Baracoa - Part 1

The taxi collectivo to Baracoa turned out to be a truck, packed to the gills with hot and bothered tourists. Mostly Argentinians and drinking mate tea, of course. It looked like a vehicle had once been used to ferry livestock.

I had learned by now that one shouldn't bother showering or wearing clean clothes for transit in Cuba. It saves quite a bit on washing to have pre-soiled 'travel clothes' and your first shower just gets pushed back to your arrival. Whenever that may be.

The truck ride was about as terrifying as any rollercoaster I'd been on. With the added bonus of potential death thrown in the mix. The views were stunning. Although hard to appreciate when you're thinking about which kin are going to inherit your meagre stash of personal effects.

Baracoa was an expected highlight of the trip and I prayed that it wasn't a let down. Thankfully it delivered in spades. It was by no means perfect. No place is. Travel destinations are a bit like girlfriends. You tend not to find one that ticks every box. Instead you just find one where you put up with their shit better than others. And hopefully they put up with yours.

Baracoa was that place. It had comparatively few tourists, a beautiful seaside setting, ample nearby beaches and hiking, fun nightlife and rumors of good food. My casa was the cheapest I'd had in Cuba so far and it served a breakfast with fruit that had actual flavor. The owner Eugene was friendly and spoke fluent English. There was even WiFi. Yes, I could definitely put up with this place's shit.

You still had the usual annoyances of dodgy service, scammers and people trying to sell you all sorts of nonsense. But it was on a more bearable scale than what I'd encountered before. The place was no stunner architecturally and had been devastated by a hurricane only two years ago. But it still retained a unique charm that I'd been looking for in Cuba. After two weeks of frenetic urban exploration, I felt like I had genuinely earnt some down time here.

In the WiFi town square, I bumped into a couple from the truck ride, Bart from Holland and Mia from Germany. We decided to meet at a fixed time in the square for drinks under a tree. Baracoa tends to be near the end of the road for most tourists so everyone was pretty used to the pre-cellular levels of organisation by now.

That evening, we sat with mojitos and engaged in the Cuban traveler's favorite pastime, namely, bitching about Cuban travel. It was a rich source of catharsis for just about everyone. There certainly was plenty to gripe about and it was a guaranteed source of common ground for everyone here. Maybe if the Palestinians and Israelis all traveled here they could finally find something to agree on.

That said, Cuba also has a wealth of positives that make it a dream destination for travelers.

The people were mostly friendly and warm, with restaurants sometimes being one glaring exception. It's very safe. Prison sentences are quadrupled for tourists related offenses. The weather had been nothing but glorious so far. Its beaches and wildlife are second to none. The when place is steeped in history and culture that was hard to match in the carribbean and beyond. And it was still relatively cheap, if you played your cards right.

The next day I met up with Mia and Bart after breakfast. We were joined by two German girls and a French Canadian called Phillip. His phone had been stolen the previous night so he also had plenty of fodder for our collective bitching sessions.

For 5 CUC/$ apiece we got a ride in a flatbed truck to a beach 20ks down the coast. It was a fine place. White sand, palms, coconuts, coral blue seas and few tourists. The whole package. Phil was strumming his guitar (incidentally a self-composed ditty about the perils of Cuban prostitutes). It felt like I was on an actual holiday with friends as opposed to a frenzied expedition.

I decided to treat myself to a local speciality of octopus in coconut sauce 'San Bernardino'. No one else was hungry so I slunk off to the unassuming, shack that was set back from the beach. Baracoa has a unique climate and is known to produce some of the best fruit, veggies, seafood and spices in Cuba. I was quivering with anticipation.

What followed was one of the best culinary experiences I've ever had. Octopus, tender as butter in a delicious, creamy broth. Absolutely packed with bold, audacious flavors. This meal didn't deserve company. Just quiet, monastic reverence. It wasn't just Cuba good. It was really fucking good. Michelin starred Italian restaurant good.

Tears practically streamed down my face as I delicately savoured each bite. I felt like a blind man who could see again. One of the best meals I'd ever eaten for 6.50 CUC/$. Delicately savoring the experience topless and in swimming trunks, with only the tweeting of birds for company, seemed to only enhance the experience.

Unfortunately my brief moment of ecstasy was not going to last long. I had some planning to do. There were two ways to get back to Havana for my Friday morning flight. One was by air and the other overland. Given that I now had a very finite amount of Cuban currency available, the flight would have reduced my budget to the level of a foraging raccoon.

Overland was the only way then. More spine crushing buses. I'm quite sure I will have lost about an inch off my height and have early onset osteoporosis by the end of this trip.

All told, for long distance travel here, I've taken seven taxis, two livestock trucks and four coaches. This final home stretch would add another three trucks and an overnight bus. I wasn't exactly jazzed about it but I was pretty strapped for alternatives at this point. Cuban travel had helped me become better acclimatised to discomfort so a few more buses couldn't hurt, surely?