Several hours, a few hundred kilometres and numerous uncomfortable rides in ageing Russian excuses for automobiles later, I was dropped off outside the “Hotel Maria La Gorda”. I’d assumed that “Maria the Fatty” (yes, this is the literal translation) was a small town. But it turned out to be Cuba’s most remote hotel complex. Knowing that I couldn’t afford to[17] stay in a swish beachside apartment, I scuttled past the reception check-in desk and followed the signs to the diving area.
“I’d like to dive, what time am I able to go?”
“Please can you show me your licence.”
“Licence? I need a licence?”
“No licence, no dive”
It hadn’t occurred to me that diving was more complex than jumping merrily off a boat with a tank of oxygen strapped to your back before making “OK” hand gestures as tropical fish swam by. Bugger.
Already exhausted from my journey, tears came to my eyes as the man (dressed as a sailor) told me the only dive I could do was the very costly initiation course in which you didn’t get further than the shoreline. I was genuinely quite upset that I’d spent so much money, time and effort getting there to find that I couldn’t actually dive.
But miracles do happen and after a while I won the sympathy vote and was told in hushed tones that as long as I kept it a secret from the other guests, if I returned at 8am the next morning I would be able to dive off a boat and he’d give me a discount.
I spent the rest of the day trying to blend in with the other guests and not look too much like I was a vagrant about to spend the night on a sun lounger. To be fair, even without the dive, the place was pretty amazing – white sandy beaches, incredibly clear blue water and fortunately I had my goggles with me to go on my own snorkelling adventures, marvelling at the tropical fish between gasps of air.

As the rich hotel guests enjoyed their fine dining, I enjoyed the sunset from a secluded spot on the beach, swigs of the recently purchased liquor alleviating the rumblings of my stomach. I made up a bed on a sun lounger and got ready for another night gazing up at the beautiful stars, palm trees swaying in the sea breeze. Paraiso.
My feet became the breakfast of sandflies the next morning whilst I packed away evidence of my bed. I headed to the diving centre. “Oh are you doing the four day course as well?” asked a lady who could well have been the hotel’s namesake in human form, as she squeezed into her wetsuit. “No, no just one dive”.

I thought I was going to be with my own instructor, but as I stood on a boat listening intently to the man I’d done a deal with the day before give me a five minute rushed and hushed explanation of how the equipment worked, it quickly dawned on me that I was about to join aforementioned lady a few days into her multi-day course. And I was told to pretend that I had done this before!?
“Focus Focus Focus”, I thought to myself, trying to make sure I took in every word of the garbled Cuban Spanish as weights were strapped to my jacket.
Jump. Inflate life jacket. Breathe normally. Deflate life jacket. Sink. Something about emergency oxygen and removing water from the mask…
I hadn’t eaten anything for over 24 hours and wasn’t entirely at ease given the impending prospect of heading to the bottom of the ocean with zero preparation. I was literally being thrown in at the deep end. However, I’d wanted to do this, so I told myself to keep calm and get on with it.
It was pretty surreal being in the depths of the Caribbean, with tropical fish of every colour cruising nonchalantly past, occasionally scraping my knees against the coral with my trial and error approach to swimming with flippers. The whole experience was pretty painful on the ears, but the magical marine life more than compensated for that, even if I was seeing it through an increasingly misty mask. I quickly realised that smiling when your mouth is filled with an oxygen tube is nigh impossible so had to make do with a hearty internal grin.
Part way through the dive, the instructor gestured to me to check my oxygen gauge. Not having a clue what to do with it, I made an “OK” sign and continued flippering around the sea bed, hoping my O2 levels would last the duration. It was only afterwards that my companion told me how brave she thought I was for going so close to a lion fish. It turns out she’d learnt all of the gestures for venomous fish on the first day of her course.
When it became apparent that we were heading back to the boat, with no idea as to how the exit strategy worked, I followed the others and flippered up to break jubilantly through the surface, only to find myself starting to sink again as I’d not inflated my jacket.
I eventually negotiated my way back onto the boat with the heavy oxygen tank still strapped to my back. After the rucksack and Michael the horse experience I was becoming quite adept at this. I was, however, wholly unaware that the laborious process could have been eased by removing my flippers. Back on dry land, I sneaked $35 to the diving man and thanked him for our deal. Scuba diving was pretty cool after all. Lengths of London Fields Lido don’t quite cut it anymore.

There was no drinking water for miles, so I caved in and bought an overpriced bottle of dubiously coloured fizzy drink to keep me going for the day. Then after a few more hours’ chillaxing on the beach, swimming around the bay with my goggles and chatting with a group of Swedish tourists I gave in to the hunger pangs and ordered a disappointingly small plate of chips. It was now 3pm and I hadn’t eaten anything since 9am the day before.
It was fortunate that I made it to the restaurant, as I got chatting to the waiter and asked him whether there was any alternative transport to the $30 tourist transfer bus which was leaving at 5pm. He told me about the guagua de los trabajadores (workers’ bus) which left 10 minutes after the tourists and suggested I try my luck with that.
So at 5:10, having seen the shiny tourist transfer bus cruise off into the distance, I joined the myriad of gleeful cleaners, cooks and waitresses, having their bags checked for stolen sheets/towels/food before waiting to be taken back into the real world by the shabby old coach for their seven days off. Highly sexualised videos of Cuban music hits passed the time as we trundled back to reality, dropping each worker off outside their humble homes, often waiting for packages, picking new people up…
Stranded in a brothel
I soon realised that my idea of getting back to Habana that evening was doomed. The sun was already setting and I hadn’t even made it 60km in two hours. I stayed on the bus until I was the only one left, the driver depositing me in a village called Sandino, where I joined a gaggle of bored-looking Cubans waiting at a junction for some kind of transport east.

They’d been waiting over an hour and nothing had come past. But, I was in luck as it was only about ten minutes before we all hauled our way up into the back of a truck. It’s amazing the strength of some of these people; frail old ladies with bags of vegetables managing to leap onto the wheel of an HGV and pull themselves up and into the container. There’s an amazing sense of community amongst Cubans. Castro has certainly succeeded in creating a nation bound by solidarity through struggle.
By now it was pitch black and the lorry dropped me off at another junction where just by virtue of being a lone European female in the dark, I was quite a spectacle. I managed to get a lift in a car full of fairly obnoxious youths as far as San Juan y Martinez where it became quite apparent that it now being about 9:30pm there was no way I could continue that evening.
Rotund men lurked around in the streets. I asked a few of them if they knew somewhere I could stay for the night, but unsurprisingly, the small tobacco town didn’t cater for the late night tourist.
I was led down various darkened streets to a couple of “rent a room by the hour” places but each one was occupado, no room at the inn. Third time lucky, a little boy was sent to show me the way to what can only be described as his family’s brothel. I was greeted by his mother, hair in rollers, her silk dressing gown doing not leaving much to the imagination.
“Who are you with?”
“I’m on my own”.
“How many hours do you want?”
“Erm… can I stay the whole night?”
I don’t think anyone had ever stayed the whole night in one of these rooms, never mind alone. With multiple generations all living under the same roof, it turns out that Cuba is full of such places in which young couples can get a “quick fix” away from the watchful eye of their parents.
I dumped my rucksack then headed out for a much needed bite to eat before settling down for the night, trying not to think about what had gone on on that mattress before me.
[17] Ok so maybe I could afford to, but I felt it was morally wrong to…