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Chill factor: Cayo Coco,
Cuba
Vanessa Farquharson. National
Post, Canada. Saturday, January 08,
2005.
It's cheap, it caters to Canadians and
it's three-and-a-half hours away by plane
-- this, alongside the renewed popularity
of Che Guevara (thanks to the recent hit
film The Motorcycle Diaries), not to mention
top-notch cigars and jazz talent, will be
reason enough for some 400,000 Canadians
to visit Cuba this year.
And, as many travel agents will insist,
when it comes to a beach vacation, Cayo
Coco is the new Varadero. The island, named
not after the coconut but rather the white
coco bird, has its own airport and sits
on the eastern tip of the country, around
11 kilometres from Havana.
The causeway connecting it to the mainland
has existed for less than a decade, so all
the hotels are relatively new. The most
recent addition is El Senador, owned by
Canadian hockey great Serge Savard, which
boasts a lobby shaped like a rink, along
with a roof curved like a skate blade.
However, Cuba is probably the chilliest
of all the Caribbean islands. And, although
it was mostly spared from hurricanes Charley
and Ivan, it can still get fairly windy
(which explains the noticeable lack of beach
umbrellas at most of the island's resorts).
I'm not usually bothered by wind, unless
I'm trying to read a magazine or apply spray-on
suntan lotion. But on my fifth day in Cayo
Coco, it was overcast and the wind felt
cyclonic. I left my room, after enduring
almost an hour of my neighbours' balcony
conversation ("I totally want to move
here -- like, with my mom" or "I
hate people who hardly have any alcohol
and then act like they're so drunk")
and painful taste in music (R. Kelly singing
"Girl, you wanna come to my hotel?"
on repeat).
I made it to the outdoor restaurant and
picked out a lunch of creole-style soup
and a dish titled "penne to the seafaring,"
both of which felt as though they'd been
refrigerated by the time I sat down. I took
a couple mouthfulls of each when a murder
of crows suddenly descended upon me and
attacked my meal, after which the wind blew
my book clear off the table along with most
of my pasta and (tomato-based) soup that
managed to land tie-dye style on my white
sweater.
So if travellers are prepared for nothing
other than scorching hot beaches, steel
drum beats and calm tides, but instead encounter
a scenario similar to this and don't want
to spend the entire day emptying the contents
of the mini bar and watching dubbed repeats
of Friends, they might want to do as I did:
Take the plunge, sacrifice romance and relaxation
and book a day trip. They're not as lame
as they used to be and, even if the tour
itself isn't very informative, it will surely
be more entertaining than the aforementioned
Friends reruns -- and there will always
be at least one fellow tourist worth meeting.
My government-sanctioned excursion began
at 9:30 a.m. the morning after my lunch
catastrophe. By 10 a.m., I was sitting in
a fishing boat next to a couple of construction
workers from Cornwall, England, who took
the 10-hour flight here because they wanted
"culture, not idiots getting wasted
on lager," and we were motoring through
a mangrove- and orchid-filled lagoon.
Suddenly, we came to a stop. The skipper,
who was sporting a Queen's University T-shirt
and "Canada" ball cap, got out
of the boat, stuck his hand into a termite's
nest and exclaimed: "They don't bite!"
He then proceeded to wipe his insect-covered
forearm onto one of my newfound companions
before climbing back into the boat.
Less than an hour later there was a liquid
brunch at an inoperative sugar mill. A former
Cuban journalist was serving up some Canchanchara
(lemon water, honey and a generous splash
of rum) in the educational-video screening
room and took some time to explain how it's
more profitable to be a bartender at dormant
sugar mill than a full-time reporter at
one of the nation's newspapers.
"There's more money in tourism and
[in Cuba], we can't always write what we
want," he said cautiously. Then he
added, "But I always preferred sports
writing anyway." Considering Cuba has
the most journalists in prison out of any
country in the world (28 to be precise),
this mode of thinking is more than understandable.
Joaquin, the tour guide, then led us outside
to admire a large-scale diorama, in which
about a dozen figurines made of dried apples
and burlap were posed in various disconcerting
tableaux. Some dolls were being whipped,
others were shown crushed under the weight
of machinery, a few of the less-disturbing
ones were posed wielding scythes in mid-swing,
puffing on a cigar. Unfortunately, it was
yet another blustery day and the dolls kept
getting blown over, making us tourists feel
slightly uncomfortable.
But it wasn't long before we clambored
on board a steam train that took us to our
lunch spot, a restaurant in a low-rise jungle.
I sat next to a man from Scarborough by
way of Buenos Aires, Argentina. He introduced
himself as Victor Dante Barroso and said
he was here to get some much-needed vitamin
D.
"I suffer from seasonal affective
disorder," he said. "I needed
sunlight, so I told my wife and daughter
I was going to Cuba. They couldn't get time
off, so I came on my own for two weeks."
Mr. Barroso said he hadn't really been
bored or lonely on his own yet -- he signed
up for tours such as this one, he walked
up and down the beach a lot and occasionally
joined others for dinner. "Last night
this group of old ladies asked me to sit
and eat with them," he said. "So
I did. But they were a little crazy."
Mr. Barroso stayed by my side for the remainder
of the tour. He wrote out the word "Guarapo"
in my notebook so I would spell it right
in my article. At the crocodile farm he
spoke about his penchant for animals and
his cat, Tulip, who only gives him kisses
when he's reading. He held the baby crocodile
and posed for a photo, but admitted he felt
bad for it, with its mouth tied shut. He
talked about his catering business, how
he named it Arcan -- the 'Ar' stands for
Argentina and the 'Can' for Canada. His
daughter is my age and is a professional
dancer. His wife is from Toronto. He insisted
on tipping the tour guides for me and spoke
to them in Spanish. When we reached the
town of Moron, he pointed out the kabuki
cabs bearing Habs flags and bought me ice
cream.
By the time I got back to the hotel, it
was still overcast and windy and I was exhausted.
But it was the best day of the whole trip.
All the hotels in Cayo Coco offer tours
-- Jeep trips into the jungle, plane rides
to Havana, visits to cigar factories or
markets, or the always-popular swim-with-dolphins
excursion. Plus, if it doesn't feel too
gusty on the morning of your tour, most
hotels will allow last-minute rescheduling.
What it comes down to, really, is that
no matter how many pina coladas are downed,
there is only so much time one can spend
listening to R. Kelly and dodging the flight
path of an air-borne lunch.
IF YOU GO:
- The U.S. dollar is no longer accepted
in Cuba, so arrive with Canadian currency
that can be exchanged into Convertible Cuban
Pesos (CUC). The CUC is equal to US$1. The
departure tax is $25 CUC.
- Air Canada has weekly flights to Cayo
Coco from Toronto and Montreal. Air Canada
Vacations offers one-week deals at four-star-rated
resorts such as TRYP Cayo Coco (starting
at $1,099), El Senador (starting at $1,179),
Melia Cayo Coco (starting at $1,399) and
Playa Coco (starting at $1,199). See www.aircanadavacations.com.
- Travellers are allowed to bring back
1.5 L of alcohol and 50 cigars.
- Internet service is at most hotels and
is relatively inexpensive. There is no need
to bring bottled water as the hotels have
plenty. It's a better idea to bring toilettries
and clothing that can be left behind as
tips for resort staff, as these are difficult
for locals to come by in Cuba.
- For general information about Cuba, visit
www.cuba.com/facts.htm
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