Hola, Cuba!

By Eileen Burke Dillane

When Cuba was first projected as a possible destination for our two weeks’ vacation, it was with some trepidation that we contacted Travel Helpers Inc. for information on accessibility.

As in previous years when looking for a place to soak up some sun and surf, we were not surprised to find that there were few brochures and little information available on accessible
transportation or tours that could accommodate even a manual wheelchair. (We long ago gave up on taking my husband’s power chair anywhere outside Canada and the United States.)

We were told that the streets of Havana were cobbled and likely to play havoc on both the chair and the designated pusher, and that tourism in Cuba is still relatively new and the number of
accessible hotels would be limited. We learned that many of the old American cars -- the gas gobblers with trunks to die for -- were still on the roads and, in our ignorance, considered them as
a possible solution to our transportation needs. We had a lot to
learn.

We decided to take the plunge and, through/ Travel Helpers, booked accommodation at the Club Coralia Playa D’Oro in Veradero. Then, with attendant Calvin MacLean and the ancient manual chair that has taken us on many an adventure, we set out on a rainy Sunday afternoon for Pearson International Airport, where our flight was booked on Canada 3000 to Veradero, Cuba.

We are happy to report that Canada 3000 is continuing its policy of allowing passengers to stay in their own wheelchairs until just before time to board the plane. We had prebooked the
bulkhead seats and, apart from a slight argument with the steward, who insisted that my husband Ron (who weighs about 200 pounds) be lifted over two non-moveable chair arms to the middle
seat, we survived the first obstacle of the journey with only a few muttered curses regarding the airline policy of barring passengers with disabilities from using the aisle seat.

We arrived in Veradero around 8:30 p.m. The wait to deplane was somewhat longer than usual. The cleaning crews had been and gone and the food bins had been restocked for the flight back to
Toronto before Ron’s wheelchair -- minus one of its front wheels -- arrived. A mechanic was able to re-attach the wheel, although the repair was temporary to say the least. Then, with some interpretation from the crew, we discovered that Ron would not be
allowed to transfer into his chair until it had gone through customs.

This was a first. In all the places we have visited -- including China, the Caribbean and Mexico -- the old chair had never had to go through the ignominy of being examined by customs. However, the morose-looking official who had come to collect us was
adamant and Ron had to remain strapped onto the ancient Washington boarding chair for the long trek to the accessible entrance of the terminal.

We were herded through the doors by the two officials, who calmly bypassed the long line of tired and overheated passengers waiting in line for immigration clearance. Within minutes we were processed, then whisked out to the baggage area where Ron and I
waited while the wheelchair was wheeled away for its X-ray or whatever they do to wheelchairs to check for contraband. Calvin had collected our luggage by the time the wheelchair re-appeared, and Ron was finally able to relax into the chair’s embraces.

The two officials then manoeuvred us through customs and out to the waiting Canada 3000 agents. They accepted a generous tip and they bade us a smiling "adios."

Apart from a wonky front wheel and the fear of what might have nested and died in the tubular frame over the past 27 years, we survived the first stage of the trip with our sense of humour
intact.

It was hot and muggy in the parking lot where, under Calvin’s supervision, Ron was hoisted aboard a Canada 3000 mini-bus. Being the first through customs meant that we had to sit and wait for
the other passengers to join us and it was well and truly dark by the time we hit the highway, making it impossible to see much of the surrounding countryside.

The ride to the hotel took approximately 45 minutes. Despite the
Canada 3000 agent’s assurance that we would be met by somebody at the hotel to help Ron back into his chair, it turned out that the only help available was the bus driver. Another tip, another
beaming smile, warm handshakes all around and we finally staggered through the doors of the Club Coralia Playa D’Oro.

The reception at the front desk was cordial though not overwhelming and, after handing over our passports (which we were assured of receiving back the next day), we were offered a glass
of juice and the suggestion that we sit down and relax until the maids had finished with our room.

We were handed key cards that would also activate the electricity in the room and then shown to our rooms, only to find that the bed was way too low for transfers. This obstacle was overcome by removing the mattress from the spare bed in Calvin’s room and
adding it to Ron’s bed. Extra pillows were also ransacked from Calvin’s room and, after inspecting the bathroom and finding it more than accessible, with its wide door and roll-in shower, we
declared ourselves quite satisfied and thanked the bellboys who stood there, smiling and obviously waiting for a tip. The clerk at the front desk had said "no tipping" but somehow this message was never relayed to the staff. They pocketed their tips with a grin and a cheery "buenos noches" and I made a note to change our U.S. dollars into smaller denominations.

To our relief, food had been laid on for late arrivals to the hotel. There was a goodly spread of cold meats, cheeses and breads as well as wine and beer. The bar was still open but we
were too tired to imbibe that evening and decided to call it a day.

Breakfast was served from 7:30 to 10:00 a.m., buffet style, in the main dining room. The food, varied and well cooked, was abundant for a country where food is both scarce and expensive for its residents. We noted that very little went to waste. The two days we dined on fresh lobster were followed the next day by lobster salad. The same went for shrimp and crab and often chicken.

Wine, imported from Spain, flowed throughout the meals and, to our amusement, we discovered that the wine too was recycled. All the partly empty bottles were funnelled into other bottles, re-corked and returned to the tables. At least the wine had had lots of time to breathe! We made a point of getting to the dining room early in the evening so we only had to contend with the dregs from lunch and not from both lunch and dinner. Mind you, we had no problem quaffing the wine and were none the worse for it.

Water jugs, on the other hand, were hard to come by and even if you did succeed in conning the waitress to leave a jug on the table it would disappear by the time you returned from foraging at the buffet tables. Tap water in the hotels is drinkable but it
was suggested that one buy bottled water when travelling away from the resorts.

The paths between the main building and the swimming pool area were easily accessible although, during the heat of the day, there was little in the way of shade around the pool, except for a few unstable umbrellas. Fortunately, the sun had moved around sufficiently by late afternoon to make it a nice place to quaff a cold one and either watch the salsa and mambo lessons or take
Spanish lessons under the Bougainvillaea-covered roof.

The route to the beach was made accessible with two pieces of wood which the staff cut for us as a makeshift ramp. Otherwise, two wooden bridges leading to the beach would have been insurmountable. Fortunately, there was a small bar situated between one of the bridges and the beach, so there was no shortage of male tourists passing who were more than willing to give a hand pushing the chair up the ramp. From the bridge it was just a short, but somewhat bumpy, pull and push over the soft sand onto the beach itself. Apparently plans are in place for
permanently ramping the area, as the hotel is hosting a group of wheelchair athletes this year.

The resort had numerous thatched palapas on the beach and most of
the guests were very generous about moving over to give Ron a place in the shade when needed. We used the two boards to level the chair on the sand and Ron was quite content, especially with his height advantage, to sit and watch the topless bathers frolic in the surf. When that got boring (after a couple of days it was a case of seen one, seen them all) there was always volleyball, water polo or the antics of the numerous pelicans to watch or,
better still, the pleasure of reading while listening to the waves crashing on the shore.

We were too lazy to set up the ramps to access the beach restaurant, so we used it as a take-out and ate lunch on the beach, washed down with cold beer.

On the second day of our holidays, we met with the agent from Canada 3000 to discuss available tours. However, his negative attitude towards accessible travel led us to conclude that we
would be tied to the resort for the entire vacation. Later we spoke with the manager of the hotel, Guilliame, and he put us in touch with Rainer Riera, who works for Accor, the company that owns the hotel chain. Rainer was not only helpful but a delight to talk with. His command of English was excellent and he went out of his way to understand just what kinds of tours we were interested in and made the arrangements for us.

Our first trip was to Havana. To rent the mini-bus required a minimum of five people, so we were joined by a couple of tourists from France who spoke no English but were very nice. For $55 U.S.
each we were escorted to Havana with a trilingual guide who gave us lots of inside information about life in Cuba, as well as a very educational talk on all the points of interest during the
combined historical and cultural tour. We visited Revolution Plaza and were fascinated by the use of missile heads, embedded in the concrete, to form barriers.

Another point of interest on this well-travelled street was the view of a primary school through an iron-grilled window: a small, dingy room with dark wood partitions interspersed with
plaster-covered arches. A small rotary fan, not in use despite the sultriness of the day, hung from the high ceiling.
Dark-painted cupboards and a small metal bookcase with Budweiser beer cases stacked underneath held a few toys and sundry equipment. The walls were adorned with photographs of Cuban
leaders, past and present. The children looked about five years old and, despite the cameras and flashes, they continued with their work as if we did not exist. Quite a lesson in discipline.

Ron was able to access all the points of interest on the tour other than part of the walk around the older section of the city and a photo stop at the Florita bar made famous by its
association with Ernest Hemingway. As the heat was getting intense at that point, I too opted to stay aboard the bus and we passed the time on a side street of the city, watching the locals
go about their business.

The restaurant where we stopped for lunch was quite accessible.
The meal was included in the price of the tour. Toilet paper, however, had to be purchased and like all tourists to Cuba we learned that one should never leave the hotel without a good supply in hand.

The craft market was surprisingly accessible. Although time was short, we enjoyed pushing and shoving our way through the crowds as we checked out the crafts -- a repetition of ceramic and wooden figurines, beaded and black coral jewellery and hand-crocheted beach wear. Bargaining is expected and encouraged in the craft markets but not in the stores, where the prices are
fixed.

For our second trip we hired a taxi and driver for the day. No, not one of the American gas guzzlers that we had had in mind back in Toronto. In fact we learned that these old cars, left behind
after the Revolution, were given to the Cuban population by their government and are the only cars they are allowed to own. (These cars can’t be sold but are handed down within the family.) All
vehicles imported into the country after 1959 are owned and controlled by the Cuban government and these are the cars that are used by the tourist industry.

Our taxi turned out to be a relatively new air-conditioned Peugeot. Our driver for the day, Maroldis, despite his struggle with the English language, was courteous, humourous and more than
willing to give a hand with the wheelchair when needed. The taxi had a trunk large enough for the chair and the vehicle was very comfortable for the day-long drive.

Our first stop was the National Botanical Gardens of Cuba. "It covers 600 hectares and displays samples of Cuban flora as well as plants from other tropical places on the planet," according to the brochure. On arrival, Maroldis explained to park officials
the difficulty in transferring Ron to the internal transportation -- open-sided buses without seat belts -- so a guide was assigned to ride with us. He turned out to be an expert on all flora and fauna and had a great sense of humour. He stopped the taxi a couple of times so he could pick fruit off the trees for us to sample. The Cuban cherry tree, of which he seemed extraordinarily proud, was nothing like the European cherry tree we are used to
-- but the fruit was interesting, to say the least.

We ate lunch at a restaurant in the park. The food was excellent and the large trees surrounding the restaurant made dining outdoors a very pleasant interlude. The chemical outdoor toilet, on the other hand, was something else, with its explicit details regarding the deposits which were to be harvested as fertilizer. The flies and ting lizards made it impossible to dwell too long on all the instructions regarding the upkeep of these facilities, and I had second thoughts about the fruit we had sampled in the park.

Back at the park gates, I was not sure if one should tip an official of the Cuban government (park guide) but when the hand offering cash was bestowed with a kiss on its somewhat grimy back
I knew I had done the right thing.

From the Botanical Gardens to Ernest Hemingway’s estate. If the flowers were not blooming elsewhere because it was still winter in Cuba, they certainly made up for it here. Bougainvillaea and
exotic trailing vines cover the exterior of the latticed verandah, and Hemingway’s house, boat and empty swimming pool are well preserved. A fee is charged for visiting the interior but we were content to peer through the windows -- free, as long as we did not take photographs. The grounds and exterior of the building were delightful, despite a steep flight of stone steps that had Calvin, Maroldis and one of the workers on the estate
puffing and panting to haul Ron and his wheelchair to the top. However, they made it safely and Ron was able to enjoy the view.


The rest of the day was given over to driving through small villages and towns to see how the Cuban people lived and worked. Maroldis knew of many small and interesting villages and was
prepared to stop at any point along the way so we could take photographs. He alerted us to the fact that the white painted concrete slabs, which were placed at intervals along the roads,
were not milestones as we had supposed but monuments to the fallen martyrs of the revolution.

We had been told that the Cuban people have no aversion to being photographed, so we took pictures of grinning farmers standing in front of their small fruit stalls, and the waving and laughing Cuban school children we met in Hemingway’s gardens. So many pictures, so many happy memories.

We were content to spend the last couple of days soaking up the sun in preparation for facing the remnants of Toronto’s winter on our return to Canada.

It was still daylight when we left the resort for our trip back to the airport and this time we were able to enjoy the scenery we had missed on our arrival. Despite the hassle on our arrival in Cuba, we were not prepared for another delay when we tried to take the chair through the metal detectors. With little
understanding of Spanish we could only assume, from the gesturing and excited conversations of the staff, that it had something to do with Ron’s chair. Sure enough, out came the Washington and Ron
was transferred once again while his chair was whisked away for its contraband check.

If, like us, you use an old basement-stored wheelchair for travel, it would be wise to have the tubular frame checked out when you send it in for its mechanical overall prior to the trip.
Can you imagine how many hours Ron would have sat on the Washington had customs discovered the carcass of a dead mouse or other unsavory creature blocking the tubing? Even worse, I could
have been writing this article from a Cuban jail!

The flight back was uneventful and deplaning in Toronto was a breeze. We were back on our own turf without a language problem to contend with and I had the added pleasure of knowing that I
would be sleeping in my own bed that night.

Cuba is a beautiful country, with numerous clean beaches, warm and wonderful smiling people and constant singing and music in the air. The stores lack even the basic medical supplies, so take along everything in your bathroom cupboard. If you have room, pack extra cosmetics, sweet-smelling soaps and shampoos, and all
the extra summer clothing that you no longer need. The hotel staff and Cubans in general will bless you for your generosity.

Any wheelchair users planning to visit Veradero can get in touch with Rainer Riera at Accor Travel by fax: 535-667325. Also, request the services of Angel and Maroldis Chofere’s agency for
your transportation, especially if you are looking for a day of adventure with a careful, considerate and knowledgeable driver.

Keep on hand lots of American one-dollar bills, as even this small amount makes a Cuban’s day and helps greatly in getting from A to B in one piece. Learn the basics -- "!Hola, buenos
dias, adios, por favor, gracias" -- and you will be rewarded with a smile to make your heart sing. Enjoy your trip, and I hope that we will meet some of you wheeling around Cuba on our next visit.

(Eileen Burke Dillane is a freelance writer and avid traveller living in Toronto, Ontario.)