Island that Dared (2 page)

At 11.10 a.m., one hour and forty minutes out of Gatwick, our captain announced, in a bright chatty voice, ‘You’ll have noticed we’ve changed direction’. (I hadn’t noticed.) Then the voice became soothing. We had a defective engine, the defect so trivial it would be absolutely safe to continue to any other destination. The only snag was that Havana’s airport lacked an appropriate maintenance crew.

Rachel and I exchanged raised eyebrows and feigned nonchalance. For both of us this was a novel experience – how unkind of Fate, on the Trio’s first long-distance flight! Yet they seemed to accept the situation as part of travelling’s rich tapestry and were fascinated by our fuel-jettisoning. Rose, Clodagh and I chanced to be sitting just behind the right wing and for half an hour could see a steady stream of shining kerosene pouring fast from that tank. Clodagh exclaimed, ‘It’s like a silver sword!’ Zea, bred to be frugal, lamented the waste. Rose told her: ‘From Gatwick to Havana is four thousand six hundred and seventy-one miles’ (she’d been studying her TV screen) ‘and all the way we’re over the sea. It’s
sensible
to waste fuel and go back for repairs!’ At which point I realised that she, too, was feigning nonchalance.

Our fellow-passengers, mostly British tourists, made no fuss, were tensely silent or spoke in whispers. The cabin staff, no doubt accustomed to coping with such minor crises, strolled to and fro looking calm and cheerful, offering light refreshments.

Approaching Gatwick, through dense swirling wind-torn clouds, our captain spoke again. We were not to be alarmed by the fire-engines and ambulances lined up to meet us, a standard procedure for an unscheduled landing but of course superfluous in our case. Moments later, as we gained height, that reassuring voice explained, ‘Our landing is being delayed by adverse weather conditions’. For twenty long minutes we circled through turbulence while Rose and Zea quietly and neatly filled their vomit-bags.

At 1.10 we touched down, very bumpily, and were instructed to leave no possessions on board. When we had ‘deplaned’ (who invents these ugly words?) further information would be available.

On our release most passengers at once cell-phoned, excitedly reporting the drama as we were herded down the long corridors. Everyone looked
happily relieved rather than frustrated. But soon three grumpy security men blocked our way with a nylon rope barrier. Bureaucratic complications arise when hundreds of passengers are not departing, not arriving, not in transit. For almost an hour we were restricted to limbo, a large space with few seats. The Trio sat on the floor absorbed in
Sudoku
puzzles while their mother and grandmother agreed that the stress of travelling with small children is greatly exaggerated. In general that age-group simply takes life as it comes.

When a ground-staff team eventually rescued us they looked apologetic: we wouldn’t be taking off before 8.00 p.m., if then. At a kiosk in the main concourse we each received a fifteen-pound gift voucher for sustenance and promptly I abandoned my descendants, making for the nearest bar. The disappointment was cruel; those vouchers could be exchanged only for food and soft drinks. Meanwhile the Trio, having discovered a spacious play-area, were energetically relating to their contemporaries despite having been up at 4.00 a.m. And Rachel was struggling with a public telephone (we are an anti-cell-phone family) because she wanted Andrew, in Italy, to send an e-mail to Candida, in Havana, explaining that we would not be arriving when expected. For some arcane reason, e-mailing Cuba is much easier than telephoning.

Around the play-area several Havana-bound parents occupied
ringside
seats. I sat beside Imelda, one of the few Cubans, a slim, olive-skinned woman looking ill at ease in high-altitude garments. She was longing to be home ‘where bodies can feel free’. Her extrovert three-year-old son had found the play-area too limited and was roving widely, charming the general public and being followed at a discreet distance by his English father. A family illness had occasioned this mid-winter visit to Yorkshire. When the couple met in 2001 Ted had already been working in Cuba for years. ‘Doing what?’ I asked – an innocent question, yet Imelda feigned deafness. I was at the beginning of a steep learning curve; beneath their effervescent friendliness, many Cubans maintain a cautious reserve in conversation with unknown foreigners.

Later, Ted volunteered that he was a tourist industry marketing consultant. In his view, Castroism had long been among Cuba’s most effective tourist magnets. ‘People say, “We must go before it changes”, meaning before Fidel dies. Few realise changes have been happening for a decade. They’re seeing a country still wearing a Castroist fig-leaf while in rapid transition to capitalism.’ I noted Ted’s neutral tone; but one could deduce, from his job, that he approved of the changes.

Leaving Rose in charge of her siblings, Rachel and I sat in a nearby bar wondering how, within six hours, we could possibly spend seventy-five pounds on food and soft drinks. Given that sum, or less, Rachel could feed a family of five for a week. Then, collecting the Trio, we toured Gatwick’s shopping mall, unsuccessfully seeking wholesome portable foods to sustain us while trekking. In general we boycott the mainstream food industry but this situation called for flexibility; to the Trio’s delighted astonishment they were allowed to eat one voucher’s worth of mini-yoghurts and megaice-creams. (‘All full of chemical flavourings and dyes,’ their mother grimly commented.) Eventually, in desperation, I proposed a meal, with good wine for the adults, at Gatwick’s most expensive restaurant.

By 7.15 the Havana-bound were easily spotted amidst Gatwick’s
multitude.
Anxiously we coalesced beneath the Departure screens and Havana’s failure to appear prompted a rising tide of pessimism. Then at 7.50 it did appear (Board Now!) and we all surged towards Gate thirty-two waving our Special Passes – which didn’t spare us the X-ray queue. By this stage Zea was half-asleep, riding on Mummy’s shoulders, and Clodagh was looking pale and sounding querulous while Rose silently wore her ‘I’m a stoic’ expression. At the final security check smiling Virgin Air hostesses handed out letters from the Customer Relations Manager regretting that our flight ‘had suffered a technical problem’ (more delicate wording than ‘engine failure’) and offering us ten thousand Flying Club miles or twenty per cent off our next Economy ticket.

During that nine and a half hour flight Rose slept quite well, Clodagh slept fitfully and Zea slept so soundly, stretched across her own seat and the maternal lap, that leg cramps kept Rachel awake. To me her avoidance of any movement seemed like excessive solicitude but I reckoned such grandmaternal opinions are best suppressed for the sake of
intergenerational
harmony. As for Nyanya – I can never sleep in the sitting position though if reclining on a bed of stones (as occasionally happens) slumber comes easily. (Here it should be explained that to the Trio I’m ‘Nyanya’, the Swahili term for Granny, bestowed on me when Rose was a baby living in Eastern Zaire.)

Peering through the blackness during our descent, it was apparent that Havana is no ordinary twenty-first-century city; instead of the usual energy-wasting glow, dim pinpricks marked Cuba’s capital.

In the immigration hall we ceremoniously changed our watches from 5.30 to 1.30 a.m. By then Rachel and I had reached that curious stage of exhaustion when one ceases to notice it (mind over matter? Second
wind?). Rose and Zea were all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Clodagh less so – until she met another eight-year-old with whom she had bonded in the play-area. The queues were long and slow, each passport and visa requiring computerisation. Rachel had recently convinced me that
computers
are
very useful
but I remained aware of their negative effects. The computerisation of everything – libraries, universities, hotels, hospitals, government departments, airports – has noticeably lengthened bureaucratic ordeals while encouraging a profligate attitude towards paper use.

Next we trudged through an enormous concourse, past shuttered shops and restaurants. From high roof struts hung the flags of every nation, symbolising Cuba’s non-aligned stance on the world stage. The Stars and Stripes and the Keys of St Peter were inconspicuously placed.

While the others waited for our rucksacks I gently prodded the sleeping young woman in the queueless
Cambio
cubicle and received 1.04
convertible
peso (CP) to the euro, the standard rate throughout Cuba. At any time I could convert these for use in ordinary Cuban shops at a rate of one CP for twenty-six national pesos (NP). US dollars lost ten per cent in the exchange; other currencies were commission-free.

We emerged unchecked through Customs though in several Caribbean countries granny-figures are quite often loaded with drugs. In another vast space our packaged fellow-passengers were trailing towards their coaches. ‘They all look
too
tired!’ commiserated Zea. Soon we were on our own in this dreary pillared hallway, vaguely resembling an unfinished Romanesque cathedral and furnished only with a dozen small metal chairs. Through a glass wall taxis were visible but 3.15 seemed an inhumane hour to set out for our
casa particular.
Rose sought a loo but quickly returned looking non-stoical; it was too awful to pee in … For this unfortunate introduction to Cuba’s normally hygienic public lavatories Hurricane Wilma was responsible; the local water supply had been wrecked a week previously. When Rachel and Rose hastily took off for the great outdoors Zea went into a sulk because she hadn’t been invited to
accompany
them and Clodagh complained of (psychosomatic?) dehydration. This prompted me to explore and discover a small bar in a far corner where two Customs officers and four Immigrations officers were grumbling about our delayed flight which had required them to do overtime. Havana airport’s average daily intake of 5,000 passengers normally arrives by daylight.

Leaving Rachel to counter Zea’s sulk I took my first steps into Cuba with Rose by my side. An airport carpark – even one surrounded by royal
palms and aromatic shrubs – does not provide an enthralling first
impression
but we agreed that the smells were excitingly unfamiliar and the sky magical, its stars lustrous on black velvet. The warm stirring of the air was a mere zephyr and only a rooster duet broke the silence. Rose deduced, ‘Here they must have loads of free-range eggs.’

Back in the hallway we found the juniors restored to cheerfulness by some maternal alchemy and now several other seats were occupied. Two angry elderly women and a young man (bound for Caracas, said his luggage labels) were arguing loudly, the traveller seeming both cowed and defensive. A young Dutch couple had been self-driving around the island and injudiciously exposing themselves to the sun; tenderly they applied Savlon to each other’s blistered backs. Closer to us, a middle-aged
corpulent
mulatto was showing an amused interest in the Trio’s acrobatics – the mere sight of all that open space seemed to have recharged their batteries. When we got into conversation I learned that Senor Malagon was awaiting a delegation of Canadian agronomists. In a disarming way he boasted about Cuba’s efficient management of Wilma which for six days, towards the end of October, had flooded eleven of the island’s fourteen provinces. In preparation, 600,000 had been evacuated with their livestock and no lives were lost.

At 5.30 we approached the taxi rank. All night three vehicles had been waiting (the sort of veteran cars that send some men into inexplicable ecstasies) yet there was no competition, no haggling. The first in line was entitled to us and CP25 was the standard night fare to Central Havana (to be known henceforth as Centro). Rachel sat in front, practising her Spanish, while the Trio and I wriggled uncomfortably on the back seat’s broken springs. During that half-hour ride all was predictable: pot-holed roads, ramshackle factories, Soviet-style blocks of prefab flats hastily erected in the 1960s.

Shoals of cyclists pedalling to work without lights scandalised the Trio. ‘They’ll be dead!’ said Zea. ‘The police will get them!’ said Clodagh. ‘No,’ said Rose, rapidly adjusting to local realities. ‘It’s just they’ve no money for lamps.’

Centro’s bumpy narrow streets, running between tall, dilapidated nineteenth-century residences, are off the main tourist track; twice we had to stop at junctions to seek guidance. The dawn greyness was turning faintly pink when we found 403 San Rafael – our driver looking triumphant, as though he had brought off some orienteering coup. We were piling rucksacks on the pavement when Zea exclaimed, ‘Look! Our taxi
has a swan, with big wings!’ The driver chuckled and tipped her under the chin. ‘Yes, my taxi very old Chevrolet, that very famous swan.’

A high, narrow door swung open, an outer gate was unlocked and it seemed we had arrived among old friends. Candida and Pedro, still in their nightwear, warmly embraced us while volubly registering relief at our safe arrival. The street door led directly into the parlour end of a narrow, sparsely furnished room separated from the kitchen-cum-dining-room by a long, low cupboard supporting bushy house-plants. The front bedroom opened off the parlour; two other windowless rooms opened off a corridor beyond the kitchen. To reach the small communal bathroom one crossed a square hallway at the foot of steep stairs; here more greenery surrounded an antique wrought-iron garden table with chairs to match, all painted white. As our rooms lacked writing space, this was to become my study.

While Rachel was arguing with her daughters about who was to sleep where, Candida poured hot milk from a giant thermos, sliced bread (with apologies for its being yesterday’s loaf) and offered mango jam – the Trio’s favourite. Then the younger generations tottered off to bed but after three cups of potent coffee I had revived enough to take advantage of Havana’s brief morning coolness. An Irish proverb recommends ‘the old dog (or bitch) for the hard road’.

Outside No. 403 the olfactory tapestry was complex: defective drains, sub-tropical vegetation, dog shit, cigar smoke, inferior petrol, seaweed, ripe garbage in overflowing skips. Each street corner had its skip to which householders on their way to work contributed bulging plastic bags and empty bottles. Cats crouched on the skip rims, cleverly reaching down to extract fish spines and other delicacies. Two dead rats in gutters proved that some cats had been busy overnight. Dogs swarmed, having been set free at dawn to do what we all do once a day, so one had to watch one’s step on the broken pavements. A jolly young woman was selling tiny cups of strong sweet coffee from her living-room window; later, she would do a brisk trade in takeaway homemade pizzas which became popular with the Trio. Further down the street, an older woman was selling ham rolls and over-sweet buns from a plank laid on two chairs in her doorway. She and a neighbour were talking money, the neighbour a grey-haired,
ebony-skinned
housewife hunkered beside her doorstep, cleaning piles of rice on sheets of
Granma
(Cuba’s only national daily, also the Communist Party newspaper).