Offshore Islands

by John Francis Kinsella

It was a one hour flight from Havana to Holguin, about 700 kilometres directly to the east of the capital. Holguin lay in Oriente Province, fifty kilometres from where Fidel Castro had been born to a servant whom his father, a rich sugar plantation owner, later married.

  Arrowsmith was to visit Playa Esmeralda, a beach resort, to the east of the town of Gibara, a charming old colonial maritime port. He would then visit Cayo Saetia that lay further to the east.

  As the Airbus approached Holguin from the sea, Arrowsmith saw Maniabon Hills sweeping down to the coast line in the distance, bordered by the turquoise sea.

  The Holguin Airport was modern, designed to cater for package tours holidays. There was a new extension to the passenger terminal under construction and as the plane taxied to its parking area he saw further construction work with almost completed hangers, which were probably freight and maintenance buildings.

  He was due to be met by Ernesto Chibas on arrival. There were no formalities, he had cleared immigration and customs in Havana. As he left the baggage reclaim area he saw an attractive girl holding a cardboard sign marked ‘Welcome Mr Arrowsmith’.

  Arrowsmith made himself known and she slipped the sign under her arm and held her hand out as an equal.

  “Bienvenida! Welcome to Holguin Mr Arrowsmith, I am Maria, Ernesto’s assistant,” she smiled making a sign to a small dark skinned boy who with a large grin presented a cool drink on a tray.

  Lucky for Ernesto thought Arrowsmith taking her hand, admiring her young curves.

  A driver took his bags and the girl led him to a private room in the VIP lounge where Ernesto was waiting. He was about forty, of medium height wearing a white pleated guayabera shirt. He looked like what Cubans called a ‘chino’, with a strong open face, his shiny black hair swept back.

  “Hello Mr Arrowsmith, welcome to Holguin, I’m Ernesto Chibas.”

  He invited Arrowsmith to sit down, a girl appeared and offered him a chilled towel perfumed with jasmine, another girl offered him a refill of tropical fruit juice.

  “It’s your first time in Oriente?”

  “Yes, it’s my first visit,” replied Arrowsmith. “but I have already had the pleasure of visiting Cuba on several occasions.”

  Arrowsmith had already made a weekend trip to Baracoa some hundred or so kilometres to the east a few years previously, when he had been visiting Santiago de Cuba. Many of his friends at that time had talked of the beauty of the site, just a very short flight from Holguin. However, he preferred that Ernesto commence the visit without any preconceived ideas on the opinions that he himself could have had from past experience.

  “We’re staying at the Discovery, it’s about half-an-hour’s drive from here, as soon as you are ready we can be on our way.”

  Ernesto spoke with a slight American accent. Arrowsmith later learnt that he had spent four years at university in the United States.

  “The driver has taken your bags?” It was more of a question to Maria than to Arrowsmith.

  They then proceeded to the arrivals entrance, Maria moving ahead of them to alert the driver. The sun shone brightly enhancing the beauty of the nearby low hills that lay in the distance on both sides of the airport. There was an air of cleanliness, things had that Cuban carefree look, there was none of the signs of rush and panic that often reigned in tourist airports on the arrival of a flight in off the beaten track tourist destinations.

  A sparkling white Landcruiser pulled up before them, the driver jumped down opened the doors and then carried the bags to the back. Ernesto invited Arrowsmith to sit next to the driver so that he could see the road as they drove to the hotel.

  “It’s about thirty or forty kilometres from here to the north coast, a bit more than half an hour’s drive.”

  They joined the main north-south road the linked the town of Gibara to the airport, driving at a very relaxed pace. The road was good and the traffic was almost non-existent, to the right were hills covered with dense vegetation and on the left the ground was relatively flat lined with sugar cane plantations and fields.

  “You’ll like it here Mr Arrowsmith.”

  “How’s the weather at this time of the year?”

  “It’s still the dry season, soon the wet season will commence, a little hot right now.”

  “So it’s still the tourist season?”

  “Right, there’s a lot of Europeans, your summer holiday season is just starting and there’s also a lot of Canadians, it’s late spring up there.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s always the tourist season here, but there are less visitors during the rainy season. We also have a lot of tourists from Germany and more and more from Spain and Latin American countries, especially Argentina.”

  They arrived at an intersection in the middle of which was a bronze statue, behind was a hoarding showing Fidel Castro and Calixto Garcia, a hero of the war of independence from Spain.

  “What’s that?” said Arrowsmith pointing at the monument.

  “That’s Cristobal Colon, he landed near here in 1492.”

  Arrowsmith nodded, he had read in the guide book that there was a long standing dispute about the site of his landing in Cuba, but he did not pursue his question. The road widened out, on the left and right houses and buildings appeared, they were on the outskirts of Gibara. The traffic increase a little as they approached the town centre, the nearby hills rose behind the low skyline giving an agreeable appearance to the remarkable small Cuban town.

  “We’ll take the coast road, like that you’ll see the beaches. Another fifteen minutes and we’ll be there,” announced Ernesto.

  They turned right onto a long straight road that rose in the distance to a series of low hills. They were soon caught behind buses and small trucks that laboured against the slope belching out clouds of black smoke. The driver in a series of what seemed to Arrowsmith reckless manoeuvres overtook the buses and trucks and arrived at the pass that traversed the hills. As they continued down the other side Arrowsmith saw the coastline and the sea.

  Arriving at Playa Emeralda they crawled behind a string of horse drawn vehicles along the beach road. He was surprised at the changes that had that tourism had brought. The small resort was crammed full of small shops and stalls with bright displays of tee-shirts, jeans, imitation leather goods, and the whole tourist paraphernalia.

  There were a number of bars and small restaurants, offering menus of lobster and tiger prawns with tanks of sea fish for the amateurs of sea food. For the less adventurous tourist were the ubiquitous pizzerias and hamburger bars.

  At that hour of the day the tourists were stretched on the beach that lay to the right side of the road, grilling under the potentially dangerous ultra-violet radiation of the tropical sun, acquiring the obligatory tan in the short time their tour operator had allotted them between their visits to crocodile farms, cathedrals and plantations.

  Arrowsmith looked at the beach, it was not crowded, but it was a far cry from the desert island of the brochures. In the distance he could see a sea scooter skimming over the waves, there was a hand glider towed by a powerful speedboat, there were also water skiers, and a couple of pleasure boats anchored offshore.

  In the light traffic that moved slowly forward were tanned tourists seated in their small rented Suzuki 4x4s or on motorbikes. Beyond the noise and movement of the town centre there were several hotels. It was a tourist paradise said to be a future Varedero

  Leaving Playa Esmeralda the coast road to the south rose again passing a couple of up-market hotels that lay further back, surrounded by luxuriant gardens with flowering shrubs and coconut palms. The road zigzagged over the tree covered hills giving a fine view along the coast onto the small bays that lay between the promontories.

  They arrived at Guardalavaca where the Discovery lay in a stunning small bay with a private beach; it was a modern building, built onto the steep slope in the form of terraces. The hotel club was considered by many to be one of the finest in the Cuba.
As they approached the entrance there was a control post and barrier to keep out the unwanted, the guard stepped forward, recognising Ernesto’s Landcruiser, saluted and lifted the barrier.

  After a minimum of formalities Arrowsmith was ushered into a luxurious apartment overlooking the bay. The large terrace was almost like a private garden, three sides were lined with flowering plants and from the apartment above hanging plants draped down, forming a shady half curtain over the panoramic window. From the terrace the only other buildings visible were a few scattered houses on the surrounding slopes. Several ocean going yachts lay at anchor in the bay and docked at the quay were two luxury motor cruisers.

  He changed into a pair of beach shorts, took a beer from the bar and installed himself in an easy chair under the shadow of a sun shade and admired the remarkable view. He could see that there was not much exploring to be done, the club had been located at a deliberately isolated site, several kilometres away from the more popular tourist beaches. It was exclusive, designed to keep the curious package tour groups from the Ruhr, Birmingham or Toronto at large.

  The shimmer of the heat, the intense light, the soft buzz of the insects and the gentle noise of the waves breaking on the beach lulled him into a half sleep. He felt content and did not regret his decision to visit Oriente and its beaches. He decided that he would enjoy the coming few days in a leisurely investigation of the resort.

  He realised how the tourist complex, as seen from the Discovery, had seduced Castlemain. He knew nothing of the tourist business, but he would play the role of Candid and make the most of it, it would be a refreshing break from his normal business.

  He had visited many of the renowned tropical tourist paradises, including Bali, Tahiti, St Martin, Penang and many lesser known places. They were all very similar, artificial paradises, clean sandy beaches, well watered gardens with neatly trimmed lawns, chlorinated swimming pools, tennis courts, shopping arcades and restaurants. For the evenings there were the Trovas or their equivalents, local folklore shows and dances.

  It was not that he did not enjoy such organisation in small doses, but it soon became tiring and he found encounters with nature in its unspoiled state much more fascinating, if sometimes threatening.

  An objective report for Castlemain would not be too difficult to put together and Ernesto could certainly provide him with some solid background data. Arrowsmith had an open mind, it was not his intention to become more deeply involved beyond giving Castlemain a professional opinion, in a sense it was a favour, but in any case it was a far from disagreeable task.

  Ernesto was in the lobby as agreed at exactly six. He told him that they were to have diner at the Palm Park Plantation, a new hotel at Bahia de Bariay on the road to Gibara.

  The Palm Park had been opened only one month before. It consisted of a two hundred and thirty room four star tourist hotel, an apartment complex and a tourist shopping centre on a fifty acre site. The Palm Park was set between the low wooded hills and the beach with plantations to the north and south perimeters.

  Ernesto explained that the Palm Plantation was marketed mainly to travel agencies catering for the mature middle range European or Canadian tourists staying for four or five nights. They were also groups from Argentina and Mexico on overnight stops, but that was temporary as a stopgap during the start-up period.

  Many of the package tours ended their circuit with a few days on the beach, so that the tourists could recover from the stress and fatigue of early morning calls and days of endless bus rides to a never ending list of cathedrals, cigar factories and butterfly farms.

  Long staying guests or individual arrivals were very few, the site lacked sufficient facilities and attractions, only the overflow from the up market hotels during the peak season could be expected. It would have been better for younger couples more interested by the simple sun, sea and sand formula, but was probably out of the range of their budgets.

  They dinned in the ‘Caravel’, a night-club restaurant designed to offer a touch of luxury and exoticism for the holiday makers as a relatively expensive extra. It was situated on a fifth floor roof terrace of the hotel. During the day there was no doubt a marvellous view out over the bay, however night had fallen and just a few dim lights could be seen from the local fishing boats.

  The Caravel offered a broad choice of cuisine from the Caribbean islands. An astonishing array of dishes was laid out on the buffet before them, stuffed crabs, prawns, lobster, exotic vegetables.

  Ernesto invited Arrowsmith to commence, helping him with the difficult choice. Arrowsmith ate with relish sampling the rare variety of tastes, it was a welcome change from the typically bland Cuban cuisine.

  On a small stage in the middle of the restaurant a small group of musicians assembled and after some moments of preparation commenced to play soft rhythmic Afro-Cuban music. Four coffee skinned dancers then appeared with sensual hips swinging and the smooth natural grace of Cuban women. They were dressed in scanty pink sequinned costumes decorated with fantasy jewellery and feathers. The length of their legs exaggerated by their high heels, they moved their legs in unison, their hips seemed disjointed as they moved their thighs laterally, their sparkling brown eyes gazed into the lighting.

  “They’re from the Tropicana,” Ernesto informed him. “Cuba is famous for its dancers and has several schools to train them.”

  Arrowsmith nodded and grunted at that piece of information absorbed in studying the details.

  The dancers left the floor and the music continued whilst the two men continued their dinner enjoying a modest Cuban wine.

  “What do you think of our hotel?”

  “It’s beautiful, the architecture is very impressive,” replied Arrowsmith graciously.

  “This was our first development alone, we had already participated in a couple of other hotel development projects as minority partners, which introduced us to the business, almost everything is new in Bahia de Bariay, not so long ago it was just a small isolated village.”

  “Yes, I can imagine that,” said Arrowsmith recalling the beach as he had first seen it, almost unspoiled ten years previously

  “Tomorrow we shall visit the site for the Ciscap, I have arranged for a helicopter so that you get a complete idea of the site, the representatives of the Tourism Authority of Cuban and the Board of Investment will join us.”

  “Where is the site?”

  “It’s about forty or so kilometres to the south east along the coast. It’s difficult to get to but we have the helicopter, like that we get a good idea of the whole site.”

  “What time do we start tomorrow?”

  “I’ll pick you up at ten.”

  “Fine.”

  “Let’s go then, I think you’ve had a long day and we’ll have plenty of time to explore Playa Esmeralda’s night life during the next few days,” he laughed as from what Arrowsmith had seen it would be very scant.

  “Suits me.”

  The following morning Arrowsmith ate a full American breakfast on the terrace of his apartment; he had slept well and awoke earlier with the time difference. The sky was unchanged, blue, and the sea along the littoral was a transparent turquoise.

  He looked at his watch, it was just after eight, he had more than two hours before his meeting. He decided he would pass the time with a stroll exploring the details of the bay.

  Beached on the sand were four long narrow fishing boats, their once bright paint faded in the hot sun. The sand was already hot, sand crabs scampered into their holes. As he passed by the outcroppings of rock on the waters edge he saw brightly coloured fish darting through the clear calm water the lay between the beach and reef.

  His first impression was confirmed, it was an unspoilt isolated site ideal for a few days relaxation, but it was sure that after a short time it would become monotonous for many visitors except for those who liked the sea and underwater diving along the coral reef.

  The island of Cayo Saetia was even more isolated and totally undeve
loped, a few rooms in a simple lodge on an island devoid of all amenities. Fine for a few hours observation of the wildlife. After all it was a natural paradise…for the animals. A tourist city as envisaged for Ciscap would need a great deal of infrastructure and other facilities, but it was clear that the site would be unique and the absence of existing structures would ensure that the authenticity would be guaranteed.

  Chapter 41

  A Barter Deal