Offshore Islands by John Francis Kinsella
At first they gave the ‘Bodeguita del Medio’, a bar famous for its celebrated literary and intellectual patrons such as Hemingway, a cursory glance, it merited no more than that, now a mere tourist trap according to the guide book. Then on second thoughts curiosity got the better of them and they decided a quick look and a Daiquiri would do no harm. Once installed in the bar Paul could not resist the temptation of fixing the scene on film with a couple of furtive camera shots.
An hour later they arrived in the Plaza del Cathedral. It was still light but hot and either the Daiquiris or the six hour time difference with Paris were beginning to have its effect. They took a table on the terrace of the nearest bar, which was situated on the corner of the square and by all appearances another tourist trap, but the sound of music had attracted them.
There was a small group of musicians ensconced on a narrow podium in the corner of the terrace; they were rendering their version of Compay Segundo’s song ‘Chan Chan’, which for the two visitors just off the plane had the effect of instantly transforming the tourist brochure images into reality, as it had done for many others before them.
Paul lifted his hand and made a sign to the waiter and ordered “Dos mojitos!” in his vaguely Castellian accent. He beamed when his order for the popular cocktail was accepted without the slightest hesitation by the waiter, who responded with a friendly smile. It was by no means the first or last time that two pale faced Gallegos with cameras would order mojitos. What was of more importance to the waiter was the necessity to encourage a good tip in dollars from the freshly arrived tourists.
The mojitos arrived, cocktails of rum, in preference Havana Club, freshly pressed lime juice, a spoon of sugar and a sprig of fresh mint topped up by sparkling water in a tall glass. They quickly down the drinks and ordered two more whilst listening to the music, which only fuelled their ardour to further explore Old Habana before dinner.
It was merely a foretaste to them of what was to come, though it was not in a tourist bar, however good, they would find the authentic Cuban atmosphere of the legendary Trovas. They set off in the direction of Plaza Vieja following an itinerary indicated in their guide book. That would be enough to give them an idea of the attractions of Old Havana before commencing some serious exploration the following day.
Ryan disembarked from the Condor flight and followed the crowd into the terminal building. On the roof of the building the sign read ‘Aeropuerta de Santiago de Cuba’. He joined one of the lines, the longest, which was forming before the passport control booths. A little observation would be useful before he confronted the official. At a first glance it looked rather similar to that he had seen on a trip to Moscow.
He began to vaguely understand that perhaps this was not Havana. He had been seated next to an elderly German couple who spoke little or no English, which had limited any exchange to polite smiles. After the flight had left Frankfurt he had eaten the plastic meal and had immediately fallen asleep, relieved after the built-up stress of the previous forty eight hours.
As the line slowly advanced, he tried to observe the procedure at the booths from where he stood without being too obviously curious. After ten or fifteen minutes he had almost reached the yellow line. A young couple was having difficulties. A disembodied hand appeared from the window of the passport control booth indicating to them they should return to the line.
They were smiling and shrugging their shoulders, signifying to those next in line to proceed to the passport control. They offered a slightly worried explanation to the others waiting in line.
Ryan strained to listen. They spoke in German and his German was almost zero. He got the words in English ‘tourist card’. A feeling of anxiety started to manifest itself inside of him, he hoped the girl at Sonnen Reisen had had her facts right.
What would happen if he was put on the return flight? He tightened his grip on the handle of his carry-on bag which reminded him of another problem.
When a uniformed official appeared a few moments later and took the passports of the young couple, he spoke to them softly in an accented but clear English.
“You have no tourist card! Please follow me to the office, it will cost you fifty dollars each!”
Ryan sighed with relief. A question of dollars, he could soon fix that.
Twenty minutes later he emerged from the same office, his passport with the tourist card inside, firmly clasped in his hand. He headed past the baggage delivery point towards the exit where he anticipated the customs inspection. There was nothing, no customs control - nothing - to his very great relief.
The automatic doors slide open and he stepped into the sunshine where he was surprised by a welcome committee in the form of a line of exotic girls, dressed in feathers and high cut sequined body suits showing off some of the longest legs he had ever seen, flashing their toothy smiles at the new arrivals. One of them handed him a brochure and he joined the other somewhat bewildered tourists who were being dispatched to their different hotels.
He felt a new chapter opening as he stepped into the minibus destination the Hotel Casa Grande.
The airport was not far from the city and as they entered the built up area he was surprised by the scene that unrolled before his eyes, it resembled that of a 1950 Humphrey Bogart film. The few cars that he saw were mostly old American models from the very same period.
The houses and buildings were seriously dilapidated Spanish-Mexican style. The people had a South American look with which he was vaguely familiar from TV news reports and films, though many of them seemed to be a lot darker skinned.
The people they passed on the streets seemed to be poor though they did not look miserable or unhappy. Their clothing was correct and clean. There seemed to be a lot of older people. He noted that the streets and pavements were remarkably clean.
The hotel was a turn of the century edifice recently renovated and operated by a French chain. At the top of the steps that led up to the lobby he saw a large terrace bar, overlooking a square, where people were seated enjoying drinks amongst potted palms.
On arriving in his room on the third floor, he opened the window overlooking the leafy gardens of the square, the heart of the colonial city. He checked the map in the tourist magazine he had found on the coffee table identifying the square as Cespedes Park, renamed Plaza de la Revoluccion, to the left was the Catedral de Santa Ifigenia with its twin bell towers and Renaissance facade, opposite was the sixteenth century house of Diego Velazquez.
The late afternoon sun shone on the strollers. Here and there children ran frivolously playing their games as do children all over the world. A small collection of people listened to a group of musicians seated in the shade projected by the broad trees. Older people sat on the long stone benches that formed a low wall surrounding the square.
The scene was idyllic, peaceful and relaxed, evidently nothing of any great importance was about to happen. It was an incredibly refreshing change from the recent days and weeks. He knew almost nothing of Cuba, in fact twenty four hours earlier he had never heard of Santiago de Cuba or its recently celebrated musicians at the Casa de la Trova.
He had a couple of days to figure out his next destination and decided to use the time to learn a little more about Cuba. After testing the room safe, he locked his money securely away and then took the lift down to the lobby to change some dollars for whatever money the Cubans used.
He was politely informed by the engaging receptionist, whom he had remarked earlier, that only dollars were necessary for tourists, even obligatory for almost any payment, for hotels, restaurants, transport, cigars and even tips. He quickly learnt that Cuban pesos were next to useless. Cubans preferred US dollars to any other form of payment, a surprising fact that posed him no problem whatsoever, as had plenty of those.
The next morning he took breakfast in the roof top restaurant where a herd of elderly tourists were attacking the buffet in a geriatric bustle. He chose a table in the sunshine, a safe distance from the group, with a clear view of the
cathedral and the Angel Gabriel, or whoever, standing balanced on the pediment with outstretch wings and a trumpet in his hand, as if waiting for some sign.
He was distracted from his second cup of coffee by the cathedrals bell, he looked at his watch and then towards the tower, the bell was striking ten, and to his great surprise he saw a young man striking the bell with a hammer. Apparently there was nothing much of modern technology in Santiago, it was the same as in bygone centuries, he thought with a certain satisfaction.
Whilst he marvelled at the scene a couple of young women in their twenties installed themselves in the sunshine at an adjacent table. They were evidently tourists and appeared to be French, which was confirmed an instant latter when they nodded to him politely and mouthed a bonjour. He smiled and returned the greeting.
The blond was not bad he thought, regretting not for the first time, that he had little better than a schoolboy French, not to speak of Spanish where his vocabulary was limited to words such as Paella and Marbella.
He sipped his coffee and looking again saw the two girls had disappeared in the direction of the breakfast buffet. He reached over and helped himself to the guide book that lay on their table. On the inside cover was a map of Cuba; he noted that Santiago de Cuba, without any great surprise, was on the south west facade of the island.
He then spotted Holguin, which was not that far away, about a hundred kilometres to the north. He did not need to make a note to leave it out of his plans. He replaced the book as the girls returned carrying their glasses of orange juice and plates of sliced fruit.
“Vous pouvez le regardez si vous voulez,” said the blond with a friendly smile.
“Merci,” he replied.
“Vous parlez le Français?” she said immediately detecting his hesitation and English accent
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Oh! You can look at it. Please!”
“Thank you.” he declined, becoming confused by his desire to talk and suddenly aware of his awkward situation, which called for a certain degree of caution.
“I must be going,” he said standing up.
Having definitely confirmed that he was not in the capital, Havana, Ryan decided it was time to get a guide book of his own, which he found in the makeshift lobby shop. He then took another coffee in the lobby bar and applied himself to a thirty minute tourist course on Cuba. Habana, as it was written, was about 700 kilometres to the west.
At the travel agent he found amongst the shops to the left of the hotel on the main square, he checked out flights to the capital, car rentals and hotels. He then spent the rest of the day exploring the city centre, its places of interest and historical monuments with the aid of his guide book.
It did not take Ryan long to absorb a few of the essential Cuban realities, amongst which was the confirmation of what he had suspected given the quaint level of their bell ringing technology. The island’s communications were poor, excessively poor, both internally and externally. He realised that most of the telephone lines had probably been installed before the Revolution. If mobile phones existed, they were certainly far and few between. That news instilled in him a certain sense of tranquillity.
He returned to the hotel and after showering he installed himself in the terrace bar at the only remaining table, overlooking the square where he could watch the coming and going of the locals. He stirred his Mojito with the plastic straw as he drew on the cigar that he had just bought for three dollars at the small stand in the lobby, where cigars were hand rolled by a talkative young woman. The cigar, of an unclassifiable genre, was not bad, perhaps a tiny bit hard to draw on, which was certainly due to it being too humid, most probably because it was freshly rolled he mused to himself, enjoying the very slight movement of the soft evening air.
He felt a huge calm settling on him and could not help asking himself why he had not taken more time relax in the past. Well, he thought in consolation, it’s never too late.
The two French girls walked into the bar looking around for a table without luck. The blonde recognised him and smiled.
“Bonsoir!”
“Bonsoir,” he replied with a smile. He indicated the two empty chairs at his table. To his surprise they accepted.
“What would you like?”
The two girls looked at each other and replied, “Un Daiquiri.”
“Deux?”
“Oui, merci.”
“My name is Sean!”
The blond replied, “My friend is Natalie and I’m Marie-Paul.” She held out her hand, which he looked at for an instant before he realised he should shake hands.
“We’ve been in Santiago for three days, tomorrow we’re going by bus to Baracoa.”
“Baracoa!” he exclaimed remembering the Arrowsmith’s tourist complex.
“Yes it’s on the coast about 130 kilometres from here.”
“Oh!”
“Christophe Colon landed there.”
“Who?”
She repeated the name twice before the penny dropped.
“Oh I’m sorry, Christopher Columbus.”
They laughed.
“And you, what are your plans, where are you going from here?”
“I’m going to eat something,” he smiled, avoiding the question. “Can you recommend somewhere?”
“Well the hotel is a bit dull, a buffet. We’ve tried a couple of paladares. We have another address we’re going to try tonight.”
“Pala…what!”
“They’re small family run restaurants, only three or four tables in people’s houses, but they are really Cuban, I mean it’s in a private house and the family makes the meal.”
“It sounds good.”
“Why don’t you join us!” Marie-Paule laughed.
“Okay,” he replied a little hesitantly. Then throwing off his doubts added “With the greatest of pleasure.”
Chapter 5
A Side Trip
An hour later they arrived in the Plaza del Cathedral. It was still light but hot and either the Daiquiris or the six hour time difference with Paris were beginning to have its effect. They took a table on the terrace of the nearest bar, which was situated on the corner of the square and by all appearances another tourist trap, but the sound of music had attracted them.
There was a small group of musicians ensconced on a narrow podium in the corner of the terrace; they were rendering their version of Compay Segundo’s song ‘Chan Chan’, which for the two visitors just off the plane had the effect of instantly transforming the tourist brochure images into reality, as it had done for many others before them.
Paul lifted his hand and made a sign to the waiter and ordered “Dos mojitos!” in his vaguely Castellian accent. He beamed when his order for the popular cocktail was accepted without the slightest hesitation by the waiter, who responded with a friendly smile. It was by no means the first or last time that two pale faced Gallegos with cameras would order mojitos. What was of more importance to the waiter was the necessity to encourage a good tip in dollars from the freshly arrived tourists.
The mojitos arrived, cocktails of rum, in preference Havana Club, freshly pressed lime juice, a spoon of sugar and a sprig of fresh mint topped up by sparkling water in a tall glass. They quickly down the drinks and ordered two more whilst listening to the music, which only fuelled their ardour to further explore Old Habana before dinner.
It was merely a foretaste to them of what was to come, though it was not in a tourist bar, however good, they would find the authentic Cuban atmosphere of the legendary Trovas. They set off in the direction of Plaza Vieja following an itinerary indicated in their guide book. That would be enough to give them an idea of the attractions of Old Havana before commencing some serious exploration the following day.
Ryan disembarked from the Condor flight and followed the crowd into the terminal building. On the roof of the building the sign read ‘Aeropuerta de Santiago de Cuba’. He joined one of the lines, the longest, which was forming before the passport control booths. A little observation would be useful before he confronted the official. At a first glance it looked rather similar to that he had seen on a trip to Moscow.
He began to vaguely understand that perhaps this was not Havana. He had been seated next to an elderly German couple who spoke little or no English, which had limited any exchange to polite smiles. After the flight had left Frankfurt he had eaten the plastic meal and had immediately fallen asleep, relieved after the built-up stress of the previous forty eight hours.
As the line slowly advanced, he tried to observe the procedure at the booths from where he stood without being too obviously curious. After ten or fifteen minutes he had almost reached the yellow line. A young couple was having difficulties. A disembodied hand appeared from the window of the passport control booth indicating to them they should return to the line.
They were smiling and shrugging their shoulders, signifying to those next in line to proceed to the passport control. They offered a slightly worried explanation to the others waiting in line.
Ryan strained to listen. They spoke in German and his German was almost zero. He got the words in English ‘tourist card’. A feeling of anxiety started to manifest itself inside of him, he hoped the girl at Sonnen Reisen had had her facts right.
What would happen if he was put on the return flight? He tightened his grip on the handle of his carry-on bag which reminded him of another problem.
When a uniformed official appeared a few moments later and took the passports of the young couple, he spoke to them softly in an accented but clear English.
“You have no tourist card! Please follow me to the office, it will cost you fifty dollars each!”
Ryan sighed with relief. A question of dollars, he could soon fix that.
Twenty minutes later he emerged from the same office, his passport with the tourist card inside, firmly clasped in his hand. He headed past the baggage delivery point towards the exit where he anticipated the customs inspection. There was nothing, no customs control - nothing - to his very great relief.
The automatic doors slide open and he stepped into the sunshine where he was surprised by a welcome committee in the form of a line of exotic girls, dressed in feathers and high cut sequined body suits showing off some of the longest legs he had ever seen, flashing their toothy smiles at the new arrivals. One of them handed him a brochure and he joined the other somewhat bewildered tourists who were being dispatched to their different hotels.
He felt a new chapter opening as he stepped into the minibus destination the Hotel Casa Grande.
The airport was not far from the city and as they entered the built up area he was surprised by the scene that unrolled before his eyes, it resembled that of a 1950 Humphrey Bogart film. The few cars that he saw were mostly old American models from the very same period.
The houses and buildings were seriously dilapidated Spanish-Mexican style. The people had a South American look with which he was vaguely familiar from TV news reports and films, though many of them seemed to be a lot darker skinned.
The people they passed on the streets seemed to be poor though they did not look miserable or unhappy. Their clothing was correct and clean. There seemed to be a lot of older people. He noted that the streets and pavements were remarkably clean.
The hotel was a turn of the century edifice recently renovated and operated by a French chain. At the top of the steps that led up to the lobby he saw a large terrace bar, overlooking a square, where people were seated enjoying drinks amongst potted palms.
On arriving in his room on the third floor, he opened the window overlooking the leafy gardens of the square, the heart of the colonial city. He checked the map in the tourist magazine he had found on the coffee table identifying the square as Cespedes Park, renamed Plaza de la Revoluccion, to the left was the Catedral de Santa Ifigenia with its twin bell towers and Renaissance facade, opposite was the sixteenth century house of Diego Velazquez.
The late afternoon sun shone on the strollers. Here and there children ran frivolously playing their games as do children all over the world. A small collection of people listened to a group of musicians seated in the shade projected by the broad trees. Older people sat on the long stone benches that formed a low wall surrounding the square.
The scene was idyllic, peaceful and relaxed, evidently nothing of any great importance was about to happen. It was an incredibly refreshing change from the recent days and weeks. He knew almost nothing of Cuba, in fact twenty four hours earlier he had never heard of Santiago de Cuba or its recently celebrated musicians at the Casa de la Trova.
He had a couple of days to figure out his next destination and decided to use the time to learn a little more about Cuba. After testing the room safe, he locked his money securely away and then took the lift down to the lobby to change some dollars for whatever money the Cubans used.
He was politely informed by the engaging receptionist, whom he had remarked earlier, that only dollars were necessary for tourists, even obligatory for almost any payment, for hotels, restaurants, transport, cigars and even tips. He quickly learnt that Cuban pesos were next to useless. Cubans preferred US dollars to any other form of payment, a surprising fact that posed him no problem whatsoever, as had plenty of those.
The next morning he took breakfast in the roof top restaurant where a herd of elderly tourists were attacking the buffet in a geriatric bustle. He chose a table in the sunshine, a safe distance from the group, with a clear view of the
He was distracted from his second cup of coffee by the cathedrals bell, he looked at his watch and then towards the tower, the bell was striking ten, and to his great surprise he saw a young man striking the bell with a hammer. Apparently there was nothing much of modern technology in Santiago, it was the same as in bygone centuries, he thought with a certain satisfaction.
Whilst he marvelled at the scene a couple of young women in their twenties installed themselves in the sunshine at an adjacent table. They were evidently tourists and appeared to be French, which was confirmed an instant latter when they nodded to him politely and mouthed a bonjour. He smiled and returned the greeting.
The blond was not bad he thought, regretting not for the first time, that he had little better than a schoolboy French, not to speak of Spanish where his vocabulary was limited to words such as Paella and Marbella.
He sipped his coffee and looking again saw the two girls had disappeared in the direction of the breakfast buffet. He reached over and helped himself to the guide book that lay on their table. On the inside cover was a map of Cuba; he noted that Santiago de Cuba, without any great surprise, was on the south west facade of the island.
He then spotted Holguin, which was not that far away, about a hundred kilometres to the north. He did not need to make a note to leave it out of his plans. He replaced the book as the girls returned carrying their glasses of orange juice and plates of sliced fruit.
“Vous pouvez le regardez si vous voulez,” said the blond with a friendly smile.
“Merci,” he replied.
“Vous parlez le Français?” she said immediately detecting his hesitation and English accent
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Oh! You can look at it. Please!”
“Thank you.” he declined, becoming confused by his desire to talk and suddenly aware of his awkward situation, which called for a certain degree of caution.
“I must be going,” he said standing up.
Having definitely confirmed that he was not in the capital, Havana, Ryan decided it was time to get a guide book of his own, which he found in the makeshift lobby shop. He then took another coffee in the lobby bar and applied himself to a thirty minute tourist course on Cuba. Habana, as it was written, was about 700 kilometres to the west.
At the travel agent he found amongst the shops to the left of the hotel on the main square, he checked out flights to the capital, car rentals and hotels. He then spent the rest of the day exploring the city centre, its places of interest and historical monuments with the aid of his guide book.
It did not take Ryan long to absorb a few of the essential Cuban realities, amongst which was the confirmation of what he had suspected given the quaint level of their bell ringing technology. The island’s communications were poor, excessively poor, both internally and externally. He realised that most of the telephone lines had probably been installed before the Revolution. If mobile phones existed, they were certainly far and few between. That news instilled in him a certain sense of tranquillity.
He returned to the hotel and after showering he installed himself in the terrace bar at the only remaining table, overlooking the square where he could watch the coming and going of the locals. He stirred his Mojito with the plastic straw as he drew on the cigar that he had just bought for three dollars at the small stand in the lobby, where cigars were hand rolled by a talkative young woman. The cigar, of an unclassifiable genre, was not bad, perhaps a tiny bit hard to draw on, which was certainly due to it being too humid, most probably because it was freshly rolled he mused to himself, enjoying the very slight movement of the soft evening air.
He felt a huge calm settling on him and could not help asking himself why he had not taken more time relax in the past. Well, he thought in consolation, it’s never too late.
The two French girls walked into the bar looking around for a table without luck. The blonde recognised him and smiled.
“Bonsoir!”
“Bonsoir,” he replied with a smile. He indicated the two empty chairs at his table. To his surprise they accepted.
“What would you like?”
The two girls looked at each other and replied, “Un Daiquiri.”
“Deux?”
“Oui, merci.”
“My name is Sean!”
The blond replied, “My friend is Natalie and I’m Marie-Paul.” She held out her hand, which he looked at for an instant before he realised he should shake hands.
“We’ve been in Santiago for three days, tomorrow we’re going by bus to Baracoa.”
“Baracoa!” he exclaimed remembering the Arrowsmith’s tourist complex.
“Yes it’s on the coast about 130 kilometres from here.”
“Oh!”
“Christophe Colon landed there.”
“Who?”
She repeated the name twice before the penny dropped.
“Oh I’m sorry, Christopher Columbus.”
They laughed.
“And you, what are your plans, where are you going from here?”
“I’m going to eat something,” he smiled, avoiding the question. “Can you recommend somewhere?”
“Well the hotel is a bit dull, a buffet. We’ve tried a couple of paladares. We have another address we’re going to try tonight.”
“Pala…what!”
“They’re small family run restaurants, only three or four tables in people’s houses, but they are really Cuban, I mean it’s in a private house and the family makes the meal.”
“It sounds good.”
“Why don’t you join us!” Marie-Paule laughed.
“Okay,” he replied a little hesitantly. Then throwing off his doubts added “With the greatest of pleasure.”
Chapter 5
A Side Trip