second walk from it) for the next week. ‘And I’m not supposed to be here,’ was my thought again, tongue in cheek, as I smiled upon finding two Cuban cigars awaiting our arrival in the room. Turning on the TV, which offered satellite channels of Time Warner in English and Spanish – CNN had Larry King interviewing Robin Quivers, sidekick of the Howard Stern show.
Just 90 miles south of the States – due south, in fact, of Key West – and the feeling couldn’t have been more surreal.
The first two days we spent doing our darnedest to get used to that humidity and strong sun. Sunny mornings and afternoons would see a buildup of clouds gathering over the hills, though the thunder heads would only make their way out to the water twice, bringing a few tropical showers and one downpour that provided a welcome relief from the heat. We’d take leisurely walks down the beach, where Cubans would strike up conversations with us, allowing for practice in our Spanish and their English, but of course even better gaining an insight into the local culture, economy, and politics.
Though the resort sits on a relatively secluded bay, the beach is open to Cubans, who visit particularly on the weekends from Matanzas and Havana. A few kilometres west, towards the mill town of Santa Cruz del Norte, is a beachside retreat for Cubans, many of whom have been given lodging and transportation courtesy of their employers. Of course, these accommodations are far more modest than any tourist resort; several cabins dot the grass and sand up from the beach, no air conditioning or TV, and a pool and barbecue area are in the middle. We had come prepared, having brought a duffel bag filled with basic necessities, and gave small gifts to people we’d meet. Sadly, they are lacking in essential items that we take for granted: toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, feminine products, school supplies. So we tried to do our part, and received thanks and smiles from the nice people whom we had the privilege to meet. To a couple of teenage boys, we also gave a bat and two baseballs, after talking about the Cuban leagues and the Major leagues.
Nearly everyone you meet speaks of their family and/or friends who’ve made it out and are in Miami or elsewhere, usually Miami. And too many also know someone who has attempted the journey and died in the effort. Hundred of thousands more, it is safe to say, want to go. It’s as if they’ve been told that the streets are paved with gold. And yet they’ve also been told, by their government of course, that the States is nothing but a cesspool of guns and poverty, lacking healthcare and education. The truth, I would respond when asked, was something in between. Americans have a lot of liberties, many taken for granted, that Cubans simply are deprived of. With those liberties come responsibilities, and the reality that many in the promised land are not living the American Dream.
I never mentioned Castro, or uttered the words ‘Fidel,’ ‘comandante en jefe,’ or ‘maximo lider.’ For one, it’s frowned upon. But more out of respect for the people, not the boss or his regime, did I not bring up the subject. Not directly, anyhow. One doesn’t have to. Fidel Castro is just beneath the surface, and deeply rooted therein, in the lives of every Cubano. When a man speaks of health care, for example, he talks about the medicine "that we are given." He doesn’t have to say "that Fidel gives us," it’s understood. Conversely, most complaints that Cubans have about the human condition in Cuba are indirectly aimed at Fidel, without uttering his name of course.
By our third day we were ready to travel and explore, and took a full day and night excursion into Havana. The drive, which takes an hour including pina coladas served fresh in the coconut (five o’clock somewhere) at a rest stop, shows us in broad daylight what we’d come to see. Billboards are everywhere, but of course these aren’t promoting beer or sneakers, but the revolution. Only occasionally would we see an image of or reference to Fidel – most of the glory was given to Che Guevara and Jose Marti, and much of the verbiage was to reinforce what is taught to every Cuban from an early age, that the Revolution must persevere and that the Work of the People must be carried out. Knowing that the roadway is plied by tourists as well, the billboards will sometimes show less than flattering images of George W. Bush, and will feature phrases such as, "you can’t blockade the Truth."
Before long we’re in Havana proper, passing the sports complex and the eastern beaches before passing through the Bay of Havana tunnel, emerging on the other side in Old Havana. Immediately we’re surrounded by colonial architecture and old-world-meets-third world ambience, the streets a mix of classic 1950s American cars, Russian Ladas, and the homemade Cuban transport known as the "camel," a semi tractor that pulls a two-humped passenger trailer, packed to the gills and belching noxious fumes.
Normally we avoid the tourist bus experience, eschewing the umbrella-following pack in favour of exploring on our own. But for the first day in Havana, and for the package deal that was offered, we surrendered our preconceived notions and were treated to a knowledgeable who was fluent in English (and Italian) and gave an informative perspective throughout our time in Havana.
Our first stop was El Capitolio, the capital building that was built as a replica as the one in Washington – but not exactly used in the same quasi-democratic fashion these days. We’re given a half hour here to walk around and explore, and after snapping pictures of the dome and the front steps, we wandered around to the side, where I spotted the Partagas cigar factory. Once again tears welled up in my eyes. "I thought I might never get here," I said to Jen at one point, not referring to the Partagas factory alone but to Havana and Cuba in general. For a cigar smoker since before they became chic, this was a journey to the mother ship. The morning sun cast a resplendent light on the cream and red brick facade, and this Havana icon did not disappoint. Nearby by is the square dubbed "Jurassic Park," where dozens of 1950s (and a few prior to that) Chevys, Buicks, Desotos, Mercurys, and Fords are on parade. We would return here on our day of exploring alone and get a late afternoon sunlight that was suited for some great shots.
Hopping back onto the bus was, and would continue to be throughout the day, a welcome respite of cool air and water. Next up was the Plaza de la Revolucion, where demonstrations are held and speeches given by Castro, in the shadow of a monument to and statue of Jose Marti. The monument and statue (built on a grassy hill) aside, the venue is less a plaza and more a parking lot, sans the white lines, disappointing but not surprising given the financial state of Cuba. Surrounding the lot, er, plaza, are the Ministry of Interior building, the entire facade of which features a giant two-dimensional sculpture of Che Guevara’s image; as well as the Ministry of Defense, housing the offices of younger brother (and de facto leader) Raul Castro.
Later we’d visit the Romeo y Julieta cigar factory, where I had to be dragged out of the store kicking and screaming – never had I stood in such a collection of puros Habanos: Cohiba, Partagas, Hoyo de Monterey, Diplomaticos, Cuaba, and more, shelves packed with seemingly endless boxes. And another walk-in humidor housed the private collections of many VIPs and diplomats, under lock and key of course.
For lunch we were taken to a tourist restaurant in Miramar, having driven down a tree-lined boulevard past embassies and ornate residences, many of which had belonged to Batisteros who’d fled to Miami following the revolution. The meal was the best we’d had thus far, after the disappointing and often inedible fare at the resort – simple rice with beans, chicken, salad, fruit... simple, but good. The resort should have taken a lesson. Two, actually, as that evening, after more touring and before going to the Tropicana cabaret, we’d shower, change, and dine at the Panorama hotel, where we enjoyed more Cuban and continental fare as part of our Havana package. This was as good as the food was going to get on this trip, though if you’re going to Cuba for the food, you’re in the wrong place.
Cuban food can be very good. Rice and beans, chicken, steak, fresh fish – the potential and foundation certainly exists. But the methods and ingredient quality are hit and miss. They used to say that you couldn’t get good Chinese food in China. During the heyday of Communism, that was often reality – nowadays China is communist in name only, and its cuisine excels across the board (though debate persists as to where the best Chinese food is – Hong Kong, Vancouver, etc). The best Cuban food without a doubt is in Miami – Versailles and La Carreta on Calle Ocho and elsewhere, David’s, so many others. Someday they’ll open up branches in Havana... ojala, as they say in Spanish, someday, hopefully.
That afternoon we got a glimpse of Cuban capitalism in the form of an arts and crafts market in Havana’s Vedado district. It’s not the biggest one in town, which is held on a different day, and seemed to be more trinkets and little of interest to us. What was of great interest, however, was the street on which the market was located, Calle 23, better known as "La Rampa." This is one of the best spots in town for car-watching. One after another, sometimes two or three at a times, these relics of days gone by would come parading down the avenue, their occupants hanging arms out the window and checking out the action on the sidewalk. We set up camp at an intersection up the block from the market, and started snapping. Some cars were in great shape, meticulously maintained by their owners, while others had seen better days (not since the Kennedy years perhaps). Technically, the government owns most of these vehicles, and much has been written about Cubans who’ve acquired classic cars through means outside the official process, only to have them taken away as property of the State. Sad, really. Anyway in less than an hour we saw some fantastic vehicles, examples of which are right here.
Also in Vedado is the Hotel Nacional, once run by Meyer Lansky during Havana’s heyday as a gambling paradise. The exterior still stands out among the Havana skyline, and graces this end of El Malecón, the seaside promenade that runs 7km from Old Havana to the entrance of Miramar at the Almendares River. Travelling east along El Malecón from the Nacional, one encounters a plaza of black flags fronting a modern block building. This is the de facto US embassy, known as the US Interests Section in Havana since the two countries lack official diplomatic relations. The flags, perhaps a hundred of them forming a thick field, were placed in the "protest plaza" by the Cuban government as a response to the embassy’s scrolling of news headlines along the exterior top wall. This plaza is where crowds gathered to rally in uproar during the Elian Gonzalez saga, and contains slogans on the walls such as "patria o muerte – venceremos" ("Fatherland or death – we shall overcome").
Further on, El Malecón is lined, on the inland side opposite the seawall, with houses and apartment dwellings. Some have been or are being restored to or towards their former level of glory, while many simply lie in a decrepit state, though nearly all are inhabited. This is the accurate image of a crumbling Havana, a city once a crown jewel of the Americas, allowed to deteriorate into a weather-beaten capital. Pieces of building to crumble off every day, and collapses are not unusual. Tourists beware. Though not all is lost – UNESCO World Heritage status has brought an influx of cash, and the city’s restoration team is hard at work. This is good news for tourists, but the reality of what most Cubans have to live with – and without – is still glaring.
The climax for the day occurred as we stopped in La Habana Vieja, the old town. The first building that stood out, at least for me, was the ship terminal. Why? This is where passengers will disembark when cruise ships are allowed to call on Havana (US-owned or affiliated cruise lines – and that means nearly all the major players in the global cruise business today – are blocked by the Travel Ban). It is only logical that once the travel ban is lifted, after Fidel and likely Raul are out of the picture and who knows what else, cruises will be the first form of legalised tourism for Americans, not having to rely on Cuba’s infrastructure for accommodations and meals. So, someday... ojala.
Walking up from the port, one is greeted by the Church of Saint Francis of Assisi, and a broad plaza in front of it. Calle Oficios is the main street leading up past hotels, residences, museums and shops, terminating at the Plaza de Armas. Cut out this slice of Old Havana and it could easily be placed in the Spanish colonial sections of San Juan, Santo Domingo, Mexico City, or elsewhere in Latin America. Amazing what some restoration work and a coat of paint can do. Past the plaza and park is the Castillo de Real Fuerza, a fortress built to protect the city in the mid-16th century. The centrepiece of Old Havana is a mere two blocks in, where a plaza fronts the Catedral San Cristobal. A baroque example from the 18th century, the cathedral is a city landmark and its European-style plaza an ideal place to sit for a coffee.
If you don’t mind standing, however, a great place for a mojito is just around the corner – La Bodeguita del Medio, where the drink is said to have been. This was one of Hemingway’s haunts back in the day, and a napkin is framed above the bar, noting in Papa’s script "My mojito en la Bodeguita, and my daiquiri en la Floridita." La B del M, as it’s come to be called, has spun off branches elsewhere in the region – we’d visited one in Mexico on a recent cruise, unawares of its origins until we began planning the Cuba journey.
Old Havana is skirted by El Malecón and the harbour on one side, and by the Capitol and the Prado on the other. El Floridita, of daiquiri fame a la Hemingway, is a 10-minute walk down Calle Obispo, which we’d return to for shopping and strolling in a couple of days. The ambience in El Floridita is more relaxing than at La B del M, offering plush red banquettes and a salsa band. The daiquiri here was by far the best we’d had in Cuba, and though both are a bit touristy, La Bodeguita and El Floridita are both musts, for the historic value alone. Hemingway also lived at the hotel Ambos Mundos, on Obispo street, and the today both the pink exterior and wood panelled lobby are worth a stop. And it was on Obispo at a candy and liquor store (what a combination, why didn’t I think of that?!) that we bought our dark aged rum, anejo, and were given above-and-beyond service in having it wrapped and packed for the flight home.
Communism of course doesn’t promote service, and at times the frustration of not having anything close to international standards does add up. When someone goes out of their way in Cuba, it is a treat. The dining staff at the resort were a good example of the hit-and-miss nature of the Cuban service industry. For the ones who served us well and with whom we enjoyed good conversation, we imparted gifts, despite the resort’s no-tipping policy.
As the afternoon came to a close, we were driven to the Panorama hotel, part of the same group that put on this excursion. Here we had a chance to shower, change, relax, and have a good supper, as described above. We wanted to take this place back to the beach. Soon enough, and timed perfectly as a thunderstorm had passed through while we were in the hotel, we made our way through Miramar, its streets now lit up, to the Tropicana, the long-running cabaret that has spun so many imitators in Havana, Las Vegas, and elsewhere. This is the real thing, and despite being kitschy and overpriced (happens when the government controls all prices everywhere), Tropicana is said to be a must. We’d have to concur. Walk in through the lobby with ornate chandeliers (the same kind worn by the dancers in a later act) and you’re handed a puro by a cigarette gal, wearing the open-faced box of smokes and candies around her neck, how old school. One half expects Sammy Davis Jr., Frank Sinatra, or Nat King Cole to walk through the door.
Walk through the doorway, however, and you’re back outside, in the open-air showroom that is the Tropicana. The stars were out, and we’d once again gotten very lucky with the weather, as the earlier thundershower had brought with it a cooling breeze. The tables are laid out cabaret style, though alas we weren’t able to tip the maitre d’ for better seats. Nonetheless, the show itself is a spectacle on several broad stages, on multiple levels. And the Cuba libres are a part of the package, going down like water. The production is about an hour and a half of song and dance, but the highlight has to be the elaborate costumes worn by the performers – amazing colours, skimpy one-pieces, and ornate, sky-high feather headdresses. And yes, they were wearing chandeliers in one number. The live band and the spectacular lighting rounded off the evening, and too soon it was midnight and our carriage – van, that is, met us out front after the finale. As we drove through the emptied streets of Miramar and Vedado, then along the Malecón now lit up, I thought about what we’d want to come back and see later in the week.
After a day on the beach, complete with snorkelling on the reef directly in front of the resort, we were ready for more Havana. On the drive in we discussed with our taxi driver, Jorge, what we’d like to see. We were advised that the Ministry of the Interior museum was closed – disappointing as we’d looked forward to some Cold War propaganda and spy stuff. The propaganda we’d get our fill of, it turned out, at the Museum of the Revolution, which holds relics of Che, Fidel and the gang from the 1950s, including a tank Castro used; the boat Granma which carried the exiles back from Mexico onto Cuban soil for the beginning of the revlution; and an 'idiots corner' at the end with life-size caricatures of Reagan, Bush (senior) and Batista.
Jorge dropped us off in the morning near the Capitol, and we decided on a time in the evening that he’d meet us at the Cathedral. After changing some more money – Canadian dollars to Cuban Convertible Pesos, as US dollars are charged a 10% fee to discourage their use, and credit cards are not widely accepted – we walked down Calle Obispo and started once again in Old Havana. The sun and humidity were still oppressive, but we’d at least become somewhat acclimatised, and were good for walking for the day.
Through the old town we walked, over to El Malecón and towards El Morro, stopping early and often for photographs galore, and for sips of water. Along the promenade we encountered two young men we’d met the other day, who regularly fished the area but were frustrated with the oil slick now on the harbour. We brought some gifts for them this time, the aforementioned basic goods as well as a couple of baseballs. I let them know that we had more in the car, which we did, and we arranged to meet later in the day at the Cathedral – I’d even give them the hat off my head at day’s end, as we’d be returning home soon, even though my other hat (and our sandals, towels, and t-shirts) had been stolen from our beach chair the first day. The photo ops were abundant -- of the Malecón, El Morro, Prado, and again of the many old cars that we’d see throughout the day. We were able to sit stop the seawall and look out at the city sprawling along the bay, and down at the rocks below at the youth playing – this was their playa, a far cry from our beach resort but the closest thing they had.
Later we’d walk around El Capitolio, and visit the Partagas factory. I’d bring home a nice stash of cigars, all perfectly legal within the confines of the Cuba-Canada framework. Of course, it’s still illegal for a US citizen to buy Cuban cigars, be it in Cuba or anywhere else in the world, as it’s considered tantamount to giving money to the Cuban government. Bitter over the Bay of Pigs, are we? And more photo ops at Jurassic Park, where the cars were out in full force, still amazing for us to look at the photos and see those things on the road. Some of those vehicles were barely running, and it’s said that every Cuban who owns one is by default a mechanic and an inventor. Jorge, our driver, said when I asked that he in fact owned one himself, a ‘57 Chevy. I was about to ask if we could return to the resort in the Chevy and not in the cab, but I knew that doing so would put him in an awkward position, as that would be illegal and if caught the driver can face a hefty fine or worse. Still, they were a sight to see, operating as private vehicles and taxis on the streets of modern-day Havana.
Between Jurassic Park and the Partagas factory is the gateway to Chinatown. It’s more or less just the gateway that’s Chinese, as Chinatown itself saw its Chinese population dwindle long ago. Still, we walked the dusty, broken-up streets for a bit, then ducked into an eatery that was noted in some of the guidebooks. They were running air conditioning at full blast, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. We’d had nothing but A/C issues with at the resort – the main resort restaurant was open-air and more akin to a steambath with flies, while the unit in our room simply couldn’t keep up with the July heat and humidity. So when we walked through the doorway of that Chinatown café, the relief was palpable. We each enjoyed a nice smoothie, and snacked on Chinese style noodles, Cuban rice with beans mixed in, and a sizzling pork dish with hints of soy and ginger – a Chinese-Cuban fusion, not altogether different from the one’s I’d experienced in New York. For the air conditioning alone we would have paid the modest bill – the rest was a bonus.
Back we walked out into the heat and across town, stopping for pictures, people-watching, and generally soaking in the ambience. Along the way we came across a corner stand, with perhaps twenty people in line – it turned out they were selling sugar cane juice, guarapo. Two doors down was a local farmers market, selling papayas, bananas, mangoes, and other fresh fruits and vegetables. We’d been having fresh mangoes every morning for breakfast, one of the few things the resort dining got right. And Cuban mangoes are special, maybe the best we’ve ever had. Nearby by was El Floridita, our experience here already mentioned, and then more window-shopping (and two bottles of rum) along Calle Obispo. Shortly before reaching the Cathedral, we ran into another woman we’d met the other the day, and asked her to accompany us to the taxi where we had some gifts for her. Again, sad to see that someone in her fifties – though looking much older – had threadbare shoes and was extremely thin, bordering on unhealthy.
We drove out of Havana in near silence, just soaking in the city one more time, and gathering thoughts about what we’d seen and experienced. Two more days on the beach and it would be time to go home.
It is important to remember that we had the privilege of visiting Cuba, and the privilege of leaving. Not that we didn’t want to stay longer – we did. Granted, we were staying in Cuba in a state of luxury, not at all reflective of what Cubans experience. Cubans cannot even enter resorts or their grounds, save for employees.
In this day and age, Cuba is the only country we have visited that shows few signs of improvement. We’ve been to some poor countries in the region, and I’ve seen the poverty of Southeast Asia and the communist states of Vietnam and China. And we’ve seen a handful of post-Communist countries, in various stages of development. What’s different is that all of the aforementioned are at least developing. I am not sure the same can be said for Cuba. And that is a depressing thought.
Why the development is not taking place, or is doing so at a snail’s pace, is the subject of great debate – and another article. For our purposes here and now, the takeaway is essentially thus: a mis-micromanaged economy combined with strained politics in Havana, Miami, and Washington, have made for an adverse human condition in Cuban society that we’ve seen nowhere else.
Doesn’t every Cuban have free access to health care? Free, yes. And the clinics themselves are accessible. Whether the clinics are stocked with medicines or staffed with doctors, that is a different question. We brought along two suitcases from the non-profit organisation Not Just Tourists, and these were donated to a clinic in Matanzas. I had wanted to go visit the clinic, but it was the feeling of our holiday rep, Barbarita, that the donation would be better facilitated if made through a Cuban, that a feeling of resentment had started to develop about foreigners making donations to what is often heralded as Castro’s shining achievement. I pressed a bit, but in the end acquiesced, and accepted the paperwork she presented a few days later that was signed by the clinic. We all have our pride.
Education is another issue that is supposed to separate Cuba from elsewhere in the region. And it probably does. Of course, Cuba continues to follow the old Soviet style of education, whereby individual talents are identified at an early age, and students are either fast-tracked for success or placed elsewhere in the vast cogs.
Is the average Cuban better off than the average citizen of neighbouring countries? Depends on which neighbour we’re comparing. Haiti? Clearly, yes. Mexico, Jamaica, or the Dominican Republic? Hard to say. Barbados or Costa Rica? Not likely.
We left Cuba with as many questions and as much curiosity as when we’d arrived. Again, few other countries have affected us that way, perhaps none. We know we want to revisit Cuba, next time on a more local track, perhaps staying in casas particulares (B&Bs) and eating in paladares (home cooking restaurants).
We will see what happens in the months and years to come, as the handover of power continues, and as the next chapter in the saga that is Cuba is written.
see our Cuba photos
