Travellers' Tales: Classic cars and smokin' cigars

Christine Macleod spends nine days exploring the time-warp that is Cuba

A pink Cadillac cruises past, its tail-stream of black exhaust fumes at odds with its classy lines. It is followed by a bottle-green Buick, rust clearly visible on its fenders. When a succession of vivid red, pale blue and purple 1950s Oldsmobiles, Chryslers and Chevys pass to and fro, I experience a surreal feeling of being on a Hollywood movie set.

As our taxi enters Havana, the absence of neon signs, billboards and shopping malls heightens the feeling of unreality.

And so begins a nine-day tour of the western part of the 1200km-long island of Cuba, set in the Caribbean Sea.

"Tropical beaches aside, why Cuba as a holiday destination?" is a question we were frequently asked. After all, what advantages can a country have after undergoing a revolution, adopting communism and, as a result, experiencing isolation from the western world for over 50 years?

It is this very isolation that is Cuba's attraction. Without it, it would in all likelihood have developed into a second Florida. Besides, who can resist a peep into one of the remaining bastions of communism, where the ageing Castro brothers still hold sway?

Leaving our exploration of Havana until the end, we head west into the province of Pina Del Rio, our destination the beautiful Vinales Valley with its mogotes (limestone outcrops), green tobacco fields and distant Los Organos mountain. A hike through a farming area is an insightful experience. By law, mechanisation is banned in this region, so local farmers till the soil using oxen and hand-made ploughs and hoes. It is back-breaking work, particularly as a portion of the crop has to be given to the government. We pay a visit to a local farm, where a few pigs, a pair of oxen and a scattering of chickens constitute the livestock. The farmhouse is a tiny, palm-thatched dwelling surrounded by fruit trees. Raw coffee beans are laid out to dry in the sun. In a small wooden shed, tobacco leaves hang curing over roughly-hewn logs.

We are invited to a cup of coffee by Luiz, the farmer, whose work-worn fingers deftly roll tobacco leaves into a fat, brown cigar, which he lights and passes around. This is a far cry from the state-owned cigar factory we visited on our road trip west, where workers sit in rows in sweltering temperatures and roll cigar after cigar, receiving very little pay in return.

The ubiquitous sugarloaf mogotes, their soft, limestone interiors eroded to form gallery upon gallery of caves, offer superb caving opportunities, and we opt to explore a small portion of the Gran Caverna de Santo Tomás. Without the detraction of large tourist groups and the usual safety restrictions, we see the caverns' intricate rock formations and crystalline pools, head lamps being the sole source of illumination.

The day's exercise has made us hungry and we adjourn to a casa for dinner in the nearby red-roofed town of Vinales. Platters of freshly caught lobsters are served, along with black beans and rice, all washed down with the local beer, Cristal. Despite a ban on private ownership in most sectors of the economy, some relaxation has been allowed in the tourist industry. As a result, Cubans are permitted to run home-based restaurants and homestays and many hotels fall under a joint ownership scheme whereby foreign investors are allowed to own up to 49%.

A trip to Cuba must inevitably take in revolutionary sites, so we travel to the town of Santa Clara, where bullet-holed buildings surround the town square and a Caterpillar bulldozer is proudly displayed as a monument in recognition of the role it played in overturning an armoured train carrying soldiers and supplies, which would have been used to overthrow the revolutionary forces.

But it is the Plaza de la Revolución, on the outskirts of Santa Clara, where revolutionary fervour burns brightest. A larger-than-life bronze statue of Che Guevara looms over the square.

Beneath the monument is a mausoleum commemorating the leaders of the struggle. Next door is a museum devoted entirely to Che.

In the early 18th century, Cuba was the biggest exporter of sugar in the world. We visit a former sugar plantation on the outskirts of Trinidad, where a slave bell lying in the grass at the foot of the French-style plantation manager's house is a grim reminder of earlier times. Now informal traders have set up shop along the sweeping driveway, selling hand-embroidered table linen, papier-mâché model cars and panama hats .

This early wealth from the sugar plantations led to the establishment of Trinidad, whose pastel-hued colonial mansions, cobbled streets, stone churches and shady palm trees feel like a living museum. The noon heat is fierce and we stop for a canchanchara, the local cocktail made of rum, sugar, honey, lime and water, served in an earthenware bowl.

As night falls, the town shakes off its midday lethargy. Small boys come out to play soccer in the streets, women gather in doorways to laugh and musicians strike up rhythmic Latin/Calypso tunes, which start women's hips swaying and men's eyes glinting. With a minty mojito or two, we gringos confidently take to the floor.

In Havana, we treat ourselves to three nights in the ritzy Hotel Saratoga, whose rooftop bar offers spectacular views over the city and serves sublime daiquiris.

Havana is divided into three sections; Habana Vieja (Old Havana); Centro Habana (Central Havana); and Vedado, all linked by the Malecón, an 8km-long boulevard running along the seafront. T he architecture is striking and tells of former majesty - French-style doors are now used as washing lines and once-elegant wrought-iron balcony railings keep poultry enclosed.

Considering the socialist nature of the country, there are a surprising number of churches. The baroque 18th-century Catedral de San Cristóbal, which has been described as "music turned into stone", is one of the most impressive. It dominates a cobble-stoned square where restaurants spill out against a backdrop of bougainvillea and grey stonework.

An ironic touch is the Capitolio Nacional, a white, domed building, which very closely resembles the US Capitol in Washington DC. It is from here that a wide, tree-lined avenue runs straight down to the ocean.

It is from the apron in front of El Capitolio that we take a ride in one of the grand "old timers", a purple 1952 Buick. Its leather seats are cracked and the chrome is chipped; the gears grate and it belches smoke whenever we pick up speed, but the bodywork is buffeted to a high sheen and the intrinsic elegance makes me feel like Marilyn Monroe.

Our ride takes us west of the Old City into a suburb called Miramar, where the homes of former fatcats are now occupied by embassies and consulates.

We visit the Museo de la Revolución, housed in the former Presidential Palace. The exhibits which grace the history of the revolution stand in stark contrast to the opulence of the Room of Mirrors in the museum, a space once designed to resemble its namesake in the Palace of Versailles. Most fascinating of all is a display of anti-US propaganda, featuring caricatures of former US presidents Bush (junior and senior) and Reagan, named as "idiots" and "cretins".

Our city map depicts a Parque Lennon - surprisingly named not after, as one would expect, the iconic Russian communist Vladimir Lenin, but after John Lennon, the Beatle. We visit the park, where we find a bronze statue of the man himself positioned on a park bench with words from his song Imagine etched in bronze at his feet.

Just as I am wondering at the absence of his signature round-lensed glasses, a park-keeper hurries over and places them on his nose. Apparently, the originals and their replacements have been stolen so many times that a security guard now has them in safe keeping.

Beloved as Lennon may be, it is the music of the famous Buena Vista Social Club that is most commonly associated with Cuba. To hear this, we visit the Café Taberna, where talented musicians with drums, guitars and a double bass cover the hits of Cuba's mambo king, Benny Moré.

The evening draws to a close with a rum cocktail at La Bodeguita del Medio, where Ernest Hemingway was a regular, and we add our names to the many inscribed on the walls. We decide against taking a taxi home and enjoy a stroll along the back streets in the balmy Caribbean air, accompanied by the happy shouts of children kicking a well-used soccer ball. Old men lean against walls puffing on stubby cigars, and salsa and rumba music spilling out of doorways gives the city a carnival atmosphere.