Cuba
19:59.17N 75:52.46W
Ah Cuba!
I have waited so long to visit this island and finally we’re there. We
sailed through the narrow entrance into the vast inland harbour of Santiago.
The marina, consisting of two long concrete jetties is situated at Punta Gorda,
about 10 miles south of the city. Having tasted bureaucracy in Bocca Chica, now
we got the full-blown Cuban version. First the Sanitary Inspector, then the
Medical Inspector, then the Vetinary Inspector (who confiscated two limes that
showed signs of mould), followed by Customs Inspector No.1 complete with
sniffer dog, a lovely little spaniel named Astro, then Customs inspector No.2
with tool box who decided that whatever we may have been hiding was in our
sleeping cabin. When he had finished along came the Immigration Officer, and
next morning Customs Inspector No.3 and another official whose role was never
ascertained. All were perfectly polite and pleasant, but what a palaver. Our
canister of flares was sealed and we were warned not to take any electronics
like GPS, or VHF radio ashore. Phew!
There
were a couple of Swiss cats who were just about to leave, and an American, Dan
who had arrived to deliver a horrendous old ferro-concrete ketch to St. Marten.
Rather him than me. Over the next couple of days we were joined by and English
couple from the Isle of Wight and a German
couple in an Aluminium cat. Every evening there was a drinks party on one of
the boats. It was a very nice little gathering.
Our
friend Wendy arrived in the evening after a horrendous flight from Havana. She continues with
her version of the next few days:-
“It was only after my plane landed that James told me
Cubana Airways had safety record in the world. Suddenly it all made sense. I
had been a bit perturbed when we all piled on, sat down and half the seats were
permanently in ‘recline’ mode. This meant that, on take-off, it
felt as if you were strapped into the Space Shuttle, staring at the ceiling.
Take-off itself felt as if it would never happen as we chugged down the
runway…
However, after a can of coke and a few boiled sweets (and
the longest hour-and-a-half of my life), I arrived with a bump at Santiago de
Cuba Airport, along with some of the fattest people you can imagine. I squeezed
round them to retrieve my bag, then found the exit. The door opened and I was
confronted by a wall of more very large, black people. From somewhere lower
down, around belly height, I heard Jim calling my name. So there was hope!
It was great to see Jim and Lucy, tanned and disgustingly
healthy, and to finally step aboard beautiful Snow Leopard moored in the small
but perfectly formed Marina Punta del Gorda just outside Santiago. A drinks party was in progress on a
neighbouring ‘pirate ship’ to which we were apparently invited and
where I was introduced to the current crop of marina inhabitants. They were an
English couple recently arrived from western Cuba, an American charged with
delivering the pirate ship somewhere in the eastern Caribbean, plus his crew of
two women, one of whom was English though lived in Australia and the other was
Australian though not planning to return anytime soon. I think I’ve got
that right.
The next day was spent settling in (for me) and sorting the
boat out (for Jim and Lucy). Jim had to get me ‘checked in’ by the
customs man (who was, in fact, a boy of about 19) who painstakingly copied into
his exercise book every detail of my passport. Unfortunately, he made a mistake
right at the end and had to start again. Then he wrote a narrative about my
arrival the previous day, including what time I joined ship. This caused him
another slight problem because he had to check what 9.30pm was on the 24-hour
clock – bless!
The marina was full of delightful characters, including an
enthusiastic spaniel whose job was to sniff for drugs on boats, plus a lovely
bearded Cuban (fattish, of course) who introduced himself with a polite
handshake and the immortal words: “Hi, I’m George –
available!’ We had a great day in Santiago town, much of which was spent
in a Cuban music club where we had lunch in a tiny courtyard at the back,
listening to a trio of elderly gentlemen who later became a quartet when joined
by a Damon Hill-look-alike on his way back from work on a building site. Fab
meal of pork and fried plantain. We were joined by a young Cuban called Enrico
who kept Jim entertained for hours while Lucy and I went off for a spot of food
and booze shopping.
Marina-mates were exchanged for a young German couple on a
similar-sized catamaran to ours – how could they afford to be swanning
round the world for two years? – and an older Swedish couple who had been
away from home for even longer. On the morning we left, a French boat came in
but the place was hardly packed!
Wonderful to be sailing, particularly as I had virtually
nothing to do but watch J and L go through their well-practised routines. We
flew along at 8-10 knots under an enormous spinnaker towards our next stop
– Chivirico. Wow, that place has a scary entrance with a very narrow
channel through a reef then a sharp left-hand turn just before you hit the
cliff, before anchoring in a tranquil lagoon, with a few thatched huts
scattered around, the odd fishing boat and not much else. We weren’t
allowed to go ashore here for some reason known only to the Cuban authorities,
but it was a beautiful place to spend the evening on board, anyway. I think it
was here that I won my first game of Scrabble.
Next stop Marea del Portillo, a different kettle of fish
altogether because it had two hotels, though one was closed until April. We
went ashore to explore the town though we hadn’t gone 100 yards before we
were accosted by a jolly Cuban called Jorge who invited us to a pork barbecue
that evening to celebrate his 34th birthday. His wife looked a
little unsure about this but he insisted and showed us round his house (about
the size of a single garage), introducing us to his large family, including
Grandma. Horror of horrors, we also had to admire the barbecue preparations, ie
a small pig with a medium-sized branch shoved up its bottom and out of its
mouth, being slowly roasted over an open fire by Jorge’s children, who
took it in turns to revolve the branch while sitting in the sweltering sun. Oh
well, Jim had let us in for it now…
Contrast this scene with the only-open hotel about a mile up
the beach where we had lunch – hot dog and chips – at a shady bar,
listening to a pool-side game of bingo, laid on for the hotel guests who
appeared to be mainly massive elderly Canadians. We got a lift back to the
dinghy by horse and cart taxi (yes, really!) Obviously, we had to stop for
another half-hour chat with Jorge and Co to check party times etc, then it was
back to base for swim/shower, lashings of anti-mosquito stuff and other
pre-requisites for a slightly dodgy evening in a Cuban hovel.
But the family could not have been nicer. Jorge was a few
rums to the good before we arrived and the only three chairs they possessed
were arranged outside for us to use. Then we were ushered inside, taking the
chairs with us, and invited to eat his birthday feast – but on our own!
To our astonishment, the family refused to join us but then we realised this
was partly due to politeness but probably mainly for practical reasons –
there simply wasn’t room inside the hut for everyone, and they only had
three plates. Eventually, things became less formal and it is amazing how one
drunk Cuban fisherman, his kindly wife, four beautiful children, mother-in-law,
sister and silent niece can converse at length with three middle-class English
people, only one of whom speaks any Spanish at all (and even you’re not
that good, Jim, let’s face it). Still, the Spanish-French dictionary on
the floor next to the telephone helped…
Shed-loads of wind for a couple of days forced us to stay in
this delightful spot so the focus turned to domestic chores – Lucy baked
bread, Jim scrubbed decks and I did little apart from a bit of bottom-washing
(of the boat, you fool). I may have won another game of Scrabble here, too. (she lost one too, but forgot to mention
that! Ed)
On the Monday afternoon, Skip identified a weather window so
we set off for an overnight sail towards Los Jardinas de la Reina, an
archipelago of tiny uninhabited islands between the south-west tip of Cuba and our return to civilisation in the shape
of Cienfuegos.
The loose plan was to anchor once or twice in this paradise, do a bit of
snorkelling, then press on to Cienfuegos.
However, we were only a few hours into this passage when I gathered that Snow
Leopard could never be re-named Slow Leopard and it became clear that we would
have to shoot straight past our first anchorage, given that at 4am it would be
too dark to see what we were doing and where we were going. Hey ho!
So, next stop Cayo Breton, then. Well, I’d been
promised snorkelling, so snorkelling I was going to do, despite the chilly
waters and complete absence of fish, Not to worry, the situation was saved by
the arrival of four wily fishermen, brandishing lobsters. The equally wily Jim
was up to this negotiation at the end of which he had a bucket full of four
monsters of the deep in exchange for a half-bottle of rum (which cost about a
quid). In fact, we could have had FIVE lobsters for the same price but you can
have too much of a good thing, apparently, and the last lobster was so big that
we had nothing in which to cook it. Out came the Gary Rhodes guide to dealing
with lobsters, plus various tools, including a hammer, and a ball of string.
While I hid behind a cushion, Jim and Lucy worked out a system between them for
butchering, slaying, then butchering again the poor creatures, who all had
names, of course, but mercifully gave up without too much of a fight. I have to
say, the end result was a magnificent meal – more than one, actually,
because we had to have lobster again for lunch the following day. How tiresome.
Off into the night again for the 80-mile trip north to Cienfuegos, keeping a
tight rein on the Leopard this time so as to arrive after daybreak. This
objective was achieved but we were invited by the marina staff to moor up to
the windward side of the fuel quay in a particularly tight spot with another
catamaran six feet off our bows and a concrete dock about eight feet behind us.
As we were only there for half an hour for check-in purposes, getting off again
as the breeze built was something of a challenge, equalled only by re-mooring
in our allocated spot with the wind this time blowing us off. Let’s just
say the whole exercise enabled Jim and Lucy to display all their boat handling
skills “
(Thank
you Wendy. I’ll
win the next game of Scrabble)
Town Hall, Santiago
de Cuba. From this balcony Castro made his first
victory speech after seizing power in the revolution
Taxis, Cuban style
A morning beer on roof terrace of Graeme Green’s
favourite hotel in Santiago
Dan (American yacht skipper) shares a joke with Wendy
Our 1956 Chevrolet Bel-Air taxi
And driver
Thatched house, Chivrico (we were allowed to anchor in this
tiny bay, but not allowed to go ashore!)
Chivrico
