Having travelled around Cuba for over a week staying in family homes or rather in rooms attached to homes, we spent two nights in a resort on an island (Cayo Santa Maria) connected to other islands and the mainland by a road, built for the purpose. All I can say is thank goodness there were as few people as there were – that was bad enough.
We’d been warned that food in Cuba wasn’t very good. Now we know why – although meals were a bit hit and miss elsewhere, the quality was better outside the resort. Intriguingly, the dishes which weren’t all that good outside were the best inside. I wonder how much the fact that things like lobster, shrimp and beef are restricted to tourists accounts for this?
What I don’t understand is why come all the way to Cuba to stay in a resort cut off from the local population, society and culture. And it’s not just Cuba – we have spent a night or two in similar set-ups at the start/end of holidays in The Gambia, where people ventured out to the local beach two minutes’ walk away to encounter the local touts. We did a ‘beach holiday’ early on after moving to the UK – we spent a Christmas in Tunisia. That in itself was fascinating. Two South Africans in a predominantly German-focused resort for a week. Three days in and we were chomping at the bit having seen all in the local neighbourhood.
What is it that attracts people to such places – where everybody tries to outlook the other in body or clothing (or lack thereof) lying in the sun turning the colour of lobster depending on your original skin colour, or developing a brown so dark you could be missed if standing amongst some trees. I can’t get my head around people wanting to sit in straight lines on lounges crammed up against each other in the only bit of shade available – either on a beach where if there’s only one line you do get to see the ocean, or around a swimming pool – with the music blearing.
Solace was found on the room balcony, looking into natural vegetation where the birds and cicadas dominated the music scene and not a person was to be seen.
The only consolation I have with a place such as this is the import duties which must be paid on the drinks and ‘Pringles’ brought in for those missing ‘home’ comforts and presumable, as the Cuban resort is government-owned and run, the money made from the residents in the resort helps keep other parts of the economy going.
But what irks is the inequality and the shutting off from reality.
In Tunisia, I remember the resorts being behind high walls, the locals working there having to travel miles on cramped buses to get to the set of six-foot walls which allowed them a basic standard of living. Somehow we found ourselves outside these high walls across from a local village – it was life at its rawest. Scrawny dogs and children ran around on stone ground littered with broken bottles and plastic packets. The houses across the road in the distance rickety wood and brick constructs barely able to stand upright, yet we were in beautiful (? the eye of the beholder) air-conditioned, brightly painted, stable buildings with bar, dining rooms and swimming pool.
Gambia was similar, although we were more used to the Sub-Saharan traditional African village way of life. The starkness though, of the two environments was still jarring.
In Cuba, it wasn’t clear if the staff stayed on the premises or if they travelled over 46 kilometres each way to get to and from work to the nearest town. If their accommodation is on site, I hope it’s better quality than the ‘squatter’ or shanty town development I spotted in the state run hotel/resort at Playa Largo – near Plaza Giron where the Bay of Pigs incident took place.
It shows how conditioned we get to our environments. In a couple of places we stayed – Trinidad and Playa Lago in particular, I wondered to myself what we had got ourselves into as we were driven down the dilapidated, dusty, pot-holed streets between run-down buildings and others being constructed. Only to stop outside the most recently renovated or colourful building on the street – luxury awaited. In Santa Clara, it was slightly different – down the main road through town to an exterior which reminded me of colonial buildings in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi as well as in Moscow which had seen better days. Yet, again, behind a door, a library in a court-yard with air-conditioned comfort of city standards. In all these places, family life continued either in the residence or around, children playing with their parents, babies out and about at 9.30pm in bars and restaurants, barbers and hairdressers cutting hair on their verandahs or in their front rooms. A neighbour sticking her head in next door to ask for the TV volume to be turned down – all in good friendly nature. Another serving mohitjas from a grill which replaced their front window and when we asked to sit down were directed inside to tables just behind the grills. Grandad coming up to us, a towel wrapped around him telling us in Spanish there was a ‘banjos’ at the back where we could ‘pipi’. Priceless experiences missing from the ‘meat processing’ resorts.
(And hopefully now, those I was travelling with can understand why I was so grumpy for the last two days.)