Cuba, and Things You Should Know Before You Go

As my esteemed colleague Blork admonished me, I have been remiss about Cuba. To tell you the truth, I had been trying to kind of . . . forget about Cuba, in a way. I’ve been burying myself in being back in Montreal, and reminding myself why I love it so much here. After all, you don’t truly appreciate being pain free until you smash your toe and can’t walk for six days, you don’t appreciate freedom until you’re locked in a Peruvian gaol with Joran Van der Sloot . . . well, you get my point.

Let me start by saying that I’m not Mr. Adventure Traveller. I don’t “thrive” on “challenges.” Obstacles do not present me with a thrilling new problem to hurdle. They’re just obstacles.

I’m usually just fine sitting in place with something cold, not worrying too much what’s for dinner or what I have to accomplish to get there . . . y’know, umm . . . “laid back.”

Oh, yeah, Cuba. Well, we opted for the cheapest possible “all-inclusive” trip, so in many ways that was a blessing. Read: gated community, everything done on-site, no taxis to hire, no messy streets with pickpockets etc. Just a bunch of people trained to cater to Turistas.

The Face of Cuba

That was a good thing, in my estimation. The messier parts of travelling to a country you’ve never been to, well, let’s just say I’ve done that a million and one times; I have no interest in mingling with the locals and "participating” in the local culture. Get me a room with an air conditioner and a bed and and absence of insects and I’m happy.

Getting to Cuba was not worse than I’d anticipated. It wasn’t first class, but it wasn’t the nightmare it might be, say, flying into the Democratic Republic of the Congo (which I’ve done countless times).

The resort itself was fine — not quite DisneyWorld Cuba, but definitely trying to be. The beach was most definitely tranquil and white-sanded, the water was warm, the sun shone 24/7 (yes, the sun shines 24 hours a day in Cuba) and there was a nice air conditioner in the room and a TV with, regrettably 12 more channels than the three I truly wanted, namely, the ones with Fidel or Raoul giving thunderous speeches all day and all night. (In all the time I was in Cuba, I saw nor heard hide nor hair of either of them in any form at all).

But then the annoyances began. The constant tipping, for one. Actually, not the tipping itself, but the constant reminders from guidebooks and the inhabitants that the average Cuban, be they doctor, policeman, lawyer or waiter, makes rarely more than about US $30 a month, working full time and many times way overtime. Umm, that’s a powerful guilt trip. And it never goes away.

To think that giving someone a dollar makes for his daily wage in usual life is kind of annoying, to tell you the truth. I’d rather give him the month’s wages, then say “Is it okay if I don’t have to fumble for a dollar every time you pour me a Cuba Libre?”

So it was that between the two of us, we forked out $300 just in tips in one week. I almost had to tip the palm tree outside our bungalow for providing shade each day. But mind you, nobody actually ASKED for a tip nor even hinted at expecting one in any way. That’s what made it so annoying.

And then there were the er . . . hookers. That’s the only way to describe them. You have to figure that when doctors are earning $30 a month, a young girl of 20 is earning, well, uh . . . nothing?

And her parents are only too happy to uh . . . let her go work at the resort? And the chubby Canadian businessmen busy getting lobster red on the first day are only too happy to, uh, contribute to the local economy?

And so it was . . . Mr. Chub and some impossibly svelte “thing” hanging off his arm wherever you looked . . . sometimes the men were well into their Old Spice years . . . a “January - December” romance, so to speak . . . to tell the truth, after a while it just got plain wearisome, and I don’t think I’m a prude. One dude from Montreal that I unfortunately had a conversation with early on in the vacation came up to me breathlessly one day and said “Hey, Nick! I had two of them at the same time last night! You wouldn’t believe how cheap it was! Amazing!”

Trouble is, you can’t avoid these people, try as you might — they flew in on the same plane you did and they’re probably flying out on the same plane you are. They go to the same three restaurants you do and hang around the same pool you do. So Good ol’ Claude was my constant Unwanted Companion (despite Brigitte’s obvious presence) the whole trip.

So . . . a mild depression was the result. Plus the fact that I’d sworn up and down before we went that I would not set foot upon any beach in the world barefoot and then, the very first minute of the very first morning, I walked fearelessly into the surf barefoot and promptly kicked something that left my big toe bleeding, and then it became infected the next day and I had to take a taxi to the next resort to see the doctor and could barely walk the whole trip and was finally getting better the day we had to leave . . .

Ah, the fond memories!

But wait! There’s more! Next time: The Food of Cuba! (I will be your guide, Sahib and Memsahib! Only I know more that the Guide of the Planet of the Lonely!)