NOTHING much seems to have changed since Raul Castro took over from his big brother, Fidel, as President of Cuba. They are not inclined to proceed with haste in the socialist republic, writes Wesley Boyd.
A natural Latin-American languor has knitted nicely with obstructive communist bureaucracy to baffle and frustrate the traveller from less somnolent climes. I encountered this lethargic apathy first about 30 years ago at Havana airport.
As a member of a small delegation from the European Broadcasting Union to Cuban television all my papers were in order and I carried a letter from the director-general promising me a hundred thousand welcomes. They did not ease my passage. At passport control I was required to fill in a sheaf of documents on which I had to state every item of personal data from the date and place of birth of my maternal great-grandmother to the colour of the eyes of my second cousin once removed. It took a long time as the paper was ill-made and apt to tear. Then I was told that this information was of such vital importance to the security of the state that it had to be given in triplicate.
Unfortunately, passport control had exhausted its quota of carbon paper for the month so another two sheaves had to be filled by hand. This was no simple task of repetition. My original sheaf had been seized and stamped a half-a-dozen times and now rested securely on top of the bumper in-box. So a feat of memory that would have outscored RTÉ's Jimmy Magee in a soccer quiz was required to re-enter the inventions of the first sheaf on the duplicates. (Perhaps some passport controller was subsequently shot because Fermanagh on line 16 of the third sheaf did not match Antrim on the corresponding line of the first one.)
Then it was on to an hotel called the Havana Libre in the centre of the city. Apparently this, in its pre-Castro existence, had been the Havana Hilton. This was a fortuitous happenstance as the linen, tableware and cutlery with their famous Hilton "H" monogram could still be used without embarrassment or any deferential nod to the legacy of Yankee capitalism.
Next morning, in the large rooftop dining room, staffed by at least six head waiters and about 40 foot-soldiers, I and a handful of other guests waited for over half-an-hour to be served the standard - and only available - breakfast of stale bread roll and cold, foul-tasting coffee. They were not served neatly together. Some got the roll first, others the coffee. As in other Communist countries of the period, the dignity of labour was conferred on the comrades by a policy of full employment. In a hotel in Prague once I was taken to my room in a lift which had accommodation for one passenger, one suitcase, and one lift attendant. Likewise, Cuba was displayed the universal Communist penchant for serving warm food cold and cold drinks warm.
Our business at Cuban television ended earlier than anticipated and my colleagues were soon on flights to Madrid and beyond. I had had to travel by a more circuitous way. There were no direct or charter flights between Dublin and Cuba at the time.
The Soviet airline, Aeroflot, had a flight from Moscow to Havana with a stop-over at Shannon but was not allowed to pick up passengers there. There were no listed flights from the United States to its island neighbour, Washington having started is embargo on Cuba in 1961, two years after Castro's revolution. So I had to fly from Dublin to London, from London to Toronto, from Toronto to Montreal, and then from Montreal to Havana with Air Canada.
As my colleagues had departed I decided to seek an earlier flight home and went to Air Cuba, which was the agent for all alien airlines. I put my request for change of flight to a charming young woman with excellent English. No problem. There was an Air Canada flight to Montreal that very evening and seats were available. Would I prefer a window seat? I asked if she could book me on a connecting flight to London. No problem, but I would have to fly via Toronto. Could my luggage be booked through to London? Certainly. The magical yellow stickers of change were applied to my ticket.
I thanked the charming young woman profusely. She advised me to be at the airport at least two hours before departure to "complete the formalities". I knew what she was talking about. How long would it take a taxi to get there from my hotel? Just over half-an-hour. How much should it cost? About 45 peso.
Again I proffered my gratitude for her help. "Oh," she said, as if the fact had suddenly struck her, "you must now get your ticket endorsed at the Air Canada office. We have not the authority to validate the changes here."
Could she tell me where the nearest Air Canada office was? "Yes," she replied merrily. "It's in Montreal."
So back I trod for another two nights of cold food and warm drinks in the Havana Libre.