“Getting sick on the road is just part of the deal.”
Whenever I say that, people often laugh and tell me I must be physically weak. Of course, staying healthy during a trip is always preferable. But unexpected situations and changes in physical condition are bound to happen. Pushing through stubbornly, just to stick to an itinerary out of a sense of obligation—is that really even traveling anymore? Lying sick in bed in some far-off land, I’ve often found my thoughts drifting to this question, the famous words of the master poet Basho about the journey itself echoing in my mind. This is the story of one such journey: a trip across Cuba in 2013, derailed by a high fever that forced a change of plans.
Like many a casual traveler, I can hardly boast a life dedicated to rigorous sports or daily physical training. Still, I fancied I’d built up a decent amount of stamina and resilience for travel. I’d navigated my share of challenges: arguing with non-English-speaking taxi drivers before hiking several kilometers with my luggage, surviving for days on nothing but energy bars and supplements in a remote temple lodging, finding safe spring water in forests untouched by modern sanitation concepts. I’d overcome more than a few difficulties. While serious bouts of illness weren’t unheard of, I’d usually managed to recover on my own by adjusting my plans and resting—perhaps thanks to good travel karma.
My return to Cuba in 2013 was prompted by the diplomatic thaw initiated by the Obama administration. Learning that preparations were underway for reopening embassies and establishing direct commercial flights, a rather ignoble thought crept into my mind: “Are ordinary Americans finally going to be allowed to visit Cuba? Will hordes of tourists soon descend?”
I had first visited Cuba in the mid-1990s and was utterly captivated by its unique world: the charismatic people and culture of Latin America, the distinct atmosphere stemming partly from its socialist system, and the surreal situation of being geographically close to the US, yet almost entirely devoid of American tourists (though I generally quite like cheerful Americans). I’d been looking for a chance to return ever since. Seeing the news in 2013, I decided that if I was going back, it had better be soon—while the unique Cuban atmosphere remained strong, before the potential onslaught of American tour groups changed everything. You could say Obama’s policy gave me the push, but my reasons were undeniably base.
From Tokyo, I flew Air Canada to Havana via Toronto. At the time, Cuba’s popularity as a tourist destination was surging globally (outside the US), with direct flights from major European cities increasing. Since direct flights from the US were virtually nonexistent, the standard routes from Japan involved transiting through major Canadian cities or Mexico City.
Upon arrival in Toronto, the connecting flight to Havana later that day was completely full, packed with groups and families of casually dressed Canadians. With no time difference between Toronto and Havana and a flight time of only about three and a half hours, it seemed like a relatively easy travel choice for them—akin to Japanese people heading from Tokyo to a Southeast Asian resort city.
My plan for this Cuban journey was to start in Havana, then travel overland by highway bus along the southern coast of the island, stopping in cities like Cienfuegos and Trinidad over the course of a week, eventually reaching Santiago de Cuba, about 800 kilometers southeast of the capital. Santiago de Cuba is a city etched in world history, the site of key events in the Spanish-American War and the Cuban Revolution. I hadn’t finalized my return route, but since my departure was booked on Air Canada from Havana, I hoped to fly the domestic state airline, Cubana de Aviación, from Santiago back to the capital. If the aircraft happened to be an old Soviet Antonov, Ilyushin, or Tupolev, that experience itself would be another story to bring home.
Thanks to the boisterous Canadian tourists on the plane, I barely felt the thrill of arriving in a faraway land or the excitement of my long-awaited return to Cuba as the aircraft touched down at Havana’s José Martí International Airport. Peering out the window as we taxied, the airport scene, already draped in the cloak of night, seemed largely unchanged from my visit some 15 years earlier. The only obvious difference was the number of large jets belonging to European airlines parked on the tarmac.
I took a taxi to the Malecón, the grand seaside boulevard connecting Old Havana and the newer parts of the city, and checked into a hotel with a charmingly retro feel. From my room’s balcony, I could see the coast. It was nearing midnight, but perhaps because it was the weekend, the seawall stretching for kilometers was lined with couples, groups of friends, and families, some chatting animatedly, others quietly gazing at the night sea. Small stands selling drinks and snacks were dotted along the way. A slow, contented passage of time filled the air.
The next morning, I immediately set out to roam the streets of Havana. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue. The air was humid, but the occasional morning sea breeze felt wonderful. I wondered how hot the day would become.
I wandered through the cobblestone backstreets of Old Havana, which retains its 16th-century character, explored Revolution Square, and stopped by La Floridita, the bar Hemingway frequented.
As expected, colorful classic American cars cruised the streets. It wasn’t quite the “time capsule” situation of the past—where 1950s and 60s cars remained in active service simply because the revolution had abruptly cut off trade with the US. Now, the classic vehicles seemed more like carefully maintained tourist resources. Some were even parked as if on display, with elderly European tourists happily snapping photos – a typical tourist-spot scene.
At night, the sounds of live Cuban music and jazz sessions spilled out from bars and restaurants everywhere. This vibrant energy, unique to Cuba, hadn’t changed in 15 years. As I stood on the street, letting the Latin rhythms move me, one of the musicians inside motioned for me to come in, without missing a beat. “Gladly,” I thought, settling into a seat inside and ordering a beer. After enjoying a few live songs, I decided it was a good time to leave. As I got up, the same musician approached me, asking for a considerable tip. “Was this always a thing in Cuba (a socialist country)?” I wondered, feeling conflicted. Is this what happens everywhere when tourism, especially driven by Europeans, takes off?
The following day was spent meandering through back alleys, along the coast, and through parks, vaguely observing the rhythm of Cuban life. The air everywhere, naturally, was thick with Caribbean heat. Sweat poured off me, making the ice cream from street stalls and shops an irresistible temptation. People on the street were dressed in bright, colorful clothes and seemed full of life. When I spoke to them, they responded with kindness and smiles. Even when I addressed them in English, they often replied cheerfully in rapid-fire Spanish, which I found rather pleasant. Tourism growth might bring changes, but I felt a warmth spread through me, realizing that the essence of “Cuban-ness” perhaps lies in the spirit of its people.
As evening approached, I was walking back to my hotel, reflecting on the very obvious fact that some things had changed in 15 years and others hadn’t, when I felt something wrong with my body. A fierce headache struck, accompanied by fatigue and a dull, feverish ache throughout my muscles. Something was clearly, terribly wrong. I lay down on the bed in my room. I definitely had a fever. Intensely thirsty, I drank mineral water and cooled my head with ice from the front desk, but a sharp pain in my back began to spread insidiously through my body.
Sleepless and hazy, I stared up at the ceiling and noticed the old, slowly rotating ceiling fan wobbling precariously. In my current state, I realized, I wouldn’t even be able to dodge it if it fell. A direct hit to the head or face could be fatal. Adding a facial laceration to a mysterious high fever abroad… that would be truly miserable. Lost in these morbid thoughts, I somehow drifted off until morning.
My condition didn’t improve the next day. Sustaining myself on emergency food supplies brought from Japan, I tried connecting to the hotel’s spotty Wi-Fi to search for nearby hospitals, but it seemed unlikely I’d find one capable of handling things in Japanese, or even English. Asking the front desk for help felt risky; I doubted they could accurately understand my symptoms in English, and I desperately wanted to avoid further trouble stemming from miscommunication.
My immediate goal became acquiring some common over-the-counter painkillers or antibiotics whose effects I understood. I dragged myself to a nearby pharmacy. I vaguely recalled reading somewhere that Cuba, thanks to its Soviet-era ties, had developed a strong healthcare system and advanced pharmaceutical technology, with Cuban medicines being the standard in Latin America for a long time… Whether this memory was accurate or just wishful thinking didn’t matter; in a crisis, it offered a sliver of hope, something to cling to.
As it turned out, the medicine I got from the kind pharmacist (complete with English instructions) was made in Argentina. Whether that was good or bad, I couldn’t say. “Argentinian pharmaceutical standards must be high,” I told myself, again based on almost nothing, and took the pills. After a while, I thought I felt slightly better. I wondered if this was how a European falling ill in East Asia during the Edo period might have felt after being prescribed traditional Chinese medicine and starting to recover.
After spending another full day in bed, I resolved to go to a general hospital without hesitation if I didn’t improve. Around that time, although my head was still foggy, I found I could move my body somewhat. Based on my amateur research, it seemed likely I was suffering from a heatstroke-like condition brought on by lack of sleep before departure, the long flights, and then exerting myself in the tropical climate.
Since I could manage to eat a little, I considered my next move. My return flight from Havana via Toronto could be rescheduled, but retreating from Cuba immediately felt unsatisfying. I understood that health should be the top priority, yet Cuba’s healthcare environment seemed relatively decent (compared to 15 years ago), and sizable towns likely had adequate medical facilities. More importantly, recalling the relaxed smiles of the Cubans in Havana, I felt that even if I collapsed somewhere along the way, the worst probably wouldn’t happen. Based on a traveler’s gut feeling, I decided to press on.
I headed to Havana’s long-distance bus terminal. My destination via the VIAZUL highway bus was Cienfuegos, about 230 kilometers southeast.
The bus and the highway were surprisingly comfortable. Simply sitting relaxed on the bus, I didn’t feel too bad or uncomfortable. Relief washed over me—continuing the journey felt like the right decision—and just as my mood started to lift, we arrived in Cienfuegos. I hadn’t booked a hotel there, so I approached one of the self-proclaimed “official guides” milling around the bus terminal, asking for a recommendation for clean, affordable lodging within walking distance. He smiled and led me to one. The past few days had clearly taken their toll; even my familiar backpack, whose weight I usually ignored, felt painfully heavy to carry.
The place he took me to, though called a “hotel,” was actually a guest room in a local woman’s home—a casa particular. But staying there offered a perfect chance to experience the unhurried local way of life. When I told the friendly woman, my host, that I was recovering from an illness and not feeling my best, she didn’t bat an eye. “The café next door is good for meals,” she said with a kind smile. “And it’s close.”
Indeed, staying at this casa, mostly napping and eating simple soups at the neighboring café-slash-diner, I could feel myself gradually regaining strength.
In Cienfuegos, I took slow walks, visiting a museum and the coast. With a population of about 100,000, it lacked major tourist attractions, but this quiet city facing an inner bay, lined with beautiful Spanish and French colonial architecture, was constantly refreshed by the Caribbean breeze. Its calm vibrancy, different from Havana’s bustle, felt exotic. “Hey,” I thought, my spirits lifting further, “this city is perfect for my recovery!”
Experiencing firsthand how a few days of slow-paced living could be so restorative, I wondered if travelers in ages past recovered from illnesses in much the same way. The next morning, I thanked my host, said goodbye, and moved on to Trinidad, further east.
Trinidad is an old Cuban colonial town, incredibly beautiful with its historical buildings, old streetscapes, and cobblestone lanes sprawling over hills. It attracts many domestic and international tourists, offering a blend of local life and tourist buzz. While wandering the streets, I happened to fall into step with a middle-aged European couple. After exchanging the traveler’s essential greetings—“Where are you from? Where are you headed?”—I learned they were French. They must have been quite fond of Japan, as they complimented my “samurai-like journey style” and expression. “Ah, it’s not that I look like a samurai,” I mumbled, “it’s just that I still have a slight fever and I’m shuffling along in silence…” Hearing this, the wife exclaimed, “Oh, that’s terrible! Here, take this medicine. It’s a French travel cure-all!” She handed me two pills and a bottle of mineral water.
The kindness of strangers on the road. I was grateful, but… a cure-all? What on earth was it? Still, such gestures while traveling are more than just welcome; they’re deeply moving. I decided to keep the pills as a travel talisman. “Merci, Monsieur et Madame,” I said. (After returning home, I found out the pills were just a common over-the-counter pain reliever in France).
Walking the beautiful cobblestone streets, my head still a bit fuzzy, I contemplated my next step. Here I was, in the heart of Cuba. Should I continue towards my original destination, Santiago de Cuba? It was still over 500 kilometers away. Although I felt significantly better and sensed it wasn’t a serious illness, I wasn’t fully recovered. The fact that I hadn’t shaken off this condition after more than three days was unsettling. Could some other symptom suddenly appear? Further on, finding a decent hospital might be possible, but finding an English-speaking doctor likely wouldn’t be easy.
In Trinidad, watching energetic local students pass by, I wrestled with the decision for half a day. I decided to cut my Cuba stay short and retreat to Toronto. If my condition worsened, Canada offered better medical support, and from there, direct flights to Japan were available. I can’t fully explain my feelings at that moment. It was partly a traveler’s intuition, perhaps a gut feeling. Continuing the journey in that state also felt somehow disrespectful to the Cuban people. Cuba would always be there, waiting. Changing plans, retreating—that too, I reasoned, is part of the journey.
Looking at the map, the nearest international airport to Trinidad was in Varadero, 300 kilometers away. Varadero, about 150 kilometers east of Havana, is a high-end resort area famous for its stunningly beautiful Caribbean beaches.
I ducked into a small office of Cubatur, the state-run travel agency, in Trinidad and asked to book a flight on Cubana de Aviación from Varadero to Toronto for the next day. A cheerful and efficient female staff member quickly handled the arrangements, explaining the connecting highway bus details to Varadero International Airport with a smile and meticulous care. It was professional work, true hospitality. As the clear-eyed young Cuban woman handed me the ticket with a gentle kindness, a fleeting, unworthy thought crossed my mind: “Maybe there are good reasons to stay in Cuba just a little longer…” But that’s just between us.
The next morning, after a highway bus and an airport shuttle, I arrived at Varadero International Airport. Just like on the way in, groups of Canadian tourists were behaving boisterously. The Cubana aircraft, unfortunately, wasn’t a vintage Russian or Soviet model, but a modern Airbus. The flight attendants seemed listless, wearing expressions of weary resignation towards the overly excited Canadians as they provided remarkably basic in-flight service. It was a fascinating scene, like a microcosm of North and Central American realities condensed into one cabin.
After spending a few days in Toronto getting my bearings, I boarded the flight to Tokyo. By then, my health was almost back to its usual state. Maybe I could have pushed on to Santiago de Cuba after all. But no, I wanted to believe that choosing not to go was the right decision. Cuba, I was sure, would wait for me again.
Upon arrival at Narita, I deviated from my usual silent passage through the quarantine counter and honestly reported my symptoms and experience in Cuba. The quarantine officer followed procedures and instructed me to undergo detailed examinations at the National Center for Global Health and Medicine hospital in Shinjuku. When I went to the hospital two days later, I discovered they had a dedicated “Travel Clinic”—I was delighted, feeling like I’d stumbled upon a secret world prepared just for travelers. The examination and tests confirmed no particular problems; the diagnosis was, just as I’d suspected back in Cuba, a high probability of a heatstroke-like condition resulting from exhaustion. Over a decade later, I remain in good health, so it seems I wasn’t seriously ill after all.
Because so much of that time remains hazy, the trip truly felt like a dream. Yet, perhaps precisely because of that, I was able to see and hear things slowly, to experience Cuba with a more open heart.
As for US-Cuba relations since then? Donald Trump’s presidency reversed much of the Obama-era progress, and subsequent repair under President Biden proved difficult. The direct flights between the US and Cuba, briefly operational, were phased out by 2019 and completely eliminated during the ensuing COVID-19 pandemic.
Now that the world’s skies are reopening to travelers, I want to resume this interrupted Cuban journey from 2013. I intend to embark on the second half: reaching Santiago de Cuba, the destination I reluctantly abandoned. Thanks to falling ill, thanks to ending the trip with unfinished business, I now have a concrete reason to revisit Cuba. Difficult things happen, both to ourselves and to the world, but perhaps they aren’t always entirely negative. Maybe this is how the journey continues, indefinitely.
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