Cuban Contrasts

Dick Moore

(Pam and Dick Moore, from Hampshire in southern England, are circumnavigating aboard their Halberg Rassy 36 Aliesha. They are currently in New Zealand.)

Before heading south to Panama to commence our Pacific crossing, a visit to Castro’s Cuba was not to be missed. We sailed overnight from Key West in a moderate northerly and arrived off Marina Hemingway, some eight miles west of Havana, shortly after daybreak. As required, when we crossed the twelve mile limit and entered Cuban territorial waters we called on the radio to announce our presence – but they already knew we were there.

As we made our final approach we could see enormous waves breaking on the reefs each side of the narrow channel. However Marina Control assured us that the entrance was safe so in we went, soon finding smooth water and a long dock populated by the offices of the various authorities. Two smiling Cubans took our lines. Within a couple of minutes we were boarded by a doctor, who spoke good English and was very welcoming. Once he was happy that we were both fit and well and that we were not carrying any banned foodstuffs (such as American eggs or fresh British beef) we were granted ‘Free Pratique’ and told to haul down our yellow quarantine flag. This was the signal for the remaining authorities to swarm aboard.

There were six officials in total, two from the aduana (customs), one from immigration and three from the guarda frontera, a sort of border police. In contrast to the doctor, though polite they were not especially friendly. Innumerable forms were tabled, completed by the officials, signed by me as the master of Aliesha, stamped, and finally the stamps counter-signed. We were given copies of everything. Many of the forms were the usual immigration stuff, but we were surprised to be asked to list makes, models and numbers of all the electronic equipment we carried – apparently this is to deter visitors from selling such equipment to the locals.

Then Aliesha was searched thoroughly by three of the officials. Every locker was opened and its contents were examined. Particular interest was shown in my bag of used sandpaper(!) and in our drugs chest. Pam’s underwear also received special attention from the one female member of the team – presumably she was being curious. Every floorboard was lifted and the bilges were examined. We disliked this very much – Aliesha is our home and we felt that our privacy had been invaded. Finally we were told that nothing banned had been discovered and we were welcomed to Cuba!

We motored into the marina proper. The layout is unusual, four long ‘canals’ lie parallel to each other, connected at their western ends by a canal giving access to the sea. The sides are concrete, broken in places to reveal the reinforcing bars underneath. In section they curve inwards, like a wave barrier. Good fenders were obviously needed, but as the tide was low we found the edge just above our gunwale... Still, we deployed our fender board against the stanchions and motored into the berth we had been assigned. Here the duty dockmaster met us, José by name, a cheerful, friendly man who really did make us feel welcome. We had arrived.

Old Havana

After a couple of days of pretty unpleasant weather, which kept us tending lines and fenders, we joined our friends Nout and Yolande from Atlantis and took a taxi to spend the day in Old Havana. Having heard that most vehicles in Cuba pre-date the revolution, we were pleasantly surprised to be driven in a relatively new Lada. At first the road into the city runs through a very pleasant area, with old colonial-style houses in well-tended gardens. Many of these buildings are embassies, some are colleges. Then the road runs along the edge of the sea, with crumbling apartment blocks lining the pavement, some showing signs of being restored. Known as the Malecon, this was once a very smart area, something like the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, but no longer. There were many very old cars, and plenty of newer models, mostly from East European or Japanese makers. The trucks were mostly ancient, emitting clouds of black smoke as they wheezed along.

The taxi deposited us in one of the squares in the Old City, where we were immediately accosted by three men playing Guantanamera very badly on trumpet, guitar and drum. After a few bars they asked for money, which we declined. To our pleasant surprise they accepted our rejection, wished us good day and went in search of other prey. This was a feature of all of the (relatively few) people who did ask us for money – once told ‘No’, they went off without becoming a nuisance.

Yolande announced that it was time for coffee and we seated ourselves at a pavement café, only to be told that they didn’t serve coffee! They directed us to another establishment which did, and we enjoyed excellent coffee served by charming staff.

As we wandered around the streets of the Old City we were struck by how badly dilapidated most of the buildings were. Signs of renovation were everywhere, with very little mechanisation, but there are years of neglect to reverse and it will be a long time before the backlog is made up.

Turning a corner, Pam was accosted by a tall, bald, black man who held a pencil and a pad of drawing paper. One of his acolytes told us ‘this is the famous Picasso’. The artist then proceeded to produce a series of lightning portraits, each of which was proudly displayed and applauded by his loyal followers. It was rather good fun and we negotiated his initial price down to $2, which seemed a fair exchange for the entertainment provided.

Tourists in Cuba are charged for everything in US dollars and are the main source of foreign exchange*. However, the local currency is the peso, for which the official exchange rate is 26 to the dollar. Foodstuffs are priced in pesos, if you can find a shop or stall selling any, and are very, very cheap. In a side street we found a little market and were able to practise our Spanish and our negotiating skills while buying some fruit and vegetables, which were unavailable in the dollar-only shops at the marina.

* I understand that the situation has changed since Dick and Pam were in Cuba and that payment in US dollars is now illegal. Anyone planning a visit should check.

In a quiet corner of Havana is a memorial garden dedicated to Diana, Princess of Wales. We paid our respects, rather surprised and touched to find her remembered here in such a way.

Then it was time for lunch. We had passed several state-owned restaurants, which looked fine, but were approached by a young woman who worked as a guide on one of the horse-drawn carriages which do tours around the Old City. We agreed to take a tour after we had eaten, and she suggested one of the privately-run restaurants which are reckoned to offer better value than the state establishments. Off we went, through a maze of busy, narrow streets until finally we reached Don Lorenzo’s. The meal was simple, but well-cooked and tasty. The wine was Cuban, red and very drinkable, and the bill was reasonable, although not especially cheap. The remaining patrons were all Cubans, which seemed to speak well of its reputation.

Yenemi, our young guide, was waiting with her carriage when we emerged and took us around the City, showing us some of the places we had discovered ourselves and most of the public buildings, which were all in good repair. She spoke good English, and said she was learning German and French in order to help more tourists. Afterwards she took us to a bar where we were given freshly-crushed sugar cane juice (rum optional). We asked her about life in Cuba and she gave us many insights into how a Communist state works and how its people fare. In brief, everybody is adequately fed, housed and educated; health care is good and freely available; and there is work of a sort for those who want it. However, there is no way to get ahead by working harder; there is no way to leave Cuba and travel abroad; and there is no freedom as we understand it (our words, not hers, but that was our abiding conclusion).

Heading West

Next day we said farewell to Nout and Yolande and set off, planning to sail down to Cabo San Antonio on the western end of Cuba and then some way along the south coast, before departing for Panama. Only it wasn’t that simple. First we had to submit a list of intended destinations. This we duly did, only to be told that most of our chosen spots were off-limits. I asked why and was told that that was how it was. Then we had to clear out with the authorities. This involved stopping at the special dock and waiting our turn to be boarded by a further three officials. Many forms were inspected, some retained, others stamped and returned. A few new ones were completed and copies handed out. Then, to our horror, they announced that they would search us again. We objected only when the female officer started on Pam’s underwear again. After that they became less intrusive, but once again the process left us with a nasty taste in our mouths which the personal charm of most of the officials and all of the ordinary Cubans could not dispel.

Our first stop was Bahía Honda, 40 miles west. It is a large bay, attractive but for the rusting hulks of old ships which lay at anchor all around us. We anchored with three other yachts in a prescribed place and were boarded by three officials from a leaky rowing boat. The whole entry process was repeated, but at about 50% of the level we had met at Marina Hemingway. That night a searchlight was played on us continuously, to prevent Cubans from trying to board us, not with theft in mind but in order to flee to another land. Next morning we radioed the authorities to say we were all leaving. They promptly boarded each boat in turn and went through the exit formalities, complete with a cursory search.

At Cayo Levisa, a dive resort on a small island further along the coast, things were better – only one official, brought out in a motor boat by two men who played no part in the formalities. No searching, a lovely beach and a pleasant bar in the small hotel. We met Mickey and Neil from the catamaran Away 2 and wished we could have spent more time in their company. The departure formalities were conducted in the bar and we felt happy enough to offer a beer, which was accepted with thanks.

On through the night to Los Morros, described as a new marina just northeast of Cabo San Antonio. It turned out to be just a single jetty with room for two or three boats each side – unless the wind was blowing hard, when only one side could be used. There was a restaurant, a chandlery with charts and a very few provisions, showers, and the usual complement of officials. The restaurant manager spoke good English, and we learned he had been training to be a doctor but had switched careers to work in the tourist (ie dollar) economy, since he was newly married and his wife was expecting a baby.

Los Morros was rather nice. Richard and Jetty from the British catamaran Eclipse arrived the next day and joined us in an excellent lunch, cooked and served by the erstwhile doctor. Then we were forced to leave by the imminent arrival of some bad weather. On local advice we went to Cayos de la Leña, a delightful channel through the mangroves a few miles away (one of the original destinations we had requested but it had been refused!). There we passed a stormy couple of days in perfect shelter, joined by a Cuban gunboat and a local fishing boat. Many cheerful waves were exchanged but there was no contact – Cubans are forbidden to approach or go aboard a foreign vessel.

Finally the weather relented and we had a fast sail to Isla de Juventud on the south coast. The pilot book spoke warmly of Marina de Seguinea, but it proved to be tired, run down and very isolated, with only two other yachts there. The guarda post kept us under observation 24 hours a day, even stationing a man on the quay beside our companionway at night, presumably to prevent illegal boarding.

On the third morning of our stay at Marina de Seguinea we decided to visit Nueva Gerona, the capital of Isla de Juventud. We were to take the local bus, which had arrived and was waiting on the quay, when up popped an official from the Ministry of Agriculture, there to inspect us again for signs of fowl pest and foot and mouth. “But we’re taking that bus,” we objected – to which he replied, “This won’t take long, I’m taking the bus back too!” He was as good as his word and soon we were all bouncing down the rutted road towards the capital, 40 kilometers away, chatting in our rudimentary Spanish and his minimal English.

At every stop, and there were many, more passengers got aboard. The bus was a modern Dutch single-decker seating maybe 50 people, but soon it had at least twice that many crammed in. Everyone was well dressed, in very good humour and the journey was great fun, especially as we had seats! The villages were rather grim affairs architecturally, but the small bungalows were neat and the gardens well tended. We couldn’t say the same for the occasional collective farmworkers’ dwellings we passed, huge five-storey concrete blocks resembling army barracks or worse.

When we arrived at Nueva Gerona our agriculture official offered to be our guide, and spent the next two hours showing us the sights (not many) and finding us various shops and stalls where we were able to buy a few fresh provisions. We treated him to a drink and I pressed him to take three dollars ‘for his children’ which he eventually did accept. He was a very kind, generous man and it was hard to feel bad about officials when they could show such concern for tourists.

All that changed next morning when we came to depart and were once again subjected to the threat of a serious search. We objected strenuously, protesting in English and Spanish that it was our house they were invading and that as we had been under constant surveillance all the time we had been there, it was also pointless. Pam was so vehement that the senior official – the port captain himself – apologised, limited the search to a cursory look in each cabin for Cuban stowaways, and personally handed Pam the dockline as we got underway.

By now Pam wanted out of Cuba, although I was enjoying the experience – most of the time. Still, to get international clearance for our next country we had to go a further 100 miles east to Cayo Largo. Because we encountered head winds we sheltered for 36 hours behind a deserted island, Cayo Tablones, which sits alone miles from any habitation in the Golfo de Batabano. This is a huge expanse of pretty shallow water, dotted with a few scattered sandy cays covered by low scrub. Just after lunch on the second day, as we were preparing to get under way, we heard an engine and came on deck to find a small open fishing boat beside us, crewed by two men. ‘Lobsters’, I thought, and asked if they were fishermen. The answer was ‘No’. The guarda had found us and had come all that way to check up on us – again with great courtesy and charm, but to check on us nonetheless.

Happily, at our next anchorage, Cayo de Paradiso, a fishing boat did stop by and we were able to trade coffee for spiny lobsters, which made a delicious meal. Maybe Cuba wasn’t so bad after all.

And so we finally reached Cayo Largo. This is a resort island with a superb beach and lots of diving. There is a proper marina, modern and not expensive. The officials were charming and the arrival process a brief formality – at last we had found a place in Cuba we could praise without qualification. That night we dined ashore and found ourselves being serenaded by a four-piece band, talented and good-looking. Next day we walked the beach, swam and enjoyed ourselves without restraint. We found fresh provisions in reasonable quantities and I succumbed and bought some cigars.

And then we sailed away. It had been a most unusual visit. Looking back, we remember the charm and good humour of the Cuban people. We remember the shortages of foodstuffs, the smoking trucks and the old cars. We remember many aspects of Old Havana with real affection. We remember some glorious beaches and wonderful swimming. But most of all we remember the intrusive officials, doing their job, to be sure, and doing it with courtesy most of the time, but intruding none the less. For us, travelling in Cuba was the complete reverse of the freedom which is an important part of cruising.

We will not return.