When a group of white people with holiday cornrows get on board the bus taking us on our wildlife excursion, I suppose we must all be going on different trips. A French man with a Scooby-Doo tattoo sporting nothing but a pair of Y-fronts swaggers aboard.
My husband and I have been travelling around Cuba for ten days, and are now treating ourselves to a $99 trip on a catamaran to be awe-inspired by dolphins in their natural habitat. We are also loaded with blistering rum hangovers from the night before.
Arriving at the port the catamaran isn’t the nifty little cruiser I’d imagined. It’s a huge, white whale of a thing, with capacity for 70 people. To my dismay, everyone on the bus climbs aboard. But within minutes I spot two ospreys perching on parched red mangrove trees. It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to see ospreys. ‘Osprey!’ I exclaim.
I check through binoculars in case I’ve mistaken these unmistakable birds but no, they are osprey. I call out again, ‘There are two osprey, just there!’
No one turns around.
Pumping music explodes from the bar: a heady combination of reggaeton, Europop and ‘80s bangers. The beats awaken a primal gene in the watch of seamen. Everyone – except for a refined Spanish family who look as alarmed as I feel, lurches to the bar. Luminous red liquid awaits in plastic cups, into which our Ahab pours Cuban measures of rum. The descent into grottiness is fast. It dawns on me. This is not a nature trip.
‘Oh god.’ I turn to my husband, who’s trying not to throw up. ‘I think this is a booze cruise.’
‘Fuck,’ is all he can manage.
