Itineraries

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Every month we focus on a different country to whet the appetite and show what's possible in countries that often seem too daunting to tackle as an independent traveller.

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In planning your vacation in Cuba, don't spend all your time in Havana and the could-be-anywhere-in-the-world beach resorts. A driving holiday in Cuba is an unforgettable experience – a cultural and sensory eye opener that provides endless pleasure and leaves you wondering about the follies of world politics. Here is one  brief impression of our three weeks on the road:

Eye eye, officer

Road signs are a rare tourist luxury in Cuba.

The map was clear: take the autopista east out of Havana and continue straight to Viñales in the province of Pinar del Rio. The car rental agent in the capital had his doubts and kindly escorted us from the old town to the motorway – and just as well, because not only was there not a single sign pointing to the autopista, even the sliproad offered no hint that we were about to enter the deserted pride of Cuba's infrastructure.

We were saying our grateful goodbyes to the agent when the hitchhiking Luis with the long eye lashes sidled up and asked for a lift. No, said rental car man on our behalf, so we said no too.

But after the agent's Lada spluttered around a bend on the way back to town, Luis persisted. It was his “I'm no stealer”   that clinched it and faster than you can say “this mojito is not as good as Cuba Libre in Islington” Luis was in the back of our smart new Skoda estate – the first of many Cubans to do so over the course of the next few weeks.

After four glorious days sightseeing in the partly restored but mostly crumbling Havana, we were on our way to the pincushion hills of Viñales. Apart from the odd vintage Chevy and a horse cart we encountered virtually no traffic on the mostly good - give or take a few potholes - motorway.

Time, miles and lush farmland sped by while the chatty Luis gave us a glimpse into the life of ordinary Cubans. Everyone wants to be a policeman on a salary of $60 a month after a six-month training course, he said. He studied for four years to become an agricultural engineer, and earns $40.

And he was funny too: “Who's the slowest barman in the world? – Fidel Castro, it's taking him nearly 50 years to make Cuba Libre.” (“But don't let any Cuban know I told this joke.”) He made us stop by the side of the road, ran into an orange grove and returned with a bag full of green fruit.

We saw the Eric Estrada-lookalike, complete with tight regulation breaches and sunglasses next to his  motorbike, just as we were passing a horse cart going the wrong way on the motorway. He gestured in that feared and internationally recognisable traffic cop way and we stopped. “You were speeding,” he said, peering disapprovingly at me. “Very dangerous.”

Surprise, contrition, argument, pleading in slow Spanish – nothing made an impact on the inscrutable man of law. How did he know we were speeding, I eventually enquired? Apart from the officer and his iron beast, the hard shoulder was bare with no obvious sign of measuring instruments in sight. He took off his glasses and pointed two gloved fingers at his eyes. “Mis ojos.” He saw us speeding; that's how he knew. We got off with a warning to obey the traffic laws of Cuba.

Over the next couple of weeks we were stopped twice more, ostensibly for speeding (we weren't, having learnt a lesson). Once because the policeman was bored and wanted to practice his English. Once because, well, he too was bored and fancied thumbing through our passports.

And everywhere along the way, Che Guevara on huge billboards urges Fidel's people to cling to the ideological promises of the 1950s. The people respond by going about their way as happily as they can – proud of their high literacy and low crime rates, patching their crumbling houses, hitching lifts with tourists and dancing the salsa in city streets.

Do go – before Castro goes, and the Cuban way of life with him.