Only the first on an organized tour, and then only because a bunch of us got a last-minute deal and organized our own group. If you can imagine ... $100 for an all-inclusive week (with flight) ... Most of my companions that time were Jewish, so we had a meeting with synagogue officials in Havana one day. Yiddish, the international language; except for the friend I was with, who didn't speak it, so I dug up a little old German and translated for him as best I could. That certainly didn't help with the whole third-language confusion thing when I later picked up Spanish.
Met Margaret Randall a couple of times during her sojourn there. (Not real impressed.) Bicycled around, between Havana and the beaches within 20 miles east. Travelled by local intercity bus (i.e. not tourist bus) to Santiago de Cuba, spent a few nights at the Hotel ... I thought it was Grande, but it seems to be Casa Grande; see some pix here:
http://www.flickr.com/search/?q=Hotel+Santiago+de+Cuba%20Santiago+de+Cuba&w=allOldest hotel in North America, I think. Complete with the requisite tropical cockroaches between the sheets, and no hot water, when there was water. Ah, that central plaza ... musicians playing til sun-up outside my window. Gorgeous musicians. ;)
And the museum at the Moncada barracks. Given the tour, and the prepared spiel, by a schoolkid; the museum is associated with a school. Got away without a scolding there, unlike a previous visit to a museum -- I decided to walk back to a room where I'd already been, because my friend had dallied there, and the guide would just have none of that wrong-way wandering around.
Got rousted off the bus in the middle of the night on the way back to Havana. My Spanish was crap, but the soldiers with guns doing the rousting didn't pay any attention to me anyhow. They asked a few questions of the others, made us walk through something, and put us back on the bus. I managed to figure out from my seat-mate that they were inquiring whether anyone was carrying pork products, and making us walk through a footwash, because of fears of spreading a pig disease from one province to another.
Had another run-in with the Cuban military once too. Bicycling east from Havana, I stopped for a drink and looked around and saw the most perfect view of the Havana harbour and skyline. Completely forgetting the (entirely reasonable) instructions not to photograph the harbour, I meandered across the road and over a ditch and started snapping. What I also wasn't noticing - seriously - was that I was wandering toward a military encampment. I got accosted and taken in front of the - again, seriously - colonel with one arm and an eye patch, and questioned. I was in horror of losing my film, which had all the xmas photos from the big day at my friend's house where I was staying in Havana. I produced my letter of introduction from the Canadian lefty lawyer organization, and was eventually given a mild scolding and handed something to sign, which the colonel explained to me was just a "medida"; looking that up didn't enlighten me. But when I saw
Ocupación: abogada socialista on the form, I figured I was home free. Me and my film went on our way. (And hm, that same expression was used in my regard years later, by an Iranian embassy operative, with not quite the same approval ...)
Oh, and the police. Bicycling back later that day, I decided to try to avoid going all the way around Havana Harbour; the road had heavy industrial traffic, and a truck had tried to run me down in a roundabout already that day, and it was just extra miles and I was tired. So I decided to take the tunnel ... with the tales of flash floods and drownings running through my head. There was a cat walk that I figured would do me (wasn't about to try to bike through it on the road; it's a very long tunnel, a good mile I'd guess). The catwalk got narrower and narrower, I got covered in grease from pressing against the wall on one side and the bike lost bits and pieces from hitting the railing on the other side ... and there were two cops waiting for me when I emerged. Much finger wagging and scolding. I figured that
yo soy canadiense was the answer to all misdeeds and stupidity on my part, but they shot that one down immediately by asking whether I rode my bike through tunnels in Canada. Well, I said, drawing myself up in proper indignation, in Canada, we have
bridges. Except that the word I decided to make up to say "bridge", going from the French
pont with a bit of adornment, doesn't mean "bridge" at all. Nonetheless, they waved me away.
Tales of an idiot abroad half the time, really. But never ever afraid of anything I did jeopardizing myself or anyone else. People I met were curious and friendly and usually very eager to show off the aspects of their lives that they were proud of ... not that they weren't also a little cynical about how things worked on occasion.