Standing in the immigration line at Cuba’s sparkling
new Jose Marti International Airport, I felt apprehensive
about sneaking into Cuba. Having just arrived from Cancun,
Mexico, I carried a Cuban tourist card along with a Spanish
language letter of introduction requesting that the
Cuban authorities stamp my tourist card but not my U.S.
passport. Scubacan, my Canadian travel agent, had provided
the documents so that Cancun would appear as my final
destination in my passport. Presumably, U.S. immigration
would be none the wiser when I returned home.
I presented my papers to the immigration official. He
carefully looked at the letter, then at me, and smiled conspiratorially.
“I help you, you help me,” he muttered in
halting English. I asked him to repeat, reluctant to flash
cash at him, but that was his drift and I got it. I forked
over a fiver and was on my way with my passport unstamped.
Scubacan representatives met my partner, me, and another
couple, then transported us in a minivan to the
Copacabana, an over-the-hill Mafia-era waterfront hotel in
New Havana’s Vedado district. The next morning we gathered
in the lobby along with a woman from New York, then were
driven to Jose Marti for a short flight to the Isle of
Youth and the Hotel Colony.
Lying south of Havana in the Caribbean, Isla de
Juventud, originally the Isle of Pines, may have been the
inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.
At 1900 square miles, it offers plenty of coastline, and
the diving is reported to be Cuba’s best.
The rambling 77-room Hotel Colony was built as a casino
just before Castro took power forty years ago. It still has
a quaint Lucy-and-Desi appeal, right down to the twin bed in the colorfully-painted rooms. Today,
the Colony is almost exclusively a dive
resort, since there’s little else to do
in this remote location 45 minutes from
the island’s major city, Nueva Gerona.
Upon arrival, I quaffed my welcome
Mojito (a rum-and-mint concoction that
inspired some of Hemingway’s taller
stories) and had a hearty, if bland,
lunch. They then hustled us off on a
short bus ride to one of their five
dive boats, which ranged from sleek
cabin cruisers to rusty old trawlers
(two new 42-footers were due any day,
but any day could also mean “manana”).
The larger boats take 8-14 divers
each, but they assigned the four of us
to the runt of the fleet, a 25-foot
inboard runabout with a nylon awning,
no radio, no running lights, and no
fire extinguisher. It didn’t even have a windshield, so waves breaking over the
bow splashed unimpeded into the cockpit. During the 80-minute ride to the dive
sites at Punta Frances (that’s the average time to all sites), the spray became a
downright pain in the butt.
Our first two dives were billed as checkouts. Divemaster Martin, a truculent,
potbellied fellow in his 50s who sported a monokini, gave no briefing. He merely
told us two old salts and the two inexperienced divers to follow him. (I speculated
that it’s Marxist to treat everyone equally, but then they do that at many
Cayman operations, as well, regardless of experience. Oh, well.)
After back-flopping into the 80° F. water, tuxedoed Black Durgon maître’d’s
escorted me to the 45-foot bottom. It was studded with typical Caribbean finger
reefs, straight rows of hard coral with a profusion of soft coral, which were
separated by sandy channels. Once Martin was satisfied with everyone’s buoyancy
control, he led us on a circular tour, pointing out a large green moray inside
our 60-foot range of visibility. Since the area is a preserve, the sea life was
bold, even audacious. Yellowtail snappers swam in front of my face like pilot
fish. An 18-inch lobster stood his ground halfway out of his hole, allowing me to
touch his feelers. Martin led us back to the buoy line with 1,000 psi in our 80
cubic foot stubby steel tanks. He climbed on the boat while I played tag with
queen angels. After 45 minutes and a safety stop, the boat driver hauled in my
tank, BC, and weight belt. I clambered up a rickety swim step and pulled myself
over the transom.
At Reino de Sahara (Martin referred to the sites by number, and it took me
days to find a key that listed the names), I encountered a few tarpons loitering
around an arch at 60 feet. A live conch and even a Triton’s trumpet, which were
probably alive only because there are few tourists to buy shells, dragged themselves
along the sand. Surfacing near dusk, I didn’t look forward to the wet 80-
minute trip back, especially with no refreshments or food on board. Nor was I
amused when the engine failed to start. After all, we were the only boat on the
water, and with no communications or running lights, it was a daunting prospect.
But Martin and the driver (who spoke no English) eventually got her going. After
a drenching trip, we pulled in at 7 p.m. under the watchful eyes of troops manning
a guard station at the mouth of the harbor.
Bedraggled, I showered, dressed, and scurried to the Galéon Restaurant. The
buffet featured pot roast or chunks of chicken or pork in mild sauces, accompanied
by fresh carrots, cucumber slices, and rice with canned peas and corn. In a
country where food is rationed and the average family eats meat only a few times
a year, this was a lavish spread. However, the dishes, made with poor-quality raw
materials, were overcooked and hard to distinguish from one another. And the
plentiful selections varied only slightly each night: fuel indeed, but not feast. After dinner, staff and local talent offered a homespun and spirited floor show
of songs, dances, and blackout skits.
My ground-floor room looked out on private patios and a palm-studded lawn that
swept down to the beach. With no screens on the louvered windows, the mosquitoes
swarmed so fiercely after sundown that I was forced to close the louvers and run
the air conditioning all night. My partner and I slathered ourselves with insect
repellent: it was pretty effective, but hardly romantic.
The Colony draws mainly from Europe and South America. The groups cluster in
the restaurant and open-air Pirate Bar next door, which features rum, rum, and
more rum (such as 7-year-old Havana Club, which sips like cognac, at $2.50 a
pop). If you want other hard liquor, BYOB. Cuban beers were excellent, particularly
Crystal and Maybe ($1.50). At the end of the pier in front, about 100 yards
out, the al fresco Mojito Bar is a great place to watch sunsets and later gaze at
the incredibly starry skies. Generally, the hotel staff was very helpful.
Ernesto, the 28-year-old general manager of the Colony, made a specialty of taking
Scubacan guests under his wing as a combination concierge, tour guide, floor
show MC, and all-around problem-solver.
I met only two other Americans, including an Undercurrent reader named Bill
from Chicago who was on his sixth visit. He gave me good advice: tip Martin on a
daily basis. I did so and suddenly he was much more communicative. He even let on
that cold drinking water had been on the boat all along.
Over the next few days we visited several sites. At Queen’s Garden, midnight
parrots worked over an Einstein-sized brain coral 60 feet down; at Pirate’s Anchor,
an 18th-century relic shared a reef with well-entrenched stone crabs. Tarpon
Arch, which rises 3 yards above the 45-foot bottom and opens onto a natural
amphitheater, had (what else?) tarpon. Visibility ran to 90-100’ on the deeper
morning dives. After two dives, we would motor 10-15 minutes for an unremarkable
lunch at a beach-side restaurant, then out for an afternoon dive, by which time
there was always lower visibility. I passed on the one night dive, which would
have delayed dinner until our return to the Colony, close to 10 p.m.
The real thrills came on the deep
dives. Pared de Coral was a wall with
black coral gently wafting in blue
water 125 feet down. The bushy golden
brown stands, undistinguished at
depth, had to compete for our attention
with a myriad of sea rods,
plumes, whips, and fans plus massive
leaf, plate, and sheet corals. Christmas tree and feather duster
worms peeked out between tube, barrel,
and loggerhead sponges and a
grab bag of encrusting tunicates. On
top of the wall I watched a barracuda
spook a ball of blue tangs into a
flashy display of group reflexes.
At Cuevo Azul, Martin led us to a
vertical cave at 65 feet. Like Santa
slipping down a chimney, I dropped
feet first as a tarpon family circled
restlessly in a chamber ten fathoms
below me. Slowly a posse of small
tarpons spiraled up to check me out,
all steely eyes and undershot jaws. At
125 feet we exited the cave, then
veered down the wall to enter a second
vertical tube at 146 feet. There we
ascended through another school of
tarpon and the balls of tiny glass
fish they feed on. Wow!
Since we had a small group, we could
explore these extraordinary caves as
leisurely as our computers would allow.
Once, while we were completing our
safety stop, another boat dropped 15
divers over our heads. The group, of
mixed experience, drifted all over the
surface and struggled to adjust their
gear underwater. I hated to think what the trip through those narrow caves would be
like among that flailing throng.
The diving operator, PuertoSol, is a CMAS dive operation, so PADI rules, such
as 130-foot depth limits, don’t apply. Some divers told me of descents to 175 feet
or more. A small shop at the marina rents fins, shorty wetsuits, and Spanish-made
BCs, all in seemingly good condition. No computers or camera gear were available.
They consistently filled steel tanks to 2600 psi. The marina also boasted outdoor
showers and a fenced-off pen for rinsing and drying gear. A prize-winning local
photographer offers lessons and slide or film-developing services.
Because three tanks take up the entire day, I had no opportunity to sample
other activities. The free-form pool, with its graceful angelfish sculptures, was
hardly used except for certification classes. An activities shack was stocked
with rental catamarans, kayaks, mopeds, and bikes (all with flat tires). Water
skiing and sightseeing were available for additional fees. The gift shop featured
some bargains (sunglasses were $4 and tee-shirts $7). The art gallery was closed
until our last day. Snorkelers could see lots of fish (including barracuda) over
the grassy sand bottom off the Mojito Bar at the end of a long pier but had to
contend with Portuguese Men O' War and other jellies.
Is Cuba’s diving worth the hassle and potential risk? I thought so. (See the
sidebar for details.) They promised virgin reefs, and while I saw no signs of
human damage or litter, storms had kicked a lot of silt onto the corals. Hurricane
Mitch had just passed, and I noticed plenty of natural destruction, including
a 6-foot stand of pillar coral lying in the sand while swarms of damselfish
and blueheads pecked at the remains. But in five days, I had two dives I would
rate as 10s, the rest above-average Caribbean fare, on a par with better sites in
Belize or Tortola, for instance. With its usual water clarity and abundance of
tame, multicolored fish, Punta Frances is a photographer’s Shangri-La. As for big
animal encounters, all I saw were an indifferent nurse shark, a 6-foot moray, and
the ubiquitous tarpon. Trips farther along Los Indios wall and a couple of shallow
water wrecks were canceled due to poor visibility.
Spending the last two nights in Old Havana made the trip especially worthwhile.
Imagine New Orleans’ French Quarter, except twice as big, twice as old, and twice as exotic. This lively historic district, founded in the 16th century, is
a blend of stately colonial buildings, friendly plazas, mysterious side streets,
warm, vibrant people out and about at all hours, and music pouring from every doorway.
And there’s plenty of security, with armed troops at every intersection.
I stayed at the Santa Isabel, Old Havana’s only 5-star hotel. The building,
converted from an 18th-century palace, is a four-story wedding cake of a structure
on the Plaza de Armas, which serves as a town square of sorts for the district.
For $150 a night I got spacious and beautiful quarters with comfortable
double beds, honor bar, in-room safes, appliances that actually worked (including
TVs that pulled in ESPN and CNN from Miami), and breakfast. On our spacious balcony,
I smoked Cuban cigars and watched the passing parade below. The staff
speaks fluent English and was extremely accommodating.
La Habana Vieja houses a dozen or more museums, plus outdoor arts-and-crafts
displays and bookstalls. You can follow Hemingway’s footsteps by visiting the
room at the Ambos Mundos Hotel where he wrote several novels, then having a
Mojito at La Bodeguita del Medio and a daiquiri at La Floridita. The people were
friendly and delighted to meet Americans. Nearly everyone I met has a relative in
the States and longs for an end to the embargo so people and goods can cross the
borders freely. They have great respect for Castro and the revolutionary struggle
but are not afraid to discuss such problems as shortages of goods and job opportunities.
I saw little street hustling or begging.
Cuba is a patched-together paradise, a land of do-it-yourselfers who’ve
learned to make the most of their meager resources. Given all they’ve made of the
scant amount they’ve had to work with, it seems unfair to complain about minor
problems. On the other hand, visitors need to prepare for a genuine third-world
experience. Bathrooms may overflow, bugs and geckos may infest your room, the
hotel may run out of toilet paper, and your TV may pull in only one German-language
station (thankfully, not very well). But the sincere and friendly people,
most of them clean, well-dressed, and proud, genuinely tried to make our stay as
comfortable as possible.
There is another, intangible reward here for travelers: the tingle one gets
when wandering into forbidden territory. As we approach the year 2000, there
aren’t many opportunities like this left for divers.
— D.L.
Diver’s Compass: Scubacan, the Toronto group operator, has been
advertising fully-hosted, completely legal dive adventures in
American dive magazines. I flew to Havana from Cancun in an Aero
Caribe 727 (missing the thrill of Cubana Airline's Aeroflot jet).
High season rates of US$1538/person include round-trip airfare to
Havana from Toronto, Cancun, Nassau, or Panama, the round-trip
from Havana to the Colony, a double room for 5 nights, all meals
and non-alcoholic beverages, 11 dives minimum, two nights in New
Havana with a city tour, and escorted airport transfers. A few other goodies, such
as a lobster beach party, are provided for groups of eight or more. The Scubacan
folks were extremely helpful throughout the trip. . . .Scubacan has a package of 3
dives per day for its groups, a schedule that requires their clients to arrive and
depart together. . . .If you book independently, rates at the Colony are lower, but
you have to make your own flight and transfer arrangements. A la carte diving during
high season is $56 for two dives. Snorkelers pay $8 to join boats. They claim
the best diving at Isle of Youth is in May or August (low season), but watch out
for hurricanes. . . Since most goods are in short supply, bring everything you
need, including an insect bomb for your room, personal repellent, toilet paper
(people dispense it for tips in airports and other public places), a hair dryer and
a wash cloth. . . .Bring plenty of cash, because you can’t use credit cards or
traveler’s checks issued by U.S. banks. The dollar is eagerly accepted. Most hotels
have safes for valuables. Typical high-season rates in Old Havana were under
US$100/night for two; dinners ran US$10-15. Shopping is limited, but inexpensive
(original watercolors under $20, for instance). You won’t need adapters for electrical
appliances, but be ready for power outages. . . .Additional resources for
planning your trip: Cuba Tourist Board, 555 Queen St. E., Suite 705, Toronto,
Ontario, M5C 1R6 Phone: 416-362-0700, Fax: 416-362-6799; Cubanacan International
Canada, 372 Bay St., Suite 1902, Toronto, Ontario M5H 2W9. For booking trips to
Maria la Gorda, Trinidad, Cayo Largo and other locations besides the Isle of Youth,
try Carlos Dellacqua, Cuba Travel, 630 San Vicente Blvd., Apt. H, Santa Monica, CA 90402, phone: (213) 975-1692, e-mail scuba@cubatravel.com.mx. . . .For
cyberdives, information on specific sites and nearby hotels and dive operations
can be found on www.cybercuba.com/scubacuba.htm; www.cubatravel.com;
www.fun@suntravel.net; www.3routes.com/scuba/ca/cuba; www.cubanacan.cu/index1.
Scubacan’s website is www.scubacan.com/information/cubadiving.