Sitting in the airport at Panama City waiting for a connection flight, I had mixed emotions. I had finally left South America yet it certainly hadn’t left me. Whilst everyone else responded quickly to the gate announcement scurrying from their seats, I patiently waited till the end before boarding the plane. My new favoured Latin approach to life seemed appropriate after many tiresome days on the road, yet I was still to master the true art of leaving everything till the very last minute. Feeling as though I had thought everything through before boarding, my smug, relaxed approach was suddenly sent into a frantic overdrive when the boarding assistant asked if I had my Cuban visa.

“Visa, I’m bloody English, Passport of the kings”, I cry!

Unable to pay the twenty dollar fee with my credit card, I had no option but to hold up the plane for ten minutes whilst I ran back through the terminal in search of an ATM machine, returning to an angry cabin of Cubans who had previously shrugged at my cocky last minute preparations and were not the slightest bit impressed with my poor attempt to blend. If only I had bought one of those Panama hats now to hide my shame!

This was my first border crossing by plane since I flew from Bogota to Quito over a year ago. One thing I hate more than someone putting milk in a cup of tea before the bag has had time to brew is filling out tedious immigration and visa papers and having to answer stupid questions such as:

Are you carrying pornography with you?

Of course I am I’ve got a dick! Since when did masturbation become a crime? Have I really been gone that long? Come to think of it, I’m sure air hostesses used to be hot with low cut tops exposing lacy bra and cleavage? Now they look like thunderbird characters that didn’t quite make the chop because some dozy sod in the art department spilt hot coffee over their plastic fake tanned faces. And cabin crew Mr or Mrs (who the f**k can tell) Rodriguez seems way more gay without the strings prancing up and down the walkway dishing out even gayer sized cans of beer with his big (I’d love to suck your c***) face. What the hell am I supposed to do with that, wash my teeth? No wonder this flight was so cheap!

“Don’t worry”, I say to the Colombian family sitting next to me slightly nervous about the increasing turbulence, “It’s probably just the crew manager sucking the captains balls, it’s not even raining outside”.

I had no idea what to expect about Cuba before arriving. Refusing to turn to the lonely planet guide I was relying on the little bits of information I had received from a Cuban couchsurfer who would take anything up to a week to reply to one question via email. The more I knew, the less I wanted to know so I decided to just figure it out on my own.  Breezing past airport security, I had the immigration desk firmly in my sights when suddenly an undercover inspection officer with a Magnum PI hair style and matching moustache signalled me to step to the side and began asking me questions about my origin. No sooner did the first words leave my mouth I was pushed back in line so my new horny flare wearing friend could strike his ‘Studio 54’ pose for the super hot Colombian chick in eye catching tight hot pants behind me whose arse made James’s giant peach seem rather inadequate . Her ambiance made time stand still leaving every man, woman and child in a frozen flabbergast of disbelief. Personally I’d already had my wet dream and drooled over her several times before and during the plane ride, she was old news to me now and after figuring out which of the overweight, sken eyed and ridiculously rich boyfriends was her carrier bag, I quickly turned my attention away. I was too wise now to be sucked in by that old chestnut. Keep your dam fine ass love and your succulent skin tone and amazing pouty lips and I’ll keep my money safely locked up in the bank.

After a surprisingly hassle free immigration crossing without anybody even bothering to ask for the papers I had painstakingly filled out, I now faced the daunting challenge of obtaining the local currency. I had been told in advance that Cuban atm machines only accept visa cards and won’t accept most international debit cards so I thought best to bring Brazilian money with me to exchange on arrival. Unbelievably the airport money exchange wouldn’t accept Brazilian currency forcing me to have to purchase money on my MasterCard at an exchange rate of eleven percent meaning I would need to carry a substantial amount of money, half of which was useless in the whole of Cuba. I knew I should have changed the Brazilian money for Euros at the Panama Airport but the stupid exchange guy told me I’d be cool. (Note to oneself, never trust a guy who sits behind a thick piece of glass and talks through a microphone with a squeaky voice).

I was hoping the money I did have would last me my whole ten days saving me on transfer rates. My first expenditure didn’t help support my cause. A taxi ride to old Havana was pricey alone, so I persuaded a lonely Aussie girl to share the fare. My Cuban couchsurfing contact had arranged a place for me to stay downtown however here couchsurfing in theory is as popular as Che was at organizing Sunday brunch with Bolivians.

In the darkness of the night it was almost impossible to feel like I had arrived to Cuba except when the occasional pre 1960 American brand Ford, Chevrolet or rusty Cadillac rattled passed us coughing a cloud of unattended engine dust our way. Often a beautifully restored convertible would join us at the lights, a pack of smokes rolled up in the drivers sleeve, hat tilted to the opposite side of his Cuban honey leaving him just enough eye candy. This is cool.

A roadside billboard of George Bush and Obama’s faces catches my attention, especially the huge letters stamped across spelling ‘Terrorists’. That’s even cooler! Further down the road another billboard with Fidel and Che turns my head, ‘50 years of Revolution’, ‘Victory’. I was here to find out exactly what Che had gave his life for and hopefully make sense of Fidel’s motives after all this time. I had questions, lots and lots of questions!

Cuba was the first country I had visited so far where couchsurfing is prohibited. The government only allows a residence to host a foreigner if they hold a special permit. Known as “casa particulars’, they are basically family homes with spare rooms run like a small hostel. I met a few travellers in Cuba that hitchhike and if lucky stumble across a family that will illegally host you for free, however if an inspector just happens to come knocking on the door (which they do frequently and randomly) and finds you staying for free, the residents will simply be evicted from the home. The foreigner can walk away without a penalty but I wasn’t prepared to put someone’s livelihood on the line for the sake of saving a buck or two. Even more fascinating, my curiosity on the subject unravelled the fact that none of the locals in Cuba actually have the rights to own their own home. It’s all governed by the state, so once evicted it could be months, years before they find another place to live. Personally I find it disrespectful when overhearing other travellers boast about finding free accommodation in a country that basically relies on tourism.  We shouldn’t be looking to take advantage of countries that have no vantage. It only feeds the huge separation between the rich and poor.

Arriving to Old Havana late in the night reminded me of the black and white photos of my grandparents and my parents when they where children. The kind of place you expect to see Charlie Chaplin waddle down dark alleys or Nazi tanks suddenly smash through crumbled walls held together with bits of improvised scaffolding. (Note Microsoft word demands I capitalize the word Nazi, furthering my beliefs that Bill Gates is in fact Hitler with plastic surgery). First impressions even in the dark had me debating what exactly Fidel had done to improve the city. The taxi dropped me into another world so fragile I was scared to make any noise let alone fart, god forbid in fear of a nearby building crumbing beside me. The faint name of my ‘Casa’ rocked to a sea front sway as it had obviously done so for many years. I knocked on a big white door, no answer. The taxi disappeared in a pother of broken tail lights as I waited in a profound silence in a street without time. I felt like the last man on earth after judgement day, sympathizing with Will Smiths ‘I Am Legend’ character concerning myself with shadows in dark doorways and unearthly rustling noises in the distance. For a second I thought the startling grinding noise echoing around me was a hunter-ship crunching terminator skulls under its tracks when in fact it was the owner of the ‘casa’ rolling back a prison like window in the door to catch a glimpse of the annoying gringo who’s been buzzing her bell for the last five minutes.

‘Hola, Como Estas?’, I politely say, yet really my internal dialogue was screaming ‘Let me in dumbass, I come from a civilized place, why does your country charge me eleven percent and I hope you freakin take Mastercard sucker’?

It’s a good job I’ve learnt to keep my mouth shut. My new hosts seemed very homely and for twenty five bucks a night I had my own air conditioned room with double bed, hot shower and towels, breakfast and most importantly peace and quiet. Before settling into a much needed sleep my hosts were keen and upfront about me paying with cash for my three day stay in advance in a desperate but sincere manner. Although I was made to feel welcome I was also made aware that this wasn’t couchsurfing but a business that feeds hungry mouths, who like me where also ready to hit the sack. I guess I’ll strike up the big introductions tomorrow then?

Breakfast wasn’t anything to write home about, stale bread on a bed of scrambled egg with a cute pot of treacle coffee which I’m guessing is the reason so many Cubans have black teeth. Combined with cigars and insanely strong cigarettes I was keen to know the secret of anyone still alive after forty? Could it be the Caribbean paradise with white beaches and raspberry reefs or the incredibly hot and curvy Cuban mamas which definitely had my ticker working overtime or the universal free health care which since the collapse of the Soviet Union and its support for the country has suffered from continued shortages of medical supplies? Cuba however has the highest doctor to population ratio in the world yet I failed to see how any medical facility can work at a respectable level upon discovering that doctors get paid a mere twenty five bucks per month. That’s right folk’s, my room was costing me a doctors monthly wage per night. A tiny hole in the wall on the same street as my ‘Casa’ sold a delicious eight inch pizza for just under a dollar so basically a doctor could live off one of those everyday of his life. Everyone in Cuba has to find a means to earn money on the side which is why musicians or anyone in tourism has a better standard of living due to tips under the table. If you are planning to go to Cuba make sure you understand the difference between the two currencies used, otherwise you may get overcharged in some places.

Yet incredibly according to the UN, the life expectancy in Cuba is around 78.3 years ranking Cuba thirty seventh in the world and third in the Americans, behind only Canada and Chile, and just ahead of the United States. Maybe that’s because they don’t eat expensive fast food and drink gallons of coke, take copious amounts of pharmaceutical drugs, are forced to live an abstemious life and don’t have money to get pissed every day? (Well actually the last part is debatable). Personally if I reach fifty and I’m still single, I’ll just follow in the footsteps of every other gringo and get me a twenty five year old sweetheart who prefers dried up walnuts over ripe juicy plums.

My couchsurfing contact was unavailable so instead I wandered the streets of Old Havana by myself. The secret to avoiding the hustle and bustle of beggars and street vendors is music and a decent pair of cans (headphones). I would just glide past the many broken teeth and ‘Thriller’ like fingers waving around my face and let bass dwindle the sound of any unnecessary temptations. The choppy sea front had me turning back on myself in seconds parched for a beer to take away the sea salt splash back around my lips. For the first time since leaving home, I did the unthinkable. I jumped on a tour bus, the only thing separating me from the ridiculous, newlywed, over enthusiastic, brain drained tourists was a pink visor, Che Guevara Hat and an ‘I love Cuba T shirt’ but at least it dropped me off right outside a pub showing a champions league game.

‘Cabron, Mohito por favour, gracias’.

It was rather strange seeing English condiments on the bar through blurry cocktail eyes, Worchester Sauce, Hp and some weird herb I’ve never heard of before each marked with the Queens Stamp. For a moment I almost thought I was back in my local until a huge cloud of nicotine woke me from a daze.

‘United just scored’, someone tells me, ‘Who gives a crap, where’s my leafy looking cocktail gone’?

Stumbling out onto the streets I fingered around my headphones until the city chaos was replaced by the sweet symphonies of Pink Floyd and headed home for a catnap, stopping only to play a little street baseball with some local kids who couldn’t believe my ‘Babe Ruth’ first time home run swing. I hope they found the ball?

Refreshed and sobered from a delicious one dollar pizza, I headed out into the unknown, alone to sample Havana’s nightlife. Just a few blocks from the centre, I coincidently bumped into a local guy I’d met during the day called ‘Cheeky’. Being a white man in Cuba, you’re suddenly everyone’s friend and an obvious target for hookers, beggars and anyone looking too bum a free drunk. ‘Cheeky’ knew a place we could begin the night so I played along. Within seconds of pulling up a chair at the bar I was surrounded by local folk both male and female, asking questions, pouting lips and rubbing my thigh. I offered to buy ‘Cheeky’ a few beers favouring to have him as a wingman rather than be alone. I kept track of how many beers we consumed so was rather surprised when the bar lady told me I needed to pay for two additional beers. Apparently I had also offered to pay for Cheeky’s friend who had sneakily asked for a couple of beers on my tab. I threw down the money for the beers I’d consumed and a tip and without reservation walked towards the door.

‘Hijo De Puto’, my eyes burned at the teenage scank that tried stitchin me.

‘Nesscito pagar para dos cervesa muchaca, caio’.

I felt like John fookin Wayne but sometimes confidence in a foreign place can be dangerous. All this travel had made me feel somewhat invincible, unable to take shit from anyone and able to speak my mind clearly with an unnerving glance and tone. Cheeky followed me out the door apologizing for his friend’s behaviour and recommended we go to a club. In return for the beers I had bought him he offered to buy my friendship back with a small juiced sized carton of rum, which apparently cost five dollars yet I already knew they cost no more than a buck. This night was just an experiment for me to understand the desperate measures poor people will achieve to swindle a few bucks. By allowing Cheeky to reproduce every form of Cuban prestidigitation on me, I was learning to be prepared should it ever happen again, like having backstage passes to a David Copperfield show, the real magic was my discretion.

On the way to the club a police man stopped us in the street and began interrogating Cheeky wanting to know what he was doing with me. Contact between foreign visitors and ordinary Cubans was deemed illegal until 1997 yet even today any locals caught talking to you will be questioned. Apparently its Cuba’s way of protecting tourism from the dark truth of Cuba’s poverty, which really is ridiculous because my travels have proven that people represent my memory of a country rather than the places I go to sightsee. Somehow Cheeky sweet talked his self out of jail time, which would have been an easier solution for me to get rid of him. Seriously, this guy hung around like crabs on pubic hair and no matter how much I itched I just couldn’t shake him off.

Outside the club a huge queue had formed yet Cheeky had a friend that could get us both in half price and skip the long line. I paid for us both and watched Cheeky hustle his friend out of half of the money yet continued to play dumb all along. Once inside the club it was my turn to play the cards. I told Cheeky I needed the toilet and ditched him for a couple of trustworthy Italian guys and spent the whole night trying to filter out the whores from the normal girls whilst keeping an eye on the occasional sneaky hand trying to reach into my jean pockets looking for money. You gotta love Cuba.

Three days in Havana had truly drained me. I had skimmed both the surface and the underground and was now ready to head further East along the coastline for some much needed beach time. Experience has taught me not to judge and even after a bombardment of strangers trying to take advantage of me from every angle I was far from unloving this mystical country. You only need to ask yourself how you would survive in the same situation to help clarify the motives of people like Cheeky. Like everyone else he seeks to understand yet some of us have much more to comprehend.

Joining me for a short two hour bus ride the next morning was an Argentinean lady I had met randomly in an internet cafe. The internet is so freakin slow in Cuba you often find yourself ranting on at the person sat beside you whilst you wait fifteen minutes for your Gmail account to open. Of course as soon as it does your money runs out and the inpatient tourist behind you jumps in for a similar fate. In the end I just gave up and looked forward to only sun and sea at one of Cuba’s most prestigious beaches, Varadero.

Upon arrival, I managed to track down a sweet hotel directly beside the beach for around forty five pizzas a night but which also accepted Mastercard, freeing up my limited cash flow for such delights as one dollar beers on the beach and fresh fried fish platters. Now this is what I came here for. Furthermore I was delighted to enjoy the company of some fellow English girls, one who shockingly but delightfully had a second name called ‘Beer’. The flour white sand felt good between my toes and tiny fish bones made excellent tooth picks and the cold beer but a stone’s throw from my sun lounger influenced my decision to stay here for the rest of my time in Cuba. Unlike everyone else, I hadn’t come to sight see. I didn’t care about here, there, what day or Che. I grew up in an industrial city where everyone spits a vile black substance from car windows to pavements at the traffic lights. The closest I came to a sea of Blue was Maine Road on a Saturday filled with City fans. I didn’t even know you could find sand on a beach until I went to Spain never mind it being white? I had found my happy place.

Yet happiness is something I believe can only truly be shared with others hence the sad empty feeling I so often get as I waved my new friends goodbye. I always seem to arrive just when the cool people are leaving or I need to catch a bus in the early hours of a great party. I always have to tell my stories instead of having someone to share them with. I felt shipwrecked on a desert island surrounded by paradise like the ‘Blue Lagoon’ only my Brooke Shields had sunk with the boat, spending my days watching circles of friends and couples embrace the moment. Ever present voices in my head calling out for familiar faces, those who know me, love me and ultimately care for me. I was alone.

Solitude is strange. Seconds feel like hours and hours feel like days. I see the world spinning around me and pay attention to other people’s details which they are too occupied to see. I read, I swim, crack another beer, give up trying to rub cream in the middle of my back and watch youthful hips dance without responsibility whilst drifting off occasionally into an oneiric never- never land. Food tastes bland without conversation. Bars seem endless without someone sat at the end. I humour myself as the busy weekend load of Cuban kids prance around with a teenage innocence sheltered from the realities of life before them.  I miss my family, my friends, my cat and for the first time I actually miss my home. Solitude feeds my perception and ultimately forms my reality. I am alone. I have been alone for a very long time. Aren’t we all? Suddenly over a hundred faces and places flash by in my mind yet only one remains as clear as the blue sea before me. Everything would be perfect if only she was here.

Yet I’m not one to sit around and pule over split milk and my gift of the gab very rarely leaves me alone for any long period of time. I soon found myself enjoying the company of an incredible couple, Les a sixty year old Canadian who now resides in Cuba with his wonderful twenty five year old future wife to be. Les reminded me of my father and I instantly warmed to his words of endless wisdom. An engineer peaking on the breakthrough of new technology, he was far from a man ready to retire. In fact like me he felt somewhat reborn and his beautiful young girlfriend helped regenerate his want to remain young in mind and strong in body. My time with Les made me realize that some part of me hadn’t truly accepted that my father was gone forever and no matter how much I travel, I will never see him again however that’s not to say I won’t ever feel his touch. I feel him every day as I do all of you that I love and care about. It’s bizarre that as a child I dreamed over blue seas and white beaches yet as a man all I dream about are the things beyond my reach, the opportunities I’ve missed and ultimately those eyes I left behind.

I wonder what Che was thinking as he looked into the chamber of a gun for the very last time, his prescience hanging before him like a slaughtered pig twitching with the very last signs of life. Had Fidel had a salutary effect on Cuba? Was he successful? Of course on a personal level he was extremely successful, so much so that he and his brother Raul even possess their own bank plus the billions of dollars worth of property they confiscated after the takeover. Cuba was once a rich county with sugar, nickel and fields filled with cattle, yet today Cuba imports more than eighty percent of its food and don’t have the infrastructure to cater for the increasing population leaving many homeless and sick on the streets. Che was a doctor yet practiced the law of taking life into his own hands should anyone cease to agree with the revolution. In the end the fight is what makes us all go crazy. Yet we are crazy not to fight back against the handful of terrorists that somehow manage to take the wheel and steer us all into the darkness. Obama is now talking about lifting the embargo. Maybe that’s because Cuba has billions of tanks of oil surrounding its coast lines. Isn’t that what all history is about? Power, Money, Wealth and Control!

This is our reality folks.

Yet when I close my eyes all I think about is her.

To go forward now I think I must go back. 

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