This is the Cuba I dreamed about

Damien Enright visits a friendly haven of resplendent nature

WE fell in love with Baracoa. The moment I set foot on the long, curving beach and saw the tall palms and coconut groves in the distance, beyond the Boca de Miel (the mouth of the River of Honey), and then saw the clear, sparkling waters of the river, with blue herons fishing the shallows, I knew I’d found it. Baracoa, a town of 80,000 in Oriente province, in the far south east of Cuba — at the end of the island of Cuba — was the place for me.

Oriente is the Cuba one might dream of: laid-back, replete with nature, crystal-clear rivers, dense jungles, a hundred varieties of trees, the Humboldt National Park, wherein can be found the tiniest bird in the world (2.5 inches) and the smallest frog (big as your thumbnail) and people who are as warm as the weather — ‘sunny’ is the best word. There is little or no hustling; in any case, everything is cheap.

It isn’t just the town, but its proximity to nature and the warm, Caribbean sea. There are no beach umbrellas or beach cafes; the beach is as nature made it, a two-kilometre curve of sand with a tideline of coconut husks, sea shells, exotic seed pods and occasional tree trunks. On the entire stretch, there are no more than half a dozen other people. The fringe of mangroves and coconut palms offers shelter from the sun, and divides the beach from the river where the blue herons, green herons (beautiful birds with a grey-blue cap and a cowl the colour of red wine) and tricoloured herons that dash in and out of the shallows are wonderful to watch. Big, blue kingfishers dive from the trees.

Most engaging of all is human life along the river. Children play along the banks. Fishermen cast small nets in the shallows. A barefoot boatman poles residents, and the occasional foreigner, across the short stretch of water to a hamlet of two dozen wooden houses, the homes of fishermen and coconut farmers. He is tall, good-looking and touching 70. There is mighty fun when the boat fills up with women, all chatter and banter. A luxuriant hillside covered in royal palms 40 feet tall is the backdrop. It is the kind of tropical scene one might see in a dream.

Cuba was Columbus’s second landfall in the New World. He thought he had arrived in China and sent two officers ashore to greet the Chinese king. They met the local Amerindian people, the Taino, who graciously introduced them to their sacred herb, tobacco. The Spaniards became addicted. Columbus planted a cross and sailed away. Twenty years later, Baracoa became Cuba’s first town.

One can walk through the town centre in five minutes and then be in streets where chickens roam and cockerels crow. These are not, and never were, slum streets, albeit many homes are in disrepair, among them fine, old colonial houses with columns and colonnades. If the Irish are fearless with paint, the Cubans would win the Victoria Cross for colour. The combinations are beautiful in the sunlight and striking at night.

Cubans are a people blessed with fine physiques and good looks, dressed in clothes that look like they have come straight from the laundry. The streets are impeccably clean.

The Miel, the honey river, isn’t the only one entering the sea nearby; we’ve spent afternoons beside sparkling watercourses in deep jungle, yet only 15 minutes from a road. No traffic noise; in Cuba, even the main roads are all-but traffic-free. In our self-contained room and terrace, in a private house two minutes from the town centre, we are woken by cock crow. The bay lies before us and a hillside of palms, breadfruit trees and mangoes behind. Baracoa is a place one could stay for some time.