booked in at a friendly hilltop guest
house with a view of the island. This
time, information about ferry-times
was straightforward and no all-day
endurance test was required. Nei-
ther did it require the fortune the
other ferry-crossing would have cost.
We had lunch at a beach restaurant
and inflated the kayak on the clean,
creamy-coloured sand, launching it
into the warm turquoise sea with the
plan to paddle round the western tip
and back the other side of the long,
thin island. There was quite a breeze
so I attached my sarong to my paddle
and made an effective sail which was
great fun and saved any paddling.
We admired the unspoiled island as
we sailed past, disturbing pelicans
perched in the mangroves as we
went. However, going up the other
side wasn’t as easy as we thought.
The wind was now against us and it
took some strenuous paddling from
both of us to get back to the ferry
which made us panic a bit so I sang
sea-shanties to raise spirits and cre-
ate a useful rhythm. A mojito or two
under an umbrella on the beach was
well-deserved on our eventual return
whilst waiting for the ferry.
On our final day, we stopped off at
a beach Chris had visited before. As
we turned off the road and had coffee
at a shack, a startling motorcycle
entered the scene. Not only was it red
and ridden by a very attractive young
man who arrived with a flourish caus-
ing a dust-storm, but it had a very
unusual engine which was a cord-pull
start Lombardini. I was later told
that the frame was from an Enfield.
“Great snorkelling!” Chris assured
me as he launched himself into the
beautiful deserted bay about an hour
from Havana.
I was a little more circumspect. As
a diver, I knew the best marine life is
around rocks so kept to the sides of
the bay and saw a wide variety of fish.
I saw Chris disappear into the dis-
tance in the middle of the bay where
it was a bit rough. Even if there was a
reef or some rocks, it was too far out
and choppy for me without fins so I
stayed on the sides and kept looking
out for him until I couldn’t see him
any more.
I began to worry about him and
after a while returned to the beach.
Then I saw him walking along. He
had been worried about me.
“I thought you’d croaked” he said.
“I thought you had too”, I said with
relief.
It was time to head for home. As
we were packing away the snorkel-
ling gear a car arrived. It was a black
Audi saloon with blacked-out win-
dows. Chris surmised that the owner
was a Cuban who lived in America
and had money. We watched as the
passengers emerged. Eventually,
twelve adults stood round the car, get-
ting out their rum, folding chairs and
loud music.
With a final look at windsurfers do-
ing impressive acrobatics in the surf
near Chris’ house, our week’s ‘Hector
TRAVERSE 68
Experience’ was over.
In the days following our return
to Havana, I drove Hector along the
legendary Malecón, the seafront
promenade which separates Havana
from the Caribbean Sea. It reminded
me of the euphoria we all felt when in
the back of my future brother-in-law’s
Mini pick-up truck when riding along
the sea-front as teenagers in West-
on-super-Mare so many years ago.
But somehow the sound of Hector
rattling along next to old American
cars, some the same age as me, made
up for the passing of the intervening
years. Things probably won’t be the
same in Cuba in the coming years and
I’m glad I’ve seen it now and would
recommend a journey there to any-
one.
One thing though ... do learn to
salsa before you go! JF