"Women use their charms, men must use their wallets," our tour guide informed us. He was referring to the many people lining the roads, the men holding up a fan of notes in their hands to passing motorists, desperately trying to hitch a ride.

This might not sound unique, but in Cuba it is sheer necessity, driven by the fact that there is no public transport. To counteract this state of affairs, officials clad in mustard-yellow suits flag down cars with blue number plates.

Their task is government-sanctioned and they may legitimately stop any government-owned vehicle (blue licence plates), ask their destination, and oblige them to take passengers on board for a small sum of money.

These traffic controllers may not stop cars with yellow plates (usually those privately owned, wonderful 1950's vintage cars for which the country is deservedly famous), green plates (military), light brown (owned by foreign companies etc) or red (hire cars).

The lack of official transport also accounts for an array of wonderful sights: horse-drawn carts bowling along jauntily with the entire family (and its dogs) on board, ancient trucks packed to the gunwales with people standing like so many upright sardines and bicycle rickshas plying their trade.

Even more extraordinary is that most of those reduced to such transport have a smile on their faces and are obviously enjoying the ride.

I have never travelled with a more congenial group of people than on my recent visit to Cuba, and a friend who had a similar experience with her group remarked, "I think there is something about the people of Cuba that brings out the better nature of travellers so we all get along better than we might elsewhere."

Maybe we were all humbled by the vibrant approach to life and the cheerfulness of the locals, despite shortages of even the most basic commodities and long queues for just about everything.

The country's ration books make one's stomach rumble in dismay. Residents are entitled to one fish and a quarter of a chicken every two weeks, about eight (though some say four) eggs a month, rice, and perhaps milk powder in special cases.

Even soap and detergents are rationed and shampoo is available in special stores at a price only affordable to those with access to foreign currency. Shampoo is obviously not regarded as an essential commodity.

People in the streets often make a rubbing motion on their arms as they approach tourists. They are asking for soap.

The farmers' markets are where residents can buy vegetables, lamb and pork but beef may not be sold. Cows are regarded as the property of the government and lead an almost sanctified life.

If a cow dies the farmer has to send for a vet to prove it was not in suspicious circumstances - and even then, the carcass is not his to dispose of.

Despite fields of contented cows, milk seems to be in short supply. Visitors, of course, do not eat so spartanly, and the favourite way to dine is to visit a paladar - a restaurant run, with government approval, from a private home.

Street lights are almost non-existent in country towns, where the light spilling out from house porches is all people have to see by, and even in the big cities like Havana many of the streets are dark or lit by very dim lights. This does not deter people from taking to the streets at night to enjoy the cool night air rather than remain indoors with no air-conditioning.

Singing and dancing is legendary. It is impossible to sit down to a meal anywhere without a performing group rendering Cuban music. Invariably, this is cheerful and evocative, though it becomes costly as one is expected to put money in the hat to express appreciation. When an array of entertainers trooped through, it would seriously strain the budget.

At night the locals have envious foreigners agape at their nimble feet, swish routines and dancing skills as they set the dance floor alight in the ubiquitous Cuban salsa. Never a shy violet myself, I shrunk into the shadows when the locals were on the floor. I only dared to dance with one of the girls in our group (the men glued their bottoms adamantly to their chairs) when the Cubans were not in competition.

Alcohol does not seem to be necessary to inspire such enthusiasm. Those fortunate enough to have inherited a car (only salsa/ soccer/singing stars can afford or are allowed to buy a new one) are obviously extra cautious, for good reason.

There are no breathalysers, the police simply smell a suspected culprit's breath and if there's a whiff of alcohol, a driver can have his licence suspended for 90 days. If three driving offences are recorded, the licence is lost for life.

Shoe-shiners abound on every corner of this life in the slow lane, giving worker and client a chance to gossip.

The narrow roads are potholed, with just one or two "highways". Buildings are all decaying, but there's still an air of former glory about them, and much of the architecture is elaborate and evocative - all part of the island's considerable charm.

There are plenty of revolutionary monuments and squares; tour guides - with little definable bitterness - talk proudly of the island's history and of how the American embargo has driven the country into the corner in which it now finds itself - with few countries to trade with because its superpower neighbour has put the screws on many would-be trading nations.

This is also a country where doctors are among the most poorly paid, while an uneducated farmer can probably command a better income.

Apart from the lifestyle, there is much to attract the visitor. During the course of my two-week tour (I had some years ago cherished fond hopes of travelling alone around the island which, given the lack of public transport, proved to be a pipe dream) with a British company, there was a diversity of things to see and do.

We visited the infamous Bay of Pigs (scene of the would-be American invasion) and savoured the colonial delights of Trinidad, established by French settlers fleeing a slave revolt in Haiti. The nearby valley once housed no fewer than 48 sugar mills. Until recent years, sugar was the island's main export.

We were transported in ancient Russian trucks into the Topes de Collantes National Park, where we hiked in the lush Escambray mountains and spent our nights sleeping on the verandahs of different villas.

Despite the slowness and lack of comfort, the trucks would have been a great way to view the entire country - and they would no doubt have coped better with the lethal potholes in the roads.

In the national park colourful humming birds and the country's national bird, the Cuban trogon, added to the spectacle, as did swirling mists. And a swim in a crystal-clear river, beneath plunging cascades, was pure pleasure. We also took in a coffee plantation and savoured the local blend against an enchanting backdrop.

Plagued by pirates

Hiking up to La Commandancia de la Plata (Castro's guerrilla headquarters in the mountains in the extreme south of the island) was also special. The fact that rain had bucketed down and the path was muddy and slippery underfoot all added to the atmosphere, helping one to picture what it would have been like to be hiding out in these jungles.

Santiago de Cuba is one of the towns that was plagued by pirates. Consequently, the streets are a maze of alleys spiralling out in all directions to try to confuse would-be raiders. The museum, in an imposing fort overlooking the harbour entrance, told the history of pirates, buccaneers and brigands.

Naturally, pictures and posters of the inimitable revolutionary Che Guevara are everywhere, and his mausoleum in Santa Clara is tasteful and peaceful.

In Vinales we hiked among the limestone outcrops (or magotes), which pop out above this remarkable landscape, though again torrential rain made walking difficult.

Since they had been hit by three hurricanes not long before our visit, the famous tobacco-drying barns and fields of Vinales had been almost obliterated.

Which brings us to the cigar rollers. Previously, as they set about their task, they listened to a foreman or woman read them classics such as The Count of Monte Cristo or Romeo and Juliet - which is how these two famous brand names were chosen for the world's most famous cigars.

There are several cayos (keys) to choose from if you like a beach holiday, but even if you never leave Havana you can soak up amazing atmosphere.

Its hotels alone conjure up visions of Al Capone taking over two floors of the Hotel Seville, the Inglaterra with its amazing ceramics and decorative ceilings, the 100-year-old Plaza or Ernest Hemingway popping into his favourite pubs for a daiquiri or mojito.

Another popular pastime is wandering along the promenade, which stretches for kilometres along the seashore, and watching the locals soak up the joys of life.

However, those postcards you might have seen of an array of interesting people smoking a cigar are all posed in an attempt to persuade the tourist to part with his Cuban convertibles.

Even the man I encountered playing soulfully on a saxophone was not really engrossed in his music - when I snapped him, he instantly called out, "One Cuban peso, por favor."