We went to Cuba in May for 4 weeks, but better late than never I hope. Cuba wasn’t exactly the easiest place to find internet access and when we did it was expensive. We also had better things to do like drink mojitos and mess about in the oh-so-blue Caribbean; but that’s probably the least typical side of Cuba. The reality is far more complicated, and much more fascinating.

We arrived at Havana airport early evening to be accosted by the usual predatory taxi drivers. Ridiculous offers, and a few sarcastic laughs on my part, and we finally found one who would take us to our hotel for something fractionally less than an arm and a leg. Yet even he tried to insist on some mythological obligatory tip at the end of the journey. I gave him the agreed price and turned my back on him and headed for the hotel lobby.

The hotel Inglaterra is listed as a national monument. Its faded opulence wasn’t quite as luxurious as the price suggests; but the place was an experience in itself. To make matters worse, our bargain internet booking had disappeared to be replaced by the full rate of almost £100 per night. However, some concentrated bargaining managed to split the difference and we decided to stay. Next door but one to the Capitol Building with a lovely park-like plaza across this turned out to be a good place to start our little Cuban adventure.

Three days of wandering the streets and taking in various sights, and a couple of lively bars, and we took an internal flight down to Santiago de Cuba in the south-east. Like Havana, the place had its share of old buildings, ancient cars, colourful characters and lively bars. Music wherever you go seems to be the norm, and some surprisingly great art galleries too. Yet we only lingered a day before taking an early bus to Baracoa. Stopping briefly at Guantanamo (of notorious Guantanamo Bay fame), we then climbed a winding pass through rainforested hills before descending to the coast and the small town of Baracoa. First impressions, a concrete esplanade backed by crumbling featureless apartment blocks, weren’t great, but the centre was old and quaint. There for the first time we grew accustomed to seeing shops with little on the shelves, ration queues, and queues for supermarkets that were almost paranoid about security. We met an old guy who played in a band and were invited to watch him play, which we did following a day on a white sandy beach to the west accessed by minibus along bumpy roads through rainforest and tiny hamlets.

The day after, we followed the eastern beach, out beyond the old baseball park, to a small village over a lagoon. The beach on this side was of dark sand, and little more than a sand spit backed by a sinister-looking lagoon of dark water. There we met a few nice folk (each a colourful character in their own way), and messed about a bit taking photos and watching the rather angry-looking waves. At the far end a long bridge of planks on stilts took us over a wider part of the lagoon and on to a small village. Some sugarcane juice and helpful directions and we headed up the side of the hill towards the “Playa Blanca” a promising-sounding beach that people kept talking about. The place wasn’t easy to find, but a couple of little girls finally led us there. Rewarding their kindness with a few biscuits (which they didn’t beg for) we found ourselves on a gravel beach with bedrock (an old raised reef) between us and the sea with only a narrow entrance. As the waves were surging through this and generally crashing around, swimming was out of the question. So Machiko and I just sat in the shade and enjoyed the spectacle.

In time a local man came along, washed some large leaves in the sea and then proceeded to cut them into squares. These would be shaped into cones and filled with sticky coconut cake to be sold in the village. He showed me a tiny orange and black scorpion before cutting off its sting with his incredibly sharp knife and then picking it up. He explained that the sting would have really hurt, but not as badly as the much bigger scorpions, one of which had rendered his friend unconscious and in urgent need of anti-venom just a couple of days ago. He offered to sell us a large bar of coconut ice and home made chocolate, but we had enough food and declined. A little later however we met him back on the main track and decided to buy this (especially as he had let us try some free of charge already). Machiko asked him if he gathered the coconuts himself and promptly he led us to a nearby tree and scampered up like a monkey in his bare feet. Up among the fronds he twisted coconuts loose and threw them to the ground. Just then it began to rain heavily and he invited us to his sister’s little house to shelter. There we drank fresh coconut milk and ate coconut while the rain lashed down outside. It was a simple, thatched place and we were treated as honoured guests by being given the only two chairs. Later his brother-in-law arrived with freshly caught fish and we were offered some for dinner along with s sauce made from coconut (of course). The food was great. Though we weren’t asked for any money, there was just the feeling in the air that we should; but it was well worth it and everyone was so kind.

On the way back along the beach, as the sun set so romantically, the effects of all that coconut hit Machiko and she had to dash for the bushes a couple of times before reaching the village, then one more time into a scruffy old bar before we finally made it back to our accommodation.

Back in Santiago de Cuba we took a taxi out to the fort and lighthouse, a great spot for views with the added bonus of some very impressive wild iguanas that I managed to get a few photos of. The rest of the time was taken up with coffees, art galleries, bars and music.

Bayamo was our next brief stop; a night in a very nice and amazingly cheap hotel right on the main square. Room service provided mojitos and nature a spectacular thunderstorm as we sat on the balcony enjoying the view. Later we ventured out along the art-lined pedestrian street and ate croquet potatoes on buns in a tiny local place. The workers there insisted I take their photos and I got their address so that I could send them copies.

Holguin was a disappointment. Problems finding a room provided a further hint that we should move on. A taxi took us out to the small village of Gibara on the Coast. There the “Casa de los Amigos”, run by a French woman, provided a surreally beautiful haven. Set along the side of a lovely garden courtyard, complete with trees, flowers, sculptures, and a tame parrot (“parrot of the Caribbean” as we called it thereafter), every room was decorated in vivid colours with original paintings and wooden carvings adorning every wall. The cooking was outstanding too; lobster and all manner of vegetables until we were fit to burst. The next day I had bad stomach cramps in the morning (more likely undercooked chicken in Holguin than too much lobster for dinner), but after lunch I felt better and we explored the tiny village. Around the corner, beyond where a broad, deep bay met the sea, there was a tiny beach, but the muddy river water made it less than inviting while the sea side itself back around the corner was too rocky for easy access. So we simply hung around, watching boats and the day going by in general.

Camaguey was our next stop; a small but fairly interesting little town with a complicated street pattern aimed at confusing pirates (and visitors like ourselves). A bank provided money, a cheap local café pizza for lunch, and a travel agent a way of getting out to Cayo Coco. In the evening we ventured out to tiny, picturesque local bar and later to the Casa de la Trova for live music and a bite to eat. When Machiko finally began to nod off, I took the hint that it was time to go.

All the best beaches in Cuba are dominated by resorts in some way and most are on outlying islands to the north. The only way to get to these is to book an all inclusive package. So this we did, and it didn’t come cheap. A taxi took us on the three hour trip from Camaguey, through the security barrier that keeps the locals firmly out, over the long, ecologically disastrous causeway to the low lying Cayo Coco. The island couldn’t even be seen from the start of the causeway as it was hidden over the horizon; but eventually we were greeted by low, mangrove scrub and not much else. Driving on through this, after a few kilometres buildings came into view; glimpses of resorts ranging from pretty good to very impressive. Ours lay at the impressive end of the spectrum, hence the cost.

The Meila Cayo Coco made me think of an airport; a very smart airport where food and drink flow freely, with a nice pool and world class beaches, but an airport none the less because the one thing it wasn’t was Cuba. This is the limbo from which most package tourists never escape. A good thirty kilometres from the nearest town (called Moron – really - and shabby and uninteresting to boot), few guests get to see the real Cuba and those that do pay an arm and a leg for the privilege of a long coach journey and a couple of hours wandering around looking at souvenirs. Yet for our purposes the place was great. Blue sea, white sand, palm trees and with sea kayaks, pedal boats and, my favourite, catamarans, there to be used freely by guests, it was just the tropical beach experience that we wanted for a couple of days. Any longer and our itchy feet would have begun to tug us away, but meanwhile the food was quite good, and the mojitos and pina coladas flowed freely. A combination of activities and relaxation and with a great room and cable TV to retreat to, this was exactly what Machiko needed after some hectic travelling. Our escape route was by taxi all the way to Trinidad. Not cheap, but considerably less than the average gullible tourist would have paid, and it actually saved us a couple of days and several bus journeys.

Trinidad, picturesque, old, colonial, once a haven for pirates, and with some interesting nightlife, was built on a hillside. It was here that we first noticed that Machiko was beginning to have some difficulty with her breathing. First thing in the morning and when climbing hills, her breathlessness was a little distressing for her. Yet she managed to get around quite well. The Casa where we stayed partly surrounded a beautiful courtyard/garden and the owner was a good cook. On the first night we were greeted by a terrific tropical storm, and a large, agile tree-frog that got into our room and didn’t want to leave. Highlights included the town itself with interesting old buildings and a nice souvenir market where we could finally start buying a few things, and some interesting art galleries, a coco taxi (yellow, egg-shaped three wheeled vehicle) out to a lovely white sand beach, and a disco inside natural caverns up on the hill behind a ruined convent. There was live music somewhere or other every night too. Trinidad – definitively a must for any visitor to Cuba.

We arrived at Cienfuegos in another tropical downpour. Greeted by pushy touts trying to take us to their friend’s Casa, we escaped on a bici taxi (tricycle with a double rear seat). The first Casa we tried was full, but the second one, run by a charming old couple, was friendly and comfortable. Next day we explored the town and then wandered along the waterside to the end of a long spit of land jutting into the huge bay beside which Cienfuegos sits. When it began to rain we dashed into an extravagantly ornate restaurant overlooking the water and sipped mojitos and watched large catamaran go by until it stopped.

Upon our return to Havana we took up residence in a Casa near the Plaza Vieja. Well located for most of the sites, we had a corner room with three balconies; perfect for Machiko to people-watch. The stairs were long and steep, and Machiko really struggled; but once in our airy room she could catch her breath while she watched the activity down below.

Revisiting some old haunts, we also found some art galleries that we had overlooked. Most of the better works were very expensive, but we found one medium-sized abstract that was nice and affordable. Taking a taxi through the tunnel under the channel that connects the bay to the sea we visited the old forts and the lighthouse. We spent our last day wandering around a few areas we hadn’t seen properly before, eventually finding our way to the Parque Central beside which stood the Hotel Inglaterra where our trip had begun. We had lunch at a nearby café and then made our way back to our Casa to pick up our bags and take a taxi to the airport. In some ways I was a little relieved as I sensed that Machiko’s condition was worsening and that we were going to need some advice.

A quirky, hard to describe place, Cuba was well worth the time. The people were mostly friendly, and incidents of serious hassles relatively few. The Lonely Planet guidebook had led us to believe that the place could be difficult; but either we were very luck or the author hadn’t travelled very much. Culturally a unique blend of “third-world” and old Russian-like communism, peculiar billboards with quasi-military slogans, with shabbily splendid towns and cities, and a Caribbean island to boot, the place has much to offer. Had Machiko been healthier we might have scuba dived, and hiked in some of the splendid rainforested hills; but then we may not have lingered as we did, simply chatting with locals and getting a feel for what life was really like there.