The boat is modern and the equipment well maintained. The divemaster speaks in English and tell us our dive plan and an hour and a half from shore we are kitted up and ready to go down. The water is clear as crystal and warm as a bath. There is no need for a wetsuit here. We head down towards a beautiful coral garden, large sponges rising from the sea bed like beer barrels, Gorgonian fans, their intricate design, a maze of zigzagging filaments sway in the current and coral trees stand tall showing off their colours with pride; white, orange, purple, black. Small fish, splashed with yellows, reds, blues, oranges and greens dart past or leisurely check us out and carry on unconcerned by us strange air breathing dragons from above.

There is a gap in the ground below and the divemaster motions for me to pass through it. It is a small gap, but big enough to descend through and as I enter, I find myself in a large cave. My bubbles dance to the roof and form into a shining and glistening silver lake of air above me. I keep descending, checking my depth and air gauges until I see a sight so beautiful I catch my breath.

I am in a completely different world where the normal rules do not apply. I feel free.

Ahead of me now is an opening in the cave, leading out to the open ocean beyond. The colour of the water is like I have never seen before; a light, cool, but almost dazzling blue; clear and brightly lit from the sun shining onto the surface over 45meters above. Bordered by the darker insides of the cave it looks like a magical shimmering doorway. I gaze on transfixed as the guardian of the doorway, a meter and a half long barracuda swims past, glancing at me at showing me its open jaws lined with razor sharp teeth, daring me to enter into his magical world.

Leaving the cave by it’s magical entrance, neatly slipping past the barracuda, I find myself on a steep wall, descending far below me to depths I can not see and way beyond my diving limits. I adjust my buoyancy and it is like floating in space, no gravity pulls me down, I can move in any direction by simply taking a breath or gently sculling my hands. I can turn upside down, lie on my back, do a headstand. Down here I am not bound to the physical restrictions of the surface world. I am in a completely different world where the normal rules do not apply. I feel free.

We swim upwards and along the wall, stopping to look in crevices for crabs and for lobsters that give themselves away with their long antennas waving out of the rocks in search of a meal. As my head gets near to a hole the antennas pull back and as I examine the strange creature within, so too am I, an alien being from the heights, being examined in turn. From the safety of it’s hideaway globular eyes move around on short multicoloured stalks. Eight spider-like legs push it back further into the crevice, and the tail curls onto itself to protect its fragile under parts. I leave it in peace to carry on its search for food, as I always am, amazed at the diversity this world offers.

Reaching the top of the wall we see before us a sandy underwater beach, stretching into the distance, interspersed with rockeries and shelves of coral.

...It sees me hanging motionless in the water, and although aware that I may be a predator it does not overly concern itself....

It is so beautiful, so striking that the best landscape gardener in the world could not create something this special. To add to the moment, a group of stingrays glide past, just inches above the sand. Graceful is the only word to describe them as they gently ripple their ‘wings’, effortlessly flying through the ocean with their long whip like tails straight and still behind them.

The silence in the depths adds to the magic, it is a noiseless world, only my breathing can be heard, but with all the serenity and splendour, that soon disappears from my conscience. I am left in awe as from my right I catch movement and looking across, there, swimming almost directly towards me is a turtle. It is big, the shell maybe a meter long and weighing a ton, but this weight and bulk does not hamper it here. A slow and gentle swish of its large, paddle like flippers pulls it silently along, its neck outstretched looking around, appreciating it’s surroundings. It sees me hanging motionless in the water, and although aware that I may be a predator it does not overly concern itself. In an agile and easy movement it has changed course and it swims past not more than a few meters away. I watch as it goes by, kicking gently to keep up but not getting too close to cause it alarm. I am reminded of the turtle we saw on the beach, its awkward effort to climb the dunes a far cry from the flowing elegance of its movement here.

As with seemingly all of Cuba, the house has seen better days but is still impressive nonetheless.

My air is getting low; it is time to return to the surface, back into my real world. It is always with reluctance that I surface, but that is part of diving, maybe that which makes it all the more special: I can’t stay down here, only pay a fleeting visit. But this particular fleeting visit leaves a special feeling inside me and I know when I get back to the boat, the dive will be dissected bit by bit with the enthusiasm and incredulous tones that can only be found amongst divers reliving the moments of a great dive.

Another attraction of the island is the Presidio Modelo, or model prison. It is a few kilometres away from where we are staying so we catch a horse drawn cart to take us out there. On arriving we see the large stately home of the prison governor and the surrounding buildings. As with seemingly all of Cuba, the house has seen better days but is still impressive nonetheless. Passing this, we see four large, round, tall buildings. These we are informed are the cellblocks. As we get closer we can see that they have not been in use for many years, but we feel some sort of impending sense as we approach. Standing 20 meters high and 50 meters across, our driver tells us a little about the prison.

The prison was used in and before the Batista days to harbour the worst criminals and often, political prisoners too. It was in no way designed for comfort or, in fact, for anything but completely breaking the inmates. It is said that any criminal that survived his time in here, never re-offended. I look at the ticket we were given at the entrance and translate its Spanish script written by Jose Marti in 1871.

“The Pain of the prison is the most crude, most devastating of pains. It kills intelligence and drains the soul, and remains like a wound that will never heal.”

Rows and columns of windows dot the structures. Each window, about 75cms high by less than 50cms across contains a cell. Inside the cell live two prisoners on small beds attached to the wall, one above the other. The only other space is for a small sink and a toilet. There is not even enough room in here to stand with arms stretched.

There are 5 circular balconies ringing the inside of each of the four cellblocks. Each narrow balcony gives access to 90 cells. This gives each structure the capacity for 900 inmates living like nothing more than battery hens.

We leave the prison in a less jovial mood than we arrived, shocked at the conditions and lack of humanity within.

On the ground level is a recreation area, or bare concrete floor. In the middle of this stands a circular lookout tower, vertical smooth walls rising up to give the wardens a clear view of the entire goings on inside. These towers are connected to the outside by tunnels so that the guards never have to set foot in the ‘arena’. There are also several cubbyholes, small niches barely wide enough to fit my shoulders, windowless and short that were used as solitary confinement. With the door shut, these cells would be as dark as hell and probably a lot more soul destroying.

Fidel Castro himself spent time in the prison here. He did however have a better room, which he shared with his brother Raul, separate from the squalid conditions in the towers, but he was still nonetheless confined. He spent 6 years here and when he came to power, one of the first things he did was to shut the prison down.

We leave the prison in a less jovial mood than we arrived, shocked at the conditions and lack of humanity within. The horse plods slowly back to town where we refresh ourselves with pizza and a beer. The bills comes and it is expensive, $35. We ask if this is correct, and it is. It is only when the waitress points it out that it is in Pesos and not dollars that we are shocked with how cheap it is, less than $1.50 between us. We stop off at a small store on the way back to our pension and I buy a cigar, big and fat, as they should be. It is a good smoke and for just 4 Pesos!

Back in Havana, we have one day left. We want to check out a cigar factory and a rum distillery before we leave these shores, as both are luxuries that I enjoy from time to time.

Cuba is famous for both its cigars and its rum and has the ideal climate for growing tobacco and sugar cane. Sugar has always been the cash crop of Cuba, up until now however when tourism is taking its place. The Havana Club distillery turns out to be a museum, with all the processes rebuilt in cut away sections for us to view with ease. I have to admit to being fond of a nice Cuba Libre or rum & coke and my favourite and probably the best in the world has to be Havana Club, especially the 7 year old. Smooth, rich and dark. We ask about being able to visit an actual distillery but this is definitely off the cards. We are told it is because we would not be able to see the workings very well. I may be wrong, but from what I have seen here so far I think that the real reason is probably more to do with dangerous and squalid working conditions. From talking to other Cubans, it seems that conditions and processes have not changed in the last one hundred years.

At the end of the tour we are ushered into the shop where we can buy bottles of Havana, albeit at expensive prices. It is a sign of how they treat tourists here that I can buy a bottle of Havana Club in Ecuador, Spain and probably London, far cheaper than I can here.

The cigar factory is a bit of an eye opener too. A friendly and knowledgeable guide leads us round. He explains first about where the leaves come from and how they are picked. We see rows of woman and men stripping the stalks from them and putting them in boxes according to their grade. The aroma here is incredible, sweet and musky. The lighting is on the dim side and the walls, floor and desks are all a deep worn brown: the colour of the tobacco leaves themselves.

The next room we enter is large and contains row upon row of desks and we watch as the cigars are fabricated. There are different sections here each with a specific task and cigar type. We see the raw leaf become a cylinder as it is rolled by expert hands. We are told how different leaves are used in each part of the process, some for the burning qualities, some for the flavour and the finest looking for the outside to give that smooth quality look. Then the ends are crafted from leaf cuttings and the all important brand logo slipped on the finished cigar. It is a definite art. This factory is the world famous Partagás factory, but they also make other brands such as the Cohiba brand, widely thought of as one of the finest cigars in the world, and one of the most expensive too.

We reach the far side of the room and there, on a raised dais is a man with a book, reading into a microphone. This is a long held tradition in the cigar factories. They employ this person to read throughout the day. He reads the news in the morning, he reads articles from newspapers and he reads books, all pumped out to the seated workers through a series of loudspeakers. It is a nice touch for these people who are at their desks ten hours a day, monotonously producing cigar after cigar for a meagre $20 per month.

As we are walking round it is hard to believe that these cigars cost so much. Based on this production system, each person responsible for turning out over 100 cigars a day, the cost of $20 for one smoke seems a little excessive. But then, these cigars are not for the average Cuban to smoke. Maybe Fidel and his friends enjoy their quality, but for less equal person on the street it is a whole month’s wages.

There is a black market on the streets for these cigars. The workers are allowed two cigars per day to take away and enjoy. It hasn’t taken long to realise over the last few years that tourism has boomed that if saved for a month, a box of fifty cigars can be sold on the to eager tourists on the street for up to $300. Half price for the tourist and a veritable fortune for the seller. There is another black market inside the factory and after several hisses directed my way, I go over and talk to one of the workers who is currently producing Cohibas. He quietly tells me that for $5 I can have one right here. I am a bit nervous and tell him no thanks. He brings the price down to $2 straight away. I look around furtively and slip two dollars bills from my pocket. He then tells me to take 5 for $5. How can I refuse? OK so it is not right, but it is a good deal and it will put some dollars in this guys pocket and not in the governments. I hand over the fiver and quickly pocket the cigars. I walk away and just as I do so our guide looks angrily at me and pulls me to one side. He tells me in no uncertain terms that I did wrong and that I can’t do that. He doesn’t however ask me for the cigars back! We walk on and he seems to forget the situation even happened. The least I can do is make sure he gets a good tip at the tour end.

He then tells me to take 5 for $5. How can I refuse?

As with the Havana Club museum we are ushered into a shop where we can buy the cigars at full retail, plus something added on for the privilege of buying them in Cuba. Still feeling guilty I buy myself a nice packaged Cohiba for $20 and walk out onto the street thinking I came away with a good, if a little illicit deal.

Our last night in Cuba has to be spent at one of Ernest Hemmingway’s hangouts. Hemmingway was renowned for his drinking abilities and probably patronised many of the bars in Havana. It is known that he spent a lot of time in Ambos Mundos or Both Worlds, so we decide to treat ourselves to bit of posh nosh.

We have found the food in Cuba to be cheap and terrible in the cheaper and/or local establishments, to expensive and almost terrible in the more exclusive restaurants. We have also found that in the cheaper places they have virtually nothing that is on the menu. We have conversations with waiters that defy belief. No bread, no meat, no eggs, no salads. What do they have? Papas fritas: chips!

So Ambos Mundos it is and $75 later we have had a reasonably poor meal. The starter was good, but Emma’s paella was saltier than the sea and my prawns lacked much moisture! Still, the Cuba Libres were strong, tasty and would have been to Hemmingway’s liking.

The following day we head to the airport in a taxi costing a Cuban’s monthly wage and reflect on what we have seen and done here. It has been a whirlwind trip really, but we have discovered and experienced so much. We have got a flavour for Cuba and would both like to return one day to see more.

We think about the life of the people and Fidel’s communist government. How it is ideologically sound, but practically flawed. After being here for this short time, I believe that a lot of people are still behind Castro. I also believe that lots are not behind him and crave change. Private enterprise is prohibited, but it can be seen flourishing amongst the brave. The True Believers and not so brave can only look on. They can see this changing their society, they can see people getting rich, they can see the dollar only stores starting to open up with all sorts of luxuries and treats and they can see their comrades buying and enjoying them.

It is incredible to see the change that has happened since the imperial days, the wealthy days, the wasteful days. This change seems to be deterioration, the poor are still poor, the rich are now poor too. The buildings look fit for demolition and the west is slowly moving in. Mainly investment from Canada and Europe, buying the once grand housing and turning it into expensive hotels. Buying the land and putting in resorts that the person on the street could not even afford to dream of.

I believe that a big change will happen, and fairly soon. Fidel is now in his 70s and won’t be around forever. Yes he has true believers that he will leave behind in his wake, but he is the one who made Cuba what it is today and there is certain romanticism, a certain aura about him. How will his successor cope without this, even if it is one of Fidel’s offspring? To quote Fidel Castro himself:

“Socialism or death”

Maybe Socialism’s death will come with Fidel’s.

I ask the taxi driver:

“Do all the people of Cuba still like Fidel and believe in him.”

His answer is obviously guarded.

“Yes, many do”

“But some don’t?” I push

“Si, algunas no” yes, some don’t.

“And do you think there will be a lot of change when Fidel is no longer here?”

The volume knob on the radio is turned clockwise and that is the end of the conversation.

Maybe we will come back here twenty or thirty years from now and see what, if any change has occurred. Whatever happens it will be a truly fascinating experience to re-visit this beautiful, remarkable, and intriguing island and her people.

Viva la revolucion? At least not for me, no.

Viva Cuba? Si señor!

 

 

©Ian Picken 2002