Off to Cuba

The day of departure had arrived. I would fly on Martinair to Havana, spend 4 weeks on the island, travelling eastward, finishing up in the city of Holguin, where I would take another Martinair flight back to Amsterdam.


At the shopping centre I stocked up with nuts and dried fruits. I also had some Belgian chocolate. Chocolate is always good for an emergency. One of the Zuidtangent buses had disappeared into a black hole. Services are not always as reliable as you think for the Netherlands. No matter, I had safety margin and at the airport I discovered that the departure was delayed by an hour anyway.


The flight took 10 hours. As far as I could tell most of the passengers were Dutch with a handful of other nationalities, including Cuban. Service on Dutch airlines is restrained; portions are just big enough; no extravagance.


In Havana airport I sailed though immigration and customs though I got more than the usual questions. Perhaps an Aussie this far from home was a curiosity. I thought there might be cheaper Lada taxis outside the airport as mentioned in guides, but apparently not, they had newer European cars now. What a disappointment. Anyway I paid the US$18 for the trip. It's strange that they use the currency of their sworn enemy as hard currency here; that's one of the anomalies of Cuba, although the Euro is gaining a foothold. More on currency later.


The lady official at the taxi rank got a lift home into the city in my taxi, sitting in the front passenger seat. This was to be a recurring pattern in Cuba, people cadging lifts whenever possible due to the shortage of transport. In the taxi she struck up a conversation and professed admiration for Che. It was impossible to tell if it was sincere or for show. Cubans are cagey about their political views, if they have any, and probably with good reason. There were slogans everywhere, on billboards, on walls, for Castro, for Che, for the revolution. But the rustic surroundings looked more like rural Brazil rather than the outskirts of a capital. City buildings were severely dilapidated. It was like a time trip back to Malaysia in the 60s.


I had booked a first night in a hotel, so as to have an official hotel for the immigration form, and then for the rest of my time in Cuba I would seek out casas particulares, rented private rooms, which are tolerated by the state for the hard dollars they bring in via taxes, even though the idea of private enterprise is anathema to Cuban socialism. There was chaos at reception, but the receptionist was cool and dealt with it all deftly. She gave me small bills as change for my US$100 bill, so that I would be able to tip the bellboy.


The room was serviceable, though the fittings were worn and the outside railings were rusty. The air-conditioner worked. The bathroom was a little bare. The hotel directory on the table was very oddly phrased. It had obviously been translated to English by someone who had no knowledge but had a dictionary. I wish I had copied the text down.

Fortunately I had dinner on the flight so I didn't need to go look for a meal. The nuts and dried fruits were a handy snack. There was cable TV in the room so I caught up with the news and repacked my belongings to pass a bit of time. Then I had an early night as the jetlag meant that I was falling asleep in the early evening.