Cienfuegos

After breakfast we finally leave Playa Giron, stopping first at the shops to buy another bottle of the Chilean wine we enjoyed and to change some money at the Cadeca. In a perfect example of Cuban organisation they hand me a note in English explaining that they are out of money and won’t have a delivery until 2pm. We set off along the same route we followed yesterday then continuing on to Cienfuegos.  Since yesterday roadworks have started en route - the first we have seen, despite the poor state of the roads. I’m a bit confused by the process – pea shingle is being spread directly onto the carriageway and then raked level by hand.

Finally we join the new road to Cienfuegos and it leads us straight on to Avenida 37 and down to the end of Punta Gorda where we find our casa particular in Calle 0 without difficulty. Our rooms are not quite ready but our hostess Mayda welcomes us with a choice of coffee or juice. She speaks no English but her husband Enrique speaks a little, and he completes the formalities. He also shows us where to park in their yard, earning a rebuke from Mayda for directing us too close to her washing line.

Enrique has told us where we can find a Cadeca to change more cash and we set off on foot to explore Punta Gorda, once the home of Cienfuegos’ bourgeoisie. We walk first to the very end of the point which is a public recreation area, and try to pick out the mouth of the harbour which is impossible. It’s an important natural harbour once defended by Jagua castle which now gives its name to a number of local landmarks including the hotel across the road and the nuclear power station. Along the road to the point are several casas particulares which look out onto the water at both sides, plus a school of hospitality.

On the corner of Calle 2 is the Palacio del Valle, a Moorish concoction of ornate tiles and stucco, where we have lunch. The dining room has high ornate ceilings and the tall windows provide cool air. The boys’ chicken is unremarkable but my seafood paella is delicious, stuffed with lobster, fat prawns and fish. I hate to leave some but it’s easily enough for two and impossible to finish. The mojitos are good, too. Sadly the waiter doesn’t return with our change and, by doing so, deprives himself of a more generous tip. As we leave, he doesn’t even acknowledge us.

 

Cienfuegos is a town renowned for its elegant, French-inspired architecture and as we walk towards the location of the Cadeca we pass two of its most impressive examples, the Club Cienfuegos and the Palacio Azul. Unfortunately we can’t find anywhere to change money on Calle 12 where Enrique said it would be, but we do stumble across the Laguna del Cura where there is a little marina featuring some seriously dodgy electrical infrastructure.

We spot a service station with a mini market and stop to see if they have any Earl Grey tea bags as Simon is running low. They don’t, but they do have the red wine we enjoyed from the shop in Playa Giron. Behind is a café where we buy some cold water – it’s ridiculously hot. There’s a tourist office opposite, so I go and get better directios to the Cadeca which turns out to be in Calle 14 at the junction with Avenida 39. The grid system here makes navigation easy if you know the address – even numbers across and odd numbers down, with house numbers starting with the number of the nearest street … so 3904 Calle 14 would be the fourth house along from the junction of 39 and 14. The Cadeca turns out to be a tiny kiosk and, unaccountably, it’s closed. It’s not due to close until 4 and it’s only about 3.15 so we join the lady who is already queueing. After 30 minutes or so it suddenly opens and we change our money, then pop back to the café for another cold drink to sustain us on the hot walk back to the casa.

Casas particulares are a new phenomenon in Cuba, introduced by Raoul Castro to allow Cubans to rent out rooms for which they pay a licence fee to the government. There are few hotels outside Havana and the main beach resorts and in many towns they are the only option. They are just like a B and B but the rates and facilities are dictated by the government and the host has to pay a room tax whether or not their room is occupied. All are charged for by the room and must have air conditioning and a fridge; most hosts make a little extra by filling the fridges and charging for what’s consumed.

Casa Mayda is a typical Cienfuegos house but less typically has a garden with side access. It has a covered outdoor dining area surrounded by ferns and bougainvillea, some rocking chairs and garden ornaments including a couple of larger than life flamingos and a “welcome” gnome. It’s a cool and shady retreat from the heat of the city. Our two rooms are on the first floor and above them is a roof terrace with views to through the trees to the sea.

After a break to recover from the heat and rehydrate (I can’t stop drinking since the walk to the Cadeca) I pop over to the Hotel Jagua to check their wifi and see if it’s possible to use their pool. As I pass the Palacio de Valle next door a teenage girl dashes across the car park barefoot in a full length mint green dress with a tiered net skirt. Possibly a bride, or a bridesmaid? I never find out. The boys are up for a swim at the hotel but by the time we get there a storm has rolled in and the pool is closed. We sit with cold drinks on the shady poolside terrace and watch the lightning instead.

Back at the casa I borrow a corkscrew for our wine (I’m sure I packed one but can’t find it anywhere) and we play cards in the cool of our air conditioned bedroom until it’s time for dinner. We’re booked in here for dinner tonight, which is served alfresco. We start with a lentil and vegetable soup and are offered red wine, which is served chilled. The chicken the boys ordered comes on the bone for a change,;and my fish is huge, over-salted as is often the case here and decorated with a flower made of peppers. The usual fruit plate, salad, rice and beans are served and we’re still not sure what order we’re supposed to eat them in. There’s much more than we can eat, as usual, and we decline dessert.

There seem to be many people in the household – Mayda and Enrique, an older women who is clearly the mother of one of them, two younger women and two children – a boy in nappies and a girl of primary school age. The boy emerges during dinner with a full litre tub of ice cream, a lot of which is over his face. Another woman serves us but she presumably works here as she wishes us Buenos noches and leaves after we’ve eaten. Several other people come and go during the evening.

We would have stayed at the table and played more cards after dinner but there are mosquitoes about, so we go back to our rooms and Alex discovers a problem. He has flying ants all over the place, including in his bed and in his case, and there’s an ant highway running up the corner by the door. The regular ants seem to be dragging the carcases of dead flying ants back to their nest. We tell Alex he can move into our room for the night (both rooms have two double beds) and I go to tell Enrique.

We both go to look at the room and Enrique insists that they aren’t ants – the flying ones, at least – but he doesn’t say what he thinks they might be. I find another black insect on the sheet and it jumps as I point to it – that’s definitely a flea! Enrique is very apologetic and gets to work with the insect spray.

Not Leaving Playa Giron

After breakfast we return to Cueva las Peces for more snorkelling. We’re unnerved by tiny jellyfish and huge horseflies but the sea is much calmer and we have the place almost to ourselves. There are different fish, too – some long ones with snouts (some kind of pipefish?) and small black ones whose tails fade to white; Alex sees a “Dory”.  We spend about an hour in the water and as we get out Simon spots a huge crab in a rockpool by the shore. We had seen many crabs scuttling across the road on the way here – often having to swerve to avoid them – and invented a game where points were awarded according to the size of the crab – this one would have been a 5. We had packed ready to leave but when I go to return the snorkelling gear and settle up for drinks from the fridge Ivette asks why we’re leaving early. It turns out we’re actually booked in for 3 nights, not two, so we unpack somewhat sheepishly.

Despite its many horses – we’ve seen dozens by now – this is definitely a one-horse town and we’ve had our fill of snorkelling, so what to do? We decide on an expedition to a nearby place called Horquitas in search of lunch as it has a knife and fork symbol on the map. It’s a 33 kdrive, most of it along completely straight but potholed roads flanked by forests and the odd thatched dwelling. We pass some brightly painted beehives not far from Playa Giron, a couple of roadside restaurants and numerous farmsteads. Horse and carts are the most commonly encountered mode of transport, often driven by a campesino in a Stetson. When we reach the town the sole cafeteria looks uninviting but we spot a bullock cart and a man washing his horse in a pond, not sights you see every day even in Cuba! The houses are small and quite a few have rusting relics of farm machinery parked outside.

We head back towards Playa Giron in the hope of finding lunch at one of the roadside cafes we noticed on the way. The first we pass before we really notice it, so we stop at the one nearest to Playa Giron, about 8m out of town. There seems to be a broken down car in the road, and there’s a horse grazing beside it. We order yellow rice with pork and mango juice and have hardly sat down when a girl approaches our table and asks for our help. The broken down car is the taxi she and her boyfriend were travelling in to Playa Giron and the second one to have broken down. She’s looking for a lift and sounds close to tears. Of course we agree to help.

While we’re waiting for our food we exchange names and itineraries and with some difficulty Simon squashes their bags into our car. Lunch is tasty and the portions generous, but I’m taken aback by the bill for 110. I question it and realise it’s in MN, not CUCs. We don’t have 110MN, although we did change a little in Havana, so we settle on 4CUC plus 15 pesos – around £3.50.

We all squeeze into the car for the short ride to Playa Giron and we drop Lydia and (yet another!) Alex at the hotel and wish them a happy stay. We refuel the car and while paying I notice that there are combs on sale in the filling station … I buy it for 30c and Alex is delighted. Back at the casa Simon and I have a cold beer and Alex entertains us with experimental hairstyles. It’s a hot day and the cicadas buzz incessantly but there’s a cool breeze on the shady terrace.

Later, Simon and I walk down to the hotel, stopping to look at the baseball ground (which is full of goats), and weather station (Which seems redundant – every day is hot and humid with rain at teatime!) and the random exhibits behind the museum. In the shop opposite I’m tempted to buy a Che Guevara shopping bag for its irony value but 8 CUC seems expensive. When we get back Alex is sunbathing and I join him and watch the black birds circling lazily overhead. Two Italians speak to us, mistaking us for the hosts, and I direct them to Ivette’s house.

Since it appears to be the only place in town with chicken we eat here again tonight, although I order octopus. For CUC10 per head all-in it’s one of the better value places we’ve eaten so far. The portions are much more than we can eat and we’re never quite sure what order to eat them in. Fruit arrives first, followed by salad and then cabbage soup. Rice next, then the meat and finally what appear to be cornmeal dumplings. Vegetables are rarely served here and the standard salad seems to be cucumber slices with shredded cabbage and cold, cooked green beans. It may lack variety but portions are always generous and heavy on protein and carbs. I’ve noticed that many Cubans carry extra weight, especially round the middle, but regardless of their size Cuban women wear either leggings or extremely short skirts and everything is skin tight or preferably tighter. They are very body confident.

We’re attacked by mosquitoes during dinner so we go back to our air conditioned refuge as soon as we’ve eaten. As we walk the short distance to our casa two small boys run towards us rolling car tyres along the road. It’s pitch black apart from an alarming fire raging in the front yard of a house a few doors down. There seems to be no drama so we assume it’s intentional but it still seems risky so close to the houses. Health and safety doesn’t seem to be much of a concern here – as we walked to dinner our neighbours’ boy of about 4 was playing with a machete. At least two households in Playa Giron keep crocodiles as pets and none of the bikes have lights. Given the assortment of potential obstacles we might encounter, it’s easy to see why we were advised not to drive at night.

A multi-horse town

Breakfast is similar to Havana, but with freshly cooked tiny pancakes in pace of eggs; we leave Simon all the papaya. Ivette gives me some recommendations of places to go snorkelling and we borrow the kit. We’ve decided to explore the beach in Playa Giron this morning so we drive down to the parking place opposite the Bay of Pigs Invasion museum and take the path between the shops to see where it leads. This is described as a one horse town in the Lonely Planet but we see 3 horses before we reach the beach. We pass an abandoned outdoor theatre and break into the hotel grounds through a gap in the fence. The hotel has a huge number of bungalows but many appear derelict. We find a sandy beach which would be very pleasant if it wasn’t for the ugly concrete breakwater that has been built across the bay.

Simon finds a massive piece of coral on the beach, it’s really heavy and we dissuade Alex from taking it home which is probably illegal anyway. We walk to the left, along a badly damaged promenade, and reach another sandy beach which is open to the waves; a friendly local tells us it’s a great spot for snorkelling. We walk back to the shops along the road, passing numerous horses. After sharing a large bottle of lemonade we buy some Chilean wine, half a bottle of rum and some mango soft drink mix and stash it in the car while we visit the museum. 

It’s unbearably hot inside the museum and the exhibits are only explained in Spanish, which I imagine will be a blessing to the Americans when they begin to visit as it’s massively biased. I’m shocked to note that the youngest Cuban hero of the Bay of Pigs incident was younger than Alex is now.

Back in the car, we continue east towards Caleta Buena beach and beyond, but have to turn back due to the poor road surface. We stop briefly at a couple of small beaches on the way back where the beaches are almost entirely coral chunks. The sea is incredibly blue and refreshingly cool. We try to find a restaurant called Hector’s, mentioned in the Lonely Planet, for lunch but instead end up at a place called Chiri Chiri where they have crocodile but not water or chicken. It’s clearly aiming high, with linen tablecloths and a cocktail menu, but the menu translations are amusing and largely impenetrable. The food is acceptable but unremarkable; the crocodile tastes, predictably, like chicken.

Back at Ivette & Ronel’s we find the power is off which means no aircon. It’s breezy on the terrace though, and we watch large black birds soar on the thermals overhead. We relax and read for a while then set off for Cueva de los Peces, around 17km to the west of Playa Giron. First we walk down to the cenote and watch the fish; it’s alive with mosquitoes so we don’t stay long.

Ivette has recommended this beach for novices as the fish are so close to the shore. I’m not keen to snorkel, having been scared to be out of my depth in Roatan, but Alex is insistent and patiently cajoles me into it. It’s a revelation – even while standing in the shallows I can see several different species of fish and a few different types of coral. I realise I can float easily and lose myself in the spectacle. Somebody throws in some bread and the fish go crazy for it. I grab a piece from the surface and feed fish from my hand. Later one nibbles my finger, perhaps looking for more food. Eventually we have to get out; it’s getting late, we’ve been advised not to drive in the dark, and it looks like there’s a storm approaching. With the various potholes, dogs, horses, bikes, bici-rickshaws and pony carts driving is like a live game of Mario Cart.

Just as we return to the casa the power cuts out again, but it comes back more quickly this time. I check with Ivette and the good news is that check out time is 2pm so there’s time to snorkel again tomorrow morning. We take umbrellas to dinner at the Crocodile restaurant but the threatened storm doesn’t materialise. The food is unremarkable apart from the number of dishes that are off the menu – there’s no chicken again, although we passed a couple on the way and could have brought our own. There’s a TV showing music videos, a threadbare pool table and rope lights – I suspect this is the liveliest place in town. Sadly, the eponymous crocodile shares a slimy pen the size of a dining table with assorted terrapins.

On the brief walk back an enormous crab scuttles noisily across the road and several cyclists pass, all without lights. Back at the casa the other Brits are watching the Olympics. We’re closer to the games here than at home but it all feels a very long way away.

Fatherland or death?

I go out early to take photos, returning for another legendary breakfast from Ines. Her English is limited but she’s keen to try; she and I both understand more of the other’s language than we can speak and we manage pretty well. She tidies up while we pack, and reminds Alex of a couple of bits he’s failed to pack. We’ll be spending our final night here so we will see her again. Considering how difficult it was to reach our car park, we leave Havana with comparative ease and head for Playa Giron. The highway is reasonably well- maintained although we have to negotiate a checkpoint there are no dramas. The roads deteriorate quite quickly; there are many potholes and we quickly work out that the safest policy is to follow a local who knows where they are.

There are no advertising hoardings in Cuba, only propaganda – “fatherland or death, we will triumph” being a favourite. Our destination is the site of the (in)famous failed invasion of Cuban expats trained by the CIA. But first, we visit Australia for lunch – the town was the site of a former Australian-owned sugar plantation and has a small museum devoted to the steam locomotives still maintained by the residents. The former sugar mill’s office was commandeered as Fidel’s HQ for the Bay of Pigs invasion, but it’s currently closed. There’s not much else in the sleepy little town, but we find a café where the only offer is ham and cheese toasties; lucky that I’ve decided our trip to Cuba is the time to try re-introducing gluten – so far without incident.

We continue through the Cienaga de Zapata national park to Playa Giron and explore the town by car before arriving at our accommodation. Playa Giron mostly runs along the main road, with a short spur off to the one hotel which is located by the beach. There’s a filling station, a small parade of shops and a museum to the thwarted invasion, as well as a huge billboard commemorating the first victory against the imperialist American pigs. Most of the houses display the blue sign for casas particulares, but it doesn’t seem very touristy.

 

We check in at Casa Ivette & Ronel and find we’re sharing a house with another British family, from Sheffield – John, Louise and their son Alex who has also just finished his GCSEs – who arrived shortly before us. They are ¾ of the way through their trip and we are the first Brits they’ve encountered. We’re well set up here – the house is shared between them and us; we have the blue and white room with a huge bed and generous bathroom; Alex has a 4-person room to himself with hideous tangerine nylon bedcovers. The fridge, rakishly located across the corner of a room on a small plinth as in Havana, is generously stocked with beer, soft drinks, water and even wine – although that turns out to be hideous. We have complimentary toiletries, umbrellas and beach towels; use of bicycles and snorkelling gear is complimentary too.

After some cold drinks and a couple of games of tarot on the shady patio at the front we wander down to the main house for dinner. I’ve ordered lobster and the boys, chicken. It comes with rice, bean stew, fresh fruit and a huge jug of papaya juice. Neither Alex nor I can stand it, but Simon seems not to notice that it tastes faintly of vomit. The portions are enormous and we can’t finish everything.

In which we mostly hire a car

When I wake on Saturday and open the little window in our full height shutters, I realise that the sun rises directly in line with the street outside, so I watch that and take some photos. We had been told to meet at the car hire office at the Hotel Sevilla at 9am so we leave at 8.30; Alex stays behind. As we walk into the hotel the Pink Panther theme greets us -there’s music everywhere in Havana but not usually this surreal.

The car hire office is in a shopping gallery attached to the hotel and our rep is already there. She explains that the manager has not yet arrived and will be another hour, so on her advice we walk back to the street between Hotel Inglaterra and the theatre where there are many local shops. The supermarkets have a limited but eclectic range of goods on offer priced in both CUCs and MN. 1 CUC is worth approximately a US dollar and 23 MN pesos.

We pass a barbers and Simon decides to have a haircut; we agree on a trim for CUC5 and the barber turns on the TV so he can watch the Olympics. The haircut was thorough but speedy, including a sideburn trim with the cutthroat razor. We were there just long enough to watch the Cuban gymnast do much less well than the Canadian. Alex has forgotten his comb so I ask the barber where I can buy one; he says he doesn’t know. You have to buy what’s available here, in anticipation of needing it later, rather than when you actually need it; the barber’s comb has seen much better days.

 

We return to the car hire office and the boss still hasn’t arrived; we buy some postcards and go to a pleasant terrace bar in the hotel to write them. The obligatory live band entertains us and eventually the rep returns to say she needs to go back to the office and can we please stay where we are so the car hire staff know where to find us. We exchange numbers and agree to text in case of developments. At midday (3 hours in!) she’s back to say that the manager won’t be coming and that she has put plan B in motion; we are to get on with our day and she’ll call when she has news. I had begun to suspect that, this being Saturday and the car hire company being government run, the manager probably had better plans, so this doesn’t come as a surprise.

Back at the casa Alex remarks on how long we have been and we confess we still have no car.  We’ve also had no lunch yet, but I had seen some street food places opposite the Capitol which is not far off our route, so we agree to eat there on the way. I pop out to post some postcards and Simon gets the call while I’m out so I rush back and we set off; the places I saw yesterday selling roast pork rolls and pollo con arroz today only have hamburgers so we skip that and go straight to the car hire office. The news is all good – we’ve been upgraded, we can leave the car at our hotel in Cayo Coco rather than an adjacent one and both the CDW and the drop-off fee were less than we’d been quoted. We have an orangey-red Peugeot and all we have to do now is fill it with fuel and get to our assigned parking place next to the Hotel Raquel in the old town.

We’re directed to a filling station along the Malecon but when we get there it’s closed. They direct us to another 2km away; the fuel warning light is already on so this is somewhat stressful. We get there and successfully fill the tank; now the challenge is to get back to the old town as Simon’s GPS doesn’t understand the one-way system. We know we need to get to Calle Cuba but it’s one way and we end up on the wrong side of the pedestrianised old town. Even the local police we stop and ask don’t really know the way, but finally we get to the right end of Calle Cuba; as we drive along it to the car park I spot a decapitated chicken on a doorstep.  We leave the car and pay CUC 5 for one day’s parking; it’s a short walk back to the casa where we make jam and cheese rolls from leftover breakfast ingredients Ines has left for the benefit of Alex. It's past 4 and our dinner reservation is for 6pm.

The boys have a quick game of crib while I have a shower then we leave for Dona Eunomia’s for dinner. We arrive a little early so I photograph the cathedral in the evening light with fewer tourists. We make the mistake of ordering starters (given that we had lunch only a couple of hours ago) so we can’t finish our main courses, but the food is good and reasonably priced. Three young guys are singing, playing the guitar and percussion, it’s less intrusive than the music at other places we’ve eaten and I buy a CD. We reserve a table for our final night in Havana.

Before going back to the casa we stop at the Hotel Conde de Villanueva for a nightcap; it has a pleasant terrace with peacocks but the previous guests’ drinks haven’t been cleared away and there is peacock poo everywhere. We manage to order drinks but it takes ages to get the bill as the staff are more interested in making crude overtures to the female staff. When we get back to our casa there’s a terrific thunderstorm, but we’re too tired to go out and watch it.

Discovering Havana

As we leave the chilly sanctuary of our bedroom next morning, the living room is already very hot. The shower is only a trickle but at least it works. Ines arrives to prepare our breakfast – great coffee, home-made preserves, squashy rolls, a big plate of fresh fruit and eggs prepared as we wish. The travel rep arrives to bring us vouchers for our accommodation and hire car and brief us on the plan for Havana., then we go and meet our guide for this morning, Marta. She takes us first to San Francisco Square to board a pink Chevrolet for the vintage car tour.

 It’s a bit of a squash in the back as we drive along the harbour, past the castle and through the Vedado district where she showed us the “barbeque floors” added in above the ground floor of the high ceilinged colonial buildings to create more living space. We stop briefly at the university attended by Fidel Castro then drive to Revolution Square with its phallic monument to national hero Jose Marti. Around the sides of the square are the old Government HQ, Ministry of the Interior with a mural of Che Guevara and Telecoms Building with one of Camilo Cienfuegos looking rather like Ayatolla Khomeni and a slogan that says “You are going well Fidel” in Spanish.

We drive on through the leafy Miramar district which was formerly the home of the bourgeoisie, their houses now occupied by government cronies. A peaceful park with a river and spectacular trees with separates this from Nuevo Vedado district where we drive past the enormous Cristobal Colon cemetery, through Chinatown and finally along the Malecon, the coastal highway that comes alive in the evenings as a place to meet and socialise. We leave the car at the edge of the old town and walk up to cathedral square and along to the Playa Des Armas where the cobbles were replaced with wood to avoid disturbing the occupants and a book market now occupies the shady square.

Our tour ends back at Plaza Vieja where we enjoy mojitos and pineapple juice with mint in Bohemia bar. We talk to Marta about the respective education systems in Cuba and UK and are surprised when she asks our opinion of Brexit – given the relative isolation of Cuba this seems like a more local issue than would have been widely reported here. We return to our casa for some cash and queue at the Cadeca in San Francisco square to change some more cash, including a small amount of the local currency, MNs, as well as convertible CUCs.

 

Finally fully solvent, we walk the length of Calle Obispo to the Floridian bar frequented by “Papa” Hemingway, where a bronze likeness of him still presides over the bar. We order daiquiris and club sandwiches and listen to the live band – peripatetic bands move from bar to bar, playing a short set, sending round the hat and moving on. 

We walk past Johnson’s drug store, still with its many wooden drawers lining the walls, and buy Alex a coconut at a street stall.  Then past the theatre and the capitol building and back to our casa. Although the streets are fascinating it’s so hot and humid we don’t have the energy to stay out for long, it really saps your energy. As we get back to the casa it begins to rain but it doesn’t cool things down.

We had tried to make a reservation at a highly reviewed restaurant called Dona Eunomia for dinner but it was full so we book for tomorrow and go instead to Mama Ines. The food is less impressive than the Lonely Planet would have us believe.

Cuba bound

After checking on online and a night at the Premier Inn it was a short walk to the terminal to drop our bags and start our holiday. We grabbed some breakfast bits at Pret, I quickly downloaded some books on Cuba to my Kindle and we were boarded immediately we arrived at the gate. Waiting to push off I hear a familiar voice respond to the stewardess – the seat in front of me is occupied by Hugh Dennis. We all love his work, but I guess he’s on holiday too so no need to mention it.

The flight is uneventful and takes about 9 hours. We have independent entertainment systems; my viewing choices are Room, Sing Street and Midnight Special and I enjoy all of them. Arrival in Cuba proves to be something of an endurance test – first we queue for ages for immigration, then to scan our hand baggage, then the waits for our baggage to arrive. There’s plenty of time to observe the local airport staff, revealing that a) there are a lot of them b) they each seem to have very little to do and c) the women are all sporting elaborately patterned black fishnets in a wide variety of designs, to complement their uniforms which have very short skirts, for a uniform. We complete a customs declaration then queue again to go through customs clearance. We finally clear the airport around 3 hours after touching down; I’ve lost the will to live and we’re so keen to get away it doesn’t occur to us to try and change money before we identify ourselves to the rep.

We’re shown to a minibus and begin our drive to Havana. It’s hot – really hot – but especially humid. The land is flat and green, dotted with small houses and a rag-tag assortment of vehicles. As we approach Havana the roads get busier and more built up, and the streets get increasingly narrow until finally our small minibus can go no further; the driver pulls up at the corner of a square and gestures that we should continue on foot. We are greeted warmly by our Havana landlady Ines who shows us through a narrow blue door, up some stairs and through what looks like somebody else’s living room into our apartment on the corner of the Plaza Vieja.

The apartment has high ceilings, antique furniture and tall windows that open fully, the living room one onto a tiny balcony which has a sideways view of the square and overlooks a derelict and very dilapidated but once beautiful building. Our bedrooms are blissfully, if loudly, air conditioned with old iron bedsteads. Ines speaks a little English and is keen to show us pictures of her children, a girl slightly older and a boy slightly younger than Alex. We help ourselves to a beer from the fridge (these will be a feature of our trip – cold drinks whenever we need them for CUC or two).

Ines has told us where we can find an ATM but when Simon and I venture out after she leaves, we find it’s not working. It’s late, we need dinner and we have no currency. Simon and I find a large map on the street showing locations of money change facilities and set off to look for another ATM. We don’t find one, but we do begin to get a sense of Havana’s personality. Many locals are sitting on the narrow streets chatting, windows and shutters are open giving glimpses into living rooms with TVs or music playing. Some buildings house small independent businesses – cobblers, merchants and mechanics - and what appears to be a falcon sitting on the window frame.

We return to our casa, negotiate the stairgate erected by our neighbours at the top of the staircase for their toddler, pick up some Sterling and change a small amount at a nearby hotel in San Francisco Square. Alex declares himself too tired for dinner so Simon and I go in search of food, settling for a place with a movie theme at the opposite corner of the square and paying CUC25 for beer, mojito and reasonable food. The live band is louder than we would like but the food is welcome. Back at the casa, the faint sound of salsa can be heard from the toilet and the buzz of the city is just discernible over the loud air conditioner in our bedroom, but sleep comes easily.