Preparing to land at Varadero Airport, Cuba after circa 10 hours, I started to get impatient as the little TV map showed us hovering over the Bahamas, teasingly, agonisingly, making what seemed like little progress despite a gradual descent.
Then, as the landscape revealed itself, flanked by dreamy topaz seas, I was surprised to see lush fields and hedgerows knitted together; a mesmerising geometry of green, tan and brown akin to all we had left behind flying out of Manchester, and even more so, back home in Scotland. Some patches of green boasted etchings of rooftops and of industry, others were zigzags of grey with Afros on matchsticks – the Royal Palm an official symbol of Cuba as its national tree.
The heat of mid-afternoon burst into every pore within seconds of disembarking; our walk to the airport a concoction of excitement and of exhaustion.
Security was quite intimidating as we took it in turns to stand in front of the passport control officials, staring into a tiny camera hanging down from the booth. Despite forty weeks of Spanish lessons I managed to mumble ‘hello’ rather than ‘hola’ or ‘buenos tardes’, and struggled to understand when I was asked, in English, how long my stay was for. I blame travel-weary ears. A buzzer indicated admittance to the country as the door was unlocked.
Dragged from my giddy anticipation by the strict formality of the situation, there was another security check for hand luggage through an x-ray conveyor, before we could reclaim our suitcases.
Sniffer dogs were paraded around, monitored closely for signs of excitement or agitation - do they just bark? – as the same few bags looped round and round and round and round. We started to worry that ours were not going to appear, but it seemed like nobody else could see their bags either and eventually they appeared. All the while security guards watched us intently, and I felt sure I was guilty of something and would be hauled away to some Cuban pension for torture and interrogation. It’s OK – I wasn’t.
There was a scramble to the exit en masse; a jumble of suitcase wheels colliding, tripping, cutting each other up, and out into the sun again. It was all very efficient getting to the right bus, with gloriously aggressive air con. We waited in line to change some English notes into convertible pesos (CUC’s), and then it was off to Havana.
Our tour guide was way too chirpy for a bus full of British people after a 10 hour flight. He cracked jokes and asked about sport and football teams and how William and Kate were getting on. No-one responded. We hurtled along winding roads and through a small town. The sky darkened and I wondered if it was going to rain.
It was two hours to Havana, and we all just wanted to get there and get unpacked and freshened up. Instead the tour guide decided it would be fun to stop off at a roadside bar for Pina Colada’s, and get into the Cuban way of life. This is what we soon came to know as ‘Cuba Time’ (as in, no point in rushing because everyone is working on Cuba Time where there is all the time in the world…)
Thirsty, about to pass out with weariness, I decided I wouldn’t be having a Pina Colada, but as we pulled in they were all laid out on the bar and just as he’d planned, I couldn’t resist. Bingo – so that’s why he urged us all to change money at the airport! We paid CUC 2.50 each for our drinks (less than £2), and they just pass you the bottle of rum and the cinnamon so you can ‘rum to taste’. I couldn’t imagine that ever happening in Glasgow, but was glad I decided to give it a whirl, and started to relax into it.
Until the wind whipped up and the thunder snapped and the rain hammered down around us, protected as we were by only a small makeshift shack with a palm/banana leaf roof. Brilliant. Everyone was huddling together, bear arms and flip-flopped feet unprepared for the onslaught of rain. We waited a few minutes, by this point soaked to the skin, watching the water flood into huge puddles half burying the wheels of the bus. Eventually we had to make a run for it, wading through inches of fresh rain water, which ten minutes before had been tucked up high in the clouds. Bedraggled, wet and freezing was not how I had envisioned arriving at our 5* hotel in Havana.
More jokes, (my favourite being “How to speak Japanese on the beach” – “Y u so tan?” hahahaha. Ha.), some hairy bends on slippery, rain-soaked roads, speeding along, and then we were there.
The Parque Central Hotel was a paradise, a haven in Havana of bronze statues, marble, discreet smoke-holes, quiet, cool, calm. Waiting for us in our room was a complimentary bottle of Havana Club Rum - 7 year old – and a chocolate cake.
The first thing I did was have a hot bath – I know – a hot bath! But I was so cold from the rain and the tiredness made me shiver if the heavily air conditioned room. Then, with hindsight, I made the most fatal error of the holiday and cleaned my teeth with the tap water, despite many warnings not to.
“It’ll be OK” I trilled, “I’ve got my travellers probiotics.”
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