“You not on a working day, then?”

I shook my head.

“Nope. Actually flying with your lot, this time”

“Where are you off to, then?”

“Cuba”

“Ooh! Packed your dancing shoes?”

“I don’t dance. Packed my snorkel and flippers, though”

“I remember you talking about stuff like that before. Where was it you went that time?”

“Egypt. Red Sea”

“Not fancy that again? Shorter flight, bit cheaper?”

“Well, the food was crap there, and so was the beer. And a couple of other things”

The ground girl stared at me, then smiled.

“Yeah, got you. You’ve done so well, you know? I really admire your courage”

I burst out laughing at that one.

“Necessity, Cindy, not courage! Anyway, yeah. Egypt would be more than a bit risky for me, and the food really IS rubbish, and the beer’s like cheap shampoo. What’s the point of all-inclusive if it only includes shite? Oh, and I got some glass in my foot in the pool last time. Russians on the pop from before breakfast, broken glasses and bottles everywhere”

“Might be the same there, in Cuba I mean. Russians”

“Done loads of research. Mostly French Canadians, for some reason”

“Well, you enjoy. You deserve a break. I’m off to Gate 16 now; Puerto Plata’s due out. See ya!”

I settled myself into one of the seats halfway down one of the long rows, trying to guess who would be near me for the long hours of the flight. Please, god, let it not be one of the kids running screaming around the gate area… Distraction. I dragged out the two books I had found in Foyle’s, a coral fish guide and one of the few available bird guides to the island, and did my best to familiarise myself with at least some of the more common ones. Fill the time until boarding, and hope the nerves will ease.

The actual call for boarding took me by surprise, and I realised that I had actually fallen asleep in my seat, the insomnia of the previous night catching me up with a vengeance. I pulled the handle out of little pull-along bag, placed boarding card in passport and joined the queue.

“Hiya, Caroline! Cindy said you were flying with us today. Can’t do you an upgrade, sorry”

I grinned back at her.

“No worries, Kelly. As long as we get there, and reasonably on time, I’ll be happy”

“Well, you enjoy! You know the way, love”

It was a bit quicker along the walkway until I caught up with the queue at the actual aircraft door, and then it was shuffle-stop again.

“Welcome aboard, Miss Nelson. Please take the aisle on the left for your seat. It’s a window spot”

Too late to back out now, then. I shuffled forward once more as other passengers gradually filled the overhead lockers with their own cabin bags, and then I was there, the set of three chairs empty, belts folded across each seat. I quickly placed my flight supplies onto my chair, humped the bag into the locker, and settled myself into place. Books into the little mesh pocket, Walkman sling around my neck, earplugs and sleep mask in the pocket of my photographer’s gilet. I fastened the belt just as my flight companions arrived, settling back in as relaxed a state as I could manage as they went through their own ritual.

Ten minutes later, they were gone, courtesy of a hostess and an offer of a honeymoon upgrade, the cabin crew woman leaving behind a whispered “Best Kelly could do, Caroline” as she led away a grinning pair of newly-weds. I was NOT going to turn that one down, and eyed the acres of space gratefully. At five foot ten, I am not exactly short for a woman, and I could see myself sleeping far more comfortably across three seats than I could ever hope for coffin-style in a single seat.

The usual sequence then unfolded, tapes tied in double knots, sharp tugs to inflate, the Showing Of The Whistle And Light, as well as the Dance of the Exits (which may be behind you), as the plane moved slowly along the taxiway towards the main runway. I left the books in the mesh pocket as I struggled with my nerves, now at a peak.

Why on Earth hadn’t I picked somewhere safer, or at least closer to home? Cuba was meant to be safer for us than Egypt, but surely it would have been less risky going to the Med? I knew the answer, though, and it was simple frustration. I had spent so many holidays swimming in exotic places, surrounded by fish in such a variety of shapes and shades, and it had all stopped as soon as I had made that final decision, the one I had delayed for so long.

I looked down at my handbag, set next to my feet, almost able to see the passport through the leather. It held that magic letter ‘F’, so fuck ‘em all. Anyway, that was the plane rocking on its brakes as the engines wound up, so it was too late to back down. I closed my eyes and slumped back into the seat as the surge of acceleration took me away from Gatwick.

I have no idea what time it was when we arrived at Holguin, which served me right for booking everything as cheaply as I could. It was pitch black, and there was supposed to be a car waiting for me. A middle-aged man was pushing forward, grabbing for my bags, and as he was about to stuff them into the boot of an old Lada, I spotted a younger man holding a sign: ‘NELSON’.

Accompanied by some serious grumping from the first driver, I dragged my bags back out, and waved at the young man. He took my larger bag across the car park to a bulbous American antique with the name ‘Oldsmobile’ across the front of its bonnet.

“You are going to Guardalavaca, no?”

“Yes. Si”

He nodded, and I climbed into a capacious front seat, a bench affair stretching right across the width of the car. We started off, several other old Yank cars ahead of us, thick clouds of dust coming back from the one immediately in front. At least, I thought it was dust until I went to rub my right arm, resting on the open window, and discovered the light film of oil on my skin.

I didn’t really start to worry until I realised that the excuse for a paved road had disappeared, and we were on a dirt track. No lights in the street, small concrete houses, and we were stopping. Fuck. Cuban Immigration hadn’t so much as twitched on seeing my passport, my bag had arrived on time, and yet here I was, not even at my resort before I was about to be robbed.

Fuck, once more. I started to look for a decent direction to run, as the car slowed, and then the driver turned to me with a shake of his head.

“I am sorry, but the car, she is not in good today. I get my other, yes? You wait?”

Lightning suddenly flashed overhead, and in its flash the lad looked so shame-faced I found myself almost making my own apologies.

“Not a problem. Will it take long?”

“No. My house here, yes? My brother, he knew the car is bad. Five minutes”

I had another bad moment when his brother appeared, but there was a much smaller figure with him. My driver was into his ‘sorries’ once more.

“My son, he can come for the ride as well?”

Relief. Raped and robbed and murdered, maybe, but not with a ten-year-old along to share the fun. Or at least I hoped so. The lightning was getting more insistent as we pulled away in another car, also an Oldsthingy, and we were soon back on a better road. Just as we hit a longer straight, an immense spike of lightning slammed down directly in front of us, but surely at least a mile away, and all three voices, including my own, went “Ooh!”

If anything eased my fears, that was the moment. Twenty minutes later, we were rolling into the turning circle for the Sol Rio de Lunes y Mares resort, and as I fumbled through my tourist money, I am sure that I tipped the driver far more than was normal. Safe, sound, and it turned out to be three in the morning, and my room was a ten-minute walk away, and it had a shower, and the oil came off, and shit, I was tired. I still set my alarm for seven.

The light hurt my eyes, far too few hours later, and I dithered before breakfast. What to wear? What would they see in the daylight? A quick scrape of my face, my normal handful of Progynova, and then sod it. Long cotton skirt, flat sandals and a vest top with a scarf laid over my shoulders, just in case of local mores. I wasn’t looking forward to the meal, memories of Egypt sniggering over my shoulder, but it turned out to be rather good, with all sorts of things that were actually tempting rather than being simply the best of a poor choice. And they had tea, tea that I was allowed to brew to my own preferred strength rather than some insipid lukewarm pisswater.

I still felt rough after my late arrival, but sod it. I ate in a large dining room with huge windows, a slightly scruffy pool outside, and once I had finished my munchies, I took a last cuppa outside to one of the tables there.

There were black birds hopping around, and from my bird book, which had automatically slipped into my handbag, I identified them as ‘Cuban blackbirds’, and as I watched them stealing scraps from around the tables, a shadow passed over me, and that was my first ever turkey vulture, and certainly not my last. They were everywhere! I strolled back to my room, still half asleep, seeing other birds on the grass and in the shrubs, but sod that for now: the other thing that had grabbed my attention had been the vast expanse of blue sea stretching away to the horizon.

No way did I have the confidence for a bikini, so the one-piece would do, an old T-shirt over the top to spare me too much sun for the first day, and a carrier bag was enough luggage. The beach was pristine, and dotted with little shelters, a palm leaf parasol-shaped roof on top of a concrete pillar, and one near the ramp down was unoccupied. I sat down in the shade, sorting through my kit as a group of skinny topless women basted a few yards away in the steadily increasing blast of the sun.

“’Ere! You can fack off outer are spot, facking dago cah!”

Bollocks. I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to be recognised as a fellow Brit by any Best Essex Gammon, and shuffled through the hot sand to another little shelter, this one with no sunbeds nearby. I pulled off my skirt, rolled it up and put it into the carrier bag after tipping out my mask, snorkel and fins. Wrist strap of my simple waterproof camera pulled tight, and what felt like the walk of shame across the sand. Surely nobody could miss what I actually was, despite the hair, tits and one-piece cossie? Eyes down, watch my footing and try not to step on any of the little crabs popping in and out of their sand burrows. I sat down in the edge of the water, expecting the shock of cold the Med would have given my rump, and it was like a warm bath. Ooh! This was going to be good!

I fell over backwards three times as I tried to pull on my fins, but I didn’t care, and once the fins were settled in place, I sorted my mask and snorkel, half-rolled into the water and started to swim slowly from the beach. There was sod-all about, and as I looked down, I realised that the sea bed was covered in grass, white sea-urchins scattered throughout, and then a shoal of silver and yellow fish swept past, and I didn’t have a clue what they were.

That set the pattern of my day, and I spent whole hours finning slowly across acres of dead-looking coral at the western end of the beach, slowly working out what I was seeing in the way of sea-life, or at least some of it. The water was warm, if a little cloudy in places, and I was finally at peace, nobody anywhere near enough to point or laugh, the breath sighing in my snorkel and only the slightest of waves to rock me despite the steady breeze.

There was a little café at ramp, just past the basting slappers, and I took lunch there, surrounded by couples and families speaking accented French. As I looked through what photos I had managed to get of some surgeon fish, one of the men called over to me.

“Anglaise?”

I nodded back, grateful for the courtesy.

“English, yes. First day here”

“You seek the coral? The fishes?”

“Yes indeed”

“Then you walk along the plage, past the etang. There is rock, and then a cliff. Coral is situate under the cliff. Many fishes are there”

“Thank you!”

“Not a problem. You here alone?”

“Yes”

He grinned.

“Be aware of the waiters, then! They have the rapid smile for the lonely woman. Lonely? No. The woman alone, is better English”

I smiled back.

“I think I will be safe that way”

Another grin, as his wife shook her head.

“That is not fun! Is a holiday, you must venture”

“My venturing is in the water, I think”

“Well, we see you in the dining, then. I am Laurent, my femme Nicole, and the trouble ones are Yves and Amelie”

“Like the film?”

Laurent looked archly at his wife, who nodded, before he turned back to me, and in response to a raised eyebrow, and as a courtesy, I gave my name.

“Not Caro-LYNN, nor Caro-LEEN but Caro-LINE, please”

Little Yves, who wasn’t that little, being about twelve, held up a hand.

“And not Carrie, like the other film?”

Fathers and sons, oh dear. They were certainly better company than the underclad gammon, and when I left, they all insisted on handshakes.

The walk along the beach led past a little stand of sailing boats, and then I reached the narrow creek that led to the ‘lagoon’, and dear god it stank. There were semi-drowned trees in the middle, however, and a group of herons or egrets, including what was clearly an anhinga. Bingo! The map on the internet had shown that the smelly pond backed onto the hotel grounds, so I resolved to find a way round to it later. For now, the rock Laurent had mentioned was showing along the edge of the beach, so I found another little ‘umbrella’ under which I left my bag, and slipped back into the water.

What a difference! There were a few coral heads offshore, and around them were clouds of fish. It wasn’t anything as good as some of the Red Sea reefs I had visited, but I was more than satisfied, and started to blitz my camera’s memory card with stills and videos. Not bad for a first day, and I started to forget my terror from that stop in the middle of nowhere. I thought to myself that I could definitely manage another ten days of this!

It was nearly five in the evening when I finally emerged from the water and strolled back up the ramp to my block and another shower in my room. The vultures were still swooping around in the breeze, and as I combed my hair looking out of my picture window, I could hear that wind moaning around the end of my block. I had ear plugs, so nothing to worry about. Once my hair was in shape again, I sorted my handbag out, putting everything of value into the little safe, leaving the bag itself free for the two books, my little camera and the midget binoculars that went everywhere with me. Dinnertime.

It was another hour before I could leave my room, as my confidence fought against my fear and only just prevailed. I had a summer dress on, with dressier sandals than the morning, but still flats. Oversized sunglasses, just a touch of lipstick, and then out of the door while I still held my nerve. There was no queue at the big dining room, and a smiling man led me to a table with two place settings.

“Drink? Margarita, mojito, coca?”

“What is a mojito?”

“Cuban drink. Famous. With lime. You will like it”

“Okay. Can I try a mojito then, please”

“Si! The food, it is there, you choose”

As he disappeared, no doubt to the bar, I looked at the selection, and my good intentions of staying slim and healthy vanished in a choice of fresh meats, salads and desserts. Eat your heart out, Egypt, I thought, and then remembered the rather less pleasant effects of the food out there. Not here. I filled a plate with salads as a starter, and found my drink waiting on my table.

There were leaves in it, which turned out to be mint, and it was tart, and it was fresh, and I realised that if I stayed with mojitos I would end up pissed in about an hour. Sod it; I would just have one more, with my dinner.

I was asleep by nine o’clock, four of the sneaky things later.

It took me a couple of days before I found my routine, but it was a simple one. Get up, eat, swim, eat, swim, shower in my room while smiling at whatever amazing little sculpture the cleaner had turned a towel into, and then dress down for dinner. At least, the first parts became routine, because the latter part went out of the panoramic window on my second evening.

“Caro-LINE!”

My new Canadian friends were already seated when I arrived, and as they scraped their chairs closer together at their table, it was obvious that they expected me to dine with them. My smiling man, part way through leading me to another sad singleton table, just shrugged and went to collect some more cutlery, leaving me with the hardest of questions.

“Mojito?”

Sod it.

“Por favor”

I took my seat between Yves and Amelie, and the boy passed me a plate of bread rolls as Laurent did the handshake thing again, as my mojito arrived.

“We miss you yesterday evening, Caroline”

“I was just so tired! Jet lag, whatever. At least you just fly in the same time zone. I am still on London time. Oh, yes—I found the fish. Thank you!”

Nicole looked up from buttering a chunk of bread, smiling.

“You have photographs? With your little water camera?”

“Yes indeed. Haven’t got a clue what they are, the fish, though. Birds, yes, but not fish. I am hoping to watch a few birds while I am here; it’s my first time this side of the Atlantic”

Laurent was nodding in agreement.

“Yes, and the birds here, they are very different to what we see in Montreal. Have you seen the Emerald yet?”

“Emerald?”

“The humming bird, zzzzzzzzz it goes. There are many here, but you see them at the flowers, above the beach. Behind are the… Yves?”

The boy looked up from his plate of salad.

“Kingbirds and mockingbirds, Papa”

I realised I needed to load my own plate from the buffet, so nodded my thanks to the lad and sorted my starter plate, noticing that there was a ‘barbie to order’ section with what looked like chicken and beef. Next plate, Caroline, and remember to leave room for pud.

Yves was flicking through some pieces of paper as I returned, and he grinned at me.

“They have the sanctions here, and so no tablet. Not natural, but I have here the travellers’ pages and I have found what I need. Do you read only English?”

“Yes. Sorry…”

“Papa? Please tell me if I have the wrong words, but there is a man who can show where the birds live, he is only called Pablo here in the papers. He is on a moto, or maybe a cyclomoteur…”

The boy rattled off some French, and Laurent replied, “Motorbike, or--- Caroline? English word for a very small motorcycle, for boys to ride?”

“Moped?”

“Yes! I thank you. He has a moped or a motorbike”

Sod that, I thought, but the idea was tempting, at least the birding part. No way was I straddling some two-wheeled shed behind a strange man. Yves was scribbling in a notepad, and tore out a page and passed it to me.

“The telephone number. Papa?”

“Ouai, mon fils?”

“Animation, this evening? We can stay to watch?”

“Yes, of course, but only here, not the other place”

I missed some of the conversation, because I could smell some of the barbecue, and my stomach was rumbling happily. The cook was all smiles and crinkly old eyes, and efficiently converted my “Could I have a mix of meats please?” into a plate of aromatic promise. Top up with veg, back to the table, and my waiter was there, pointing to my empty glass.

“Could I just have a beer, please”

He nodded and swept away, and on his return with the frosty glass I saw that Laurent was passing him a banknote. As the waiter made it disappear, Laurent explained.

“This is Cuba, Caroline. It is not a rich country, because of our mutual neighbours. Many people here, they do three jobs. The money, yes, it is CUC, not national pesos. Nothing to me, or perhaps only a tiny thing, but here, for them, is big, important. We have animation tonight, every night. Entertainment, yes? First here, and then in the other room, beside the other piscine. Pool. That one is for late night. The people who make the music, they have already worked for a whole day, so please, be kind. Find some small money, for your cleaner, for the Animation, for the man who brings your mojito. Do you have the soaps from your home?”

“Toiletries? Yes. I had no idea what there would be here”

“Then do not use those in your bathroom. Leave the bottles and the soaps for your cleaner, for her family”

Shit. Was it that bad? I looked at the buffet selection in a new light. Shit, once more.

“This animation, Laurent?”

“Ah, it is music, and sometimes the dance. The rumba, the salsa, yes? You are a dancer?”

“Me? God, no. Two left feet, and too tall for that sort of thing!”

And too bloody terrified as well, but I kept that bit to myself. The ‘other room’ was not far from my own block, so I decided to have a little look in before bed, but there was already another beer beside my plate, the waiter’s efficiency most definitely enhanced by Laurent’s tip. I folded the piece of paper with Pablo’s number and slipped it into the inside pocket of my handbag as the conversation turned down a safer route, and I found myself explaining the joys of managing a large part of an airport duty-free shop.

“Not a lot of perks---er, extra benefits--- but this is a diver’s watch. Not expensive, but it does the job. The camera was cheaper on the internet than in our shop, so I bought it there”

Nicole sipped from her glass of wine that never seemed to empty.

“What is the bad part of the work?”

“Oh, that’s an easy one! Two things, really, and the first is just watching everyone else going off on holiday while I have to work. Never feels fair, that”

Yves piped up again, asking what the second bad thing was, and I grimaced.

“Drunks. People who come to the airport in the early morning, not in transit. People who are still on our time zone, and their breakfast is mostly alcohol. They get drunk, they get stupid, and then they don’t fly. Some of them… some of them act like it’s a good thing to get so drunk they miss their flight, that it makes them big men or something”

Nicole sniffed.

“It is the men, then?”

“Not always. Plenty of drunk women as well. Not nice to see”

“Really? That is shameful”

We chatted for what felt like hours, and as we adapted to each other’s accents, it got more and more natural, and it seemed that my little glass of beer had achieved the same auto-filling nature as Nicole’s. Finally, though, the last of our food was gone, even though the buffet was still tempting me, and all five of us moved out to the seats by the pool, where some speakers had been set up, a small group of musicians tuning their instruments and checking the sound as about ten men and women in matching outfits chatted, occasionally scanning the audience-to-be. Nicole was fumbling in a carrier bag, and fished out a pair of heeled shoes with a broad strap over the instep. Oh.

I waved for a mojito. I had the wrong shoes for dancing, it appeared, and I already knew I had the wrong legs, so it were best that I made sure I got the wrong head on as quickly as possible. The tuning didn’t take that long, and then the band launched into what can only be described as a ‘Latin’ piece; hardly surprising, given where we were. I am not a musician, but I can recognise guitars and double bass, and the shaky things were maracas. I guessed the drums were bongos, but there were other bits of percussion that left me clueless. Whatever it was, it wasn’t like the usual rubbish I had heard on the radio in the hesitation gap between first recognising it and managing to hit the off-switch, probably because it was very, very live. The band was grinning, clearly having fun, and the hangers-on were twirling away in some sort of swaying dance. By the second or third tune, Nicole and Laurent were up with them, jiving or rumbing or salsing or whatever it was called, and the kids were doing their own version behind our table.

I had another mojito as I watched, realising that I actually had a pair of shoes similar to Nicole’s, bought as heels I couldn’t fall out of, and less uncomfortable than spikier ones would be. The steps looked simple, a sort of in-and-out with lots of hip movement, and I found my feet tapping, and…

Don’t be so bloody stupid, Nelson. Other couples were up now, so as Nicole and her man took a breather, I made my apologies, citing persistent jet lag, and headed off for my room. Somehow, though, I found my way to the other venue, the one described as ‘late night’, and settled myself into a chair by the wall, for more beer.

The music was very different, featuring an extremely talented flute player, and I found myself relaxing as I listened, or perhaps simply getting more drunk as she played on. My dreams were busy, despite the alcohol, and filled with the sensation of a skirt swishing from side to side as my dream-self stepped there and away, sway and back.

Ring Pablo, and get away from the music for a while. I could manage a backy on a moped, just the once.