Published in Caribbean Unbound, November 2002

Off limits to US citizens since the early 1960’s, Cuba is a most alluring island for world adventurers, in part, because developing countries attract a well-heeled traveler who can afford the higher, off-main-street rates for what little luxury exists: in part because, well, anything forbidden is intriguing.

Cuba is today what Africa was 50 years ago, friendly and culturally pristine. Savvy travelers from all over the world have enjoyed Cuban hospitality uninterrupted during these past four decades, as have thrill-seeking Norte Americanos. But those from the US must be a little more creative, a little more resourceful when skirting the US Treasury’s politically inflamed embargo. More specifically, savvy travelers are inconspicuous, and they carry a big wad of ones…hundreds, that is.

In spite of Congressional efforts to curb the cash flow, US dollars bolster the Cuban economy, brought in from foreign investors and every foreign traveler. An odd mix of Capitalism-Communism-Socialism is at work these days, and almost all of Cuba’s commercial establishments -- from gas stations on the Autopista Nacional to Varadero’s posh hotels -- change hundred dollar bills. A stash of one-dollar bills isn’t a bad idea, though: There’s a direct correlation between how remote the travel and how flexible the exchange rate.

First time visitors will likely want to explore Havana or do the beach scene at Cay Largo, Cuba’s newest jet setters’ lure. But we veteran travelers head cross-country on a cultural spree that rounds out numerous trips to this country, and only wets an appetite for more.

June 3: Leave the boys bonding on the boat.

The 42-foot Sport Fisherman is faster than flying. Only 90 miles separates Key West from Marina Hemingway south of Havana, our port of entry. In just three hours we’re there; clearing Customs is a piece of cake. Contrary to Miami media bulletins, Cubans embrace Americans with gusto.

The guys will spend four days competing in the Hemingway Billfishing Tournament. We three chichitas cut loose to tour the countryside; our ultimate destination, Trinidad (roughly 200 miles south), then loop back to Havana over the coastal roads of Matanzas Province. We select a brand new Peugeot from the marina’s car rental agency, and head down the Malecon to Havana’s National Hotel. Renovated and reasonably priced, this treasure from Havana’s pre-Revolutionary hey-days is being upstaged by bigger, newer resorts. Much of the capital city is a construction zone, but its weekend art bazaars are unfettered: Hundreds of artists and craftsmen sell their wares on sidewalks. We buy our share of the highly collectible naive or surrealistic styles of contemporary Cuban artists.

Dinner at La Bodeguita Del Medio serves up one of Hemingway’s former haunts. It’s the touristiest of traps. But the food’s decent (no one travels to Havana for gourmet dining) and the restaurant is amidst Old Havana’s 900+ landmark buildings, all a registered UNESCO World Heritage Site. Must-sees.

June 4: Rules of the Cuban Roads.

On the road early a.m. Lost, as usual, in the southwestern burbs of Havana. Maps are hard to come by; even the car rental agency had none. Helpful cops and friendly crowds point us toward the super highway, the Autopista Nacional that connects eastern Cuba with its central region. Thus, Road Rule #1: Unearth a good map and keep it forever; nothing much changes here.

Road Rule #2: Pick up hitchhikers, a.s.a.p. It’s the standard mode of transportation: Most Cubans will never make enough money to buy a car, not even a bicycle. We opt for ladies thumbing in the direction of Trinidad. Although hitchhiking in Cuba’s countryside is generally safe, single women are safer: mothers with children, safest. We practice our Spanish on them; they become our personal guides.

Barbara, a history teacher, directs us to a roadway stop akin to an open-air Howard Johnson’s. Of course, this is no restaurant chain, but ice cream is available. After we treat her to lunch, she’s off to catch another ride north. Then Fidelia hops in. Yes, her name is Fidelia, and she teaches fencing. Yes, fencing. In any other country, Fidelia would be a starving artist. She travels with us ‘til we reach Santa Clara, her hometown, where we turn off the super highway and head into the Escambray Mountains. Road Rule #3 applies: Don’t drive through the mountains in a Peuguot. Rent a Jeep. Rutted, asphalt roads double as swimming holes for local kids. The 50 miles to Trinidad takes three hours. The scenery is spectacular, though, well worth the frequent stops for photo ops.

We arrive before dark and overnight at Playa Ancion, the best Trinidad has to offer. Few people are on the long, broad beach. But interesting alternatives to beach resorts where most travelers’ stay are private homes built into the maze of brick walls and cobblestone streets near Trinidad’s central plaza. For $50 (less if you look around) a street-hawker will produce a 16th century tri-level version of a Brownstone, complete with two bedrooms, a catered lobster dinner, but no AC.

June 5: Antique Cities, Full Moons and Fish.

Explore Trinidad in the a.m. Founded in 1514, this colonial relic is Cuba’s city museum. Many of the historic buildings in the plaza are dedicated to a particular school of art that attracts artists’ from across the country. We single-handedly save the Cuban economy with purchases of wooden sculptures. Next trip, Trinidad gets three-days attention.

By 2 p.m., we’re on the southern coastal road that loops back to Havana. This is the normal tourist route and the roads are much better than yesterday’s. Life-sized bronze or concrete sculptures dot the rural countryside: statements as large as fencing about the government-supported arts. Pick up Rosita who tries to warn us about freak turns in the small village squares. Drop her off and get lost anyway. It rains all 60-miles to Cienfuegos. We only briefly cruise this French-influenced, seaport city. Old homes on Reyes Point are also B&B’s, but we’re beach-bound.

Overnight at Playa Faro Luna. Appropriately, the rain gives way to a full moon that glows on crashing waves beneath our balconies. Three women smoking cigarillos and sipping Courvasier -- all together yet all alone – moon over our fishing fellows.

Oh, what the hell: Even if the guys were here, they’d still think fish.

June 6: Lonely Museums and Desolate Coastlines

Breakfast leisurely by the pool by the ocean. But by noon, we’re well into Cuba’s Zapata Swamp. Visit the stark and haunting Bay of Pigs Museum at Playa Giron. Unlike the suggestion of a highway billboard near the museum entrance that reads in Spanish: “The first defeat of Yankee Imperialism in North America”, the museum has little to do with the US and much to do with the 160 Cubans who died in the April 1961 invasion. In one room, personal items memorialize the human loss. In another, military paraphernalia speak to the brutality of war.

We’re the museum’s only visitors; the silence is heavy, our singular reflections in the glass displays’, surreal.

The oceanfront drive from Playa Giron to Playa Larga, today’s destination, features cobalt seas and harshly ragged coral beaches. In places, deep, powerful waves hit the rocky coastline with raw power enough to send white, salt spray to the road, 50-feet away. Even with tourism flourishing, no cars are in sight, nothing living moves in the searing heat. The ocean blues and the jungle greens are Paradise perfect, yet this southern coastal stretch is beyond desolate. Forty years ago, it had to be the loneliest place on earth for the soldiers who fought here.

By now we’re starving. In the middle of nowhere a roadside restaurant, Cueva de los Peces, is more than an oasis with an inland blue hole to swim in, human beings walk and talk here. More importantly, the food is superb, cooked to please the palates of international tourists who travel this offbeat path via government-run bus tours. Grilled lobster tails. Tender filet of crocodile. Cerveza, wet and cold: A feast in any country, in Cuba, an incredible find. We drink well and eat better for $50.

When we roll into Playa Larga, a throwback to the 1940’s architectural style that made motels along US Route 66 famous, it’s naptime. But the flat-roofed cottages are hot little ovens. It seems our AC doesn’t work. A plea for help, and a desk clerk walks us back to the cottage. He explains that the air-conditioning only works when we’re inside, kicked into high gear via the motion detector hanging right there over the wooden doorframe.

All this sleepless night, sure enough, a pass by to the bathroom or a roll over in bed triggers the omnipresent, red-eyed sensor into a chilling, Big Brother Is Watching ambiance.

June 7: Angels in the Swamp

Up early to meet our guide. No street signs: lost again. We eventually find the National Park office. Can’t see his wings, but Angel Martinez Garcia is aptly named. For 21 years he’s worked for the Cuban National Park system. He’s a world-class birder and Las Salinas wetlands in Cuba’s Zapata Swamp, is his aviary.

As you might guess, tourists don’t just flock to Las Salinas the way they drop into, say, the Everglades. Here, everything is arranged by the “Powers That Be”: the guide, the gate guard, the time, the fee. Hotel employees connected us with Angel, and we pick him up to drive the 21-kilometer dirt road through the swamp. Instantly we spy flamingoes and wood storks and Cuban trogons, even the lime-green Cuban tody.

In search of birds we’ve never seen, obviously we forego the muck oozing, swamp walk that begets the rare Zapata wren. In planning this trip, we didn’t count on an outing of such magnitude, although this drive-by method of bird watching is convenient, almost comfortable. Clearly, a higher authority is watching over us. Angel has all the necessary birding equipment: best of all, mosquito spray. Those little suckers are more ferocious in the hardwood hammocks than on the marshy flats. And wouldn’t you know, our true quest, the zunzuncito, is only in hardwood hammocks elsewhere. So: When in Cuba, do as the Cubans do, improvise. Angel shortens the two-hour Las Salinas tour, and takes us on a side excursion to nearby Sopillar. Here lives the tiniest bird in the world, the bee hummingbird, a.k.a., zunzuncito.

Hiking two miles along an old logging road renders plenty of sweat and mosquitoes. No insect-sized birds. “Noon is not the best hour for sighting birds,” Angel advises just as a tiny winged-thing zooms past the salsa parrilla tree on which we fixate. Remarkably, three more helicopter-like fly-bys show off the bird’s rainbow of colors. Although June is the dry, off-season for birds in Zapata Swamp, of its 160 species, we’re thrilled with the 22 we spot this morning.

On the last leg to Havana, we pick up two hitchhikers outside Guama City. Their red pleated skirts peg them as schoolgirls, maybe all of eight years old. In a hummingbird’s heartbeat, they jump into the car, and for such a stunt in the US, a loving mother would scold them within an inch of their lives.

After the little girls arrange themselves, they don’t say much. They just giggle and huddle together. When they motion us to drive past the wide, double lane highway that looks awfully familiar, we ask again: “Isn’t this the Autopista Nacional we want to take to Havana?”

“No, no” they assure us. The road we want is down the way, nearer to their homes. Then we wise up: The tiny tots are in this for a chauffeured ride, right up to their doorsteps.

In travel, as in life, it’s the shy, baby faces you gotta’ watch.

June 8: Bye-bye Fidel

Pass through Customs and out of Cuban waters by 9 a.m. The guys are grumpy. Fishing tourneys in Cuba add extra work to an already long day: daily Customs checks mean 6 a.m. starts. By the time they head in at 4 or 5 p.m., clear Customs again, dock and clean the boat, there’s only time for dinner. Tough work, especially when the fish aren’t biting. The fish weren’t biting. Our boys only catch one blue marlin and the winning crew only caught two. They really don’t want to hear about the fun we had. We dock in Key West at noon.

By Barbara Bowers, © 2002