Island that Dared Read Free

easily spotted amidst Gatwick’s multitude. Anxiously we coalesced beneath the Departure screens and Havana’s failure to appear prompted a rising tide of pessimism. Then at 7.50 it did appear (Board Now!) and we all surged towards Gate thirty-two waving our Special Passes – which didn’t spare us the X-ray queue. By this stage Zea was half-asleep, riding on Mummy’s shoulders, and Clodagh was looking pale and sounding querulous while Rose silently wore her ‘I’m a stoic’ expression. At the final security check smiling Virgin Air hostesses handed out letters from the Customer Relations Manager regretting that our flight ‘had suffered a technical problem’ (more delicate wording than ‘engine failure’) and offering us ten thousand Flying Club miles or twenty per cent off our next Economy ticket.
    During that nine and a half hour flight Rose slept quite well, Clodagh slept fitfully and Zea slept so soundly, stretched across her own seat and the maternal lap, that leg cramps kept Rachel awake. To me her avoidance of any movement seemed like excessive solicitude but I reckoned such grandmaternal opinions are best suppressed for the sake of intergenerational harmony. As for Nyanya – I can never sleep in the sitting position though if reclining on a bed of stones (as occasionally happens) slumber comes easily. (Here it should be explained that to the Trio I’m ‘Nyanya’, the Swahili term for Granny, bestowed on me when Rose was a baby living in Eastern Zaire.)
    Peering through the blackness during our descent, it was apparent that Havana is no ordinary twenty-first-century city; instead of the usual energy-wasting glow, dim pinpricks marked Cuba’s capital.
    In the immigration hall we ceremoniously changed our watches from 5.30 to 1.30 a.m. By then Rachel and I had reached that curious stage of exhaustion when one ceases to notice it (mind over matter? Secondwind?). Rose and Zea were all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Clodagh less so – until she met another eight-year-old with whom she had bonded in the play-area. The queues were long and slow, each passport and visa requiring computerisation. Rachel had recently convinced me that computers are very useful but I remained aware of their negative effects. The computerisation of everything – libraries, universities, hotels, hospitals, government departments, airports – has noticeably lengthened bureaucratic ordeals while encouraging a profligate attitude towards paper use.
    Next we trudged through an enormous concourse, past shuttered shops and restaurants. From high roof struts hung the flags of every nation, symbolising Cuba’s non-aligned stance on the world stage. The Stars and Stripes and the Keys of St Peter were inconspicuously placed.
    While the others waited for our rucksacks I gently prodded the sleeping young woman in the queueless Cambio cubicle and received 1.04 convertible peso (CP) to the euro, the standard rate throughout Cuba. At any time I could convert these for use in ordinary Cuban shops at a rate of one CP for twenty-six national pesos (NP). US dollars lost ten per cent in the exchange; other currencies were commission-free.
    We emerged unchecked through Customs though in several Caribbean countries granny-figures are quite often loaded with drugs. In another vast space our packaged fellow-passengers were trailing towards their coaches. ‘They all look too tired!’ commiserated Zea. Soon we were on our own in this dreary pillared hallway, vaguely resembling an unfinished Romanesque cathedral and furnished only with a dozen small metal chairs. Through a glass wall taxis were visible but 3.15 seemed an inhumane hour to set out for our casa particular. Rose sought a loo but quickly returned looking non-stoical; it was too awful to pee in … For this unfortunate introduction to Cuba’s normally hygienic public lavatories Hurricane Wilma was responsible; the local water supply had been wrecked a week previously. When Rachel and Rose