Varadero is Cuba on growth hormones, a sprawling resort complex that bears little or no relation to the country as a whole.
The setting itself is paradisiacal enough, a 20km swathe of unbroken white sand perched on the wafer-thin Hicacos Peninsula that could rival anything else in the Caribbean. United States chemical millionaire Iréné Dupont must have thought as much when he built his dream home here in 1930, a lavish art-deco mansion he duly christened Xanadu for its tempestuous ocean views and golden carpet of adjacent beach. He was promptly joined by Al Capone, President Batista and anyone else in Cuba who owned money.
Counting more than 50 hotels, 16,000 rooms and with 50 flights a week coming in from Canada alone, the resort has grown bigger by the year and, to some extent, is a victim of its own success. But tourists mean money and unsurprisingly, neither the all-out building spree nor the flocking vacation crowds who revel in the resort's exotic mix of sun, sand, sea, and - ah - socialism, are showing any signs of abating.
These days Varadero is an unkempt mix of the sublime and the ridiculous. There's plenty to do here, but the spread out facilities, uninspiring architecture and rather lackluster bar scene place the resort some way behind Florida and Cancún in terms of overall luxury.
Contrary to popular belief, Cubans are not banned from Varadero. In fact, in contrast to other more cut-off resorts such as Cayo Coco, integration is higher than you might first expect. At least one third of the peninsula is given over to a Cuban town of the same name which, while lacking the atmosphere of a Habana or a Santiago, still retains a rough semblance of everyday Cuban life.
Last updated: Nov 4, 2008
