Day 26 – Havana to London

I spent my last few hours in Cuba ordering every single item from the breakfast buffet menu, none of which was very good hence I kept ordering, and enjoying a PIna Colada, which was exceptionally good, on the veranda.

I gave out the last of my local currency to the beggar at the hotel gates, who looked at me like I had handed him a fresh dog poo – it was easily enough for three slices of pizza, five scoops of ice cream or seven cones of peanuts so I don't know what he was moaning about, especially if he was attending a childrens party later in the day.

Having had to endure an hour long wait at customs getting into the country three weeks ago, I was expecting the security staff on the way out to be happy to get rid of me as quickly as possible, alas not. Having nearly lost the will to live queuing for check-in followed by passport control, I was informed when I reached the front that I needed to pay a departure tax first for which, of course, I needed to go to a separate desk. With the final security leg cleared I could at last relax for the fifteen odd minutes I had left before my plane departed for London.

Day 25 – Havana

After a hellish three weeks of Mojitos, Pina Coladas, lobsters, outrageous cigars and 30 degree heat, I decide to treat myself to a bit of luxury and book into the luxurious Nacional Hotel following in the exalted footsteps of Brando, Flynn, Sinatra, Churchill and Hemingway amongst others.

I cruise into the ornate lobby dressed in my customary backpacker attire – scruffy shorts, scruffy shirt (I have given most of my clothes away) and scruffy bag clinking noisily with cheap bottles of rum.

After inquiring what rooms were available the receptionist haughtily stated 'The rooms are 170CUC' as she looked down her nose at us. Handily, this proofed to be the perfect angle for CIara to thrust her Platinum Mastercard up the snotty cow's nose. Having removed the card she launched her charm offensive in a last ditch attempt to get a tip from us – the fool!

The room, whilst a little past it's best – not helped by the blind that I managed to pull down – had spectacular views of the ocean, promenade and lush gardens. I made full use of the swimming pool and only ventured from the hotel grounds to stock up on supplies of champagne, peanuts and more cigars (weirdly you could smoke in the rooms and lobby but not the halls). At eight times the price of most of the other places we have been staying it was a little extravagant and I certainly felt a bit guilty when asked for money on the streets 'Leave it out, I am not staying at The Natio… oh, here you are'.

Day 24 – Havana

It's amazing how quickly you get used to a country, Havana seems far less hectic than when I arrived three weeks ago, helped by the fact that I have worked out how the dual currency works, everything seems a lot easier.

My day starts with a tour around Havana's largest cigar factory where the myth of Cuban cigars being rolled on the thighs of virgins is quickly dispelled, but advertising works and I guess that line is always going to sound better than 'Rolled on the dirty desk of a crone'.

Next stop on the Keith Richards itinery was the rum museum where the process of making Havana Club was shown – there is no Bacardi in Cuba, Fidel sent them packing for being capitalist imperialist pig-dogs. The tour included a tasting session of the various Havana Club varieties served by a girl with the longest legs and the shortest skirt I have seen in quite a while. Personally, I would have her rolling smokes in the cigar factory and selling them for £200 a piece.

In the evening I visit the National Theatre. I had taken the guided tour of the building earlier in the day and was left a little disappointed, after relieving me of my money a bored and sulky looking woman whisked me around two rooms in about six minutes giving such nuggets of information as "This was not always theatre', before wandering off and leaving me wondering if that was the end.

Whilst there I had noticed that an opera (La Dulcia Moor) was playing in the evening and as we queued for the £36 tickets a rather shady looking character in a long coat and trilby hat appeared from a fog of cigar smoke (I seem to attract the attention of shady street dealers in the same way that Angeline Jolie attracts the attention of African adoption agencies) 'Senor, you want tickets? I have'. Before I could say 'Isn't that the lead actress?' we were being led through the stage door, across the backstage and into the Presidential seats so called as they are favoured by Fidel himself. The shady character was given a nice little earner and the next time I saw him he was operating the main spotlight.

Day 23 – Playa Larga to Havana

I bid hasta la vista to the beach and say hola to the last bus of my trip that will take me back to Havana. I have booked a couple of nights in a casa that is located on the fourteenth floor of a tower block giving me great views of the city skyline from one window and the ocean from the other.

Cubans like ice cream. So much in fact, that the locals think nothing of queuing for over an hour to get a scoop from the national chain Coppelia, since my arrival here I have never been past an outlet that doesn't have a throng of punters outside. Tonight my luck was in and there was no one waiting, probably helped my the fact this particular outlet is huge. After a short contemplation I went for strawberry (as it was the only flavour they had) paid my 3p – yes 3p – and sat back to enjoy. It wasn't bad, but queuing for an hour? I think not. I would give someone 6p and get them to queue for me in future.

Cuban Beer League
A last minute entry into the beer league.

1. Bucanero
2. Bucanero Max – A stronger version of Bucanero, the upside being you would need to drink less of it to get drunk, the downside it is horrible.
3. Cristal
4. Cacique
5. Mayabe

Day 22 – Playa Larga

It would be overstating Playa Larga somewhat to call it a town – we have seen no shops (not uncommon in Cuba), one restaurant, and only one stall selling pizza on the street (although that was closed and again that is not uncommon in Cuba). It is more a collection of houses sitting alongside a great beach.

It is set at the top of a 30-km long bay known as the Bahia de Cochinos or more infamously as The Bay of Pigs. Pick up a copy of Great American Military Disasters and you'll find the chapter just before the one entitled 'Vietnam – winning hearts and minds. but not battles'.

In 1961 a US-backed and trained invasion force landed here but was routed by the Cuban army within days. Eventually 1,197 men were returned to America in exchange for $50 million (the only war debt the US has ever paid). Apparently Kennedy was so humiliated by the disaster extra funding was given to NASA to facilitate the moon landing by the end of the decade. He also learnt a painful lesson about not underestimating an enemy, and promptly invaded Vietnam.

I visit a superb inland snorkelling site, a 70 metre deep fissure in the rocky ground which has filled with water (essential for snorkelling) and thousands of fish, the beach is pretty damn good too.

Day 21 – Cienfuegos to Playa Larga

Having failed miserably to find any information on how to get to Playa Giron from Cienfuegos (the largest town within any kind of range), I decide on another plan. I am going to ask the driver of the bus going to Havana to drop me on the motorway where the road turns off to Playa Giron. This will unfortunately leave me in the middle of nowhere (except on the side of a 6-lane motorway) but I am hoping that another local bus services the route south.

I get off the bus, desperately thinking that this is a very bad plan. I am stood on the side of the road for approximately 35 seconds when a lady in a red uniform appears from a bush (Mr Benn like) and asks if I am trying to get to Play Giron or Playa Larga?

A picturesque 25-minute ride later and I am ensconced in the finest casa we have stayed in to date complete with ocean view, patio, kitchen and a TV showing two – yes two – channels.

Cuban Street Snack League:

1. Pizza
2. Peanut cone – No surprises here, it's peanuts in a paper cone for 3p a hit.
3. Pork rolls
4. Coconut mash
5. Peanut mash

Day 20 – Cienfuegos

The plan seemed simple – which is enough to make it doomed to fail in Cuba. I want to get to Playa Giron which is just 70kms along the coast for some well earned relaxation and a bit of sun, sand and the odd Pina Colada.

The obvious place to start is the always reliable (if not terribly informative) bus station where I am told the bus to Playa Giron has stopped running, true to form, he can't tell me exactly why.

The next place I try is a private tour company who agree that buses no longer run to Playa Giron but they have not yet organised any alternative transport. I am told this by Cubatour, Cubacan, Cubacar and another one whose name eludes me but probably has Cuba in the title.

A taxi driver offers to take me to Havana for 40CUC, 'Good price, so how much to Playa Giron?' 'Also 40CUC Senor'. We debate at some length that the distance from Cienfegos to Havana is 254km compared to the mere 71km to Playa Giron., followed by a protracted discourse outlining the 5-hour motorway ride to Havana as oppose to the 2-hour jaunt along the coast, all to no avail. This taxi driver is not for moving and is either incredibly stupid or the road to Playa Giron is beset with giant car eating crocodiles.

Having wasted a good part of the day, and almost all my energy on this fruitless endeavour, I visit the amazing 19th century theatre followed by the church in the main square and give thanks to the lord for giving me the strength not to beat someone to death with my Lonely Planet guide to Cuba.

I resign myself to a fine evening meal and a cigar. The evening meal is impossible to come by so I settle for a fine cigar and an egg roll.

Day 19 – Santa Clara to Cienfuegos

'Senor, you want taxi to bus station?'

'I do my good man, I am running late so don't spare the horses'

Had I known my chauffeurs vehicle was indeed a horse, I may have used a different phrase, as it turned out, it was a spindly looking beast pulling a decrepit looking cart that we clambered aboard and hoped that the knackered nag would get us to the bus on time. Which it did. Cienfuegos sits on the southern coast of Cuba on the Caribbean sea. I spend the afternoon at the southernmost point enjoying the views across the bay – even the unfinished nuclear power station is not too intrusive.

In Cuba there are two choices of restaurant, privately owned or state owned. Privately owned is almost always excellent, with a wealth of choice for good prices. State owned is typically whatever can be made from luncheon meat, they are ridiculously cheap and the waiters always wear tuxedos.

Private places do not seem to be at a premium in Cienfuegos so after an hour of fruitless searching and unconvinced by the tout shouting 'Senor, best restaurant in Cuba' – even the third time he did it – we return to a state one we saw initially which 'didn't look too dirty' – which is always favourable.

The place itself looked like a Soviet airport lounge circa 1970, enormous dirty windows stretch to the ceiling whilst 4-metre high portrait paintings on the walls smirk knowingly at the hopelessness of your situation, safe in the knowledge they are just posing for a picture not actually eating. The mosquitos and flies added a grim reptile house feeing of unease.

When the food arrived I was pleasantly surprised, if only by the fact that the portions were small and I wasn't going to be there long. I ordered pasta that tasted suspiciously like tinned spaghetti which had been cooked for 45 minutes before being frozen and finally reheated in a microwave before service. The sauce added a nice splash of colour – if not flavour.

Day 18 – Santa Clara

I arrive into town at 7.30 in the morning having had the customary ten minutes sleep due to the paranoia that someone will steal my bag. Ciara, as usual, was asleep within ten minutes of leaving the station, promptly sprawled herself across two seats (as I got lumbered next to Captain Sweaty Trousers) and then woke up as we pulled into our destination.

Santa Clara is the town where the decisive battle of the revolution took place as Che Guevara and his gang of beards ambushed a government troop train using a bulldozer. Pretty much everything in town is geared towards the veneration of Che. A huge bronze statue of him stands in one of the main plazas alongside a museum dedicated to the man (which is probably the best I have visited in Cuba) and finally his mausoleum where he was laid after being murdered by the CIA in 1967.

Cuban Street Snack League:

1. Pizza
2. Pork rolls
3. Coconut mash
4. Peanut mash – Take a copious amount of peanuts and pound into a pulp, add enough sugar to rot a crocodile's teeth, wrap and serve. This was as bad as it sounds.

Day 17 – Baracoa to Santa Clara

I encounter another typical Cuban travel complication as I attempt to buy a bus ticket to take me back west across the island towards Havana. I want to get to Santa Clara but the bus I am getting on in Baracoa does not go that far, to continue my journey I have to change in Santiago de Cuba but until I actually arrive in Santiago de Cuba (which will not be until 19.00) I cannot buy a ticket. If I arrive and the bus is full I will have to spend a night there and get a ticket for the following day. The slightest goat related incident means I will miss the connection entirely.

We arrive in Santiago de Cuba with 50 minutes to spare and rush to the ticket counter, the guy at the counter tells us he cannot sell us a ticket for at least 20 minutes but first he will have to check if any are available. He then closes for a tea break. 20 minutes later he returns and gives us the good news that tickets are available and we will get on the bus. Something of an understatement really as if the passengers on the bus were combined we would have a good five-a-side football team, with no one to play.

Cuban Beer League:

1. Bucanero
2. Cristal
3. Cacique
4. Mayabe – I can taste no difference between any of Cristal, Cacique or this – horrible

Day 16 – Baracoa

A long and incredibly hot day hiking in the Humbolt National Forest yields much (courtesy of our guide) in the way of interesting animals, deadly plants, tropical fruits and best of all the sight of an Italian girl falling into a river. It's all funny until someone gets hurt – then it's just hilarious.

In an attempt to add some variety to our lunchtime diet of pizza we find a bakery and buy four bread rolls, however, as the supermarket is closed and the fruit market is nowhere to be found we are unable to find anything to put in them. With little choice we end up buying two cheese rolls from one stall-holder (giving us six roils and two slices of cheese) and then two tomato rolls from a different stall-holder giving us two slices of cheese, two slices of tomato and enough rolls to open our own bakery. A third stall-holder did have mayonnaise rolls for sale but we didn't want to be too extravagant.

My evening meal of shark in coconut sauce for £4 more than made up for the lunchtime aggravation, was bloody marvellous and I drunk a toast to the shark that gave it's life for such a fine feast.

Day 15 – Baracoa

Baracoa is a very small town on the eastern coast, it was cut off from the rest of the island until as recently as the mid 70's when they finally got around to building a road and linking it with the rest of civilisation. I am not totally convinced that the town is all that bothered about being linked to society as the local supermarket – I use that term very loosely – seems to stock nothing but rum (albeit in about 30 varieties), beer, tinned pork and toilet paper. I guess with a diet of the first three items toilet paper is essential.

I spend the afternoon hanging out in the town square and am impressed by how friendly the locals are, all seem happy just to have a chat about nothing rather than have a chat about the various service they provide that I should be thankful for. I attempt to hike to a beach spot 6km away but reports of a wooden bridge that will take me across the river are either wildly inaccurate or said bridge was blown away during the last hurricanes season and no one has noticed. Either way I don't find it and give up after an hour of looking. Later that night, I am pleased to hear that the water is now toxic so it is best avoided anyway.

Cuban Street Snack League
Cometh the beach, cometh the beach snacks.

1. Pizza
2. Pork rolls
3. Coconut mash – Take one coconut pound the flesh into a pulp and mix in assorted mangoes, dates and oranges, pound some more, wrap in a banana leaf and hey presto, coconut mash! Not quite as revolting as it sounds but very close.

Day 14 – Santiago de Cuba to Baracoa

Another early morning bus ride to the isolated town of Baracoa on route we pass through one of the most dangerous places on the planet – a town heavy with Taliban, al Qaeda and mujaheddin loyalists. It is the small town of Guantanamo so I rest easy knowing that all of these software engineers or 'terrorists' as the American government like to call them are safely restrained with hessian sacks over their heads and the boot of a 17-year old cracker from Arkansas on their neck.

In truth there is nothing in the town that would point to it being the site of the worlds most notorious prison, no novelty hand-cuffs, no striped pajamas and no 'my mullah went to Guantanamo and all I got was this lousy t-shirt'.

The prison itself is hidden away from prying eyes (unless you wear a turban, then you'll get the special 5-year grand tour) in an area that the American government hold on a lease. The lease pre-dates Fidel's revolution and as such he calls it an illegal occupation and stubbornly refuses to cash the four-hundred thousand dollars he is paid each year under the terms of the lease.

With that kind of cash I would at least consider erecting an enormous billboard in a field next to the prison with 'KISS MY ARSE UNCLE SAM' written in fifty foot neon letters.

The journey is relatively event-free except for the moment when a goat decides to test whether walking in front of a 300-ton vehicle travelling at 100kpm is a good idea. He does, it wasn't. The bloody and seriously battered ex-goat is simply chucked into the luggage hold – it wasn't just the vegetarians on the bus that were mildly peeved at that decision – and taken to the local police station for much filling in of forms, assessment of damage and preparation of exceptionally big pot.

Day 13 – Santiago de Cuba

It is much hotter today than it has been since I arrived, just what I needed when my first task of the day was to change some Cuban Convertible Pesos into Cuban Pesos. Simple? No, clearly not, this is Cuba.

After queuing for 20 minutes in the first bank I gave up and left convinced that the teller was in some kind of persistent vegetative state. After queuing for 15 minutes in the second bank I was told 'We are not allowed to exchange money'. After queuing for 15 minutes back in the first bank I was told 'We do not exchange Cuban Convertible Pesos to Cuban Pesos' – I didn't bother to ask why they don't exchange between their own two currencies. Finally, I found somewhere that would do it, total changed = £14.

After that I had little enthusiasm for the Cathedral, although I was mildly amused by the fact it has been destroyed four times in the past by a variety of earthquakes, pirates and bad architects.

Cuban Beer League
Surprisingly I have found a new beer. which goes straight into last place and is unlikely to move unless I find paint stripper in a tin.

1. Bucanero
2. Cristal
3. Cacique – In Latin America Cacique means chief, this beer is no chief.

Day 12 – Santiago de Cuba

After a long day on the road yesterday a good nights sleep was well in order, but my casa is not the place to provide one. In truth I am not sure many places in Cuba could as everyone seems to own a cockerel, a dog, a television that does not turn off and no-one has any windows.

This morning was particularly bad as we were awoken at just after 5am by a lunatic ringing an enormous cow bell and bellowing in Spanish. It became apparent that rather than just showing off his spoils after a big night on the rum he was selling vegetables and was happy to continue shouting as a queue was forming nicely around him. Had he been selling anything other than tomatoes and lettuce, say ear-plugs or an axe, I may have joined the queue.

After a couple of long dull days Santiago de Cuba revives my spirits, the city has nowhere near as many tourists as Havana and there does not seem to be as many touts, those that are around are much friendlier and I always liked to be smiled at when someone is trying to swindle me.

I visit the Moncada barracks where Fidel fired his first shots in anger, the plaza of the revolution which has a dramatic sculpture of General Maceo surrounded by enormous iron machetes and get into the swing of festivities in the evening when a street very close to where I am staying is taken over for a fiesta.

Day 11 – Camaguey to Santiago de Cuba

I reach the conclusion that when the author of my guide book described Camaguay as 'gritty and real' it was a euphemism for 'dilapidated and dull' either that or his last placement was Kabul.

I head for the bus station early to make sure of a ticket for the single bus that leaves town each day, it's not strictly true about being the only bus leaving, but as tourists are only allowed to travel with one company (on specially assigned tourist buses) it is the only one I am allowed to travel on.

The ticket seller is impressed by my early arrival and tells me she will sell me a ticket when the bus arrives, but only If there are any seats left on it, and she can't tell me if there will be. It is now I discover that I can book a ticket 24 hours in advance but not 4 hours in advance, I am not sure what the cut-off point is.

Having watched a bus for Cubans leave with six passengers on it, the tourist bus arrives and Ciara and I manage to secure the last two seats after bundling an old lady into the toilets.

Luckily, the telly is on the blink.

Day 10 – Trinidad to Camaguey

Camuguey is a very confusing city – the streets are deliberately laid out in a haphazard and misleading way. This was done as a foil for the pirates who regularly plundered the city, back in the day when plunder and pillage was one of the most lucrative professions available – before governments starting handing out dole money that is.

Much as I admired the cunning puzzle laid down by the city's founders, I couldn't help cursing them as I constantly found myself lost whilst trying not to look like a tourist, yet having to take out a map at every intersection. My efforts were further hampered by the genius who changed all the street names some years ago, so, whilst some streets show the new names, some still show the old names, some both and most nothing at all.

By some miracle I find the Cubator Travel office and am informed that the bus I need to take me to the north coast of the island left two hours ago, the next bus will be thundering through in six days and 22 hours, would I 'like a coffee while I wait?'

Aggravated that I will not get to the north, which is the best place for diving, I take in the delights of Camaguey which doesn't take very long to be honest and includes a statue of a man on a horse, an art gallery, a church (closed) and two bars.

Day 9 – Trinidad

Due to the previous nights excesses with the local gut rot (I honestly had no idea a drink as bad as Havana Club came in 6 different varieties) I am feeling rather fragile today and decide a visit to the beach resort of Playa Ancon is about the most strenuous thing I can manage. However, the sun is blazing so I leave after about an hour and adjourn to a local bar.

The owner of the casa we are currently staying at seems to have also attended the Henry The VIII school of cookery and lays on a banquet in the evening with enough food to feed forty people – there were four. We are joined at dinner by Olga and Nadine (names fabricated for reasons about to be explained) from Russia, over the next two hours, they said one word to me (granted they may not have spoken English), completely ignored the cook (granted they may also have not spoken Spanish) and only exchanged two sentences with each other. I imagine the conversation went along the lines of "This is a lot of food Olga', "Yes Nadine this is a lot of food'.

I leave the chuckle sisters staring menacingly at their fruit salads before I get dragged any further into the conversation.

Cuban Street Snack League

1. Pizza – The kind of pizza you get in Cuba bears little resemblance to the kind you would find in a Milanese restaurant. In fact it looks more like a cheese sandwich that has been run over, still at 15p a pop who I am I to complain.
2. Pork rolls

Day 8 – Trinidad

A city on the southern coat of Cuba, where the fortunes that were made from sugar during the 19th century has long been spent while the city itself is largely unchanged with Spanish colonial houses of varying pastel colours colours lining the cobblestone hills – this is not the place to rent a bicycle.

Trinidad is the first city I have visited where restaurants charging the Cuban Peso sit side-by-side with restaurants charging the tourist Peso, it has dawned on me that rather than going to a tourist cafe and paying £1 for a pizza, if I go to the locals cafe the same pizza will cost just 15p.

There is a surprisingly large number of touts here (and in Cuba generally) attempting part you with cash for everything from substandard cigars that look great but are second-rate inside to restaurants that also look great but are second-rate inside and girls that look great, but… well you get the picture.

Cuban Beer League

1. Bucanero – A refreshing lively beer, perfect after a long day at the museum.
2. Cristal – A depressing lonely beer, perfect after a long day at the morgue.

This league table is unlikely to change as Bucanero and Cristal seem to be the only beers available.

Cuban Street Snack League

1. Pork rolls – Take one large dead pig (or a live one and kill it), spit roast the animal serve on freshly baked rolls with a chili sauce, all for 15p – beautiful.

Day 7 – Vinales to Trinidad

Another bus journey and I am treated to a show of communism in full force. I did not bother buying a ticket in advance, I simply turned up at 7am to get on one of the three different bus companies that were leaving within 30 minutes. Small thing – big mistake.

I explained that although we had not booked tickets in advance, we wanted to buy tickets for the half-empty bus that was parked a foot away.

I then admitted that as well as not booking tickets in advance we did not even have a reservation, but still we wanted to buy tickets for the half-empty bus that was parked a foot away.

Under pressure, I further confessed that I did not talk to the lady in the office about purchasing tickets, reserving tickets or indeed who may win the 3.30 at Aintree, but I would happily let the fella who was interrogating me whip me in the streets as long as he sold me tickets for the half-empty bus that was parked a foot away.

After scores of incredulous looks, much scratching of chins, several phone calls, a dog cocking his leg over Ciara's bag (I saw it off with a well aimed book) and a load of angry passengers asking what the bloody problem was, they sold us tickets.

On route to Trinidad I had great fun at a zoo causing chaos in the rabbit enclosure (it was not a big zoo) by chucking bits of banana to the bunnies and watching them go berserk.

Day 6 – Vinales

Still stuffed from the soup, giant lobster, rice, potatoes, plantain, salad and fruit from the previous night we decide a long hike is order, unfortunately Lumino ambushes us before we can get across the terrace and we are treated to fruit salad, eggs, ham, bread, grapefruit juice, orange juice, mango juice, yogurt and coffee. Did someone say it was tough in Cuba?

The sights of Vinales – not surprisingly – revolve around tobacco but it seems I get one of the least enthusiastic guides at the plantation 'Diz is tobacco seed, diz tobacco seed grow into diz tobacco plant, diz tobacco plant it hung to dry, diz dry tobacco plant it put in sack, we sell sack. Tour is finis. How many cigars you want to buy?'

I also visited a cave which was great if you have never been in a cave before and the most hideous looking mural I have ever seen, which apparently was meant to represent evolution so I am unsure what the two-headed sea monster was doing in it.

Back at the Casa, Lumino regretfully informed me she was unable to catch an elephant that day and that therefore dinner would be slightly smaller than the previous night. Luckily, I had spent wisely earlier in the day and was sporting a cigar large enough to hang a coat on and a litre of Havana Club rum which helped get over the disappointment.

Day 5 – Havana to Vinales

For the first bus journey of the trip I am awakened at the outrageously early hour of 5am by the thunderous cock next door. After he has spent an hour shouting from his balcony his rooster starts squaking too and I decide I might as well get up.

I am heading for the hills and the tobacco growing region of Vinales. The bus was spotlessly clean, the seats opulent and before I am able to say 'This may be the best bus journey we have ever taken' Jason Statham and Sylvester Stallone fill the TV screen and I have to endure The Expendables for the second time in five days.

Vinales is a small picturesque village in the western provinces of Cuba and as the bus pulls into the main street it is mobbed by touts wanting me to stay at their houses, their friends houses or indeed any house that I may be stupid enough to follow them to. In Cuba there are two options for accommodation, either the state controlled hotels or privately owned houses (known as casas) which pay a tax to the government but are only allowed to rent out one or two rooms. After fending off the incredibly persistent touts who helpfully inform me that my intended house had 'burnt down', 'been destroyed by tornado', 'fallen into river' I made my way to the one I had been recommended – Casa Lumino.

Lumino is an 80-odd year old Cuban lady who it transpired loved nothing more than cooking and talking.

She really, really liked talking, alas, only in Spanish and clearly she mis-interpreted my fragile Spanish because when I said 'We would like to have dinner here' she heard 'Please give me all the food that Cuba has stockpiled for the humanitarian aid convey to Dafur'.

She really, really liked cooking too.

Day 4 – Havana

Over the last couple of days I have visited the Museum of Cigars, which was little more than a collection of lighters in various dusty glass cabinets, the Museum of chocolate which was a cafe selling chocolate and the Havana City Museum which I had inadvertently got into without paying as I was mistaken for one of the 30-strong tour group than was in line in front of me.

Today I visited The Museum of the Revolution which tells how Fidel Castro, Camilo Cienfuegos and Che Guevara with the greatest and noblest of intentions wrestled the country from the American backed dictator Batista in 1959 and turned it into the thriving anti-capitialist state it is today – I am less convinced about the last bit, but the last thing I need to do is criticise a Communist dictator, I mean president. A considerable amount of memorabilia and rare photographs are accompanied by suitably bombastic communist captions; 'The inspired leader of the glorious revolution is contemplating in readiness to face the imperialist oppressors' when 'Fidel eating' would have done just as well.

The Museum of Modern art was equally impressive and at last I come across a building that not only has an air conditioning system but an air conditioning system that actually works. As if to show off this achievement the guy with the controller has set the temperature level to what would be required to freeze a pig's carcass.

In the evening, whilst attempting to find a restaurant that had been recommended (signs are only casually used) I walked into an acceptably shabby looking establishment only to be met by glass chandeliers, tuxedo wearing waiters and a piano player, before I can say 'I think I am in the wrong place, do you sell egg and chips?' the maître d' (they had one of those too) had whisked Ciara and I to a table and was inquiring as to which bottle of Champagne we would like.

This posed a major problem, namely, as I always do when I venture onto dimly lit streets in third-world countries, I was carrying approximately £14. After a lengthy perusal of the lower end of the menu and a close inspection of the coins that we had been accumulating we realised we could just about squeeze through it – as Susan Boyle said eyeing up a Kate Moss dress.

The food was fantastic, the service was impeccable and the speed at which we left the place (for fear our meagre tip would be outed) was nothing short of legendary.

Day 3 – Havana

Today I ventured into the newer part of the city and tried to get my head around Cuba's unique currency system. This is how it works;

For almost all transactions a tourist would need to make (accommodation, travel) they will be charged in Cuban Convertible Pesos also known as CUCs or just plain Pesos, however, for certain things they may also find themselves being charged in an alternative currency used only by the locals known as Cuban Pesos also known as MNs or just Pesos.

1CUC (or Peso) = 70p or,

1MN (or Peso) = 3p.

To make it simple, 70p = 1 Peso = 24 Pesos. Got it?

Some prices are displayed in CUC and some in MN but it is rarely specified which. In short, the potential for being ripped off in this country is enormous and only Stephen Hawking would be able to do the maths required to convert prices from CUCs/MNs/Peso to Sterling. He would have a bugger of a time with all the holes in the pavement though.

I am not sure if it is that Cubans like to queue or that the staff are geriatric-like in their speed of service or a combination of both but just about every shop or restaurant seems to have a line of people outside it most hours of the day, the situation is exasperated by the security guard that stands outside every premises and often only let one person into the building at a time.

Day 2 – Havana

Hola! Hola! Hola!

The locals cried as I aimlessly wandered along the seafront taking photos of classic cars and run-down bars. I had read many times in the months leading up to my trip that the Cubans were a friendly group of people and so they were proving. As it turns out my grasp of Spanish is not as good as I thought and what I perceived to be 'Hola' was in actual fact 'Hole'. A simple error I failed to grasp until I had fallen into the aforementioned hole, which dot the pavements of the Havana waterfront like puddles of sick on a Saturday night in Southend.

Thus my first morning in Cuba was spent in hospital getting my broken ankle put into plaster. Not really. I only wrote the broken ankle bit so that everyone who laughed at the first paragraph (I know who you are) would feel guilty. For those of you who continued laughing (I know who you are too) a pox on your first born.

I spent the rest of the day walking (O.K. hobbling) around Havana Vieja which is the spanish colonial part of the city. In the evening over a delicious lobster and several Mojito's (who's laughing now eh?). I watched the Cuban girls in action and was impressed how easily they were able to part a fool from his money. One particular professional managed to tap into a German punter after dragging him from his stool with the clearly inaccurate promise 'Senor you are such a good dancer' – he wasn't, but was fished in and proceeded to supply her beer, cigarettes and cigars for the next two hours. The highlight was when a young but incredibly ugly fellow hooker approached the bar and I overheard 'You need to buy my mother a cigar'.

Day 1 – London to Havana

I didn't have a problem with the one hour delay or the fact that when I lowered my tray on the plane it fell into three pieces, but the realisation that of the 12 movies being shown only two were not utter crap and that I may have to endure a Jason Statham film just to get through the flight had me seriously contemplating opening the exit door at 35,00ft.

Having watched Monsters (very good) and The Others Guys (very funny), a documentary on the American education system (yes really) and The Expendables (Jason Statham and Sylvester Stallone, please note the title) I was more than ready for the flight to end – I am sure someone told me that Virgin Atlantic was a decent airline? It is not.

After 10 hours I was mercifully reeled into the third-world, poverty-stricken capital of Cuba. We passed through security in record time – the record being the longest, slowest-moving queue on the planet, beating the record previously held by Simon Cowell when he offered music fans the opportunity to beat him with a rubber truncheon.

That hurdle passed we moved onto baggage reclaim where I expected to have to battle through the cobwebs that had by now engulfed all luggage from flight VS065. I need not have worried, as luck would have it my bag didn't arrive and as I walked to the lost luggage counter wondering how I could get to Richard Branson's island to choke him on his own beard – I found my bag. It seems that one of the pensioners from my flight (there were many on their way to all inclusive resorts – all you can eat, all you can drink, all the staff you can abuse) had mistaken my backpack for his suitcase, had pulled it from the conveyor belt, realised his error and then simply kicked it back under the belt. Cheers for that.

Three hours after landing (that's communism for you) we had finally got out of the airport and were in a taxi into town. We arrived into Havana and decided a beer and some food was needed before bed as it was 4.30am. Imagine my unbridled joy as the moment I sat down two fellas with guitars and bongo drums sat on the opposite side of my table and began to serenade Ciara and I.

Cuba is not quite as cheap as I imagined, the bill for our first meal came in at just over £55, however that did cover four beers, two pizzas, damage to an acoustic guitar and the surgical removal of a bongo from a serenader's derrière.