region: Central America & Caribbean

Barbados

Want adventure? Prefer to drop and flop? Doesn’t matter. Here you can do as much of each as you want. To the west you’ll enjoy still blue waters ideal for swimming, and to the east there are surf-worthy waves ready to ride. No matter where you are, sun, sand and relaxation are never far away.

It’s known for its boat and sailing cruises, so hop on and sail away to sunbathe or snorkel among the crystal clear waters of the Atlantic. Barbados is not short of wildlife, so prepare yourself for a meeting with a wise old sea turtle or coloured schools of fish. Then get your camera ready for sceneries and sunsets worthy of a postcard.

Don’t tire yourself out during the day, as this humble island nation has a booming nightlife on offer, too. Mosey down streets lined with restaurants  ranging from simple to stylish. Barbados is home to one of the oldest rum distilleries in the world, too, so you’d be mad not to wrap your lips around a signature rum punch, perhaps accompanied by some reggae tunes, at one of the many bars.

Chasing Tequila Sunsets in Mexico

“You can snorkel, surf, sail, ride horses, scuba dive, explore lagoons by boat, mountain bike along ocean cliffs, and drink yourself silly (all in one day if you want). Or you can soak up the sun and read a book...”

This must be some sort of set-up, I thought as I read the opening paragraph of Lonely Planet’s guide to the Pacific Coast of Mexico. It was as if Tony Wheeler himself had been eavesdropping on my conversation the previous evening. “I really want somewhere we can surf, scuba dive and drink ourselves silly (all in one day if we want),” I’d said to my girlfriend. This was how I find myself heading out of Mexico City with a New Year’s Eve hangover and a desperate urge to dive into the remedy of the cooling Pacific.

Daredevils leap off a cliff. Click to view gallery

Mexico’s Pacific Coast is more than 2000 kilometres of pristine beaches dotted with tourist traps and secluded escapes. With only three weeks to explore, we decide to plot a course down the less touristy trail – away from the resort towns that fill with floral-shirted gringos from Mexico’s northern neighbour – and through the real Mexico where we could drink tequila with hombres rather than Homers.
The gateway to our beach haven is Acapulco, a town apparently still hungover from its famously hedonistic Hollywood holidays of the 1970s. John Wayne threw week-long parties at the Hotel Los Flamingos (still the best place to catch the sunset) and the rich and famous tanned themselves on the soft sand of Acapulco’s protected bays. While the hangover still lingers in the decor of that era, the dance music pumping these days from the streetside restaurants and bars reminds me of the atmosphere at Bali’s Kuta Beach. Acapulco is a place best embraced for just what it is: foam parties in nightclubs that spill onto the beach, street buskers, ritzy cocktail lounges and kerbside beer bars. Acapulco’s nightlife still lives up to its hype, with something for everyone.

Among the neon and nuisances in Acapulco are the La Quebrada cliff divers, whose daily shows are definitely worth seeing. Basically, twice a day a group of crazy but highly skilled Mexicans plunge off a 35-metre cliff (that’s more than three times higher than the high diving board at your local pool) into a narrow cove below. It’s quite an extraordinary spectacle, and to give you an idea of the risk, the divers pray at a shrine before plunging. Yes, there are plenty of tourists, but it’s well worth it anyway. Be wary though: the divers themselves prey on tourists afterwards for tips, although I’m almost certain a couple of the budgie-smuggler–wearing locals hustling for money were not the ones diving earlier in the day!

There’s no better way to while away an afternoon.
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Why leave the beach?
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We decide to fully embrace Acapulco by stepping right back into the 1980s, and so stay at Las Brisas, a pink monstrosity that sits on the southern hill facing Acapulco’s main beach, Playa Icacos. The Las Brisas lobby still has the preserved handprints of famous guests, Sylvester Stallone’s being the most prominent. Sly stayed at the hotel while filming Rambo: First Blood Part II nearby. While frighteningly kitsch – think guests driving pink golf carts – the continuing allure of Las Brisas lies in the rooms, all of which are perched on the cliff face with their own private pools. There is something quite special about eating a breakfast of fresh fruit served poolside while watching the hustle and bustle of Acapulco below.

But our trip to Mexico isn’t about the confines of hotels. We have a goal – to find the perfect Mexican sunset. We head north for a daytrip to Pie de la Cuesta, about half an hour north of Acapulco’s overcrowded and apparently polluted waters. With quiet beachside restaurants and bars and a perfect beach stretching into the distance, Pie de la Cuesta gives us a taste of what to expect once we move south, away from the tourist hordes. A bucket of margarita (make sure you ask for Jose Cuervo 1800 tequila), freshly barbecued squid and the sun sinking into the Pacific was exactly what we wanted and, after only three nights away, we wonder if it can get any better.

With the tourist experience behind us, we venture south down Highway Mex 200, along the long stretch of never-ending beach, with the Lonely Planet confined to the boot and a determination to stay where we want for as long as we want without any preconceived perceptions. When we see the sign for Playa Ventura, it evokes nothing more than a memory of a Jim Carrey film, which in our wandering frame of mind is enough motivation to turn off the highway.

The beautiful coast of Puerto Escondido.
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The next three days are a blur of sun, sand, surf, seafood, Corona and tequila. Time seems to disappear when you while it away on your own beach, the only stress a hot sand shuffle as you stroll to the beach bar. In the evening, the local square livens up with a few restaurants and La Jaladita, a bar run by Arturo, whose English and margaritas are more than entertaining. Ever the entrepreneur, Arturo also runs the local nightclub, which I think is his living room decorated with some neon and strobe lights. Nevertheless it proves to be a great spot to mingle with the locals, who all seem to venture back here.

Next stop Puerto Escondido – a town famous for its gnarly pipeline and surfer attitude. Busy like New York when compared to Playa Ventura, Puerto Escondido still has a certain charm. Beach bars and restaurants stretch along the sand and the buzz of excited surfers creates a lively atmosphere in the evening, with bands playing until the very wee hours of the morning. For a few pesos, you get a lounge on the beach and a waiter bringing you frozen margaritas all day. This proves to be irresistible and we stay a couple of extra days, contemplating a sky dive as we watch the parachutes float down in the afternoon sun. Thankfully the surf in Puerto Escondido is not at its most ferocious in January, so we’re able to swim in the crystal-clear water, diving under the odd larger wave that rolls through.

Highway Mex 200 winds south from Puerto Escondido through some surprisingly lush green countryside with scatterings of small villages. There mustn’t be any liquor licensing laws in Mexico, as it seems all one needs is a Corona banner and a table and chairs and you can run your own bar or restaurant. Corona banners line the roadside offering afternoon thirst-quenchers. Some of the bars even have staff dancing on the road to grab your attention. I’m not sure this tactic is entirely successful.

Making marine friends.

Our final beach visit is to Zipolite, a long stretch of sand backed by craggy cliffs and cacti. Like one of the three bears, Zipolite seems to fit perfectly between the slightly touristy Puerto Escondido and the nearly deserted Playa Ventura. We check into the stunning El Alquimista, a ramshackle collection of quite luxurious beach bungalows scattered around a beach bar resembling an old boat, then wander down to the beach, where a slow swell rolls in each afternoon. We rather quickly wander back off the beach, feeling slightly overdressed. There are no signs explaining that Zipolite is a nudist beach, nor are there warnings of nude frisbee players, nude surfers and nude conversationalists.

We decide the following day would be better spent on a snorkelling trip to the surrounding deserted bays, and are quietly thankful when the other passengers arrive with clothes. Halfway out of the first bay, our captain suddenly dives into the Pacific, only to surface bear-hugging a giant turtle. The boat empties as we all take the opportunity to swim into the depths with the turtle, who doesn’t seem overly happy with the extremely non-eco-friendly behaviour going on.

The turtle encounter, among others, illustrates the charm of Mexico’s south. In some ways the whole area still seems slightly lawless. There are bars that stay open until you finish your last drink, nightclubs in someone’s living room, bonfires on the beach and turtle-wrestling men – all set against the backdrop of sipping tequila as the sun sets.

Shake your Caribbean carnival booty

Rio might grab all the attention, but the flesh-flashing party that goes hand in hand with the mass participation Carnival in Trinidad and Tobago is every bit as explosively colourful and crazy, minus the crowds of tourists. Steel bands, elaborate costumes, stick fighting and limbo competitions all form part of the tropical two-day festival, which kicks off on different dates in February or March each year.

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It starts at 4am on the Monday before Ash Wednesday, with the main celebrations – masqueraders in costume, bands in competition and plenty of people watching on – taking over Tuesday.

Trinidad and Tobago

The Caribbean nation of Trinidad and Tobago has the requisite swaying palms, sun-kissed beaches and deserted coves you dream of while at your office desk during a dreary winter.

As well as being hot from a temperature point of view the country is also hot (smoking, even) in other ways. The islands’ past is checkered with the arrival of a variety of peoples; everyone from Arawak and Carib Indians to the ubiquitous European colonists who brought African slaves and workers from India, the Middle East and China with them. All of which makes for a diverse experience and some rather attractive residents. Then, of course, there are its reefs, birdlife and wildlife, which are also stunning.

If you can make it to Trinidad and Tobago for its annual Carnival (held in late March or early April) you’ll be captivated by the abandon and revelry – oh, and those barely there costumes. You’ll also be oh-so grateful if you can time your trip to get among the variety of other rowdy and vibrant festivals that populate the calendar.

Haiti

It may not top a list of must-see places (just yet, anyway), but for those avoiding the usual been-there-done-that destinations it has the Caribbean beaches without the tourists, as well as a rich sense of history and culture.

Since 2010’s devastating earthquake, the government has actively ensured tourism is developed. There are still signs of the devastation and certainly the dire poverty of the country is inescapable, but beneath it there is a soul that’s as fascinating as it is hopeful.

Spend some time visiting the artist studios of Jacmel before heading to Bassin-Bleu, a sort distance away, where you can cool off in waterfalls and turquoise pools. Cap-Haïtien, on the north coast, was once the richest city in the Caribbean but its glory has faded. Still, it’s a relaxed place that’s close to some gorgeous beaches, rum distilleries and Citadel Laferrière, the fortress built on top of a hill in the nineteenth century by one of the leaders of Haiti’s slave revolution.

Then there’s the chaotic capital Port-au-Prince. The gulf between the haves and have-nots here is as vast as anywhere in the world, but it’s a fascinating place to explore. Communities of artists have sprung from the rubble in places like the metal-working village of Noailles, you can find vodou paraphernalia at the city’s Grand Cemetery, and there’s much to be discovered at Marché de Fer, the nineteenth-century market.

Cuba

Cuba needs little introduction. Few nations evoke such strong images with the mere mention of their name – cigar-smoking revolutionaries, photogenic old-school cars and even older buildings. Add to the mix a fascinating history, stunning beaches, lush countryside and the ability to surprise you at every turn with the quirks of its unique branch of Communism.

You won’t be able to escape la musica, and why would you want to? Whether it’s watching traditional Son bands (think Buena Vista Social Club but better) or partaking in some rum and serious rumba, you will end up moving your feet and probably a lot more.

The phrase “now is the time to go” is often thrown around, but in this case you absolutely should. With US embargoes lifted and direct flights from the States now happening, the changes in this country where time seemed to stand still will be swift. See it while it still packs a hell of a punch.

Belize

If you’re looking for jungle and reef this small Central American nation, which was granted independence in 1981, delivers reams of both. About 60 per cent of its land mass is covered in forest, and areas like the Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary in south-central Belize have a spectacular diversity of flora and fauna, including jaguars, tapirs, howler monkeys, iguanas and toucans.

The Belize Barrier Reef is the second longest in the world – no prizes for guessing which one comes in at first – and has a huge number of brilliantly coloured corals and fish for those keen to jump into the warm, clear waters. Plenty of the action is accessible to snorkellers, but for divers this is paradise, particularly when you take into account the extraordinary Blue Hole.

This region was also once the centre of Mayan civilisation, and archeological sites, such as the temples of Xunantunich in the Cayo district, are dotted across the country. The Mayan population flourished in this part of the world between 1500BC and 900AD, and it’s thought that later in this era as many as a million people may have lived here. Caracol was one of the most important cities in the Mayan world. It was rediscovered by a logger in 1937 and today visitors can travel here to inspect Caana (the sky palace), which remains one of the largest man-made structures in Belize.

Anguilla

The Anguillans have held onto that laid-back attitude the West Indies are famed for. While lacking in the spectacular volcanic mountains and lush greenery of its neighbours, it more than makes up for it with a selection of drop-dead stretches of sand. Anguillian life is supremely relaxed – from five-star resorts to simple beach shacks playing live music and serving delicious fresh seafood, it is very easy to fall into the pace of the locals and wonder why anyone would want to leave.

The tranquility is offset by the annual Moonsplash Reggae Festival, which attracts such luminaries as Jimmy Buffet, Third World and Rita Marley. However, do check the weather report before embarking on a sailing trip or you may be blown away in a different way – Anguilla gets its share of hurricanes.

Crypts of the Diseased

Missing from many tourist maps, Chacarita Cemetery is Argentina’s largest graveyard and the stomping ground for the ghosts of yellow fever victims who have escaped from their derelict graves. Struck with the mosquito borne epidemic in 1871, up to 25,000 Argentines died with blood weeping from their eyes and mouths as they vomited bloody bile.

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The posh La Recoleta Cemetery refused infected bodies, so the city commissioned Chacarita as a place to bury thousands of unfortunate porteños (locals). So many bodies were packed into the earth that the authorities built a train line just to transport the dead. Tiptoe past cracked graves, peer into vandalised mausoleums and slather on high DEET bug spray to keep those deadly mozzies at bay.

Slow Road Through Cuba

Blue and red lights flash in the rear-view mirror. On closer inspection, it’s apparent they belong to a police motorbike, one that’s pursuing us like we’re driving the getaway car used during some audacious bank heist. With the wail of a siren, we pull over and I’m ordered out of the car.

The cop is dressed in a tight navy-blue uniform let down badly by a sagging paunch. He peppers me with rapid-fire questions.

My Spanish – far from fluent – simply can’t keep pace. If I’d been drinking rum, things might be different. Irrespective of the language being spoken, hard liquor transforms me into a gifted conversationalist. Sadly, however, I’m completely sober.

“Sobornar,” grunts the cop from beneath an immaculately trimmed moustache.

“Havana?” I venture hopefully. We back-and-forth like this for some time, until finally, exasperated, he waves me away in disgust, squeaking back to his bike in knee-high leather boots.

Back on the road I fumble for my dog-eared phrase book. ‘Sobornar’ means bribe.

Two old-timers serenade us from beneath the bandstand in Parque José Martí, Cienfuegos.
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School kids run alongside an old car in a Trinidad side street.
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We’re still laughing as we motor down the highway, swerving past cows, lunar-sized potholes and 1950s station wagons belching plumes of black smoke. Our stay in Cuba is only a few days old, but so far it’s all been a bit like this. Thanks to the legacy of revolutionary socialist politics spearheaded by Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara some 60 years ago, this is a country caught in a bizarre time warp. There is precious little internet, limited infrastructure and a currency system that rivals Einstein’s theory of general relativity in its complexity. As a result, many travellers opt to be bussed around on mindless package tours, but, along with a close friend, my wife and I have decided to rent a shitbox car and embark on a road trip from Havana to Trinidad. First stop: Cienfuegos.

It’s dusk when we arrive. We’ve booked into a casa particular – the Cuban equivalent of a B&B – but our email confirmation never arrived. This is not an uncommon occurrence in Cuba. Thankfully, owner Lorayne Sánchez, a beaming lady with an impressive afro, has enough connections to ensure sleeping on the street won’t be necessary.

A few blocks away, an elderly lady and her husband run Casa Anita. The front room is deliciously chintzy. Plates decorated with painted horses’ heads adorn a mantelpiece cluttered with ceramic pigs, doilies and creepy-looking clowns. There are rocking chairs, stuffed toys and, propped against the wall, a lime-green bike. It’s like a Stephen King nightmare meets the set of The Golden Girls.

On Sánchez’s recommendation, we dine at Pita Gorla, a family-run restaurant on the outskirts of town. Two men out front chop a shoulder of roasted pork, making ordering refreshingly straightforward. Massive portions are served with beans and rice, shredded cabbage, deep-fried plantain and red wine that is, in fact, port. The restaurant staff – at first clearly anxious we might be foreign prima donnas – seem to relax as we chow down, and frequently hover around our table to chat.

Literally translating to ‘one hundred fires’, Cienfuegos was founded in 1819 by pioneering French immigrants from Bordeaux and Louisiana. Its glory days, however, came in the 1850s with the arrival of a railway and the subsequent boom in the sugarcane trade. Suddenly flush with cash, local merchants pumped money into construction and the resulting neoclassical architecture, which helped gain the city a World Heritage listing in 2005, remains to this day.

Beachside in Trinidad: the perfect spot for a snorkel break.
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We’re here during wet season and the sky has once again turned the colour of ash. Horses pulling carts clop down streets slick with rain. Vintage cars that are slowly being devoured by rust flank footpaths. On a Saturday afternoon, strolling the well-ordered city centre, we notice bars filled with men drinking beer and watching baseball on television.

In Parque José Martí, the town’s main square, two old men sit beneath a glorieta (bandstand), taking shelter from the weather. One wears a flat cap and plays guitar, the other clutches a walking cane. Unexpectedly, they serenade us with a song about the revolutionary days of Che Guevara. It’s a moving moment that conjures memories of Buena Vista Social Club.

As a farewell to Cienfuegos, Sánchez invites us to dinner at Hostal Casa Azul. Her brother, known simply as ‘The Pope’, is preparing fresh lobster. Most casa particulares will ask for your dinner request in the morning, but the majority also gladly cook anything you buy from local street vendors or the market.

“I love Cuba,” says Sánchez while we sit at the kitchen table and plough steadily through a bottle of rum. “I would always come back here, but I wish we could travel.”

During the trip, this will become a common conversational theme. Education and health care are free here, but most Cubans only earn an average of between US$15 and $25 a month, essentially making them prisoners on their own island, as beautiful as it may be. The night ends in a haze and laughter as The Pope and I pose for photos with giant cigars. He gives me one to keep as a parting gift.

Back on the road, we trundle sheepishly past ubiquitous hitchhikers, a salsa CD picked up from a bar in Havana providing the soundtrack. Our car, not unlike the one driven by Bob Sala in the film adaptation of The Rum Diary, is barely large enough to accommodate the three of us and our backpacks, never mind any additional passengers.

Lush plantations flank either side of the crater-ridden ‘freeway’. We pass through villages where pensioners sit on porches and pigs are tied to trees in front yards. Farmers in cowboy hats drive tractors with thatched roofs. Men in ragged singlets hold pineapples aloft for sale on the roadside. Vintage Buicks are crammed with entire families sitting on one another’s laps.

Although Trinidad is just 80 kilometres from Cienfuegos, it takes several hours to get there. Built on sugar fortunes and slavery, the Spanish colonial jewel is characterised by undulating cobbled streets bordered by peeling pink, pistachio and other pastel-hued houses.

A man and mule wander the streets of Trinidad in the early morning.
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View of Trinidad and the Museo Histórico Municipal bell tower.
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From the central Museo Histórico Municipal we learn of the town’s history – pirates and unscrupulous sugar kingpins make for an intriguingly dark narrative during the guided tour – before climbing the rickety wooden staircase of the adjoining bell tower for panoramic views. The streets are cluttered with art galleries and hole-in-the-wall restaurants. At night, live bands perform in the cobbled courtyards of back-lane bars.

Trinidad’s dreamy time-warp feel has undoubtedly contributed to its appeal with tourists – far more so than Cienfuegos’s – but so has its location on the southern coastline. Just a 20-minute drive from the city, white sand beaches are punctuated only by the occasional beach shack or leather-faced old-timer renting snorkelling gear to use in the pristine waters.

Rather than retrace our steps, we head back to Havana via Santa Clara, a town known mainly for its bombastic Che Guevara monuments and revolutionary significance. At Monumento a la Toma del Tren Blindado, a smattering of train freight carriages marks the spot where, in 1958, Guevara and a ramshackle band of rifle-toting revolutionaries, using little more than a few homemade Molotov cocktails and a bulldozer, derailed an armoured train. The 90-minute battle was pivotal in Cuba’s history, effectively ending the rule of the Batista dictatorship and installing Fidel Castro, who was the prime minister, then president, for the next five decades. A short drive east, the Che Guevara Mausoleum houses the remains of the executed revolutionary and provides the detailed backstory of Cuba’s often-confusing socialist history.

Back in Havana, wave after wave of seawater smashes against the Malecón, the iconic waterfront esplanade spanning the coastline. As we venture further afield, the crumbling elegance of the city takes on a new perspective. Many of the buildings here are coming apart at the seams, but that really is an inherent part of the charm.

Cuba appears to have remained untouched by the passage of time. Sure there are cheesy Hemingway bars (the writer lived outside Havana for 20 years) and tacky package-deal resorts, but if you venture beyond the tourist traps, the rewards come in the most unexpected forms.

Our final night and another downpour sees us seeking refuge in a packed corner bar somewhere in the Old Town. In the pelting rain, the shutters have been rolled down, forcing what feels like an impromptu lock-in. In the corner, a band strikes up a tune, and with people hopping from bar stools to salsa to the rhythmic beat, the room soon becomes a blur of gyrating limbs. Ordering a generous pour of rum, I raise my glass to the scene. It seems a fitting end to a trip where unforgettable encounters lurked around every corner.