The following travel journal was written by Mark between January 6 - January 22, 2005.

Day 1 - Traveling
January 6, 2005: Snowing, -10°C

Long travels are as much fun as a 24 hour relay race in the rain, or an awake-a-thon with nothing but bad movies to watch. It took 4.5 hours to get to Toronto, where we shuttled to the old Terminal 2. We discovered that this terminal had no VIP lounge, so shuttled back to the main terminal. Spoiled, aren't we? Mind you, this is all around 5am for us. We were zombies. We traveled to Cuba executive class, which was such a relief, as the flight from Toronto to Havana was another 3.5 hours.

Getting through Cuban customs involved removing hats and glasses and engaging in a stare-down with a woman in a glass box. From there it was waiting for baggage, sweating and a 20 minute taxi ride to our hotel with a couple we met from Vancouver.



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Day 2 - Havana
January 7, 2005: Hot and sunny, 27°C

No guidebook could ever adequately explain this place. It’s insane – and full of contradiction. First, let me say this: our hotel (Hotel Nacional de la Habana) is the height of luxury in this town. The service, the rooms, the food, the drinks, the grounds – all fantastic by any standard.


The 80 year-old Hotel Nacional - a beautiful national monument in Cuba.

The surrounding residential area however, is a different story. We checked in around 5pm and after a shower and short nap, we hit the streets to explore. We headed deep into the poor neighborhoods boldly, though aware of the sketchy feeling this place has. It really is the only way to find the true heart and soul of a place – to walk amongst the locals and explore the way they live. There will be plenty of time for bus tours, museums and other tourist attractions.

Music and sensuality hang in the air like a stink. It’s everywhere. Around each corner you’re just as likely to find a small crowd of friends or family relaxing out front of their humble walk-up (and I mean humble), playing music, singing or even dancing. We found a couple of places with Africa-style music and drumming loudly while slick, wet black men and women danced wildly. Each time we’d find some spectacle like this, they’d eagerly invite us to come in and watch. The people here are all so friendly and kind, it’s humbling. They all appear so happy and proud of who they are, despite the horrible conditions in which they live. It made Andrea and I rather aware of how much we have, how fortunate we are and how grateful we really should be. These people are like beautiful flowers growing in sand and stone. Crazy.


Amazing music pours from every doorway in Havana. These musicians invitied us in to listen to them practise. If this is just practise, I wonder what they sound like when they're really performing?!

We picked a good time to visit Havana – perhaps the best. There is a folk music festival on which coincides with celebrations of the 46th anniversary of the revolucion. Near our hotel, we stumbled upon a huge outdoor pop music concert with thousands of gyrating young people all dressed in their high school or college uniforms. Wow – can these kids dance! The performers were very good, though somewhat reminiscent of the Back Street Boys. The girls went crazy for them.

Have I mentioned how attractive everyone is here? Blacks, Whites, Mulattos, Latino, Chinese – all gorgeous and wearing next to nothing. It is rather warm for January (29°C) so everyone is stripped down. And, very few people speak English outside the hotels. They all want to try, but are really not good. I wish we’d taken Spanish lessons. Next time we will.


Chinatown in Havana, where you'd be lucky to find more than a handful of Chinese.

We met this one friendly fellow Peter, at the Peking bar just outside Burrio Chino (Chinatown) who invited us in for a drink. It turns out he didn’t actually work there, but just wanted us to buy him a Mojito. He kept saying he was a “good singer. Bongo. Play Guitar. Bongo –singer.” It was comical. He even went and retrieved his bongos and started playing a bit. I’m sure he wanted us to ask him to perform, so we could pay him, but we finished our drinks (Cuban beer for Andrea, Cuba Libre for me) and continued our walking tour. As it turns out, (we found out from a different Cuban friend) that Peter was in fact a true musician and he plays at the Peking Bar and was just waiting to go on. Whoops! And we thought he was out for a drink or peso. Time to stop being so suspicious! We realize now that most Cubans are just super friendly and more interested in practising their English, and have no interest in our dollars!

Once back at our hotel, we explored the grounds some more and decided to have a late dinner at La Barraca – the outdoor restaurant overlooking the Malecon and the water. Regardless of the many warnings about the food, it was really good – chicken and pork with beans, rice and veggies. We shared a bottle of Cuban wine which was different, but delicious. After dinner we retired to the oversized couches and chairs in the patio bar and drank Mojitos while smoking a Montecristo #4 and listening to a quartet play in the corner. It was magic.


Taking a long pull from my Montecristo No. 4.

Oh yeah, a couple things we observed today which were interesting. Electric power must be a difficult thing to come by and in high demand here. And I imagine the power grid is as antiquated as the crumbling, hodge-podge homes people have made for themselves in what must have surely been remarkable examples of architecture many years ago. As we walked through the old, run-down sections of Centro Habana, we’d experience these rolling black outs – the power in a couple blocks would just quit without warning. The locals, however, were so used to this occurrence that they’d just spark up a candle, turn on the battery-powered light or more common, sit in the pitch black and finish their dinner and chat. We walked by many homes and heard happy voices or music coming from pitch-back cavernous rooms. Strange.

Overall, our first full day in Havana has been quite an experience. A little overwhelming, actually, so much so that we didn’t know where to look or where to go next. As a result, we took almost no pictures.

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Day 3 - Havana
January 8, 2005: Hot and Sunny, 30°C

Keeping a journal is hard work. And why is it you only seem to have time to write it when you’re back in your room after a pile of drinks? Odd that.

Today was huge fun. After a great sleep in our cool, dark, quiet room, we magically awoke just in time to catch breakfast in the hotel. Now, experienced travelers know better than to expect much from the “complimentary continental breakfast” often offered with your room. However, this hotel has managed to create a great breakfast in a huge cafeteria-style dining room. Really impressive eats, though not very Cuban. Coffee here rocks. I’m sure we’ll discuss that more later.

When we finally got ourselves together, we ventured out to explore more of Havana by day. In no less than 5 minutes, we ran into 2 friendly locals named Luis and Gioko (or Jioko) who offered some directions. Instead of just pointing the way, they walked and talked with us for quite a while. Young Cubans love any opportunity to speak English. They also adore Canadians (especially if you give them money). These two hombres were quite genuine and charming. They even bought us some local fruit at the market. It seemed quite important we try Cuban platano (bananas). They really were good. Jioko was wearing all white and colourful beads that contrasted highly with his dark black skin. He explained that he practiced the Afro-Cuban religion (Choco?) that co-exists with Catholicism in Cuba. Rumba music and the frenetic dancing we’ve all seen on TV – they were borne of Afro-Cuban culture. Joiko was proud of his culture and jumped at the opportunity to show it off, so he took us on a tour of the neighbourhoods that led to Callejon De Hammell (Afro-Cuban street). Once there, we all enjoy Mojitos together and talked. Cuban people are lovely. They really have no clue what’s going on in the world – their local newspapers are state run and therefore contain only news and propaganda about Cuba. We met some lads who had no idea there had been a tragedy in South Asia. Sad.


One of many friendly locals who walked and talked with us.

After some more sights with our new friends, such as a market, state store (where you get your monthly rations) and a beautiful old church, or hosts tried to classic “cigars for cheap” routine and brought us to their friends’ house. It was interesting to see where and how Cuban live, but tainted the day. We declined, explaining we had a bus tour to catch back at the hotel. We made plans to meet again and were off.

My daiquiri is dripping as I write…

Why do bus tours make one feel more on display than the city you’re out to explore? It’s like a rolling aquarium and you are the oh so boring fish stuck inside, while beautiful tropical lovelies float on by staring at you. Plus there’s always the snobby whiner from home (his name was Sonny in this case) complaining about everything. Oh well, we had to do the bus tour to get the broad strokes. Now we at least have some bearings and history to impress friends with. I won’t bore you by explaining the crowded streets, gorgeous people, dogs everywhere, shape and size of the architecture. OK, I’ll mention the architecture. God, how lovely this old city is – or was. They are dearly trying to restore the old town (La Habana Vieja) but alas this seawater and strong winds are a far more powerful force than these poor people’s efforts. Time and weather have only exaggerated the effects the trade embargo has had on this country. They can’t even repair the damage fast enough, let alone afford good paint, stucco, wood or pavement. The pictures should tell the story better than I could write.


You don't need to be an architecture buff to appreciate the old buildings - they are almost beyond description. In fact UNESCO declared La Habana Vieja a World Heritage Site in 1982.


Remind me to tell you about the wiring. Baffling. It must be entertaining when it rains.

Once we freshened up back at our deluxe hotel (feeling guilty now) we headed out to find some dinner. A couple of friendly, English-speaking guys guessed we were from Vancouver, Canada as we walked by. How he’d known is a mystery, but he certainly “had the eye”. After a brief conversation (where I explained I didn’t need a paid guide) he offered to show us a good paladar a few blocks away called Paladar Nerei. It turned out to be a beautiful mansion in what used to be the wealthy part of town. We ate a few meters from the family on their veranda. We ate the traditional Cuban roasted pork, served family-style with amazing rice, beans, fried plantains, salad and veggies. We were told NOT to expect to enjoy the food here, but we’ve been eating very well so far.


A delicious dinner of roasted pork at a local paladar - a restaurant in a private home.

Time out. Wind got too annoying in the garden, so I’m in “La Casa de Habana” – the hotel’s very posh smoking room. Very nice. I have the place to myself and am enjoying my Partagas No. 4. This is the room that Churchill, Hitchcock, Wells, and Chaplin smoked in. I can still smell their cigars – oh, wait. No, that’s me.

Ok, back to the story…where were we? Food? Oh yeah. We've been warned by many that food here can be hit and miss. We’ve been lucky with our hits and still have solid stool (honestly, that’s a bonus in Cuba) so we’re off to a good start. We’ll go back to Nerei Paladar again. After dinner we strolled through Habana Vedado district on our way back to our hotel. The sun was slowly setting behind the city and the trade winds were once again cleaning the streets and messing the hairdos of all the pretty girls dressed up for Saturday night out. Our plans were to enjoy a live performance of Groupo Compay Segundo (the remaining members of Compay Sugundo's band featured in Buena Vista Social Club before he died). We sauntered leisurely around the grounds at our hotel and discovered there was a large auditorium where the concert was being held. The music was great and the crowd, mostly gringo tourists, really got into the Latin mood and joined the awesome dancers on the floor. Quite a sight to see.



The couple from Vancouver we’d met on the flight and shared our cab with were sitting just in front of us. Bart and Melanie ordered the optional dinner and show and were served a flavourless, inedible slab of wannabe veal. They barely touched it. But with enough drinks, the dinner didn't seem to matter. After the show we joined them and Bart bought us more drinks and presented me with one of the humungous Cohiba cigars he bought from someone on the street for “a deal”. There's a lot of that here, "you like cigars?" often heard as you walk about. We moved out to the veranda to enjoy the warm evening and had a few laughs complete with requisite homophobic jokes. (“Sounds a bit gay to me, but I’m in”). I worked desperately for 30 minutes or more trying to enjoy my cigar. It was the size of a baby’s arm! Finally even Bart started turning green and admitted he had bit off more than he could chew. I puffed for a short time longer (to reinforce that I was an alpha male) and eventually declared the cigar smoked and gave up. Sadly, I had smoked about 1 1⁄2” of the entire 8” bad boy. Smoking a cigar that size is something like how I imagine giving a blowjob to an elephant would be: it takes work to wrap your lips around its massive circumference, takes forever to finish, and in the end, makes you feel queasy and dirty.



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Day 4 - Havana
January 9, 2005: Sunny again, though clouds in morning and afternoon.

Suffered a rather restless sleep last night. Am finding that my allergies are really flaring up as a result of whatever the wind is carrying. Woke up a number of times with itchy eyes and runny nose. I’ve been sneezing during the day too – thank goodness we brought allergy pills as the pharmacies in Cuba leave just a little to be desired.

We awoke a little late at 9:15am and rushed downstairs for breakfast. Mind you, we didn’t crash until 2am, so we’re doing fine really. Andrea’s back is holding up, but I’ve noticed her stretching a fair bit. I hope she doesn’t hurt herself. We’ve been walking an awful lot (I tend to do that when traveling) and even my tree-trunks for legs are complaining. The plan today is to locate a rental motorcycle or scooter so we can get around more freely without a taxi or long hike.

After a much longer walk than planned (so much for avoiding a long hike) we hailed a cab to take us to the rental agency. Only to find they had no bikes left!! Our plight wasn’t nearly as bad as the poor bloke from Ireland who’d been searching, walking and cabbing all day long around Havana in search of a bike. He was sitting, defeated, tired, and hungry at the rental place so we offered to share out taxi on the return trip to Centro Habana. His name was Dave Berry and he’s a sports documentary filmmaker for one of the large Irish TV stations. Cool job! He gets to travel a lot and has friends all over the world. It turned out that his father has retired and lives with his new Canadian wife Sandy in Nelson, BC! Bizarre coincidence. We wondered if Billy and Michele knew him.

After a short stop at Dave’s hotel, (The Lido) we did our best to find the oldest Taxi Particulaire (not real taxis, just people with cars) we could. Funny – most taxis have more than one person driving. So, we got into this 1950s Ford, completely beat up. Windows didn’t work, no upholstery on the ceiling, painted and repainted… it was awesome.


A fun ride in a "taxi particulaire" - basically someone's private old American car.

They took the three of us to Cementerio de Cristobal Colon – a massive and ornate cemetery. Different from ours – all stone (mostly marble), no grass, but big trees. They had an old 1950's Cadillac hearse there – wide open – so Andrea and I climbed in and posed like dead bodies. A bit creepy and a strange thing to do, but made for good laughs. The locals sitting there looked at us like we were off our nut.



Robert, a security guard there latched onto us and gave us a tour. There was everything from voodoo (“boodoo”) to vampires, millionaires, grave robbers and dominos.


The cemetery was interesting. Many of the graves had been opened and looted by grave robbers and voodoo practicioners.

His job was hard, he explained, and pointed to his boots that were in rough shape (another guard did the same shtick!). So, a couple pesos later, we realized we really needed some food! We wandered a bit and didn’t find much… So, we took Simon’s advice – “when you find a good restaurant, go there every day.” So, back into a cab, and back to Nerei paladar. We had another great meal and then walked with Dave along the Malecon. We snapped pictures like crazy – Mark found all the pretty girls and took their photos! After another walk through the streets of Centro Habana, we eventually make our way back to Dave’s hotel for a quick stop. While Dave dropped off his camera gear and made some arrangements with reception, we made our way to the rooftop terrace for a cold cerveza. It had been another hot muggy day, but the usual winds and clouds moved in during the afternoon and the sunset was gorgeous. Once Dave returned, we all went in search of the perfect Cuban nightlife experience. While none the “ultimate”, we managed to bar hop our way around Old Havana (Habana Vieja), enjoying 3 or 4 good places with classic Cuban drinks, live music and crowds. Really a fun evening. After wandering all the way back to Barrio Chino, we said our good byes with plans to meet or at least speak again, and hopped onto the next "bici-taxi" (a man powered tryke with 2 seats in back) and negotiated a ride back to our hotel for $5. Once there of course, it suddenly became $5 EACH! Typical Cuba. Oh well, a great day.

We visited a number of bars today, inlucding famous Hemmingway hang-outs El Floridita, Bar Paris, Bar Peking and of course El Bodequita Del Medio. This was Hemmingway's very favorite place to sit and drink mojitos and contemplate his suicide options. This restaurant-bar had a very nice menu and seating in the back with writing all over the walls. It occurs to me now that th elocal Cuban restaurant back home called Havana must has based itself on this very place. There they allow patrons to write their names and messages on the walls just like in El Bodeguita. They have a message scrawled by Hemmingway himself in his now famous script framed over the bar: "My mojito in La Bodeguita, my daiquiri in El Floridita. Ernest Hemingway."


Dave (from Ireland) with Andrea enjoying drinks at La Bodeguita Del Medio

The dogs here are small. They all seem to lounge in the street all day and thus become very dirty and unkempt. It seems they quite enjoy pooing in the streets rather than the sidewalks (where they lie in the shade or doorways) and pee on “carro gummos” (car tires). We’ve seen so many breeds of dog here – even the always bizarre hairless Chinese crested, but so far no Havanese like our little Charlie, though someone we met had one at home. There are also many cats (much skinnier than Schnoopette), but who cares – cats suck!!


Mangy dogs roam the streets everywhere. Poor little things.

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Day 5 - Havana
January 10, 2005: Weather doesn’t change. I’ll tell you if it does.

Today we rented our scooter – a very good move you’d think, considering the constant outlay of cash to these sneaky taxi drivers who always claim to have no change and not speak English! ($7 becomes $10 because you don’t have small bills).

Well, I’m not sure if it was such a good idea… I may have put us in a very sketchy predicament. Mind you, by fighting our way through traffic, we are getting a truly more authentic Habana experience. It’s just that there seem to be very few rules on the road here. We had a couple close calls already by turning up one-way streets the wrong way. There are few signs and those there are, seem to be in code. Not only are they in Spanish (Pare = Stop), but they don’t follow the international symbol standards we’re used to. Stop signs look like yield signs (triangular) and “not allowed” signs use big round red circles – without the diagonal slash you’d expect. The lines on the pavement – well, there are no lines! Heck, in most instances, there’s little one could legitimately deem pavement! It makes for a bumpy ride on a tiny scooter carrying two, I assure you.


A typical Havana street - crowded, noisy and choked by smoky exhaust.

Honking in Cuba is the norm. It does not mean “get out of the way!” or “you’re doing something wrong – move”. Rather, it merely means “I’m here and I’m coming through!”. It’s fun to honk at everyone as you enter an intersection – I quite like it. Plus, the pedestrians here are ALL OVER the road, yet no one gets hit. They are all very keenly aware of their surroundings and smart about crossing the street. If only folks back home were this sharp! Vancouver pedestrians could learn a thing or two from the Cubans.



I’d say the worst aspect of driving in Havana would have to be the pollution. Most of the cars are run-down old American classics from the 40s and 50s, held together and kept running without easy access to spare parts. Everywhere you look you find people on the side of the road, day or night, doing repairs to their old machines – even police officers! These antiquated cars and motorcycles spew so much smoke it’s noxious. It coats your skin, settles in your nose and bothers your eyes. Our clothes even have the stink of traffic after a jaunt on our little “moto Cubano” and even after washing your face with soap, the white hotel towels turn grey.


**click on the photo above to view the entire car photo gallery**

After some wandering, we decided to explore the university. Once up the grand staircase and past the massive statue (there are statues everywhere here), we found the main university courtyard a distinctly calmer pace than the frenetic energy on the streets of Centro Habana.

Tangent – as I write this I am outside our hotel in the lovely courtyard and gardens overlooking the ocean. The strangest-looking birds I’ve ever seen are milling about making odd “squeak-squawk” sounds in rapid succession. They look like the retarded ill-bred union between a pheasant and a turkey with a chicken as an aunt perhaps. Ugly creatures.

Anyway, the university was grand in scale and the architecture was magnificent. But, alas, it too has fallen into disrepair and showed signs of its years of use. Students were quietly milling about, going to or from classes or just sitting in the main courtyard (with a Soviet tank in the middle of course) chatting, snuggling or reviewing notes. It seems a good time to mention the frequent public displays of affection the Cubans demonstrate to each other. It is a very common sight to see women and/or men embracing each other in heartfelt greetings, often accompanied by loud smoochie kisses. Even the younger students show each other this level of affection. And it is not offensive at all for an older man or woman to pat your kids on the head or bum – even a stranger. We (Canadians) could learn a thing or two from them. I’m going to start patting bums as soon as I get home.

While snooping the university buildings, we were approached by a student who said as he walked over “you looking for something? Can I help?” Now, this is typical of Cubans as they are genuinely gregarious, but always makes me start as I mistrust most Cubano as I’ve been warned that they usually want pesos for assistance. In this case, though, this student merely saw a stranger and offered some help. They will offer help even if they don’t speak your language! They’ll try their best to understand. We asked for directions to the toilet (el bano) and he went well out of his way to escort us to another building. There was no toilet seat, toilet paper or running water mind you, but very nice just the same. (That is how most public toilets are in Havana. Bring your own toilet paper, and build up your leg muscles – you will be squatting!)


The Havana University steps to the main entrance.

We began to strike up a conversation (they spoke a little English) and soon were introduced to Gilberto (from San Fuego), Bernardo (from Santiago de Cuba), and Ariel (from Guantanamo). These three young students, all studying mathematics to become teachers themselves, were just one more remarkable example of Cuban hospitality. They immediately abandoned whatever plans they had and gave us a guided tour of their school and natural history museum. They asked nothing in return besides a chance to speak a little English and hear about life in Canada. I’ve said it before, but will reiterate that Cubans love Canada and all aspire to go there. Many of them have friends or relatives there and it is sad that the reality is that they will most likely never be given that opportunity.


Our new friends Ariel, Bernardo and Gilberto - all studying mathematics.

After a visit and tour, we wanted to give them something in gratitude, but they refused. Instead they allowed us to buy them a Mojito at the local restaurant. On the way there, the topic of food came up and I asked if this restaurant was ‘bueno’. To this they each responded with “not possible”, “no money”, while rubbing their fingers together and then their bellies. Bernardo explained in Spanglish (my comprehension of Spanish is actually increasing rapidly) that because they are students living away from home, they have no part time jobs (not permitted) and must survive on the common rations – about 2 weeks worth of rice, beans, meat, dairy, fruit, and nothing more. They were all very skinny and suffering terribly, but they were working hard to educate themselves instead of hustling tourists in the street, which is very common. So, while at the restaurant, we bought our new amigos pollo frito and a couple drinks each. They were so grateful, they seemed uncomfortable with the whole affair. We immediately became friends with these 3 Cuban men and exchanged addresses and planned to meet again tomorrow at our hotel to go watch the Santiago vs. metro Havana baseball (pelota) game at the Estadia Latino America, the local baseball stadium. We’re really looking forward to that.

So, after spending hours with new friends hearing how repressed and poor they are, it was quite a jolt to return to our deluxe hotel to find that they had upgraded our room to an ocean and city view corner suite with a king size bed and twice as much floor space. Somehow this made me feel humble, guilty and grateful all at once. Ah screw it – I’m on vacation.


Our beutiful room at Hotel Nacional and the view from it's window overlooking the Malecon and ocean.

Each day I take a short break to be alone down here by the sea, feel the wind, enjoy a daiquiri or Cuba Libre and do some journal writing. It’s really quite nice. Peaceful. I can feel myself unwinding in this place. It’s about time. I was getting a bit goofy in the head really. It’s good to travel to places like this. Quite grounding. I just hope the 5 star all-inclusive resort doesn’t reverse all this.

As I write this, Andrea is refreshing herself by the pool, perhaps enjoying a swim too. The weather could not have been better (knock on wood). We were warned about the heat and bugs, but have no complaints at all.
After Andrea’s nap, we ventured back out into Havana Vieja to explore some more in the evening. The light here during sunset is so warm and magical. The streets glow as shadows move across doorways and alleyways. I suspect the quality of light is an unfortunate side effect of the pollution; perhaps our photos will show this effect. I fear not however.

As we made our way towards the old section of town, we parked our trusty steed, ok scooter, and headed out on foot. As we walked through the partially restored section of town, the former beauty of this place really began to emerge. The colonial-baroque architecture is so magnificent it becomes difficult to describe. I wish my vocabulary and writing skills could do justice to this place. For example, we stumbled upon Hotel Raquel on San Ignacio, in the old Jewish quarter of Old Havana, which we’d heard about from another tourist. Wow. The building rose at least 4 floors, but appeared enormous from the street. The large stones that make up the foundation and main outer walls are textured by some long-ago artisan. The columns, which run upward in majestic climbs, have ornate details at the parapets and beautiful edgework along the top of the roofline. Inside, the first floor is huge and open with large oversized marble columns directing the eye up to ornate painted details on the ceiling. Everywhere you look, there is gold, marble and lovely ironwork. Victorian furniture and antiques compliment the open and airy main lobby. Everywhere are design elements hinting to this building’s original use as a Jewish business centre. Each of the uniquely named rooms are refurbished offices, closed since the revolution of course. What an inviting place. As we are hungry from our walk, we decide to try dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. We order grilled fish curry and fried chicken and a bottle of Cubano vino tinto (red wine). The food was on par with the ambiance and a bargain for $28 all told. Our luck with meals is still holding thankfully.


Dinner at the beautiful Hotel Raquel - a former Jewish business centre.

After our delicious visit to this wonderful place we made plans to return again and continued our walk. A few blocks further down San Ignacia, we stumbled across the quaintest little paladar in the old town called Paladar Mulatta de Savor and met the owner Justina. After a peek at her menu and dining room, we decided to return the following day for dinner. As we continued our walk, the buildings and neighbourhoods decidedly shifted from restored colonial-baroque to run-down examples of neocolonial residences. The touristy area now many blocks behind us, we were once again amongst the downtrodden Habana people. One thing we’ve noticed many times here is the number of people in the streets late at night. All day really. There are well over 3 million people living in Havana and sometimes up to 11 families (40 people or so) can live in each of the ramshackle habitaciones that line these narrow streets. We took some photos of doorways and the hodge-podge electrical wiring to remember. With every block comes a fresh new batch of exposed wires, broken windows, collapsed buildings and broken water or sewage pipes gurgling in the street. Besides the strong auto exhaust (smoke actually), there is the occasional waft of sewage from this antiquated and deteriorating plumbing system. I hope the Cuban government continues its drive to salvage and repair this treasure of the Spanish-Colonial past.

Our walk ended only when the road terminated at the bay. This was a nice view and good way to finish, so we headed back toward our deluxe scooter (piece of crap) and buzzed our way over shattered pavement toward our bourgeois sanctuary on the hill. Once settled into the oversized furniture on the lovely veranda with cold Mojitos in hand, we chatted and reflected on the day’s discoveries. It was another long day of adventure and we needed the peace and calm this place provides: of course that is too much to ask as this loud-mouthed, overweight Latino show-off (like an annoying Mexican version of Uncle Steve dialed way up a few notches) arrived beside us with his amigo and their skirts-for-hire. His blabbering, laughing, buying everyone drinks and showing off drove us back to our quiet room and to bed.

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Day 6- Havana
January 11, 2005: Sunny and hot. Really, what did you expect?

It’s an odd thing to be in another hemisphere. Suddenly things you take for granted shift and change, making for some hybrid experience somewhere between routine and discovery. For instance, I expect to rise in the morning and have the sun greet me at my window. Well, here, the sun is on Cuba time and crawls lazily over the horizon well after 7:30am. In the evenings, when you look to the sky, your mind automatically expects to see the stars where you left them. It’s not that I’m into astronomy much or even know many constellations, but your mind somehow just registers their location as an automatic navigation aid. Here, however, my stars are all wrong! Where’s the North Star gone? Where did the big dipper go? What is that string of starts twinkling above so brightly? Where am I??? Ahhhh, Cuba.

The tone and cadence of our Havana adventure took a decidedly chill turn on Tuesday. A late breakfast was followed by lounging and napping by the hotel pool. As a certified ADHD sufferer, I lasted a total of 45 minutes before bailing for some solo exploring on our scooter. Not too much discovery in my quest for more gritty local flavour, but managed to mess up my final approach to the hotel 3 times, going in circles desperately vying for position to negotiate the myriad of one way streets en route to the hotel’s main drive. The roads here suck ass. Finally, I arrived to a greeting of scorn and berating from Andrea who had decided that I was by now face down in a shimmering pool of my own blood in some low-rent Havana barrio. This is not as uncommon or unexpected as you might imagine, so I had to cut her a slice of proverbial slack.

As Andrea polished and coiffed, I decided to attempt a connection with the outside world via the hotel’s business centre which had very rare Internet connection. Shockingly, the antiquated hardware and torturously slow connection somehow managed to load my data-heavy website and email page. I banged off a short update for friends and family back home and logged off. I haven’t seen the internet run that slowly since the early nineties, but it’s an impressive glimmer of hope that Fidel and his motley crew government has even allowed the elite web and email access.

I tried using my cell phone, to make an international call, but it wouldn’t work, despite showing a strong signal. I managed to get ridiculous Spanish greeting with an even funnier English translated recording, but no connection. Oh well, what did I expect really? The movie listings on 299-9000?

Finally prepped and willing to venture into the high-pressure world of Latin machismo and leering, Andrea and I set out toward the Museo de la Revolucion. Though informative and interesting, and set in a palatial example of colonial baroque architecture, the exhibit itself was shabby, faded and sloppy. The artifacts were not any more fascinating than some clothes, glasses, maps or photos and the English translations were completely laughable. The story of Cuba’s historic struggle for independence from colonial rule and imperialism was succinctly demonstrated, but the whole place was tainted with the reek of anti-American propaganda. The museum was really nothing more than another tool used by Fidel to reinforce his stronghold on the Cubano people with the legend of the revolution. There was even an entire wing dedicated to Ernesto Che Guevarra, the latest icon used to attach a face to the revolution story. Nothing more really than a decent example of branding. One curiosity at the museum was a large outdoor display with the boat “Granma" used by Fidel, Che, Raul, Camille and the initial revolutionary guerillas who landed in Cuba in 1952 (?). There were tanks, aircrafts, Soviet missiles, rockets, cannons, and trucks – even the remains of the U-2 spy plane shot down in 1963 during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Crazy to see these objects of movie legend and lore in person.


The actual table in the olf palace (now the museum of the revolution) where Fidel, Che, Raul and Camille created the constitution of the new Cuba in 1959-60.

After enough Cuban history/propaganda to choke a large goat, it was time to consider dinner. With fond memories of the paladar in Vieja discovered the previous nights walk, we set off in that direction. Justina greeted us with the same friendly smile and graciousness as on our first encounter and we settled in for pollo frito (fried chicken) and pollo a la mulatta (especial de casa). Amazingly, the pollo de la mulatta tasted just like adobo chicken – a Filipino soy, garlic and vinegar concoction Andrea and her mother make often. It tasted and felt just like home and Justina chatted cheerfully in her limited English and made us feel very welcome. This was, after all, her home and we were essentially dining in her living room. I think this place is the perfect spot to bring Clint and Ghazal who arrive tomorrow to join in the fun.

After giggles, kisses, writing in her guest book and plans to come back manana, we set off again into the frenetic energy of the Havana night. All told with bottled water, drinks, and coffees, our wonderful dinner was $27. Back home, that is the price of one entrée in many restaurants.

With a big night of baseball ahead of us, it was back to the quiet luxury of our hotel to shower and change. Bathing seems most logical later in the day as the nights are spent in the artificial splendor of our climate-controlled room. The mornings are cool and breezy, but by late afternoon, the heat, resulting sweat and road grime sticking to said sweat make for an uncomfortable and unsavory situation. So, after scrubbing the day’s dirt off, we headed for the lobby to meet up with our new Cuban friends from the university. The plan was to taxi us to the stadium to see a couple local baseball teams duke it out. We were quite excited to have locals hosting us on our next adventure. Baseball is easily the most valued American import on the island. Most Cubans are avid fans and get rather passionate about “their team” – our hosts even able to quickly recite batting stats and league standings. The match we’d be watching would be between metropolitan Havana (the local underdogs) and Santiago de Cuba – a favorite and close runner-up to the league champs, Industrial.

Once assembled downstairs, we walked into the streets seeking taxi transport to the other side of town. As Ariel had invited along his girlfriend Asmarra, we were 5 people – a challenge for legitimate taxi drivers, who are supposed to only take a maximum of 4 persons at a time. Well, this is Cuba, and rules are flexible and so is the definition of a taxi, so our friends flagged down a local citizen vehicle, often referred to as a “taxi particulaire” and negotiated a ride for all of us to the stadium for a mere $5 pesos (CUC), a bargain. This old Soviet carro sputtered and clunked, but we arrived safely at the stadium at 7:55pm, with 5 minutes to spare before first pitch. The price of admission here is 1 peso and our gracious hosts insisted on paying for us as we paid the taxi fare. I’ve mentioned it before, but these are remarkable kind and generous people. In fact, one of our new friends dug in his pocket, extracting a strange looking 3 Cuba Peso (only for Cubans, not the CUC converted peso for tourists) and insisted we keep it as a souvenir. He surely needed this gift.

Once inside, it was abundantly clear that having these guys with us was a very good idea indeed. We were virtually the only gringos in sight and we may as well have had targets on our foreheads. We were marked for harassment by jeteros (street hustlers) but they were held at bay with quick interventions by our amigos. The game was all American baby, with the exception of no hot dogs or beer! Instead, they sold little tiny folded paper cups of Cuban espresso and odd little paper cones filled with candies or deep-fried pasta called “chicharrones” or something like that. We bought an armful of these little pork scratchings for our friends for the equivalent of 50 cents and enjoyed every crunchy bite.


Pelota - just like a baseball game back home.

The game was close and not very eventful, but for the crazy fella in front of us who had smuggled in rum in an apple juice container. He was sitting just to the left of us behind the plate, while all the other fans for the away team sat behind their bench. His enthusiastic jeering and taunting yells elicited quite a riotous uproar from the opposing fans flanking him. It got rather animated to the point of worry – we watched this encounter more than the game frankly – but the interesting thing was the lack of real anger or spite from the crowd. In fact, many of them would alternate from grand hand gestures and mocking retorts as they taunted him with teasing rebuttals to his aggressive yelling to hugs and laughs as they shared a sip of something to ease his rapidly fading voice. They genuinely respected each other though passionate about their sports team of choice. Perhaps the absence of beer was a factor.


The crazy fan sitting calmly while the other fans leer and taunt him.

In the end, Santiago de Cuba – the favourite – won the game with a late run in the 10th inning. It was a classic Cuba experience I will never forget. Thank you my new Cuban friends Gilberto and Ariel. Mucho Gusto. Mucho mucho gusto.

Okay, game is over, right? What to do? These guys have NO MONEY, so they’re heading home to their run-down hovels in the university student dorms (imagine post USSR slums you’ve seen on TV. Got it? Worse.) Well, back home, we’d go out for a drink or a snack and recount the evening and have a laugh. So, we pleaded with our proud yet humble hosts if we could gain treat them to Mojitos. They reluctantly accepted and we set off in search of transport back across town. Now much later, there are few options, as taxi particulares do not frequent the stadium district. After walking a few blocks, our hosts see an approaching “gua gua” (wa wa) and ask if that will be acceptable. They have a worried look and funny smirk on their face which makes us apprehensive, but we’d read that this can be an interesting experience often enjoyed only by locals, so we accept. They even insist on paying once again as the bus only accepts Cuban pesos (40 centavos – about 10 cents). Oh my God. I’ve never before, and likely never will again experience such a mode of transport. How do I explain it? Imagine a conventionally sized transit bus, but a shitty old version. Got it? Okay, now picture a fellow standing at the front with a coin belt accepting payment from all travelers (though easy to cheat, everyone pays). Now, how many people do you suppose could fit on one of these buses? 50? 60? Maybe 70 people if everyone stood close and were packed in like sardines? We watched as the packed bus pulled up. I thought, “Well, I guess we’ll wait for the next one. This one is full.” No my friend, once I managed to squeeze my flesh into an almost non-existent space between dozens of bodies standing in the rear doorway alone, I started a head count. Miraculously, the big line up of people on the curb meshed into the already packed bus. I’m not sure where all the people went. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and what we were experiencing. Thank goodness Gilberto was hanging on to me, whispering instructions into my ear, Asmarra doing the same for Andrea at the front of the bus. I began my count as the bus lurched into motion, people running on the street, jumping and clinging to it, desperate to get on board. 1, 2, 3 dozen… 45, 50, 60… 75, 80. 85 more! There were almost 100 people on this rickety old jalopy of a gua gua bus for common Cubans. Amazing.


Old cars, zany buses and our beautiful hotel in the background.

After settling into a local university bar, we shared a final drink with our friends, exchanged addresses with promises to write and enjoyed a warm evening walk back to the Hotel Nacional, again moved by the contrast of our privileges compared to how these proud people live. I’ll never forget Cuba.

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Day 7- Havana
January 12, 2005: Again with the hot sun. Winter is tough in Cuba!

Wha? Who? Where am I? What day is this? My cycle is off and my internal clock and navigation systems have shut down. It’s taken nearly a week, but I’m surely in chill vacation mode now. Clint and Ghazal arrive later today and we have a short 2 days to show off this town before heading for the calm and relaxation of a resort filled with fat food, rude tourists, and cheesy entertainment – oh, and our wedding, right!
I’m suffering a little in the eves and night as the poor air quality here is aggravating my allergies. Thankfully we brought some meds or I’d turn into a wheezing, sneezing teary-eyed lump of misery.

“There are 11 millions persones in Cuba, 5 millions of them are policia!” says a new friend we’ve met on the street with his heavy Spanish accent. “In Habana, there are 1 million policia with a population of just over 3 million!” Could this be true? Has this government really handed out official uniforms to over 30% of its citizens? Who knows, but we’ve seen more police officers in cars, on shiny black motorcycles, standing on street corners and on guard in front of ministry buildings than you could shake a stick at. You’d be very hard pressed to commit a crime here without a brigade of well-armed officers swooping down in a flash. I suppose in this deprived economy with limited opportunity, a career as a police officer (with a fancy uniform making it clear to all what you do) is rather prestigious and no doubt comes with all the benefits and trimmings of privilege. Interestingly, no police officer showed one iota of interest in us or any other tourist. Even as we stupidly rode our scooter up one-way streets the wrong way without helmets on. Not a blink. We must mean money to them and have “hand off” instructions. They sure have no qualms about hassling locals though.

After a leisurely jaunt to the pool and catching up on some reading and journal writing (I’m finishing Tony Bourdain’s A Cook’s Tour and it’s fabulous), we set off to retrieve a second scooter from the rental company as we’d arranged with them. Not surprisingly, upon our arrival we were met with blank stares of miscomprehension. The original fellow (who spoke more English than I Spanish) was not on duty and those that remained had no clue what I was requesting. They told us there were no more rental scooters and expected us to relinquish the one we already had! Well, after some pleading and desperate hand signals to aid my comical attempts to communicate, we were told to come back in 20 minutes. It seemed perhaps there might be a return then or maybe they could build us a working scooter from the many relics strewn about in the back. Thankfully, upon our return, we were given our second scooter and were off again. Now at least we had enough mobile transport to give Clint and Ghazal a fun and more “earthy” (read: scary) grand tour of the city later this evening.

While we waited for our friends, we ventured back into Vieja to explore the classic Havana sights such as the rum and tobacco factories. This would have been fun too, had they not taken a citywide vacation until January 18th. We did check the former Bacardi rum headquarters – a beautiful example of radical art deco design. The decorative interior trim, long vertical light fixtures and ornate glasswork belayed the hope and promise of years of prosperity when Bacardi build the building in the late 30s. It must have been devastating to abandon this gem to the post revolucion socialist government only to be converted to rental offices.

I’d read somewhere that if you ask nicely and perhaps offered a few pesos, the lobby guard could give you access to the amazing rooftop with glorious panoramic 360° views of the city, ocean and surrounding bay. With a polite smile and wink to the pretty lady at the meager reception desk dwarfed by the grand lobby, it was arranged. For $1 Peso each, we were escorted by Luis (everyone is named Luis here it seems) up the elevator to the top floor. He showed us through a narrow hallway and opened a locked iron door, which revealed a great steel spiral staircase rising 102 steps to the parapet at the top. This view and position at one of the highest points in Old Havana was remarkable. It was quite a treat to be up here and just reinforced my belief that those who never ask, will never get! Top of the world Ma!!


Panaramic view of La Habana Vieja from atop the old Bacardi headquarters building.

Luis seemed quite happy to have us up there and his English was very good. He prattled on about the various landmarks and points of interest. I guess this was a welcome break for him from standing in the lobby getting the occasional “hola” from strangers.

We meandered through the old city for the early afternoon until once again we rediscovered a block of stunning habitaciones just inside the Centro residential district. When we were with Irish Dave, we’d made note to come back to take daylight photos of the families living in this ornate old structure right next to a gutted façade with a tree literally growing from an old balcony on the third floor.


This gorgeous neo-classical building was bombed during the war of independence and 14 people died whilke they slept. The facade survived, but has never been rebuilt.

While staring at this sight, two eager Cuban men approached with the classic “Where you from?” greeting so often heard on the streets. Not wanting to be hustled or harassed, we politely tried to wave them off. Insisting they wanted nothing from us, they chatted cheerfully explaining that they each lived with their families in the nicer part of the ornate structure and offered us a look inside, so we accepted and followed them. Oh my.


Some new Cuban friends who invited us into their home.

The gentleman with one eye (seriously, he only had one eye) explained in Spanglish how he inherited the home from his father and has worked and toiled over the years to fix it up. He was quite proud of it. After poking about inside for a few moments, both Andrea and I were exchanging sideways glances with secret looks communicating, “Let’s get out of here ASAP”. Their kids came out to see what the commotion was, so we snapped a few photos. Children are so cute here.


Their humble haitacione and children.

Then it began. “You like cigars? What you doing tonight? Want to have coffee? Can you bring us ‘jambon’ and ‘champu’ back for us? T-shirts? Jeans? Why not come back tomorrow with your friends for coffee and we’ll bring you to a good paladar?” (for a commission of course). Ah well, you can’t blame them really. I’d do it too: A couple young gringos cruise up on fancy scooters (‘motos’) you can’t afford. They mean money. Opportunity. Pesos. We smiled, feigned comprehension and made vague promises to come back manana a ocho de la noche and set off – never to see them again. God bless them…

Tangent – okay, I’ll admit it. I’m behind on my journal by a couple days. While I write this, I’m actually on day 11 (Jan 16) at the all-inclusive resort in Varadero. All right, I’m behind by 4 days… Since Clint and Ghazal arrived, my writing time allotments have waned. What can I say? Anyway, I’ve interrupted your regular broadcast to tell you that I’m pissed off. Me? Shocking, I know. All I can say is that I’m proud to be from Western Canada. Most of the Canadians I’ve met here so far – and this resort is busting at the seams with people reeking of Labatt’s Blue – are either from metro Toronto or Quebec. Those from T-Dot (gimme a break) are boorish, over-fed snobs oh-so-quick to explain how expensive culture, such as theatre or cuisine, is in Toronto and how so very willing to pay they are. They are such snobs. The Quebecois? Holy cow. By comparison they make the T-Dotters look like renaissance bourgeois!! They are rude, loud, and fat!! Even the band the first night here – a really bad, cheesy cover group – have floated about the last couple days, making me very aware of the difference between a Canadian and a Quebecois. What a bunch of red-faced, gold-toothed, fat assholes. When people ask they claim they are Quebecois, not Canadian. I’m glad they’re not all like that. End tangent.

Clint and Ghazal arrived right on time in late afternoon. Andrea was enjoying a short nap and shower while I wrote on the garden veranda when I saw a toll blonde man in the lobby. One quick glance at his companion – a gorgeous dark-skinned Persian beauty – and it was clear that the Iceman had arrived. I grabbed my fresh Mojito and upon entering the lobby shouted “Oya! Oya! Eland! Bienvenido a Habana mi amigo!!” He smiled and turned to Ghazal as I handed him his first Cuban Mojito and said, “see, I told you’d he’d have it handled”.

Things sort of fell off the rails a touch once C&G arrived. Their assigned room was not very good, so we pushed to have it upgraded. Once that was figured out, their keys didn’t work and a bag was left in the first room. Then, Clint tried to have his traveler’s cheques cashed, but after he’d signed them (in front of the cashier) there was suddenly a problem and they wouldn’t accept them. Arguing about it served only to worsen the situation. Apparently Clint hadn’t signed with a good enough match to the original signature for their satisfaction. They explained that the cheques would only be rejected by the bank and returned, so he would have to go directly to the local branch of the national bank the next morning. Thankfully this turned out to be relatively painless, so Clint calmed down a bit. It was a rough start, but we tried to explain what our friends Heather and Patrick had advised us was the most important thing to bring to Cuba: Patience. Things happen at their own pace here. And, in their own fashion. It just takes some time to acclimatize and get used to it.

Once finally settled in and medicated with some calming elixir from our friends at the Veranda bar, we decided to begin the Havana scooter tour extravaganza. Onto our pair of tired two-strokes we hopped, and dove head-on into the Havana underbelly as the evening sun warmed our new arrivals.



After no less than two more incidents of wrong way travel on these insanely poorly marked one-way streets, we finally found ourselves in the heart of La Habana Vieja again. After abandoning our rides, we walked down Calle San Ignacio and showed off some of the Colonial era plazas and architecture that we had so much enjoyed discovering. While dining at Mulatta de la SaBor the previous night, we had made reservations to return and ensure Cling and Ghazal’s first Cuban meal was delicious. As we popped through the small doorway into the small, but elegant dining room, she rushed to joyfully greet us with her familiar hugs and loud smooches on each cheek. She was clearly thrilled her latest Canadian friends were back with amigos and promptly set about teasing, cajoling and entertaining her new guests in an incomprehensible prattle of Spanish and hand signals. She was so adorable. God only knows what she was on about half the time though.

The food was even better than the night before and she was so happy, floated about the intimate dining room, occasionally stopping at the door to speak with locals who appeared and waited for her. It seemed she was buying items or bartering for goods, even giving some food to someone who looked in bad shape. She must surely be this neighbourhood’s local den mother for the people walking by her brood.

After enjoying our fine choices of Pollo de la Mulatta (the adobo-like chicken), Pollo Frito, Fish, rice and beans, cervezas and coffee, Justina decided it was time to dance. As the photos will no doubt bear witness, I was mortified and afraid when she decided to grab the gringo and show him some moves. She interlocked our arms at the elbows as we held hands face to face. She explained this move as a good one to remember as it forces the girl’s breast hard against her partner’s chest – always good! She demonstrated the move with force as Clint, Ghazal and Andrea laughed at how embarrassed I was. As she had a very formidable shelf indeed, it made for a distracting, even difficult position to be in as she explained the steps we’d be dancing (in Spanish of course). It was in very good fun, but she made me blush as my friends snapped photos madly, recognizing this rarest of situations. After some words of thanks and a gift for our hostess of soaps, shampoos and a few new t-shirts I’d brought along, we bid our new friend adieu with a promise to mail her the photos once we got home. What a lovely Cuban lady. A gem.


Justina showing Mark how to dirty dance. Note look of embarrassment.

Following what must have been for C&G a bizarre, if not shocking glimpse of the squalor that is the living conditions in Havana’s poor residential district, we refreshed ourselves and washed the road grime off in our air conditioned rooms. We had booked tickets for the evening’s “grand show” performance of Cuban music and dancing in the hotel’s posh “Parisienne” club. The tickets were pricey by Cuban standards ($35 each) but we had been told it was a much superior show than the Tropicana. Apparently the Tropicana was a mere shadow of its former glory when A-list performers like Bob Hope or Nat King Cole would appear for extended runs – prior to the revolucion of course. Regardless, the show was ornate and colourful with dozens of singers and dancers filling the stage wearing just about as complicated and puffy pink costumes as I’ve ever had the unique privilege to witness. Without a live band however, the show took on a “canned” artificial flavour and eventually degraded into cheesy territory. We enjoyed our drinks and smoked some cigars and tried to make the best of it. Ultimately, the quietude of the veranda, with the soft cool breeze and comfy large couches drew us outside where we finished Clint and Ghazal’s first day in Cuba with one last Mojito. The long week was catching up with Andrea and I, plus Clint seemed exhausted, so we all stared to shut down. Climbing into our warm beds was a welcome relief.

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Day 8 - Havana
January 13, 2005: Cloudy and cooler in the am, warm and sunny in the pm, rain in the evening.

Work stress, travel hassles, then up early for adventure does not a happy Clint makes. Grumpy bastard. :) Today is our only full day in Havana with our friends, so we must take care to focus and truncate the whole Havana experience. There’s just no way to do it! Especially with the new arrivals sleeping and moving like stroke victims. Those reading this likely know my famous propensity for early am hyperactivity. I’m what they call a morning person” which always irks the “must have coffee and silence” set. Plus I’m excited to explore with C&G and have some fun together. I think Clint needs to decompress and wind down, though by all accounts, he seems already in full “chill’ mode, not energetic mode.



After getting a little off-track (i.e., lost), we finally put-putted up to the Plaza de la Revolucion in the hot late morning sun. We decided this time to pay the 3-peso fee and explore the Jose Marti Museum. We really don’t know anything about the very important Cuban hero. Uh, this museum is in Spanish!! Didn’t they know we were coming? I arranged an English speaking docent to give us a basic tour, which made it much more interesting. Clint, however, hates museums. I forgot this fact. He says he’s too shallow and bored by information and history so after 15 minutes, he and Ghazal abandoned the museum in favour of sitting in the sun outside. We of course, were fascinated to learn about Cuba’s history as a Spanish colony and its struggle against pirates, aggressors (England, France, USA) and how a young Havana born writer, artist, poet, and scholar essentially created the philosophy and early revolutionary movement that led to Cuba’s fight for independence from Spanish colonial rule and American dominance. The irony was that in the end, after enduring scorn, prison – even deportation abroad – Marti managed to spend years and years putting a fighting force together only to die the very day he and his troops landed for the first time in decades, back in his homeland to begin the fight for independence and freedom for the Cuba people. He never saw any of it. And Fidel, Che and others before and since honour Marti and Cuba’s greatest hero.

We spent the early afternoon covering some old ground (for Andrea and I) so Clint and Ghazal could get a quick flavour for Havana life. After Hamell and Vieja, we turned our attention to a cool refreshment in one of the many legendary Havana bars haunted by the likes of Hemmingway. Floridita became our new sanctuary from the heat, and daiquiris (the especial de casa) were the poison of choice. It’s interesting; everybody drinks here – a lot- yet no one, anywhere, appears drunk. Ever. Except of course, the fat, white tourists. They are leathered and loving it.

Just outside El Floridita bar, I happened to look up as movement caught my eye. On a second floor balcony above the street stood a young girl. This is not an unusual sight as it’s a common pastime with locals to just hang out on their balconies and watch the world go by. This girl, however, was grooving – shaking what her momma gave her like she was a finalist on Star Search. To no music! Just standing in the hot afternoon sun, wearing her cute little Commie school girl uniform, dirty dancing with arms at her hips, elbows extended, alternately pulsing and gyrating her shoulders and waist with impossible flexibility to a frenetic imagined beat. It was dirty! That Latin dance move always looks dirty to me – it’s like she was saying “look at me – I’m a hot little Latina and I can already dance sexier and better than all you gringos combined. And I’m just goofing off after school!” She was probably 10 or 11 years old. We stood there busting a gut laughing, but she looked on us with irreverent disinterest and continued her routine. I feel dirty. And very white.



Speaking of Latinas and sexiness, there is a palpable sexuality to the Cuban people and experience. It’s everywhere – the music, the short (I mean SHORT) skirts, the dancer’s costumes and in the street behaviour. Try as they might as a culture to fill themselves up with their pride, to position Cuba and it’s people as a modern and civilized, rampant machismo runs amuck in the streets here. So does prostitution as an accepted career option for a young girl not interested in a 30-year career rolling tobacco or bottling rum at the factories. If I even walk a few short strides in front or behind Andrea I am approached by Spanish floosies offering “chica chica” (slang for girl or chick) services. Similarly, yet somehow much more offensive, Andrea (all attractive women, young and old) receive full on leering stares, hisses and comments like “mamma…” or whistles. As we drove by one Rasta looking black dude resting on the street curb, he directed a wiggling tongue straight at Andrea and smiled widely, proud of himself. Cars, taxis – even the "bici-taxis" peddling along with tourist passenger on board, will ring their bell or honk their ridiculous horns (which sound either like a police siren or Dukes of Hazzard) at passing women. We’d read about he still present machismo crap, and in fact have experienced this from Latino men before, but nothing could prepare us for the immature and basically vile disrespect these men show the gentler sex. The really dumb thing? The Kicker? They think it is complimentary and a sign of affection! Like saying “My, don’t you look nice today. Are those new boobs?” And the women eat it up and let it continue, although many just walk on by as if they hadn’t heard anything…


Cathedral Square in La Habana Vieja.

The four of us played tourist today and did some shopping. I bought the traditional Cuban "Guyabera" (shirt) I wanted for the wedding, and Ghazal bought a couple summer dresses from the craft market in La Habana Vieja. After exploring Plaza Cathedral and the inside of the beautiful Spanish church (I won’t describe it – they all sort of look the same) we chatted with a Cuban teacher whom Andrea had met. Clint and Ghazal were of course bored by the glory of a 450-year-old cathedral and so were waiting out in the plaza. Ralph misunderstood our request for somewhere close where we could purchase some quick snacks to go. We were running a little behind schedule and needed to return our scooters by 3pm in Miramar (west side of the city). Ralph instead escorted us into alleys, behind doors, and through courtyards until we arrived at the most adorable hidden paladar with a table set for four! These people are so wonderful, creative and willing to share. What other country can you think of where locals invite nosey, dumb tourists into their home and create impromptu restaurants with authentic ethnic cuisine using local ingredients? I can think of none.

Having to rush off, I felt a bit bad declining the meal, hoping they understood we were grateful, but in a hurry. I used words like eat (comer), fast (rapido), and walk (paseo). I desperately tried to explain we needed fast food to go. Then I remembered that local Cuban are constantly lining up for little food windows and kiosks called “cafeterias”. These do not fit the definition of cafeteria by our standards, but Ralph immediately understood and walked us around the corner to a window that sold little margherita pizzas. It was perfect and totally hit the spot.

Now, many blocks from our parked scooters, we had our snack but not enough time to walk back. We quickly negotiated a ride for all 4 of us in a horse-drawn carriage (coche) to take us to the Capitolio buildings. This turned out to be a very good move as it not only expedited our retreat, but came with a chatty guide who pointed out interesting sights and cited curious facts as we clip-clopped along. She even showed us he former Cuban HQ of the Bank of Nova Scotia, which of course abandoned their beautiful structure after it was confiscated by the state following the revolution.



We kicked our little poopless ponies into gear and high-tailed it back to the rental office in the nick of time. A quick 4-peso taxi ride back to the hotel and it was siesta time for my exhausted travel companions. While everyone looked good relaxing by the pool, I made arrangements for our bus transfer to the resort in Varadero the following day. Our time in Havana was almost done – but we were going out with a bang baby!!

While en route to our dinner reservations at La Fontana in Mirimar our Mercedes driving taxi driver (note: the fancy taxis in Cuba are on the same meter system and are no more expensive than the crappy Lada – go figure) expressed concern about our choice of restaurants. As a Caribbean shower began to pelt the car with rain, he suggested an alternative spot - “Much better”. Now, everyone is on the take here, so I was a little wary of my new social coordinator’s advice, but I had done some checking earlier and was beginning to doubt my first choice. When I surprised the driver by asking if it was a Paladar, he then brightened and suggested “Mamy’s” – a name Ghazal and I immediately recognized as the same place recommended by an earlier taxi driver. After a quick look at the first suggestion, we decided the quaint garden setting of “Mamy’s Paladar” was more ideal. What a meal. It was on par with a 3 star dining experience anywhere. The meal began with a small glass of some iteration of aperitif in miniature beer mugs. Seriously, these odd little glass beer steins would make any German cringe. Then, we were provided glasses of Cuban red wine – surprisingly tasty with some zing to it. Fish, chicken and smoked pork dishes were enjoyed by the others, but let me tell you about my stewed lamb entrée. After a lovely Cuban salad of marinated cabbage, tomatoes, cucumbers and carrots with a light oil and vinegar dressing arrived my main dish. In Cuba, livestock is rare and generally very scrawny, so my expectations were not very high for my choice of lamb. My hope was the beautiful lit garden surroundings and impeccable table service were indicative of the caliber of meal one could expect here. Having made it this long without a bad meal, I was so hoping to end our Havana adventure on a high note. With fingers crossed, I examined the plate put before me – “Bon apetit” as the server made her escape. What is this? Are those potatoes? And julienne vegetables? Could that gorgeous mass of shimmering moist dark meat be lamb? From Cuba? New Zealand, maybe. Australia or Canada, ok, but where did they find this? How did they make this? And why have they been hiding this from me! I was pissed and only the gastronomic explosion that was my first bit served to distract me from my dismay. What the hell was Simon talking about? Oh bliss, oh joy. Lamb is perhaps the most lovely animal on earth. Its soft gentility in life offset by its aggressive gamey bite once properly coaxed. The met was stewed – braised for hours I imagine- in wine and spices. The texture just the right balance between firm chunks of fibrous flesh and buttery softness – almost no need to chew. Certainly no need for a knife. With red wine in one hand and morsels of lamb in the other, I may as well been dreaming. I couldn’t even tell you what we talked about during dinner – I was faking it. I was gone.



That was only bang number one.

After mojitos and cigars enjoyed in the quiet garden, we set off on foot for the music club Casa de la Musica we’d heard about. After some wandering and the help of a friendly local, we finally found the club. There were numerous large bouncers outside directing us to form a line to the side – never a good sign. Then, a weasely little dude came out and curtly informed us that the cover was 15-pesos EACH. By Cuban standards that is remarkably high – hell, by Vancouver standards, that’s high. Unless it’s open bar with food and perhaps strippers!! Thankfully I convinced them to let me take a peak inside. There wasn’t even a band playing yet! And the club was only half full. One French Canadian guy kindly came outside and told us not to bother – that it was a rip off and he was pissed he came. No music had begun yet and it was nearing 11pm. We grabbed a taxi driver (well, a guy with a car that would drive us around – no meter), negotiated a rate and fled the scene of the crime.

The evening’s second bang was clearly upon us as the old Soviet car made grinding sounds and lurched into motion.


Crazy taxi driver. Could have been the last person we ever met.

Uh-oh. Houston, we have a problem. This young taxi driver must think we’re party kids looking for a good time. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but we’d like to survive the night too.

After yanking the car to the side of the road and screeching to a stop, apparently so he could see under a rare street lamp, he carefully selected a music selection from his stack of CDs. He was keen to show off his super hot Pioneer stereo system. With a smile and thumbs up signal, he cranked the volume to a deafening, mind-numbing level – mostly distortion really, somewhere in that din was pseudo-Spanish dance club music a la Much Music Dance Mix 2000. Very dated for us, but the height of cool club vibe for our new lunatic friend. Now that he had created the optimal hip ambiance, it was time to drive – hard. Hard and fast. The ride took a very terrifying turn as suddenly speeds of 90 kliks became the norm – and lane changes? Passing? Signaling? Abandoned in favour of aggressive and seemingly random swerves. Turns got quicker and more frequent. We were giggling and screaming out of sheer terror. Also, the path we were taking was definitely the scenic tour. We were in for the ride, not just to get to our destination. We exchanged worried looks just before the driver thought he’d surprise us with a very hard late turn off the Malecon toward the heart of the Vedado district. He clearly hadn’t seen or expected the two young lovers out for a romantic night stroll who suddenly appeared in the headlight’s glare. They froze in fright as our driver mashed on the brakes to the verge of a long skid. Who knew Ladas had such good brakes?! With a sudden yank on the steering wheel, we narrowly avoided the couple and sped off into the night. “No problem! No problem my friends!” the reassuring words of from our host. I didn't feel reassured.



We're now all clearly aware how dangerous this situation has become. We want out. Now. But it was just beginning. After a few turns down side streets we came upon a cafeteria stand on the side of the road. With a quick “Uno momento amigos” he jumped out of the car and zipped down the steps to the window. In moments he was back behind the wheel, ready to go, with an ice-cold beer in hand. Oh great. He’s crazy AND drinking! This is really not good. Hopefully the hotel is not far away. Please God – save us and I promise I'll stop swearing.



After some chitchat from our refreshed driver, we realize he’s offering to drop us at the Cuban dance club we’d heard others mention. For a 12-peso cover, you get food, an open bar and modern Spanish dancing. We agreed, thinking anything would be better than dying an agonizing death in a burning heap of crappy Lada. After one more stop under a street light, our crazy driver found “just the right song” to arrive at the club with! God forbid we arrive with the wrong song playing in front of all his club friends. Unfortunately, the song we thought we'd die listening to was the cheesy club remix of Sonique's "It Feels So Good" from 1999.

<click here to listen to the club mix song we had to endure at maximum volume>

So, with a 5 year-old dance song crackling and blaring, we arrived and hopped out at “El Chevre”, happy to have the taxi drive behind us and relieved to be alive. We were met with a gang of mafia-like heavies at the entrance and exchanged wristbands for our money and showed us the way inside.

It was certainly no Ginger Sixty-Two or even Richards on Richards, but it was a lovely setting, positioned atop a hill next to the river with an open airy outdoor dance floor, the main centerpiece a large kidney-shaped pool with chairs and tables surrounding it. An outdoor grill had chicken and pork smoking away and a bar running the length of one side, hoards of people waiting for their watered down mojitos or Cuba Libres. It was nice – certainly run down and in need of polish – but it looked like it was once a nice place for an outdoor party.

We sat at our table and had a couple drinks and watched the locals socializing and dancing to the loud Spanish music. With salsa or mambo blasting, there was very little chance we’d be mounting the dance floor any time soon. We’re not fools. These people can dance, man. Like it matters.

Then everything changed. The music suddenly shifted from Latin to modern hip hop and English techno club dance music, and they froze, unable to map their sexy gyrating and undulating to this style of beat. Ah ha!! We have them beat at their own game! We can dance to this stuff – easy! So, with cautious apprehension, we took to the dance floor. The drinks helped, but we felt slightly conscientious – a little performance paranoia maybe – as all young eyes seemed to turn to watch the gringo move with embarrassing stiffness. Ah, screw it. As some aged American hip-hop song got rocking, I busted loose. In turn my 3 companions kicked it up a notch, jumping, turning, shaking and hopping to the beat. Stunned looks of either disgust or appreciation the crowd's response. Or perhaps they wanted our shoes, which is more likely the case. Oh well, it was damned good fun to dance and sweat with these people who could move like angels by grade school.

After a number of songs and one more drink – this time by the shimmering pool – we decided we were beat. With plans for a quiet escape to our hotel for one last peaceful sleep, we headed outside.

Noooooooo... This can’t be happening. It’s HIM – our insane driver had waited for us and was thrilled and insistent he escort us in his Soviet devil dance club on wheels. It couldn’t be worse than last time, right? And the hotel was so close. Should we walk? Deciding to let him drive us may have been the most foolhardy move we’d made on the entire trip. So much care and planning, so much effort to be careful and informed, all about to be wasted on one final, lethal taxi ride.



It was the most fun I’ve had in years and years. The lunatic had probably continued drinking throughout the night as he had a glazed look in his eyes. He had a more carefree attitude this time and the fare for the ride was unimportant – he was just happy to have his Canadian party friends back in his taxi. He again yanked the car under a light (I guess he had no interior illumination) and carefully selected his next CD.



There were terrified screams as our driver left the roadway for a moment while fiddling with the stereo. This time, he played full-on techno rave music, the sustained train wreck kind: fast and hard. Music that causes angst – a perfect match for the terror ride we were experiencing. It was a blur as can be seen in the photos snapped off during the ride; the flashes from the camera only enhancing the dance club feel.



The looks you see on our faces is fear. I barely remember the last leg of the journey, but was snapped back to reality as our driver approached the hotel’s drive hot with far more velocity than necessary. He barely – and I mean by inches – missed a large pillar at the front door and skidded to a halt. With a rush of relief, we all began breathing again and scrambled desperately, giggling with hysterical glee, from the tired Lada.



Clint virtually threw a 5-peso bill at him as the shocked and angry doormen ran to tell this nut to turn his loudly, crackling, booming stereo volume down. It was after 2am. Our giggling and racing hearts didn’t abate until comfortably tucked into our warm king sized beds.

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Day 9 - Havana to Varadero
January 14, 2005: Clouds, but warm. Then more rain. Boohoo.

When God made coffee, he left the original recipe in Cuba. Coffee in Cuba is like supercharged espresso. Mud thick similar to Turkish or Greek coffee, but sweeter and creamier. I am bringing as much as I can carry of this dark Cuban elixir home for my friends. I’ll even force decaf Matt to try it. Delish. “Uno mas café negro por favor.”


Coffee in Cuba is amazing. Starbucks doesn't hold a candle to this stuff.

After a restful sleep I was up early enjoying my second coffee of the day while spending alone time with my journal. Yesterday was a long day jam-packed with adventure so the peace and quiet on my familiar veranda was just the ticket.

Today we leave the frenetic hustle and bustle of Havana behind for the calmer waters of Varadero and “the big day”. No nerves yet, just eager anticipation. I’m quite enjoying the trip with Andrea – it’s worked out just as planned. Very little stress or worry.

That may change with the introduction of a resort and parents. Ok, maybe a little stress.

We had a few hours to kill before our van left, so Andrea and I took a behind the scenes tour of the historical hotel we’ve been staying at. Clint and Ghazal were more interested in enjoying their final moments on the veranda, so they bailed. Their mistake!

After a full week here, we had no idea the historical and national importance this great hotel meant to Cuba. EVERYONE has stayed in this place. During its hay-day, some very famous political figures, not to mention more than a few shady characters, partied, dined, danced and gambled in this beautiful place. Our tour guide, an older woman about 4’10” in an official looking skirt suit, actually worked for Fidel in the army during the early days. Now, she is the hotel manager, but then, she was an officer assigned to the Hotel Nacional in the 1960s – during the Cuban Missile Crisis. She explained that once Khrushchev’s Soviet missiles were installed and it had become evident that Kennedy and Fidel were about to lock horns in a show down the likes of which Cuba had not seen since the recent triumph of the revolution and the overthrow of Batista, secret trenches, tunnels, surveillance gear and anti-aircraft weapons were installed under the hotel. In fact, she opened up a well-hidden door to reveal a maze of tunnels from the Malecon facing the sea, under the gardens and all the way under the massive building connecting to the front command bunker under the parking lot.



This had been Fidel’s secret base during those famous “13 days” when the Soviets played chicken with the USA using Fidel’s weakened, but conveniently close island. Down in the dark, cramped tunnels, she explained how when she was 18 years old, she was assigned a very important task during those critical days. Her job was to man the alarm (if the Americans attacked) and serve as a runner from the front tunnels to the communications centre in the main bunker. Down in the dank halls was even a display case with her old uniform! Also collecting dust were old Soviet munitions cases, relics left by the old habitants and a piece of wreckage from the American U2 spy plane they shot down over Cuba. Surprisingly, she told us that she believed Fidel had no choice, but made a grave mistake signing the pact with the Soviets. Yikes, bold statement for a Cuban in the state run tourist industry.

Everyone smokes in Havana – especially cigars. I always wondered if the cigar craze wasn’t just a bit manufactured to help drive sales of Cuba's most famous export. Not so. Down each street, around each corner and in each restaurant or store can be found both young and old men and women pulling hard on long cigars. My clothes and hands often smelled of tobacco – even when I hadn’t smoked any at all. It really grows on you though – the aroma of Cuba.


Cigars are everywhere and they smell really great.

With just an hour or so before our departure, we decided helado (ice cream) was just what we needed. Now, there’s a famous place called La Copellia, which fills a full city block. Andrea and I had been there at night, but couldn’t quite remember how far it was. I suspected it was only a few blocks away and a light drizzle had started to fall, so we thought a ride in the odd little coco taxis would be fun. The driver’s insisted on 5-pesos for each pair which seemed high, but the alternative was a walk in the rain, so we agreed. I knew it!! The entire ride was a total of 3 blocks long. We got burned. And the rain stopped as soon s we got there. After some mediocre and over-priced ice cream, we walked the short distance (I’m bitter) back to the hotel.


These are called CoCo taxis - yellow egg things with a scooter built in.

Clint and I spent some time down in the Casa de la Habana cigar store and treated ourselves to some fine cigars and a humidor each. We’ve both always wanted one and this way they’ll always be special as reminders of our adventures in Havana, Cuba.

The drive to Varadero was rather uneventful and our driver spoke almost no English. With dilapidated buildings, rusty old oil pumps and propaganda billboards flashing by as awe bumped along the rough highway, we all drifted to sleep. The words “pina colada!” woke us as the van slowed at the top of an incline. We’d heard about this place and the stories were true: no one makes a better pina colada than this roadside stand. With an old man and his machete, we were treated to the freshest coconut juice ever. The panoramic views of the surrounding jungle and valley were awe-inspiring and we lingered leaning over the edge until our driver prodded our departure. Cuba is a remarkably beautiful place – you should go.


Gorgeous vistas en route to Varadero.

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Day 10 - Varadero
January 15, 2005: Strong wind, big waves, red flag (means no swimming)

So now we are at the resort – checking in was a breeze, and they greeted us with glasses of champagne and warm congratulations for our upcoming wedding. Nice touch. We were taken to our room, which was amazing, with a fully stocked bar – though we weren’t sure what the point of that upgrade is – booze is free here! We unpacked, chilled out for a while, then found Andrea’s parents. They were, of course, fully into the dance lessons by now. We met up with them for dinner at the huge buffet restaurant. We were so excited to have such an amazing spread of food laid out for us. Giant prawns, raw oysters, fresh vegetables & fruit, salmon carpaccio… Wow. After working so hard in Havana to find the good places to eat, it felt like we were royalty.

We were prompted by the Munros to eat rather quickly so we could go downstairs to the nightclub for our salsa dance lessons with instructor Alex! Clint and Ghazal joined us as well, and they guys did their best not to step on the girls’ toes!



Following the dance lessons was the resort’s show. Well, it was a bit lame, so we just watched for a bit, then decided we had traveled this far – we needed to visit the beach and see the Caribbean Ocean!

We picked up some cigar and rum form the room and took off to the beach. It was so amazing. The sky was filled with stars, the breeze was warm and the water was warmer. After taking it in for a while, I couldn’t stand it anymore, tore off my clothes, ran in circles like a dog chasing his tail and headed straight for Jamaica. (I left my panties on – we just recently met Ghazal and didn’t want to scare her off!) The rolling surf was so warm and gentle, like no ocean I've been in before. And the sand. The sand here is like icing sugar. It is so soft and fine. It is beautiful, until you want to get it off you! It gets into every nook and cranny. Impossible!! But, let's not go there.

Weather changes quickly here. Scary. It is quite windy today, so the waves are pretty big. Sounds fun right? Nope – a red flag means no one gets to go in the water. Apparently there is a strong undertow, and it isn’t suitable for drunken tourists to take their chances…

There are Canadians everywhere here. The population of Varadero is less than 12,000. The are often more than 24,000 tourists in Varadero. There are 15,000 people that come from Varadero and Matanzas to work the tourist industry. I think it is our dollars that is keeping this country going!



For dinner, we ate at El Viego Y Del Mar (The Old Man and the Sea - the book by Ernest Hemmingway), which is the grill right on the beach. It was a little windy, but nothing us tough Canadians would complain about. Ohhhhh, the food. First we started with the palm hearts salad – delicious. Then medium-rare steak and grilled lobster with a garlic cream sauce. Both were grilled over coals and were done just perfectly. And then (thank God for all-inclusives), at the end of our meal, the waiter asked if we’d like more lobster!! That wasn’t a hard sell – we each got one more. Then, off to more salsa lessons and another show. Tonight’s show was better – better singing and dancing. Wow, these Cubans can move!!!

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Day 11- Varadero
January 16, 2005: Bright sunny start, then clouds, then a short shower.



The temperature is nice today – warm with a gentle breeze. And our resort is quite classy indeed. We are appreciating that this is a couples only resort, so there is no cheesy pick up lines or people out trolling. Everyone is pretty into their own thing and not on the take. Another thing we are enjoying is there are no kids here. Not that kids are bad, but they do come with noise, and we are enjoying our “adult time” (ha – we’re so grown up!). Also, all-inclusive at Sandals really does mean all-inclusive. Any booze you’d want is free – local, premium, they’ll even give you the whole bottle if you ask. The problem with this is that it is hard to decide what you want to drink! Too many choices! And, there are some people here (many actually) that feel they need to get their money’s worth through booze. So, there are a few loud obnoxious tourists here like the Russians we met who looked like toddlers. They were bragging about how they had drunk 5 bottles red wine already and were planning on being sick tonight. Whatever floats your boat I suppose.

Andrea was touched with a bit of “Batista’s revenge” today. Actually, it was a good thing that we brought a small pharmacy with us, as we bothneeded it occasionally. We think it was her cream sauce in the Italian restaurant at lunch. Reminder – no cream sauces. Ug. Dinner tonight was at El Caribbe (Caribbean food). Food was pretty good, but I didn’t touch much… Just the vegetable soup…



The night was gorgeous, so Clint, Ghazal and I went back to the beach to watch the waves and enojy the moment while Andrea retired to the room for some ‘alone time’. They cuddled on some lounge chairs (well, C&G did, Clint wouldn’t let me cuddle with him) and were enjoying the smells and sounds of the ocean when all of a sudden WHOOOOOSH!!! A huge rogue wave came in, soaking us and floating our chairs and then went back out to sea. Our own little tsunami! Stunned, we got off their chairs to discover Ghazal’s prized flip-flops were well on their way to Jamaica. Sigh… Mental note – don’t buy flip-flops at Holt Renfrew – you will be really pissed when they are lost at sea.



That odd little Farsie interlude was brought to you by the letter “G” as found in the name Ghazal, who happens to be from Tehran. It was something like “We love you and are happy to he here for your wedding. All the best for your married life together Smoooooch" (hence the lips).

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Day 12 - Varadero
January 17, 2005: Still windy, but no rain.

I'm bored today. The resort life is just not really up my power alley. Andrea likes it, but we'd both like it even more if we were allowed in the water! Also, in order to sit in the sun, you really need to find a protected place because the wind is quite strong. But, I will not complain. This is about 20 degrees warmer than at home!! Today Clint, Ghazal and I wanted to do their scuba swimming test so they could go on a dive on Thursday. We showed up a little early, waited …and waited… and waited some more. No one showed up. When I went to find out what had happened, they said someone went by, but there was no one there, so they went home. Piss me off. Ah, welcome to Cuba. They run on their own time and schedule. So, they made plans to try again on Thursday. My parents arrive today. I'm a little anxious and hope they have a positive experience getting from the airport to the resort.



As we were walking to breakfast this morning, the grounds keeper gave us a “PSST!! Hey amigo – you like coconut?” Sure! So, he looked both ways, went under the bridge, and brought out a coconut. He chopped off the bottom so it was flat, then hacked away at the top with his handy machete. When he had made a perfect hole in the top, he handed us the coconut, reached in his pocket and pulled out a bag full of straws. Apparently, he does this quite a bit!! We took it back to our room, added some rum and had a little cocktail! Fun! Later on, we gave him a red and black Honda Racing baseball cap Wayne had brought from home. He totally loved it, put it in his pocket and said, “not now – not at work. But for DANCING!!” I guess he’ll wear it out tonight while showing off his dance moves.

In the meantime, I have a 2pm massage today, and C&G have a 5pm couples massage. Life’s not so bad here – even if we can't play in the water today.

Dinner tonight was at Las Morales, the seafood restaurant. It is really quiet and romantic (they only have tables for 2). The service here is really top drawer. I think they had consultants come in and train these people – they really do a great job. I started with the snails, the crab bisque and then the lobster in filo. Really excellent! I preferred Clint and Ghazal’s wine choice, so I drank from the bottle on their table – ha! The waitress didn’t quite know what to make of that! I guess they didn’t cover that in the training!!


Dinner at Las Morales, the beautiful seafood restaurant at Sandals. Delicious.

My parents, Bev & Wayne, arrived quite late. It was good that they had reservations in the quiet and calm seafood restaurant – they arrived wound up as tight as a top!!! They are in need of some free booze and chill out time!!!

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Day 13 - Varadero and Matanzas
January 18, 2005: Windy, warm and a shower later on.

Today we went for a bus tour with bev & Wayne to the old port town of Matanzas. We went to the Cuevas de Bellamar (Bellamar Caves) and explored 750m (of 3kms total) underground. We got a lot of pictures – it was really cool. I bet if they allowed Hollywood in, they could do a whole Star Trek series in those caves – it really looks other worldly.



**click on the photo above to view the entire caves photo gallery**

One thing that is really different here than in North America is that the Cubans don’t seem to have rules and guidelines for everything. By this I mean people run on common sense and don’t rely on someone else to think for them. Here in North America, there have to be signs to “Watch your head”, “Slippery when wet”, “Cross only when safe”. DUH!!! In Cuba, they just inherently know this stuff. No need for signs. In fact, there can be gaping 3-foot deep holes in the sidewalk, and people just walk around them. No signs, no barricades, and no lawyers on hand to help out the injured (there are no injured – they have common sense!!)

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Day 14 WEDDING DAY! - Varadero
January 19, 2005: Sunny and warm. Green flag - swimming & water sports!
Note: Andrea is writing from this point down - my hand just got too numb to write any more...

Not sure if it was wedding nerves or if Mark had gotten the same bout of “Batista’s revenge”, but his tummy was doing some flip flops all day. Funny – we spent 8 days in Havana taking our chances with street vendors and hidden restaurants, and we were fine. We spend 3 days in Varadero at a deluxe resort and (as Mark so succinctly puts it) – paint job.

While the moms were at the spa getting their Swedish massages, Mark went to do his scuba swimming test. Again, he got the run around and no one showed up, but after tracking the right people down, they just looked at him, determined he would be able to swim 6 laps, and said he could show up for the dive on Friday and he’d be able to go. (!) Ah, they have their own set of rules here.

I couldn’t do the swim test, because I had important and pressing things to do. First, I had to go to the spa, and get a body polish. Then, a massage. Ahhhhh…. Perfect. After a bite of lunch, it was back to the spa to get my hair done by Noy – the slightly effeminate non-English speaking hairdresser. He didn’t have any pictures or magazines for us to look through, but he did manage to say, “for you, especial style”. Ummm, okay. My hair is yours! Make me pretty!

So, in a flurry, he unlocked his drawer, pulled out a mishmash of hair products, plugged in the hair dryer, and ZAP! POW! POP! Smoke, flames, and then nothing. Hmmm. Seems the crazy electricity converter didn’t like the hair dryer. No power. He flitted around for a while in a bit of a panic (I didn’t care, I could just have my hair in a pony tail…no biggy), then got someone who spoke English to come and tell me “no problem, electrician coming”. A good 20 minutes later, two electricians came, took a look at the converter, then left to just flip the switch on the fuse box. Ha! I could have done that!

Back to my hair – he did a fancy style – one he’d never done before. I really liked it! For no communication, he did a great job. Now, I need to rush. All the delays have left me with little time!

Then I got back to our room, I was a little miffed that our room hadn’t been cleaned yet. It was already 2:30, and I knew everyone was coming over to our place just before the wedding. Ahh! But, no time to fret over that, time to get dressed! Ummm, wait. Where is Mark? Isn’t he coming to the wedding too?



Apparently at 2:30, Clint, Ghazal and Mark were still by the pool. Ghazal asked what time it was, and realized they had less than half an hour to get ready! But, they didn’t really have to rush – we got a call from the wedding planner, and she said the notary was having car troubles and was going to be late. Ha! Perfect. That is just perfect Cuba. No worries though – we didn’t have anywhere we had to be!

So, shortly after 3pm, we wandered out to the gazebo and they had it all set out beautifully. There were two couches, the music was playing, appetizers were set out, our cake was on display, and champagne was on ice. It was also calm, warm and perfect.

Mark and I stood in front of the notary and the wedding planner who was going to translate for us. The notary rattled off some stuff in Spanish, then we heard the translation. “According to Section 24 of the Cuban law…promise to raise your children in the same house you live…university educate them…” What??? Okay. I do. After they’d done their bit, we read out our vows that we had written ourselves. Because I’m writing this, I get to say it – Mark got choked up and there were even some tears. I was doing okay until I saw that. So, we were a little teary eyed and messy, but we said our vows and kissed. WHOA! Breech of protocol! No kissing yet! But we were so relieved to get through our vows!!! There were signatures, witnesses, more signatures… Okay, NOW they pronounce us husband and wife. NOW we get to kiss. Yay!!

Our vows:
Sweet Pea, I take you today as my husband/wife, my lover, my soulmate and my partner.

I unhesitantly offer you myself and all that I will ever become.

I faithfully pledge to honour and encourage you always and make you happy.

I will always treat you with kindness, respect and love.

I will never stop trying to make you laugh or be quick with a quiet word and a hug during times of tears.

I will always tell you the truth – even when uncomfortable – but will never let the sun set on our anger.

I look forward to overcoming life's challenges and building our family together.

With this ring as a symbol of these promises, I proudly take you as my husband/wife.



**click on the photo above to view the entire wedding photo gallery**


Funny, just as we kissed, we heard “Pop! Pop! Pop!” from somewhere up above us on a balcony. Apparently, we have a fan club and there were a bunch of people watching our wedding from their room! We joined them with our own champagne, munched on appetizers, and ate the cake. Mmmmmn – good cake! Coconut cake with icing like grandma used to make. Sort of like marshmallow fluff right from the jar. YUM!!

Oh, did I mention the flowers that they had for us? I had a beautiful cascading bouquet of tropical white flowers. Mark had a red boutonniere, and the mom’s had white corsages. Very pretty – the flowers were very different and interesting. I loved them.

I was a little worried that it might be sort of “cookie cutter” seeing that they’ve cranked out 670 weddings in two years, but it was very personalized and quaint. It was just what we wanted. Simple, short, and intimate.

Now, it’s picture time. But, before I get my picture taken, I have to fix my lipstick! So, I had to go back to our room. WOW! Each day we'd come back to our room to discover the new towel art create by our wonderful maids, but this was very different. I had to call everyone in to see our room. I think we took more pictures of the room than of us!! They had really outdone themselves this time. The room had not only been cleaned, it was set out beautifully for the newlyweds. I don’t know how they did it so quickly, but the covers were taken off the bed, there were ivory satin sheets on the bed and the top sheet was in the shape of a butterfly. There were red tropical flowers set out in a heart shape around the butterfly. Then, in the bathroom, there was a hot bath run with bubbles. They had carefully placed red tropical flowers in a heart shape on the bubbles, pulled the curtain back carefully with flowers, there was towel art in the sink, and rose petals scattered about. The room was beautiful. Thank you Daini for making it so special!


**click on the photo above to view the entire towel art photo gallery**

I then ditched the shoes and we headed out to the beach to take some pictures. It was a perfect day – a slight wind to keep it cool and to make the girl’s dresses flow!!!

After a short nap (you try napping with your hair all done up in a fancy do), I had a kink in my neck, but was ready for our dinner at El Carribe. We all sat together and enjoyed a nice dinner with wine, excellent food, and good toasts.

What a great day. We couldn’t have planned it better.

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Day 15 & 16 - Varadero
January 20-21, 2005: Sunny, hot and calm ocean. Water sports allowed.

The last two days at the resort were filled with trying to decide whether to go to the beach, pool or bar. Life is very rough! Clint and Ghazal left on the 20th to go back to Havana. Clint is a really smart guy and runs his business like clockwork, but don’t ever get him to book your travel plans for you!! He had messed up, and realized that he didn’t have a hotel to stay in for his last night! But, seeing that he had to fly out of Havana, they left the resort on the 20th and stayed in Hotel Rachel in Havana so they wouldn’t have a long trip to the airport. Before they left (they traveled in style – the large black Mercedes parked out front was their transportation back to Havana), we headed to the city of Varadaro to hit the tourist traps and see if there were any last minute things we could buy. No, not much really. Just the kitchy knick knacks that you find in every tourist port. But, it was nice to check it out just the same.

Mark and I really chilled out in our last couple days. Well, we tried. It is hard to relax when there are large European (or French Canadian) men running around the resort in their little Speedo thongs. Seriously, WHO invented these things? Some designer somewhere is having a good giggle right now, because he knows these fat guys are driving everyone crazy!!

Thursday night, we ate at the grill by the ocean again. This time it was much calmer and the sunset was unbelievable. What a gorgeous place.

On Friday morning Mark finally got to go scuba diving. The coral reefs were just as beautiful as any photo or video we'd ever seen of the Carribean. So much colour and so peaceful. While diving he saw blowfish, manta rays, and odd spiny sea urchins - even remnants of an old ship wreck.


Typical tropical fish found amongst the coral reefs scuba diving in Cuba.

For dinner Friday evening, Stan and Aileen had reserved us a spot in the ‘meeting room’ next to the seafood restaurant. I’m not sure why the reservation people at Sandals went all out like that, but I guess Stan and Aileen talked to them nicely! Or, maybe it was the little gifts that they gave out to all the staff they came into contact with! In any case, we had the whole room to ourselves, and they had decorated our grand table with a shiny draping tablecloth, flowers and candles. Very intimate. We had our own waiter and the band came to play for us. After a conversation with our waiter, we found out that he had finished his Agricultural Engineering degree at university and had worked in that field for 6 years. But, I guess it wasn’t making ends meet, so he took a chance and took the 6 month training course (without pay) that all service staff has to take to work at Sandals. Now, he has been working at Sandals for 2 years. He must be making more money waiting tables than in his trade, because we gave him a 10-peso tip for a couple hours of work. Considering that a doctor makes about 40-pesos a month, our waiter is coming out way ahead. Seems sort of backwards that a waiter makes so much more than someone with years of training… But, many things in Cuba are backwards.

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Day 17 - Varadero Airport
January 22, 2005: Oh great - now the weather is perfect again and we're going home.

Turns out, we had to be at the airport THREE hours before our flight leaves! Ug. So, we had to be up, packed and ready to go on the 8:30am bus. After a little fiasco with front desk about confirming our flights and transfers to the airport, it all got figured out, and we were on our way. Of course, we were on our way with a Spanish coffee in hand. No reason to stop drinking – we’re still in Cuba!!

The airport was easy-breezy. No problems at all. The only issue we almost had was that we just about came home with no coffee, rum or cigars. We had picked out what we wanted to bring home at the duty free, only to find out that the international connection to Visa was down. No one knew why or when it would be restored. So, I guess it was a good thing that we needed to be there 3 hours ahead of time – by the time our plane was ready to be boarded, the connection was back up. So, loaded down with bottles, cigars, and coffee, we headed home.

Whoever invented Business Class, I’d like to thank you. It made our trip so much easier. Especially when you miss your connection in Toronto due to a severe snow storm, and you have 4 1/2 hours to kill in the airport! That lounge with free food and booze is really handy. Also, the chairs that massage you, the hot towels, the unending supply of food and booze, the personal TVs… it’s all good.


Snow welcomed us back home to Canada. Oh joy.

So, I guess we are back home now, and married! It was an amazing trip, and we are glad we were able to share this with you.

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