Category: All

At breakfast I meet a couple from New York. Jean Paul, when I comment that his name sounds French, he tells me his mother was Irish and loved France, even though she’s never been there and his father was Columbian. Alicia, his companion has Cuban relatives somewhere here. Her father got away and she remembers crackling phone calls from when she was a child. Maybe she will find them, but has no idea where to start. My first chore this morning is to change money.

The hotels will do £’s but not $’s so I recon that a trip to the bank is in order and luckily they are open on Saturday mornings. Having spotted a bank on the first day, I know where to go. The security guard asks what service I require then tells me to sit while the only teller doing exchange comes free. It’s all efficient orderly and quick. Cuba is more expensive than I’d imagined and credit card opportunities are few and far between – none of the bars or restaurants have VISA facilities and surprisingly, nor does the tour office in the Hotel Inglesias where I’m booking another excursion for tomorrow.

Coming around the now familiar corner of the Opera house, I decide to see if it’s possible to look inside. It is, at a charge of 5cucs. A very sweet looking young man asks me to wait for a few moments for the next tour, but no one else arrives, so he takes me on a personal one.

One side of this ornate building built in 1830 was the Galecian Club (Spanish Colonialists) and at some stage the two were merged. It was closed for restoration from 2012 – 2016 and consequently looks pristine inside and out. I ask questions and often pre-empt my guide’s prepared narrative. He’s very sweet and loves his job – having only been doing it for six months.  The auditorium seats 1600 and although the stage doesn’t look that large, the orchestra pit is gigantic. Many famous names have performed here: Anna Pavlova, Carouso; (there’s an amusing story about a shot being fired as a prank while he was performing.

Running out into the street, he was arrested as a pervert for wearing strange clothing) the Bolshoi Ballet of course has also been here. Domingo rehearsed but cancelled due to the death of Fidel the next day and most recently, Obama addressed an audience on this stage.

Art Cubano is well worth the visit. This entire 60’s building with ramp walkways which take me up to the third floor tells the story of Cuban art. Beginning from the late 1800’s this floor concentrates on pastoral/agricultural scenes. One artist (Landaluze) in particular stands out as the only one to depict the Black slave population. From the 1700’s there are low quality religious paintings and the Mezzanine houses prints and cartoons.

Down on the second floor, everything springs to life with the 60’s the time of the revolution. Even without being exactly sure of my dates, there is no doubt. The works are colourful, vibrant and angry, many depicting suffering others politically defiant. It’s interesting to see artists like Andy Warhol referenced and one female artist has painted the annunciation swapping the angel for a winged devil about to rape the virgin.

There are some very dull specimens of abstract and cubist art from the 50’s – possibly reflecting the repressive Batistsa ‘dictatorship’. Maybe the 50’s were universally dull. The 60’s continue with the surreal and in the later part of the decade we get representational and comic book.  Artists experiment with vastly contrasting styles. Suffering is still depicted, but there is a new confidence now that the USSR is supporting.

During the 80’s, collage and mixed media appears. There is confusion, trying to make sense of everything. In the end there is a return to the ideas of Revolution, which according to the propaganda, is on going. Finally there is patriotic art – the last canvas, called boomerang, depicts a large number of these disguised as weapons of war. The implication is clear that whatever seeds of war you sow, they always come back at you. The USA has yet to learn this as do many other politicians around the world who don’t know their history and don’t listen to artists.

My decision to patronise the gallery café for lunch is not a good one. The Cheese and ham sandwich comes in a huge soft white bread roll. After a siesta back at my air b&b I go up to the roof to write. It’s near the beginning of the hurricane season and it rains every day at some time. Moving down to the lobby I continue for a while. As Jean Paul enters, I ask him it their air conditioning has been fixed – a battery in the remote was needed. He stops to chat and ends up telling me his life story. He begins with an apology for his President and how embarrassed he is. Hillary was also not an option for him and so, he didn’t vote. The use of a private email server was a huge issue for Americans, which I didn’t really get. I commiserate. He’s an electrician and loves his job, but is driven by his romantic passions, causing him to follow the love of his life to Los Angeles for a year, to no avail.

He talks fondly of his Irish mother and his adoptive father who brought him up. His biological father, he describes as a Latino apple-seed (one who likes to spread it about a bit) but was often in and out of gaol. He keeps returning to his mother, a defining influence in his life. She’s taught him tolerance and made it clear that whoever he brought home as a partner, they would be welcome. He describes his impossibly handsome gay friend in LA and being comfortable in the gay-frequented Mary’s Café. He’d felt huge rage when homophobic abuse was hurled at his friend by passers by. The gay friend just shrugged – he was used to it. The moment passes for me to tell him about me, but I’m sure he’s guessed. We continue to philosophise, and in the end he thanks me for the conversation.

Varadero

It’s supposed to be a 6am collection from the Hotel Inglaterra, so I’ve woken at 5.15 and set out in the street lighting armed with a packets of peanuts and  biscuits standing by for breakfast. The coach is late and I chat to a Mexican couple from Chicago, Jose and Rosa. He’s having trouble changing money without his passport. ‘How did you get here?’ I ask. ‘On our ID cards. I never travel with my passport and they won’t accept the photocopy,’ he says he’s brought. The last pick up point is near the harbour where a cruise liner is berthed. Three good looking women from New York get on. Two of them are Latino Spanish speakers and the other one sitting next to me is African American. They haven’t go off the cruise liner but are having a great time checking the photos on their phones – there’s not much else to do with phones here unless you buy a local sim card.

A middle aged Japanese couple are on this tour. The wife wears a diaphanous neck to ankle green and blue floral garment with long sleeves.  She floats around photographing everything: The ceramics in the pavement outside the hotel; a panoramic video of the sun rise at the harbour … several times, all on her iphone. A very tall young man, who looks and sounds northern European is with a short woman of Indian origin speaking with a London Accent. She comes up to just about level to his ribs.

I’m going to see what the sunshine holiday makers do on this sand-spit of a place not much more that 1km across. It is explained that we will check into a resort hotel where food and drink (not spirits or wine) are free. It takes two hours to get here and after ‘checking in’ to this Spanish style resort (probably built by the Spanish) it is time for the breakfast buffet. We’ve all exchanged our passports for a waterproof orange wrist band and been left to amuse ourselves as best we can. The breakfast is plentiful, looks good but is low on taste. At least there is fresh fruit. I’ve got a plan in my head to investigate the swimming pool for a training swim but it turns out to be made entirely of curves and is tepid. I’m also full of breakfast and decide to walk on the beach.

This turns out to be hot exercise with my rucksack on my back. I return to the loungers and palm shades connected to our resort, have a brief swim in the slightly cool sea, then take a snooze. I’m unsure if we have to pay for the loungers as we’ve been told that everything on the beach is public. I ask the tall Scandinavian, who turns out to be Norweigian. He doesn’t know either, but they are going snorkling on a catamaran shortly. This sounds like a good idea as I don’t really want to sit here, even under palm leaves, for the rest of the morning. There are five of us on the Cat – the others are a Canadian couple. They say sorry about the attacks in Britain. I tell them that I texted my son in Manchester to check he was OK. ‘No,’ they say, ‘this was yesterday on London Bridge and Borough Market.’ They’ve seen it on the news at their hotel. I really am in a bubble here and the world has gone on being mad without me.

The news doesn’t really sink in immediately and just now travelling under sail out to join other boats on the reef, all seem right with the world as we all chat. The Norwegian works as a seaman and the London girl sells real estate in Fueguerola, Spain, where they both live. She tells me the market is busy. I ask if there has been a post Brexit drop-of of Brits buying. A bit but Europeans are also buying as Fueguerola is still cheap. The Canadians are speaking French so it’s no surprise to learn that they come from near Ottawa in Québec. When we get to the reef, there is an abundance of fish. The other boats are feeding them bread, so no wonder they flock around.

Our boat-man leads us in an exploration of the area, inviting us to dive down and look. Some have kept their life jackets on and so are stuck on the surface. The depth is only three metres, but that’s enough for me to feel it in my sinuses and it takes a few dives to get my breathing together. There are some amazing small fish near the bottom, dark blue with white stars. Others are camouflaged against the rocks. Schools of fish hover under ledges near the bottom and nervously disperse when looked at. I inspect the remains of several large anchors. The pressure has driven all the gunk out of my sinuses and the pain has gone. Now it’s time for us to feed the fishes and we’re handed stale baguettes to dangle just at the surface. The large fish scrabble to take chunks, sometimes inadvertently brushing against me. I even get my finger nibbled. The trick is to hold the bread with one hand above the water and keep your head under to see what’s happening. The smaller yellow fish underneath the aggressive ones on top are collecting up the smaller crumbs as they drift downwards. Presumably even smaller fish below benefit in some way. No wonder they all look fat. I’m sure that bread is not good for fish in the same way that it’s unhealthy for ducks, but hey, it’s better than feeding plastic into the ocean.

Returning, we have the wind behind us and make good progress. Lunch is still on buffet style as was breakfast but even less inspiring. I have another sea swim. Plan B was to swim up and down parallel to the beach, but I’ve just had lunch and it’s now too warm in the sea. I find shade under the palm leaf shelters. Later I try out the pool, but don’t have the energy to do more than a few strokes. One of the resort entertainers is rallying the guests –Butlins style – to a game of quoits. Who can get even one over the bottle? Only two make it to the final – most of the participants are Canadian. There isn’t really anywhere to change out of swimming costumes, so I improvise in the toilet. It’s time for an espresso in the main lobby of the hotel before catching the return bus back to Habana. I eat at Costas&tal on my way back to the b&b as it’s late – the waitress recognises me from a few days ago.

There’s a small table free by the window and I can see what’s happening on the street. Young men are on the look out for whatever might come their way. A beautiful young black man with diamante earrings in each ear looks at me as he passes the window. I look left at the next window along as he passes by. He glances back. Next to me a Russian family is finishing their meal. Mother and daughter both have badly bleached yellow hair while the husband talks all the time. The daughter takes little notice, consulting her Russian Spanish phrase-book. They seem to be enjoying themselves. A couple of women are pissed of that they can’t have a window seat then a party of five youngish Europeans of some sort come and two of the women are vegetarian. Their choices are limited. Couples come and go at the b&b. there’s a pattern going on with pale northern European type men with Spanish-speaking girlfriends of Latino origin.

Pick up time at the Hotel Inglaterra is 7.30am, so breakfast is ‘not possible’ says Barbara. The coach goes around the hotels and picks up customers. As we get the suburbs there are grand villas where the wealthy moved out from the old city. Some are recently painted, others faded and flaking.

Even further out, there are more modern dwellings, flats and houses of the 20^th C, their drab architecture suggests Soviet lack of imagination and a new coat of paint wouldn’t go a-miss.  We head out West on the Russian-built motorway towards Vinales. Our guide reports that the motorway stops near Sancti Spiritus in the East exactly at the time that the USSR collapsed.

From Habana, we pass though the province of Artemisa which is supposed to be one of the main agricultural producers for the country. I’m somewhat surprised by the lack of agricultural activity, spotting some small-scale sugar cane fields, haphazard banana plantations and quite a few dairy cows. From the 60’s USSR was Cuba’s main trading partner and large quantities of sugar were required by the Russians.

After the collapse, is known as the ‘hard period’ when few would trade with Cuba. Canada came to mine the nickel and Spain to build resort hotels. There is a great shortage of housing – It used to be illegal to sell your house so they were kept and rented out. Now it is possible to sell though there is still a large rental sector. We pass the ubiquitous Royal Palm trees which have many uses – the fruit is fed to pigs.  There is nothing of interest in Pinar del Rio the major town of the region.

Arriving in Vinales we can see first hand the rental market in action. Just about every house in the town has been brightly painted and advertises rooms for rent to tourists. Obviously the Air b&b industry has taken over and is an opportunity for families to make some decent money. Government jobs pay so poorly here that tourism seems the best hope to get ahead.

Our guide explains that the order in which we visit places depends on how many other buses are pulled up at the same place. I’m hoping for lunch sooner rather than later and regret not buying a banana from the street trader, when we stop at a Liquor factory.

This is an unashamed retail opportunity which you can expect on any bus excursion, anywhere in the world.Our guide whips out a pan full of fermenting berries from a vat for us to taste. Apparently this place is the founding site of a now-extensive business and we are offered samples of Dry and Sweet versions of the Liquor. It turns out to be brandy, perhaps not the perfect beverage on an empty stomach. We are crowded into the sales room of the factory where the brandy is sitting on shelves ready for purchase. The Sales woman also does a fairly heavy promotion of cigars which become cheaper, the more you buy. On the coach, I’m sitting next to Malcolm, a retiree from Worcester on holiday with his wife and 19 year-old son. He has a 40 year old son and grandchildren as well.

I comment that he had a bit of a rest between sons. He laughs. They have a property near Orlando in Florida where they come every year. The family apparently love all the Disney stuff, to which I offer no comment. He also loves Florida and I avoid enthusing by telling him it’s one of the places in the world in which I gets lost – it’s so flat – no mountains for directions. It turns out that we’ve been to many of the same places in the world.

He’s probably a conservative voter, but is unsure about Theresa May, except that she seems efficient. Having missed (on purpose) hearing her recent broadcasts, I can only say that as Home Secretary, she seemed rather dull. ‘Jeremy Corbyn’ by contrast, ‘seems to want to take us back to the 40’s’ he tells me. I’m thinking that perhaps that might not be as bad as he imagines, but also that it’s impossible to turn the technological clock back.

 

 

Lunch is postponed because there is a gap at the caves we are to visit. The district is littered with rounded hummocks of eroded limestone covered in vegetation. They are similar to the ones in Hanlon Bay, Vietnam and in southern China.

The cave we enter is likewise full of strange shapes formed by stalactites. There is a river through the cave, but no glow worms as in New Zealand’s caves at Waitomo. We take a boat up river and return to another entrance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is an opportunity at the tobacco farm, a gap in the buses.

This is a shed in the middle of a field used to dry the tobacco leaves. Ninety percent of the crop is bought by the government leaving the rest for the farmer to do with as he will.  This one does demonstrations of how to roll a cigar after which we are invited to try it out and possibly buy some, although the farmer is not able to have a brand name, but this means they will be cheaper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once the test cigar is lit, there is a noticeable evacuation of the area by the non smokers. Surprisingly quite a few of the young women are having a go.

At last it is lunch-time and it’s a sit-down en mass affair with crusty bread, a salad of red cabbage, rice and beans with some quite acceptable roast pork. There’s a young man with a London accent travelling alone, sitting at our table, next to the wife from Worcester. He thinks Jeremy Corbyn might win the election. The wife looks worried. He says he’s buying and selling property but this turns out to be not in London but Milton Keynes. We talk about the state of the pound and how expensive it makes travelling. The Worcester family think it will improve after the election (they’ll be able to afford Florida) but I think that it probably won’t and will get worse with Brexit. The young man nods in agreement – interesting to meet a young leftish-leaning capitalist. On my other side is a Frenchman from near Avingon. He is also travelling alone and we manage to make some conversation about the Palais de Pape and the famous bridge. Canadians are also on this tour – Cuba is a favourite destination. Perhaps this connection traces back to the nickel trade, or is it a psychological act of defiance against the US policy? Until last year US citizens were forbidden to travel here, so maybe the Canadians got one up on their neighbours.

Our lunch destination is sited under what is claimed to be the largest mural in the world. It depicts evolution and is possible the worst piece of art I’ve seen. Malcolm from Worcester agrees. I can only hope that vegetation will encroach and hide the work from the eyes of future generations.

Later after a two hour journey back I return to my sea-front bar on the Macón and try their menu. A dish of fish and shrimps sautéed in white wine is delicious.

Breakfast is amazing and curious. A collection of miss matching antique china and glass is laid out on the tables. I have a plate cup and saucer from early 20^th C Europe. My fried egg is on a faded plate from England; honey and guava marmalade in etched wine glasses.

Nothing is really collectible, especially as demand for old china has disappeared. There’s lots of fresh fruit – missing from the Miami breakfasts – cornflakes, toast and butter and a thermos of strong coffee. There’s a plate of cheese and fruit jelly, all more than can be eaten.

Heading out to look for the centre of the city I have to watch my step as the pavements or what remains of them are hazardous, and there’s the dog shit. Water trucks are on the street delivering to houses and evidence of road and building works is everywhere, but not much sign of workmen. I guess it’s complicated. Ringing in my ears is the cry from people when you mention travelling to Cuba. ‘Yes I must go there before it gets ruined.’ They have a point, but being here in these once elegant streets it’s obvious that the infrastructure has already been ruined by US lead sanctions over thirty years.

It’s not that buildings are more important than people; the landscape supports and nurtures. I am astonished at the morale of these people in their semi ruined city. I make my way down Avenue D’Italia with a notion that this will take me to the centre. A man offers a city tour with his horse and trap – one hour for 30 cuc. I make a mental note for later.

I pass supermarkets and shopping centres, of sorts with not much in them. One stall is selling only joints for plastic piping though the window display suggests fabrics and haberdashery.

I turn left under the arch of what was once Chinatown.The Chinese have long gone – maybe to  Singapore or Hong Kong. Suddenly I am in a huge square dominated by The Capitolio which is nearing the end of 16 years of restoration. It will be the seat of government again and apparently houses a gigantic statue of the Goddess Athena.

Adjacent is what turns out to be the newly restored Opera House, currently showing Carmen – the ballet. In the block behind there are the ruins of the Teatre Capitolio. I peek though a gap in the wall to see what once was the stage growing palm trees.

I see no sign of any tourist information centres but next to the Opera House at the Hotel Ingelsia I find a desk selling city maps. It’s retro time and in the absence of 4G and google maps, I’m in business, old-fashioned style. As a bonus, there’s a map of the whole country on the other side and after locating the tourism booking office inside the Hotel Ingelsias (Hotels always book excursions) I sit down and work out what options I have for one day tours. There are two and I go for Vignales tomorrow. I spend some time in the Parce Centrale looking at the workmen repairing/replacing the fountains and paving at a laborious pace.

One workman, restoring a bird bath takes a five minute rest between applying each trowel full of plaster. Giving him the benefit of the doubt I cite the heat in the middle of the day and the possibility that he needs the plaster to ‘go off’ before the next application. I wonder if the priorities are correct.

On the one hand, people living here need their dwellings restored, waterproofed (rain cascades off temporary tar paper roofing and is carried through plastic piping at cornice level to drop to the street in much the same way as mediaeval cathedrals) ahead of repairs to this square.

Clearly this slow process begins in the centre of the city for the tourists who bring their dollars to spend on the meticulously restored classic American cars. Chevrolet, Dodge, Fords and so on are all lined up in this square touting for tourists. As I sit in the square an old man speaks to me. He’s selling today’s Communist Newspaper (Granma), which of course is in Spanish.

We talk, sort of as I have only a few words of Spanish which includes ‘No Espanol’ He likewise has only a few words of English. He points to an article about Trump dumping the Paris Climate Change Agreement. I nod and offer ‘Trump bad?’ ‘Si’ he replies. ‘Obama OK?’ I ask. After a moment’s hesitation he nods. ‘Si.’ I buy his paper for 1CUC ($1).

I stumble upon the Museo de los Orishas and without a clue as to what this is, I buy a ticket following the example of a young woman who seems keen to see it. I find out that she is Spanish and working with a middle-eastern performance group in London.  She’s able to explain that this is all about African rituals and gods.

There’s a black and White photographic exhibition of Brazilian Africans dressed in their white clothes doing a festival of the sea. The rest of the exhibition is the depiction of various African gods and deities from Nigeria, Kenya, Gambia and so forth. They travelled with the slaves and were of course forbidden by the Catholic Church but were eventually converted into Christian saints for convenience.

 

I’ve spotted Belle Arts on my newly acquired map and head towards it, refusing the pleas from the Car Men.

Outside the Belle Arts a chap is trying to drum up business for the Museum café. He ushers me upstairs and I vaguely wonder if there is free entry. I decide that a plate of ham, cheese and olives might make a light lunch with coffee.  Afterwards I wander out to explore and find the main staircase blocked with scaffolding – more repair and restoration is taking place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spanish art is on this floor, so imagining that the rest of the museum is closed, I make the most of it. It’s astonishing what art treasures are to be found in out-of-the-way parts of the world. A whole room of Bastida  (Valencia) is the first impression. There are several by Velasque, including bloody bull fights where the bulls are having the best of it. They are quite amusing as they are full of injured bull fighters and disemboweled horses either dead on dying with guts all over the place.

 

I descend to look at an exhibition of sculpture by a German called Tony Cragg. It’s good but one of the attendants has spotted that I’ve got my rucksack on my back. With limited means of communication, I explain how I got in for free without checking in my bag. She shows me to the lift and accompanies me to the 5^th floor, having, I think, suggested that some tip is expected. I’m thinking about my declaration to support the Cuban people and perhaps this might be a good ruse.

Here on the 5^th floor there are Germany and Holland – followers of Cranich are here along with a few real Rubens and van Dycks. There’s an Italian section and Great Britain with the prolific Reynolds (faded as he is wont to do) plus Gainbrough, Raeburn, Romney & etc. I also get an obscured view through scaffolding of the sensational stained glass ceiling above the stair- well. Down to the 4^th floor there are collections from antiquity: Rome, Egypt and the Etruscans. I have no need to re-visit these and pass on to France, but there’s not much of importance here. I take the lift back to the German Sculpture room and tip the woman who showed me the 5^th floor. She’s pleased, not expecting me to return;  apparently government employees are very poorly paid. I head down towards the Museum of Revolution to check it out. There’s a modern pavilion in the leafy avenue with a collection of weaponry outside it and I stop to look.

Suddenly a man, neatly dressed in white with his wife and young family similarly attired, attracts my attention. He thinks I need directions, he doesn’t know where New Zealand is, but I try to make conversation, telling him what a lovely family he has. This immediately brings out the story of milk rationing and how difficult it is for the baby. Thinking back to my visa declaration – ‘supporting the Cuban people’ – I guess he’s after a hand out. If milk really is rationed he won’t be able to get any more with the 5 cuc I offer. He tries it on, asking for 3 more’ for the Mother’, but I’m firm and say no as I walk away. Before me is the Belle Artes of Cuba but there’s only thirty minutes until closing – it will keep for another day.

I make my way back to the corner of Ave. D’Italia, but the horse and cart rides around the city have gone, so it’s back to Parce Centrale, where I’d been offered a tour in a bright yellow Courvette – guaranteed original engine. That also is away, so I decide to go gay and take a pink Chevrolet. It’s 50 cuc for an hour but hey, I’m supporting the Cuban people here.

My driver literally trumpets his glee to all the other drivers by playing on his valve (as in trumpet) driven car horn. Off we go around the city – he’s pointing out all the hotels and buildings of Cuban Pride.

He has a special signature phrase on his horn when ever he passes an attractive woman. They’re use to this and studiously ignore him. ‘They’re not taking any notice of you,’ I tell him. He shrugs.

We stop at the big José Marti Memorial (there are several to him all around) and I take photographs of him and the cartoons of Ché and Fidel. We pass a huge cemetery and though the suburb of Vedado, where houses are modern and not crumbling, down to the beginning of Malecón which sweeps around the bay, past high rise housing back to the old city.

After a beer at Café Neruda on the Malecón, I try out Castas &Tal  – recommended by Barbara at Cassa Densil and only a few blocks away. It’s very well presented and very reasonable. It’s got notices in trip adviser.

With the streets clear, my Uber app announces one minute to arrival at the Hotel. I barely have time to wheel out my bags onto the pavement. It works and quotes a fraction of the price to the airport. I’ve been told that visas have to be applied for at the port of destination, so I’ve come out early to suss it all out. There is in fact a special check-in/bag drop area for anyone going to Cuba. I check in on the machine, pay for baggage and trundle off to find somewhere to write and recharge the laptop. When it’s time to collect the visa, I find that it’s $100 – a far cry from the on-line charge of $16 a few months ago before the US election. I just wonder who is making the best of this deal. I note with amusement that in the list of reasons for travelling to Cuba there is no ‘Tourist’ option, the best one seems to be ’To support the Cuban people.’  I’ve decided to pay for two bags this time but once again, the gate desk is asking people to voluntarily check in carry on bags for free. No one is taking any notice of the weight or dimensions of bags. I probably could have got away with it. The flight to Havana is only forty-five minutes and immigration is fine.  On first inspection the airport looks modern, perhaps a bit frayed around the edges – like some of the Heathrow terminals. The toilets are operated by infra-red sensors and there are extendable gantries for planes to hook up to. There is, however, a long wait in the baggage hall and during the time, the lights go out, plunging us all into darkness … twice.

 

The transport team arranged by Densil’s air b&b are there to greet me.  ‘Cambio’, I explain, and they point me to a long queue outside. I wait for about 15 minutes until suddenly they realise that there is a money change desk at the other end with no queue and I’m hurried towards it. My driver, Maria, is middle aged and in charge of a bright yellow Peugeot. At first she says little, but I find out that she’s educated, her mother was a teacher and her daughter, an accountant has married an American. They are waiting for her residency in the US. I ask Maria if she is tempted to go, No, she loves her country and wouldn’t go. It’s just that she can earn more money doing airport transfers. Often her answer to my questions is ‘It’s complicated’.

I ask about the increase in tourism. ‘Is it good?’

‘Yes, but they have to respect the way we do things here and follow our rules.’

I wonder how the country will cope with a flood of foreign investors. Suddenly a huge bunker type building appears in the distance with a rather stunning spire. Maria tells me ‘That’s where Raúl works.’ The spire, once we are past it, turns out to be a memorial to José Marti a founding hero of Cuba. Facing him on tower blocks are cartoons of Ché Gevara and Fidel, whose picture is still to be seen, pronouncing ‘we love Fidel’ or’ long live Fidel’. I notice all the classic and vintage cars on the road. Everywhere there are ancient Ladas from the USSR era. Old American cars from the 50’s and 60’s are mainly used as taxis, but there are modern cars and yellow taxis as well. The sense of a make do and mend economy is everywhere. Cuba must have the largest collection of classic cars in the world, probably worth a fortune.

Cassa Densil is a block an a half away from the sea-front. The street is crumbling almost bomb damaged. Some houses are brightly painted; others are in a state of near collapse. The road has been dug up to lay something but piles of rubble remain and black bitumen has been partly laid to cover up the excavations. Denzil’s, as advertised on the Air B&B site is old-style colonial. These streets look to have been built in the early 20^th or late 19^th centuries and the place is full of antique-like furnishings. Whilst not exactly dusty, there is an air of decay as if Miss Haversham will appear at any moment. My hostess is an Italian woman called Barbara. She visited several times and fell in love with

a local. She has a little English and I have to slow down for her. She takes me up onto the roof, where breakfast is served to give me a panoramic view and orientate me. I get directions to local restaurants and pointed in the direction of the Parce Centrale, where I’m told I can get a map of the city. It is somewhat disconcerting to be without wifi connection or even a mobile network – no whipping out my phone to bring up google maps. I attempt to contact the Orca water polo guys, but it doesn’t work even though I have all bars showing. I guess the world will carry on without me for a week. The possibility of Trump-free days is attractive and I realize that the British election will happen while I’m flying from here to Dallas.

It’s still light and I make for the sea-front, a long sweeping street called the Malecón. In the fading sun-setting light the sight is stunning, but turning around to look at the once-grand Edwardian era houses, crumbling away, the extent of neglect becomes clear.

There’s a new sea-front bar called La Abadia where I stop to have a beer. It’s been built with modern a sail-like roof structure in a gap in the terrace. As I sit and watch the sunset, a brightly lit blue-sky gap appears in the darkening clouds suggesting a way forward, a good omen.  I’m heading east towards Castropolo – a restaurant recommended by Barbara.

Suddenly a striking new sculpture appears. This blackened female bust has a shocked expression at her own disintegration, but there is also an air of defiance about her. I choose the downstairs section of the restaurant as Barbara says it’s cheaper. Locals seem to be the main customers and there is a party of five who scrape their left-overs into a real doggy-bag. Later they also get bags for their un-touched food. It seems nothing is to be wasted. A large party arrives with a very elderly grandmother who can hardly walk – I’m happy to sit at the back of the restaurant just watching and listening to the live music. My mixed grill of fish is a bit chewy, but tasty and more expensive than expected. It’s time to walk along the sea-front as I’ve eaten too much. I can see people on the wall on the other side of the road but before I can cross, I’m approached by a prostitute

who is quite young and very pretty. She’s nicely dressed and does the usual, asking where I’m from. Not many people here have heard of New Zealand here and the best I can do is say near Australia. ‘Ah’ is the reply, but I add – ‘but not Australia.  I quickly tell the girl ‘I like boys’ – I should really be saying ‘I like men’. This seems to work and saves wasting her time. I cross the road and immediately am approached and gently touched on the arm by several more attractive women. The same exchange happens and I decide to abandon my walk and re-cross the road back to Cassa Densil.