Today started early. Breakfast at 6:30, minibus at 7:30, and off to Playa Baracoa Airfield, about 45 minutes out of town. Our destination was Baracoa, Cuba’s easternmost town on the Caribbean Sea, the oldest Spanish settlement and first capital. Columbus landed here in 1492. Population around 70,000, still largely cut off by mountains, giving it a tucked-away, almost secretive feel. The town is famous for its chocolate and tropical fruits.
On the way to the airfield we passed Miramar, Havana’s old-money suburb from the Mafia and Batista days – big houses that look like they’ve seen a few cigars and cocktails in their time. No idea who lives there now. The yacht club? These days, it’s a hangout for Cuban airforce officers.
In this pint-sized airport, passport control felt like a marathon. Paperwork in triplicate, queues that never moved, and the waiting just dragged on. Flying from Havana to Baracoa was starting to feel less like travel and more like a privilege they’re reluctantly granting you.
When we finally made it onto the tarmac, there it was: an ATR 42-500, a 48-seater turboprop with French and Italian roots, looking about as tired as we were. It stood there patiently, like it had all day. Our tour company will not let us near the other aircraft flying this route, Aerogaviota’s Russian-built planes. “Safety reasons,” apparently. Comforting thought as we rattled down the runway.
The Holguín Detour – A Stop We Didn’t Need
There was one stop on the way at Frank País Airport in Holguín, where we had to disembark. It’s a bigger airport, though inefficiency scales remarkably well. I’m not sure why the stop: refuelling, a loose wing? Andy’s only advice was, ‘wait a while.’ We ended up in the airport ‘lounge’ with 200 other passengers and ring-ins, five seats between us, and décor that suggested an abandoned school hall in Chernobyl. We were stuck there for more than two hours in thirty-five-degree heat and 1000% humidity, cooling via a single 30cm electric fan in one corner, doing absolutely nothing for morale. The airport began life as an air force base, later repurposed for commercial use in the 1960s, an early experiment in post-modern, brutalist, neo-shed architecture. Back on the plane, the flight to Baracoa took another hour. The journey consumed six hours in total; the actual flying time, about three. We arrived in Baracoa mid-afternoon, ready for our next adventure.
Baracoa, BnB Williams Montoya
With a short break and a snack at Williams Montoya BnB while rooms were sorted (Tones and I shared a room here), there was not much time to settle in as we were soon bundled back into the minibus that Jorge had driven overnight from Havana. We were headed for the obligatory cultural experience: a salsa lesson. Because what you really want after a long day of travel, waiting, sweating… is more sweating, just with extra hip action. There were murmurings of mutiny. Onay two, and the group was starting to fray at the edges – too hot, too tired, and wondering who thought this schedule was a good idea.
Dinner came next, on the terrace of a hillside restaurant overlooking Baracoa. The view was stunning—town lights below, the Bay of Honey stretching out beyond, and behind us the mountain range that keeps this place so isolated from the rest of Cuba.
Back inside, somewhere between entrée and main, the music kicked off. And then came the dreaded audience participation. Before I knew it, someone had shoved a pair of maracas into my hands and sent me shuffling around the tables, trying not to look like I’d lost a bet.
After dinner we all drifted into little groups for some free time. It was late, but the town was still alive. In Parque Central, locals gathered seated on the benches chatting, arguing, drinking and smoking. Kids running around like there’s no school tomorrow. It felt like half of the town was here and this was just a normal evening.
A local bar was thumping with live music. It was late and I was tired, so I headed back to the BnB, passing people on porches and front steps, TVs glowing behind them, music drifting from every direction—turned down a bit from earlier but still everywhere. Some stood patiently in doorways, as if it was all part of the norm, reluctantly keeping an eye on the night as it wandered by. Just life happening out loud.