Fort Lauderdale International Airport has its very own platform 9 and 3/4s, only instead of taking wizards to Hogwarts, it takes military personnel, contractors and the occasional journalist to the Guantanamo Bay naval base.

When I checked in for my flight I was expecting ultra high security, but it's all very casual. No boarding card, just a little scrap of paper with the words "Gate J1" on it. But check the departure screens and J1 isn't listed. And no one's really sure what time the plane leaves. "It should be arriving about 5, so we'll be able to leave around 5.15. Come back in half an hour." Half an hour later: "It's not here yet. Come back. Don't worry, we won't leave without you."

Eventually someone comes over and says, "OK, let's go. Do you need the bathroom? There's no bathroom on the plane." We walk through the mysterious Gate J1 that's tucked away behind the check-in desk, straight on to the tarmac. There's a tiny little 10-seater propeller plane standing there and we all climb in. It's even tinier on the inside. "A few security announcements," the pilot says. "No smoking. In case of emergency, pull this handle and step on to the wing and mind the propeller, it might still be spinning." OK, and then what do we do? Jump? Shouldn't I have a parachute? No one else seems worried, though, so I man up and pretend I'm not either.

We take off and spend the next four hours flying over the Caribbean. It's beautiful. A few hours in as it starts to get dark, you can see lightening storms on the horizon. Again, beautiful - as long as they keep their distance. There's nothing but ocean below us: American planes can't enter Cuban airspace so we have to go around the island to the Southern tip before we can head inland. I fall asleep and wake up just in time to see the landing strip come out of nowhere. We get out, a dog sniffs our bags and we show our entry clearance forms. Good to go.

Someone is there to meet me and he takes me to the small ferry that runs between the windward and the leeward sides of the base. It's 10 o'clock at night but still warm and humid. I spend the short boat ride looking at the incredible array of stars in the sky and chatting with my escort. He's from Wisconsin and had never seen the ocean until he came to Cuba.

Driving to the accommodation office, we pass a row of big stone pillars each bearing a letter that spells out "Honor Bound." That's short for "Honor Bound to Defend Freedom" - a slogan you see everywhere at Guantanamo. I check in, get my swipe card and I'm taken to where I'm staying. I'm expecting some kind of army barracks or hostel, but we pull into a small cul-de-sac, lined with identical two-up, two-down white houses. Turns out I have my very own suburban American home for the next three days.

There's a living room, dining room, kitchen, patio and an acacia tree in the garden. It's nicer than where I really live. I feel like I should throw a Tupperware party or Fourth of July barbecue. Instead, I flip on the TV. AFN - which I think is short for American Forces Network - is on. Tommy Lee Jones is a tough-but-fair army trainer teaching Nicholas Cage to fly an Apache helicopter, during the course of which he'll no doubt also learn to become a real soldier, honor bound to defend freedom. Yeah, whatever. I'm going to bed. It's late and I'm beat. And they keep army time here - I have to be ready to go at six-thirty. Oh boy.

Also read Hermione Gee's blog Holiday in Guantanamo