This trip started in Australia. When I went there last year, I bought a round-the-world ticket as it seemed a shame to travel so far and not seem some other bits of the planet. I hadn’t actually planned being an entire year in Australia, so by the time I got to use the return leg, the ticket had almost expired.
As a result, my leaving of Australia was quite rushed and lastminute.com-ish. The stuff I was shipping home (another box for the old mans attic, sorry Pop) was literally dropped off, half-sealed, on the way to the airport. Thanks to all who helped in my getting out and apologies to any who I didn’t get to catch up with before vamoosing.
As the plane took off, Qantas started their video presentation with that lovely ad they made with that children’s choir in white shirts in various beautiful parts of the globe. The verse goes something like:
‘I’ve been to cities that never close down,
From New York to Rio and to Old London Town,
But no matter how far or how wide I roam,
I still call Australia home’
Now maybe it was fatigue (I hadn’t been to bed in about 36 hours), or maybe it was all the great friends I was leaving behind, or perhaps a new found love for my latest homeland or maybe it was the fact that the melody of that song is very similar to “the Mountains of Mourne”, a veritable classic of my own homeland, or maybe it was just my sentimental side getting the better of me, but it was all I could do to stop sobbing my little heart out as those kid were singing. I was glad I was sitting alone. Emotional overload.
After 16 hours and four seats to myself, I woke up in LA feeling quite refreshed. I checked through to Chicago as quickly as possible, and the nice man told me that he would put me on the Grand Canyon side of the plane for the trip to the Windy City. To be honest I failed to see anything grand or canyon-like on the trip despite having my nose pressed against the glass most of the way there. Perhaps the coy old canyon was saving herself for another trip.
When I originally booked a stop in Chicago, I had half a notion to crash a friends wedding if the timing allowed. Alas I was a few weeks too late, and thinking she was on her honeymoon, completely screwed up getting in touch with her too.
The other purpose was to see the Field of Dreams. If any of you remember the slightly corny but somewhat magical movie with Kevin Costner, you’ll remember that it was about a corn field in Iowa and one mans illogical passion for his sport: baseball. If any of you read Tom Humphries of the Irish Times on a regular basis, you may also recall a huge road trip he did in the US with his two daughters a couple of years ago, which culminated in the same small cornfield in Iowa and the same sense of wonder and magic. One of my favourite movies (I know, I have no shame) and by far, my favourite journalist, combined to make it a must-see destination.
The journey had some good omens too. The nice man who shuttled me from O’Hare Airport to the car-rental depot asked me if I was heading downtown. I replied, a little bashfully, that I was actually heading out to Iowa. When he enquired if I had relatives out there, I felt I had to explain my mission. It turned out that he is a retired major leagues umpire, who works 4 hours a day as shuttle driver just to get out of the house. The other highlight of his life, is going out to a cornfield in Iowa on an annual basis, to umpire a celebrity baseball game.
Sometime after the sun had set, I picked up my little white non-descript rental car and hit the highway. About 10 minutes later, I found myself passing the rental depot again, and hit the highway again.
The road trip was pretty interesting. Once I got my head around driving on the other side, and the fact that there are white lines where there should be yellow and vice-versa, I started to search the airwaves for some nice blues or jazz to accompany my trip. I figured that Chicago being such a mecca for both genres, it wouldn’t be too hard to find one. I found none. At all. Just Bizarro FM after Bizarro FM.
I buzzed “Positive Hits FM” at one point and in frustration, changed channel as soon as I heard the name. My curiousity did rise however, mainly as to how many songs they could possibly have on their playlist that could be classed as “positive”. It was the return trip before I found it again.
In the meantime, my concentration was soon focussed on the road again. I drifted out of the street-lit areas and soon flicked on the headlights. As soon as I did, the first thing I saw was a doe, a deer, a female deer, about 5 feet in front of the car. I swerved hard, and the back in again. Fortuitously, I missed her, and there was no one in the outside lane, AND I managed to keep the car on the road too.
About 10 minutes later, the same thing happened. Another deer. Talk about an adrenalin-charged trip.
After about 4 hours on the road, and quite a lot more since I had actually been in a bed, I crossed the Mississippi into Iowa, and pulled into one of those motels frequented by the Mulder and Scully when then are on a case in a small town. The massively-foreheaded (which says a lot coming from me) night-watchman was definitely straight out of the X-Files too. The Best Inn in Dubuque in case you don’t believe me…
Driving the next morning was far more interesting as I meandered through the American Heartland. With Rusty Nails on the radio (his jingle was “Rusty Nails – He Played Country BEFORE it was Cool”), big red barns, and John Deere tractors, and porches and orchards and big yellow school buses and kids pulling carts, I felt like I had stepped into a movie set. Apple Pie America.
Finally I arrived in Dyersville, Iowa. I followed the signs out to the farm, and pulled into the farmyard rather than the commercial carpark as Tom H had instructed. Part of the field was in one farm and most of it in another. The owner of the smaller piece had sold out to a commercial venture, but the owners of most of the field were keeping it in perpetuity as a free dream park for all who cared to visit. Although in fairness, the commercial enterprise didn’t seem as ghastly as Tom described it. The souvenir stands were roughly the same size in both halves. If anything, considering how many signs the ‘good guys’ had, proclaiming themselves to be the good guys and not the evil capitalists, the ‘bad guys’ seemed almost dignified by their silence. Perhaps at a more touristy time, their true colours show.
I picked up a copy of the book that started the whole thing – WP Kinsellas “Shoeless Joe” and went to sit in the bleachers. I don’t know what I was expecting to feel. It wasn’t like I was a true believer visiting a holy shrine of my faith – I didn’t know the first thing about baseball. It was that illogical passion for sport which had felt an affinity for, but I felt like a member of one faith visiting a holy spot of another. And not even a Mecca or a St.Peters either. More like a nice, quaint, rural holy spot. A Buddhist in Knock, say.
Nevertheless it was nice to sit there in my fleece and mits and Munster beanie, on a cold, sunny and crisp November morning and daydream about sport and passion and magic. I started to read the book and even after the first chapter it began to feel different. The sense of magic started and in the following couple of days I found myself carried along in the waves of the protaganist. He built it, they did come, and I for one didn’t come away disappointed.
And so back to Chicago. I wandered through more bizarre radio stations, one playing ads for a Christian Telecoms Company (presumably you cannot call infidels such as myself on such a phone), one awarding “Laugh Your Way to a Better Marriage” course as a prize on its phone-in show, and finally I found my way back to “Positive Hits FM”. I had racked my brain beforehand to think of any songs that weren’t about lost loves, lost fights, lost wars, lost money, or lost lives (i.e. songs you could call positive) and failed miserably. So I was almost disappointed when PH FM turned about to be the Holy Bible set to music. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but its not exactly my cup of tea.
At some point I crossed the Mississippi (thanks to Brian Mahony for the spelling). I was a little surprised to see it on the map, being this far north of the Southern Lands which claim it as their own. And yet she is no shy tributary in Iowa either. It seems like she is a grand old queen from her first springs. I guess majesty is something you are born to.
And lest he be forgotten, at some point, 106 miles from Chicago, but without a full tank of gas, nor a half-pack of cigarettes, nor darkness, although I was wearing sunglasses, I pulled over and said a quick prayer, that wherever Jake Blue is now, that he is enjoying the karma that comes from making so many people laugh for so long. As I pulled back on to the highway, I glanced back at the name of the laneway that I had pulled into: Bluestem Way. Blues’ them. Way.
I did a quick tour of Chicago after a night in an awful hostel. Sears Tower, staying inside the Loop; riding the El, and trying to remember all the places that John R Powers described so lovingly in his books. I know I’ll be back.
From Chicago, I flew to Ottawa. The plan was to spend sometime seeing my Canadian friends and some time getting a taste of Canada. It wasn’t the best time of the year to visit either, as my friend Allison was pretty busy and Canada was at that point two weeks after the leaves had lost their beautiful autumnal shades and two weeks before the snow would make it all look Ansell Adams-esque. In other words it was like Ireland in November – wet and grey.
On top of which I still had loose ends to tie up from Australia (namely calling lots of people who didn’t know I had left Australia (including the nice people who sponsored my visa and who I, technically, worked for) as well as completing my tax returns…). So most of the 10 days was spent doing chores by day and seeing friends by night. Ottawa in particular did not get as much attention as it deserved. Nor did I get to Toronto despite promises to the contrary. Sorry, Craig and sorry, Boguey.
Having got most of my loose ends tied up, I went up to Montreal at the weekend with only tourism in mind. I benefited enormously from the guidance of a native of the city, my friend Susan, who previously co-starred in one of my Australian odysseys from 1998. Her love/hate relationship with her home town brought forth glimpses of the place that couldn’t be found in a guidebook. I really loved the place. The beers and music were great (in Hurleys Irish Bar, where else?), the views were fantastic (esp. from the top of Mont Royale), the food was excellent, the Santa Claus parade was great (even if I slept through it) and the company was second to none. It even snowed! Like enough for snowballs!!
We took in a hockey game on the Saturday night – Montreal vs New Jersey. A great spectacle indeed, although I was a little disappointed with the arm-chair-ness of the supporters. All of the chants and songs and cheers were led by the big electronic screens. Considering how much everybody was stuffing into their mouths (self included) it was amazing any one had the time or energy to cheer at all. The exception being Susan, who was noticeably vocal on a couple of occasions on the parentage of the umpires and the quality of their opticians. Its always the quiet ones….
At an ungodly hour the following morning, I took a slippery slidey bus through the heavy snow to the airport, and jumped on a plane to Cuba. But before I depart Canada, its worth mentioning a couple of things. Firstly, that it is worthy of several more visits. Secondly, despite knowing several Canadians and being very aware of their sense of otherness from their North American neighbours, it still came as a pleasant surprise just how different and unique it really is. It has such as strong sense of nation, despite sharing such a massive land border with its neighbour and despite being bombarded culturally and in many other ways. In fact a great pity in all of this is that the fear of smothering felt within Canada by the Quebecois towards their Anglophone neighbours, is shared by their countrymen towards the US. The fact that they have more in common than not seems to elude les Francais.
But there is also a great sense of rightness and fairness in Canada and some great egalitarian ideas. One that stuck in my head was the concept of a virtual car – you sign up to a co-op which buys cars and which you can borrow anytime you need to drive to do your shopping. The cars are parked all over town and the keys are deposited in safe box for you. Co-ops in fact, seem to abound, not least of which is the Mountain Equipment Co-op. One visit there showed me why every back-packing Canadian sports their gear.
All of which gave me the first part of my title. Soviet Canuckistan is how one recent US Presidential Candidate referred to his nearest and dearest neighbours. Most of the Canadians who mentioned it, don’t appear to be the slightest bit insulted. An insult from such an oaf is a badge of pride I guess.
An so onto Cuba.
Having booked a cheap seat on a charter, I arrived in the resort area of Varadero, hoping that nobody would question too closely my large pack combined with the return date seven days hence. As you are not allowed enter Cuba without declaring your means of exiting, it was necessary to buy the return leg, even though I wasn’t planning to use it. Fortunately I got past the immigration guys without a second glance.
Getting my bag from the plane was as chaotic as you could imagine, and the hotel I put on my tourist card was sufficiently rank that I immediately found another. Varadero is not designed for the independent traveller. Rather you come on a package, get packaged with a tag on your hand (designating your hotel) and then you are kindly asked to stay in the nice hotel, with the nice restaurant, bar, beach, and entertainment, and then get shipped home again.
Needless to say I left for Havana on the first available bus.
The nice bus dropped me less than 50 metres from my destination, but being a little disoriented I walked for almost an hour before arriving back to sought spot. My old buddy and ex-flatmate Sandra had recommended the place and was arriving in Havana in a couple of days so it seemed like the best place to meet.
My first foray took my up to the nearby university. As I sat perusing my ubiquitous Lonely Planet, I noticed that there were many students gathering. A couple of conversations revealed that there was a large protest planned for the evening to protest against the US Embargo on Cuba. For those of you who don’t know, the US has maintained a pretty strict blockade on the country since 1960, when no more a respectable and valued judge than then Vice President Richard Nixon, thought, having met Fidel just once, that he was a bit of a Communist. To maintain such a negative foreign policy for 40 years, against a near neighbour and natural trading partner, particularly when it was instigated by a man that is now so totally discredited, seems ludicrous. And it is. But more on that later.
I took a short walk around the campus and then returned when I heard the sirens of the lead jeep blowing. I got myself in front of the jeep, and the literally thousands of students following it, and walked down the hill towards Havanas seafront, the Malecon. It was quite a spectacle, especially given the undulating street. When I was nearly at the waters edge, I could look back up and see the entire street, all the way back to the University, filled with marchers.
When I turned into the Malecon however, I found there were thousands more already there. I don’t know what the official figures were, but I would have put them in the hundreds of thousands, and it was certainly the biggest crowd I have ever been in. The focus of the protest was a stage, set up within eye-and-especially-ear-shot of the US Interests Office (the We-Don’t-Have-An-Embassy-In-Communist-Cuba building).
But rather than a popular and spontaneous uprising of protest, this was, of course, orchestrated by the government. Most, if not almost all, of the protesters were in fact school children. Most, if not almost all, of the protesters were more concerned with snogging their classmates than in listening to the long and passionate speeches from the podium. Most, if not all, answered with the refrain ‘Vive!’ to the ‘Vive Cuba Libre!’, ‘Vive la Revolucion’ and ‘Vive Fidel’ battlecrys that terminated every speech. Much flag waving, yet curiously no applause was also observed.
The TV later showed Fidel speaking. If he did, then I missed it. And a pity it would be too as I had a big lens trained on the podium for most of the speeches. My suspicion that he didn’t speak is mainly rooted in the fact that everybody finished with ‘Vive Fidel’. No matter how ego-centric the man is, I cannot imagine him doing that.
First thing the next morning, Sandra arrived from a nightmare overnight taxi ride from Santiago de Cuba. Apparently the bus was full, but a friend of the person selling the bus tickets had a taxi and would drive Sandra and four companions the 19 hours north to Havana. They squashed into the Lada and had to spend the night punching the driver to keep him awake. She later met people who had got the bus and found that there was more than enough space for all of them. Not the last instance of back-handing that we would observe.
As the weather was mucky and we had 7 months to catch up on, (hers spent on the backpacking trail in south America, mine spent in her home town in the company of some of her best friends) most of the day was spent talking, something we are both quite adept at. Sandra more than me though. Honest.
We wandered along to the biggest and most famous museum in Havana in the afternoon, la Museo de la Revolucion. The first sign of Sandras jadedness was evidenced by her comment that there was no need to see the Museum as the best pictures were available on all the postcards. Hmmm… time for a certain girl to pack her bag and call the trip over.
We travelled north west to Vinales the next day, having sat out the ‘bus-full’ scam at the station and consequently got seats on the bus. We spent the next couple of days out hiking and biking in the beautiful countryside around Vinales. During one hike through the tobacco fields we stopped in a farmhouse to shelter from the rain, and were invited to the local Commite de la Defence de la Revolucion social night the following night. We accepted, but later, when it was dark and raining, the thought of trudging through the fields seemed a little risky. I’m not sure what they would have done if we’d actually showed up either.
On one biking trip, we went out to the local Indian Cave. It was rated in the lonely planet as being overpriced, and the price had since gone up. They were also trying to charge us for parking our bikes. But even though it was an overpriced and extortionate place to visit, they were at least attempting to preserve the local environment. However, rather than be ripped off though we choose to go instead to the nearby cave which had been transformed into a bar and disco, complete with stalactites cemented onto the bar counter. Ever the eco-conscious travellers.
Since there are no hostels in Cuba, and since the government-owned hotels (which is all of them) are as expensive as they are dreadful, the most popular accommodation choice for backpackers is a casa particulares. This is effectively a private household who rent a room to travellers. For the privilege of getting tourist dollars in, they pay quite a hefty tax bill to the government. However it still puts them in the new elite in Cuba: those who have dollars to spend. Those who don’t, subsist on an average wage of US$15-$20 per month, plus their ration book.
The quality and price of the casas varied by street as much as by location. In Vinales for example we only paid $5 per night for a room with a private shower and toilet. However, since they pay tax on the room, but not on the provision of meals (which they are doing without the governments knowledge), breakfast and dinner were more expensive than in other places. Also, we were put under a huge amount of pressure to eat at the house. In casas where we paid more for the room, the pressure to eat there was sometimes non-existent. In fact Vinales was really the only place where we were pressurised in real sense. If you add to this the fact that my laundry cost more that it would at home (and smelled bad), the man of the house was trying to bum razors off me, we rented bikes from them and bought cigars from their brothers factory (again under a little duress) it didn’t quite work out as cheaply as it might sound.
We had been planning to go scuba diving in the far north west of the country in a place called Playa Maria La Gorda (lit. the Beach of Fat Maria, she being a large Ecuadorian woman who was shipwrecked there, and ended up using to use her (ahem) ample talents to make a living). Anyway, we were told in Vinales that as result of the two hurricanes which had recently passed through, within in a month of each other, that most of the coral to 20 metres was destroyed. So instead, we booked a taxi to Cayo Levisa, about an hour north of Vinales, with the plan being to spend the day diving there and then take the cab onto the mountain village of Soroa afterwards.
All went well with this plan for most of the day. The nice taxi driver got us to the boat on time. The island was absolutely idyllic. Blue water, white sands, trees growing almost to the water line in places. Paradise. We hadn’t really expected it either, nor the plush resort that sat on it, so being scummy backpackers we adjourned in our dirty boots, clothes et al to the beach for a couple of hours to wait for the dive boat.
Sandra was so taken with the beach (and so un-taken with the sea since the allergic reaction she had to a jelly fish sting on her face a couple of weeks previously was still not quite cleared up, despite my extensive medical kit & knowledge) that she didn’t move her buttsky off the beach for the entire day.
I took off for what was quite a nice dive (once I got the sun cream out of my eyes… doh). I met a animated-movie director, Peter Peake, on the dive and Sandra and I hung out with him until the boat was due to return us to the mainland. Its always interesting to meet people that in the normal course of my life, I would have absolutely no opportunity to encounter. We spent the afternoon strolling on a beach which had definitely not seen too many backpackers, talking about our lives and other navel gazing nonsense. At one point, my eyes were diverted from said navel, and I spotted the most magnificent, most perfectly symmetrical and most beautiful shell emerge from the retreating tide. I picked it up to find it flat enough for a necklace, and placed it in the only pocket that I wouldn’t crush it – one on the side of my thigh. The plan was to have a necklace made for my sister… loving, considerate, albeit cheapskate brother that I am.
Anyway, a few hours later, as we pulled into the dock on the mainland, the sun was setting magnificently and I lingered for a few minutes with my camera. While I did, it transpired that our taxi driver really wanted to return to Vinales, and since Peter was going that way, he switched cabs with us. No problema we said.
Fools.
Our new driver, Rolando, was not quite a legal taxi driver, and in fact, if caught with paying-foreigners in his car, he would be in trouble. After about 5 minutes in the car, an odd whiff that we had caught got much stronger and about 5 minutes after we were hanging our heads out the window as the car filled with exhaust and gasoline fumes. Rolando assured us it would go. It didn’t
3 hours later, feeling really nauseous from the fumes, stiff and cold from the open windows, with bloodshot eyes and a bad headache, we arrived in Soroa. On the way, Rolando had had to bribe two policemen who stopped the car (he could hardly hide us when our heads were out the window). So none of us were really in particularly good form. Then we opened the boot and found our bags were soaked in gasoline. Tremendous.
We told him that this was completely unacceptable and that we wanted a discount on the agreed fare. A reasonable request considering all of our clothes would need to be washed not to mention how sick we felt. He was having none of it. He grabbed Sandra camera bag and threw it back into his car. She, being right beside the car, reached in and took it back. He wrenched it off her and put it back in and she waded right in and pulled it out again. At this point, he also pulled a rather large knife from god-knows-where.
We both stepped back, and told him that he was getting absolutely sweet f*ck all until he put the knife away. He did. We gave him the money and took his number plate and went into the hotel, while he drove off, hopefully into a large wall. Bastard.
On top of that, and on top of the fact that we spent all of the following day washing our clothes, packs, selves, at least twice, on top of ALL that, the shell in my pocket was broken in to dust because I had spent 3 hours leaning out a window. Bastard.
The only thing that rescued the stay in Soroa and the vast amount of money we paid for our hotel was the all-you-can-eat buffet for breakfast. We thought we had done the dog on it the first morning, but were put in the ha-penny place by a couple who left the dining room the next morning with literally armfuls of food. Respect.
The other nice thing about Soroa was a hike I did on my own to the top of a nearby escarpment. I stayed up there for an hour watching the sun set and watching the 30 or 40 turkey vultures who circled the peak. I didn’t see another soul up there and view (apart from the hotel) was of forested mountains almost to the horizon. The sunset let me down somewhat, but it was the perfect, fresh-air antidote to the petrol that pervaded the rest of my day.
Sandra wasn’t feeling up to hitching back to Havana as planned, so we caught another taxi. This one had dirty diesel in it and it chugged and crawled all the way to the city. At this point my companion was really over the whole thing, and took the opportunity to bring her flight out of Cuba forward by a week or so. It was a case of wanting to be in New York (her next stop) as much as it was of wanting to be out of Cuba.
We had a few days left in Havana however, and the first order of the day was some decent food. We went down to Chinatown and found the only Chinese man who actually still left in Cuba. Since Sandra is Chinese-Australian he was equally delighted to see us. Her Chinese is appalling however (I was soooo ashamed) so he was a little disappointed but we chatted with him in English anyway. When Sandra mentioned how much she was craving a proper Chinese meal, he told us to ignore the menu and he would tell the chef what to cook for us. What followed was absolutely fantastic, but what followed that was the bill, which was similarly fantastic. Since chow-mein would normally cost about $2.50, we did baulk slightly at the $32 we were presented with. I guess he learned a thing or two in his time in Cuba.
Just as we were about to leave, an Chinese-American couple walked in and our hosts wishes (to speak his native tongue) were delivered. We ended up sitting with them for a while and they told us that the opening ceremony of the Inaugural Cuban Olympic Games was on that night. Cuba had decided to stage their own games since they were excluded from the central American & Caribbean games (I still don’t know why). Anyway, Castro was speaking at the ceremony, so after dinner we hightailed up to the Plaza de la Revolucion to see the great bearded one.
It was an invitation-only affair, so we stood at the barriers way down the back and caught glimpses of him in my telephoto lenses, while a couple of locals tried several unsuccessful times to pick our pockets. This was the first time this had ever happened to me, anywhere, and I was a little shocked to find somebodies hand in my pocket. Backpackers, particularly ones as poorly dressed as I, are not usually worth the trouble, particularly when there is such a strict crackdown on crime, as there is in Cuba. Fortunately the pocket only contained fluff and I only missed grabbing the hand by millimetres. At the time I put the whole thing down to our American companions who were well dressed and easy to hear, so to speak.
Sandra spent much of the next morning sorting out bits and pieces and in the afternoon we wandered around Old Havana with a black & white roll in my camera, mainly taking portraits of the more interesting looking locals. Despite what Sandra might claim, the award winning photos taken that afternoon, were either taken or directed by me. Any claims to the contrary are total fibs.
For her last night in Cuba, we went to a baseball game. We had been told it was Cuba vs Puerto Rico and that we’d be really lucky to get tickets. Thankfully we didn’t believe this and had a lovely Italian meal instead, arriving to the almost empty stadium just before two local teams began competing. For all that, the game was absorbing. Sandra amazed me by knowing all the rules (for someone who showed v.little interest in sport while we lived together, knowing the finer points of a game that Australians don’t even play much less win at, was a little surprising…) and kindly explained them to me. The gaps in what I had picked up from the Field of Dreams book were duly filled in and the game at once became interesting. At one point I wondered to myself that if somebody explained cricket to me, perhaps I could like that game too. Then I gave myself a good hard slap in the face and snapped out of THAT particular nightmare.
Sandra meanwhile had more interest in the young son of the couple sitting next to us. Having made various disgusting faces at each other with food-filled mouths, they became firm friends. Firm but unfortunately a little loud. His parents and I had to eventually separate them as people were becoming annoyed. Amazingly similar pouts replaced the face-pulling.
The game was unique in that it was the only time in the whole trip that I saw Cubans lose their cool. They are normally so laid back that it sometimes takes a de-fibrillater to get somebody’s attention, but rival supporters were having long, passionate, loud and angry exchanges from 10 rows away from each other. It made Sandra’s behaviour all the more excusable really.
The game had a major turn around in the 6th inning, and we left at the bottom of the ninth as it was all over bar the shouting. (see the way I can say bottom of the ninth so nonchalantly AND know what I am talking about…). We went from there to the jazz club, as it seemed like an appropriate way for her to say goodbye to Havana, once the swingingest town in the world.
The jazz was standard and mellow, the beer was good, the host was friendly even if he mixed up Ireland and Iceland (he told me he LOVED the Sugarcubes and would I send some cds), and all in all it was a great end to the day.
Mi amiga left early the next day and I was sorry to see her go. There aren’t many people that its easy to travel with over an extended period and I would count her as one of those few. The fact that we never ran out of things to talk about was no great surprise to either of us, although I’m sure we missed a couple of sights at least by being preoccupied with ourselves. On top of that, her Spanish was much better than mine and from now on, I would have to pigeon away by myself.
On the other hand (sorry sweetie, but its true) my luck improved immensely after she went. There were no more pickpockets, knives, bites, wounds or illnesses. It was an easy-peasy trip after her departure. Maybe after 7 months on the road, her karma reserves had run low. I missed her all the same. Honest I did. Really hun…
Anyway, I spent the next couple of days complete the Havana walking tours as directed by the lonely planet. There are a few sights along the way worth seeing and entering, but most of its is really about flavouring the city. The following day, I caught a cab out to the 2 Fortresses, across the harbour mouth from Old Havana. Both fortresses have enormous history and their presence overlooking, and at one time, guarding, the harbour mouth are impressive.
The taxi driver across the tunnel thought I was Cuban from the way that I asked for my destination. Which got a little confusing as he then started speed-talking in Spanish and it was a couple of minutes before we got ourselves sorted out. Either way he was a very nice man who wished me well in my travels. The first really genuinely pleasant person I had met in Cuba.
The day just improved from there. I spent a few hours wandering around Castille Del Moro on my own, as all the tour buses had been and gone. There was a young couple playing guitar and fiddle in the castle courtyard. I sat and watched them for a while as they rehearsed a few songs. They paid no attention to me whatsoever, and sung and played beautifully in the soft afternoon sunshine. It was a lovely afternoon. The melody of one of the songs they played really struck me and I was humming it for hours afterwards. It soon became a theme song for the trip.
Also in the fortress is a lighthouse with splendid views of the harbour and waterfront. I laboured up the spiral staircase only to find at the top there was a man who expected me to have a ticket that I didn’t have. I played very dumb (not hard) and very exhausted from the climb (also not hard) and he let me away with it. Woo hoo! First free ride in Cuba!
I wandered over to the other fortress next door (forgive me : the name escapes me!). This was more recently in use as a military fort, and Commandante Chés office was here when he was the leader of the army. It is preserved in his honour and contains lots of interesting photos of the man himself.
I wandered back to El Morro for sunset over the bay and city, and then had a very pleasant dinner there, before going back again to the other Fortress for the firing of the cannon. This ceremony has been kept alive for years in memory of the days when the castle was responsible signaling the closing the harbour mouth at nightfall. The ceremony, performed in ancient uniforms and with ancient armaments, was spectacular and the music and beers that followed were also very pleasant. I met a Spanish guy, Ramon there too, who had lived in Japan for a couple of years and had the tiniest, funkiest little digital camera I have yet seen. He was happily taking photos, video and even mp3 recordings of his favourite live performances. I felt quite ancient with my SLR.
We wandered back to the ferry via a massive statue of Christ that over looks Havana. Much to our surprise the base of the statue was a popular disco and hangout for the local young-uns. Can’t imagine it happening anywhere else. We missed the ferry by minutes and had to endure the worst comedian in history while imbibing a couple of beers in a nearby bar as we waited for the next one.
I caught the ferry to Regla the next day, a suburb of Havana most associated with the African community and with their Santaria religion. A very nice man in the queue gave me the correct fare so that I wouldn’t be ripped off (20 centavos is such a small fraction of a dollar I can’t be bothered figuring it out, but the thought was very nice). Some boys were fishing in the port at Regla with a primitive form of dragnet fishing. They would hold the net then swim out and drag it back in. I didn’t see the poor misfortunates actually catch anything.
The area wasn’t nearly as interesting as the guidebook said, but it was a pleasant place to stroll around. I went to the local museum, heard yet another speech by Fidel (on TV this time) and then went to the Church of the Black Virgin while waiting for my ferry back. The Black Virgin is worshipped by the fisherman and is prayed to for safety at sea. The most curious thing for me though was the slight racial undertones in the Black Virgin having a white baby Jesus.
I returned to one of Havanas other fortresses, Castillo Fuerza for sunset. I had been there a couple of days previously and picked out a lovely spot, in the bell tower for some sunset photos. However, as I went in there, I was, as usual, asked for a dollar by some of the attendants. This is something that happens quite a lot and you would be surprised by the amount of tourists who just give money away for nothing. It also gets a little tiresome. This time however, I was prepared, having worked out a little dialogue in Spanish beforehand. My sharp ‘What for?’ retort was met with the usual malarkey and I just shrugged and walked on. As I rounded the corner though, it transpired that the bell tower had already been locked up for the evening. Had I been less smart and sharp with my dismissal I may have blagged my way in, but at this point, cooperation was, shall we say, not forthcoming.
That night, I returned to the now-empty Plaza de la Revolucion to take a night-time photo of the massive and well-lit Ché sculpture on the Ministry of the Interior Building. Its quite ironic that Cubas most secret ministry, which only publishes one phone number in the phone book (and apparently nobody answers that), is also the most photographed. I found a good spot, and because my tripod is so small, ended up lying on the ground to take the photo. It hadn’t occurred to me how secure the area was, and it was a little silly of me to be dressed completely in black, but eitherway, when the photo was taken I turned up to find an armed soldier about 2 metres away watching my every move. I quickly got up and excused myself, making it as obvious as possible that my tripod was designed for cameras rather than rocket launchers.
Later, having caught a cab with a very nice taxi driver who, as a one-time award-winning computer scientist, had once been to Shannon airport on his return from his prize-trip to Moscow, I went to take a photo of the massive anti-embargo cartoon-like poster that is facing the US Interests Office (it reads something like “Capitalist Enemys: We are not the SLIGHTEST bit afraid of you”). Again my camera got me into trouble and I was approached by two more armed soldiers who told me that I couldn’t take the photo and that I should start walking right away. I was also told that I wasn’t allowed to stop walking until I was passed the US Interests Office.
I went to Casa de la Trova from some cultural respite from my law-breaking ways. It was the first real ‘Buena Vista Social Club’ experience in Cuba as it was not really designed for tourists. There was no bar and a minimal entrance fee, and the music and singing were pretty much shared by the entire audience. And man could they salsa. I lurked in the shadows and hoped that nobody would seek to demonstrate, once again, that white men cannot dance.
On the way home I met, and initially totally dismissed and ignored, the son of my hostess. I was a little embarrassed by my reaction, but in all honesty, you get SO many people coming up and saying ‘Hello my friend, how are you’ which is then followed by a sales pitch, that your defences are at an unfriendly height. A pity really.
I finally left Havana the next day, and met a Japanese guy called Ken on the bus. Again, first impressions were completely wrong as from his dress and demeanor, I presumed he was another camera-toting maniac on a ten-day tour of the whole world. How wrong I was. He had clocked up more miles through more countries than I probably ever will. He had even made his way through Iran and Afghanistan at one point. A fascinating character.
Our journey from Santa Clara bus station to the town was via horse and cart. This is the common public transport in Santa Clara due to the fuel shortages in Cuba. The horses weren’t in the best of shape, and due to the law in Cuba forbidding the shooting of horses, most will end up working till they literally fall down. The Cubans never struck me as a cruel people, but the state of these horses was woeful. [aside: Fiona, don’t ever go there – you would be far too upset at the health of your favourite animals]
Having found a lovely casa, we set off to see the Mausoleum of Che Guevara, where his body and those of some of his comrades, were interred after they were found in Bolivia. An eternal flame, some enormous statues and posters, and yet another collection of photos and personal belongings, make a fitting tribute to the icon that he has become. Although this particular museum is free, I have trouble thinking the El Che would have agreed with the amount of money his image is now sold for. And the selling of Che is the probably the most popular Cuban pastime. I’m sure he is spinning in his grave.
We had planned to see the local orchestra that night, as they have played at 8pm every monday night for over 100 years. This particular monday however they were packed up and on the way home by 8. So much for the guide books.
Ken departed the next day for Trinidad, and I stayed another day in this very pleasant (and seemingly very prosperous, despite the fuel situation) town. I went to another Che museum in the afternoon. Santa Clara was the town that was liberated by Ches column and it was in the liberating of Santa Clara that the then government realized that their number was up. The president fled and Castro marched into Havana less than a week later. So the site of the train ambush in Santa Clara which gained the Revolutionaries much needed weapons and even more needed publicity, is now a shrine also. Massive concrete columns at gravity-defying angles re-created the ‘KAPOW’ moment of the ambush, and the carriages that were then taken after a prolonged gun-battle are preserved in their positions. Despite the smallness of the attacking force, the bigger and more heavily armed opposition were defeated, and it is credited largely to their deception by El Che.
The first few carriages recreate some of the scenes and preserve some of the weaponary used. However they run out of ideas and memorabilia by the third carriage and the fourth contains only a kettle and a small cooking stove used by the staff working there. I guess there is only so much you can say about a battle and there is a limit too to the clothes/guns/razors/backpacks that Che could have used in one lifetime.
Let me sidetrack for a minute actually and have a little rant about museums. The last comment, on clothes/guns/razors/backpacks is true of all of Cubas revolutionary heros. People must have been assigned to pick up everything they dropped to be preserved for future museums. Every museum is Cuba is obsessed with personal effects. It would not surprise me if Che woke up on several mornings to find all his clothes, toothbrush, shoes and gun stolen by the museum compilers. It must be tough to be a hero.
A couple of other rants came my way when I was sitting in the very pleasant Parque Central an hour later. One was on Castro and his relations with the USA. From what I have read and what I have seen, his position as the leading communist and longest serving head of state on earth, is a position that has been helped greatly by his greatest enemy. There is even a theory that the only reason he turned to communism was as a result of the US embargo, when he was forced to get into bed with the Soviet Union for his country to survive. His first mention of socialism was in 1962, three years after the revolution. His actions previous to that were those of a nationalist, who in ejecting the US puppet government, as well as the Mafia and the wealthy, exploitative elite, made some bitter enemies.
As I mentioned, the US policy was in fact put in motion by none other than the then-Vice President, Richard Nixon. If the US hadn’t behaved as it has, and its behaviour is more reminiscent of school-yard rather than international politics, Cuba had the potential to be a Sweden of the Carribean – a strong, wealthy socialist nation.
Instead, it is somewhat of a prison, and after Castros death there will be stampedes into and out of the country. The outward bound will be some of the population who at the moment reminded me of kids in a classroom. They are dying to get out in to the big bad world, and hate the restrictions that are put on them (even if some of them are for their own good). They think that the American Way is the answer to all their troubles, but don’t seem to be entirely aware of how tough it can be out there. They currently have amazing healthcare and education services, nobody really has to work up a sweat, and the service economy demanded by capitalism is not yet in vogue. Perhaps they don’t appreciate that those, with other positive traits, will be the price paid for embracing capitalism.
The inward bound stampede will be Cuban exiles, McDonalds, collectors of ‘56 Chevrolets and other undesirables. In my own humble opinion, when Castro is gone, and this inevitable invasion of capitalism and consumerism is complete and welcomed, they will look back with some fondness on these days. Maybe I am wrong, maybe the transition will be to the benefit of the Cuban people and will embrace the better parts of capitalism while keeping what is good (and there is some good) about their current system. I certainly hope so.
On a more light hearted note, Santa Clara was also the place where I developed my theory on the Cubana Hairstyle. While sitting on a horse and cart one day, and avoiding viewing the very proximate arse of said-horse, I found myself staring at the legs of one of my fellow passengers. Cuban women, as I may have said before, wear very short skirts. The length (or lack of length) of them, particularly on the military and naval personnel, almost undermines the seriousness of their jobs. Either way, I couldn’t help but notice that this particular woman had only shaved her legs to about a centimeter above the length of her skirt. Given how dark and hirsute she was, it ended up looking like the ends of some very hairy cycling shorts. So instead of the Brazillian, I give you the Cubana. What a offensively sexist pig I am.
Santa Clara was also the host to a very simple but very moving AIDS memorial. AIDS is not something that spoken about very much, and the official line is that the numbers are miniscule – something like 200 people have officially been diagnosed (one of our later hosts was a director of a hospital, and so I am quoting him). However, given the promiscuity of the society, it is suspected that the numbers are larger. Regardless of which, while the memorial blankets lacked some of the beauty and complexity of others than I have seen, they lacked nothing in sentiment and love.
Having observed some of the Memorial Volunteers walking around the area holding open bags, I presumed they were collecting money. So I got some out, and mortified myself by walking up and putting some in the bag, only to find that they were actually distributing condoms rather than expecting money. The nice man who retrieved and returned my small financial contribution, also gave me a condom and directions to a church whose poorbox was more in need of donations. Sometimes the ground just won’t open up and swallow you, wish as you might.
I rose early the next day for a haircut, which by following the locals and not making too much noise, I got for 2 pesos (about 8 cent/s in Euros/Dollars). Unusually the barbers in Cuba spin your chair away from the mirror while they are working, so you have the pleasure of people-watching on the street, rather than the (at least for me) embarrassing time of staring at yourself in the mirror. Vive la differencia.
Afterwards, I headed out to the bus station to go to Trinidad. The song from that couple that I saw in the Castillo del Morro was playing again on the radio and I finally found out the artists name. The search was getting warmer. In the meantime, I also met Jonathon Tighe from Waterford on the bus and we hung out for the next few days in Trinidad.
On arrival we ran a gauntlet of people trying to get us to stay in their casa, but I was lucky enough to have a recommendation. One guy was persistant though and followed us up the street. I was about to be rude and tell him to bugger off but something made me be polite and explain in my pigeon Spanish that I had recommendation and was going there, but if it was full I would go back to him. With that, he gave me his address, and it turned out he was, in fact, the man I was looking for. Phew.
The casa was great and Javiar, our host, was a very interesting man. As a holder of degrees of engineering, economics and (I think) philosophy, a former manager in a government factory, who had worked in Angola in the 60s where Cuba was supplying lots of technical and military support, and a current full-time artist and guest-house owner, he had endless stories and opinions and information. We ate breakfast and dinner in his house almost every night in Trinidad, and my only regret was that my Spanish didn’t match his English. His opinion of the current regime was muted at times but from some of his art work (one or two pieces that he was not allowed to sell were displayed in the house, one of which was a sculpture of a woman holding the severed head of a curiously familiar bearded man, allegedly depicting a biblical legend) you could figure out where he stood.
Anyway, besides eating well and being informed about the country we spent much of the next five days out and about in this picturesque coastal town with its cobbled streets and old and colourful, red-roofed houses. There were some very pleasant hikes in the surrounding mountains, the beaches were a pleasant cycle away, sunsets were fantastic from wherever you stood, and in the evenings the beer, the music and the company were second to none. As well as Jonathon, a couple of dutch guys, Ralph and Stefan, as well as a donegal man, Seamus Rua, and a Canadian couple, Andrew and Trish, helped to make the 5 days I spent in Trinidad very pleasant. Tania, a friend of Sandras, who has spent about 3 months living in Trinidad and has many local friends, also made it possible to meet and talk to some of the Cubans without the inherent suspicion that we were about to get a sales pitch.
One night in particular stands out, and although we stood-up Tania (sorry schweetie), we managed to find a small back-yard music hall, that remains the most genuine musical experience of the trip. We heard some people playing and poked our heads around a doorway of a courtyard to find a 6 piece band who must have totaled about 500 years between them, playing away to an audience of two people, two dogs, a horse and some chickens. We sat and they played and then Ralph and Stefan turned up and a few more locals and a few more tourists and even a few beers were produced from somewhere. The music was fantastic and the band were so old and so photogenic that I even ducked out at one point to get my camera and a black-and-white roll of film.
On our last day in Trinidad, we caught a cab for the 40kms out to a resort hotel in Guajimico to do some diving. The taxi driver had and Irish flag on the dashboard – we couldn’t quite establish why but it was something to do with the world cup. The dives were pleasant – nothing too amazing to report except for a huge eagle ray. The divemaster, again, couldn’t stop himself picking up some of the sea creatures and showing me. Obviously PADIs lessons haven’t quite been taken to heart in cuba. The long surface swims (due to the boat ‘needing’ repair) and the 3 hour delay between dives were both a pain, and both Jonathon and I felt that if there had been more than the two of us wanting to dive, the service would have been considerably better. As it was, we were the only two people in this massive resort who were not working there.
Cuba is regarded as one of the better places in the world to hitch, as much from the point of view of safety as well as getting lifts. All government vehicles are obliged to pick up hitchers and most others allegedly do so too. Our luck in hitching back wasn’t extraordinary but we eventually got a ride that got us back to Trinidad.
Having been told by various people that Thursday night was the big party night in Trinidad, and then on Thursday been told that Friday night was the big one, and on Friday that Saturday night was the biggest night, we were a little deflated to find that, in fact, everything was shut by 11 on Saturday night and Sunday night really was the big one. We were both leaving on Sunday morning, so I will have to continue to give them the benefit of the doubt. Ahem…
I bade farewell to my friends and caught the early bus to Santiago de Cuba. I didn’t really look into how long it would take and as the hours clocked up to 12, I began to wonder if I was still on the island. When they played the same movie for the second time, I lost myself in the passing countryside and was rewarded with possibly the most beautiful sunset I have yet seen. The clouds were low and thick on the horizon so the sun itself couldn’t be seen, but it illuminated a thin luminescent golden edge along the entire cloud bank, creating a glowing, meandering divider between the dark clouds and the reddening evening sky. My camera couldn’t have done it justice and remained in my bag, in case it would interfere with the image being burned in my brain.
In Santiago, Sandra had recommend the family Ochoa, as they had taken care of her health, mental, physical and spiritual, when she stayed with them. Mr Ochoa met me off the bus, but their hospitality was affected a little by the fact that Mrs Ochoa was tending to her seriously-ill father in hospital. I wanted to leave as it seemed like an awkward time, but they insisted I was welcome.
I went out that night to the much touted Casa De la Trova – described in my guide book as a genuine Buena Vista experience. In fact, it was run by what I can only assume is a former Club-Med, Ibiza, entertainments officer. All a bit cheesy really, although I did meet two very pleasant Canadian blokes, Greg and Akrum while enduring the faux-comradery that our host was attempting to create. Akrum had, unfortunately, picked up a local girl on the way in (in the sense of a leech rather than him having any particular choice in the matter).
This kind of thing happens a lot in cuba. A girl approaches you and wants to be your ‘girlfriend’ for the day/night/week/whatever time you are here. She expects dinners bought, and clothes purchased, and dates, and lots of attention, and I’m not sure what is given/expected in return. My assumption, given the numbers of old, fat, ugly, rich white men with pretty young Cubanas on their arm, is that it is some sort of polite, low-key prostitution. Either way it’s a pain to be continually approached, and sickening to see the quality of customer they do attract. We eventually, through sheer neglect, managed to convince Akrum’s ‘date’ that she would find more willing boyfriends at another table.
I spent the following day wandering about Santiago. I had been told by several people not to go there as the harassment and hassle were not worth it. Personally, I loved the town. Although I picked a day when most of the museums were closed (as well as a view over the bay – how do you close a view?!), it was still a very nice and friendly city to walk around. As the starting point for the Revolucion, it was interesting too to see how much graffiti was still supporting the regime. (in fact, all the graffiti in the whole country supported the regime and almost seemed official, but in Santiago it seemed like it was genuine).
I stopped into Casa de la Tradicionnes to get a break from the heat, and while sitting in a rocking chair, sipping a coke, got to talk to Señor Tomás Dublin, the barman and bouncer. Apparently there was an Irishman somewhere in his ancestry and we had a good chat in Spanglish about music and Ireland and life. I made a plan to return that evening for the musical feast that was promised. There are over 12,000 people in Cuba who list their profession as musician so I was looking forward to a sample without having a twittering, Club-med host getting in the way.
After perusing a great collection of Cuban portraits and photos by a Finnish photography school, I wandered over to the Frank Pais museum – yet another hero of the revolution whose trousers, shirts, and razors are now public property. Its not even the trousers/shirts/razors he wore/used on the day/week/month/year that he was being a revolutionary hero. Anything touched by him at anytime in his life qualifies for exhibit. In fairness, this was one of the more interesting museums, but still, I think it would have filled a small cabinet in any other country rather than a building of its own.
I walked back towards my casa. On the way, I spotted two girls in their dressing gowns and massive, massive hair curlers having a chat on the street. They were standing in front of (yet another) pristine classic, soft top, 1956 Chevrolet. My moment had come to take an award-winning, national-geographic-covering, era-defining photo. However, being polite, I asked permission. And was refused. Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn.
Later in the day, I went out to San Juan Memorial for sunset. San Juan was the last battleground in Spanish American war and was the hillside that, as then Defense Secretary, Teddy Roosevelt led the charge the finally defeated the Spaniards. Although it is alleged that the victory was agreed before hand. Anyway, the sunset was marred by the harassment I got from a local guy. There was nothing malicious, he just hung around and moaned and resented the fact that I didn’t want to give him any money. Considering (as had happened on other occasions) every item of clothing he was wearing was better than its correspondent on my own frame, it was a little annoying to be subjected to the sob story once again.
Anyway, later I went back to the Casa de la Tradicionnes and a magical night of music and dance ensued. I bumped into the two Canadians again, as well as a lovely Swedish couple, Johan and Hanna, and Senor Dublin served up some fine beers.
The next day, I visited the Bacardi museum, founded by Mr Bacardi of the Rum fame long before the company relocated to Puerto Rico after the revolution. While the personal affects floor was boring as usual (they even had personal effects of the first man who managed the museum for heaven sake), the second floor Cuban art collection was absolutely fantastic. A really interesting collection.
I went out to the Santiagos Castillo del Morro in the afternoon, and there is no more spectacular castle in Cuba. Its very position, clinging to a clifftop overlooking the harbour mouth, is beautiful not to speak of its maze of rooms and courtyards. In its lower levels, there are some of holding rooms that at one point held hundreds of frightened and shackled African slaves, who were being transported to the Americas. Maybe it was because I knew what they were, but I had an eerily sad feeling walking through them. Something desperate still lingers in the air.
I hitched back to town with a Community Centre day-out bus, all of whose members were very amused at my presence. On my way back to the Casa de la Tradicionnes that night to meet my four amigos, I wandered through darkened streets filled with sounds of the same soap opera on TV. It seems like everybody in the country watches this program and the streets are always empty when its on. As usual, I could hear it in stereo through the open windows as I walked up the street.
In fact most of life in cuba is lived with the doors and the windows thrown wide open. Everybodys life is open to perusal and viewing. A stark contrast to the official government policy on almost everything.
Johan, Hanna and I caught a cab out to the Gran Piedra the following afternoon. This massive boulder, on the top one of the mountains overlooking Santiago, afforded us some stunning views almost from coast to coast. We walked the pleasant, forested 12kms back down to the highway and after a lovely dinner with the Swedes in their casa, I caught the night bus back to Havana.
The original plan had been to go further south, past Guantanamo and onto the Atlantic seaside village of Baracoa. But I heard that the International Jazz Festival was starting in Havana, and the opportunity was too good to miss. When I arrived the next morning, I checked into a casa recommended by the Swedes and went off looking for info on the line-up. I found that there was also a Film Festival on. A feast of culture was in store.
Later that day, I attended a screening of ‘Unprecedented’ a documentary about the fiasco that was the US Presidential Election in 2000. It was made by 2 Americans but apart from some festival screenings in the US, nobody over there had really seen it. It was a fascinating account of the shenigans employed by the Bush campaign to win the election. It was amusing to see it in Cuba too, given the situation, and the question-and-answer session at the end was as revealing about the questioners as it was with its answers. If you are interested, check out www.unprecendented.org.
I missed the screening of ‘Bowling for Columbine’, a documentary by Micheal Moore that I had originally hoped to see in Canada, and due to the usual chaos and disorganisation required to achieve anything in Cuba, we also, despite having tickets, failed to gain entry to ‘9/11’ a collection of 9 mini-movies, 11 minutes long, centering on the that tragic day in New York.
On the jazz side, things were a little more successful, and with the company of my Canadian and Swedish friends who had also come back from Santiago, we set about sampling some of the flavours. What transpired was that we all seemed to like the straight traditional jazz, and while many of the flavours that we sampled were not quite what we were looking for, it was an interesting eye-opener for me on where modern and particularly latin-american jazz is going. I was blown away by manic percussion on more than one occasion, but on the last night of the festival Greg and I eventually found what we were looking for.
As well as the Jazz, I spent my last couple of days in Havana pursuing the photos that I had noted and not yet taken. My wanderings founds me at the end of O’Reilly street, which I found was named in honour of Alejandro O’Reilly, a Spaniard of Irish extraction who was the first governor of Cuba after they had managed to eject the English. A plaque on the corner of the street notes in Irish, English and Spanish:
“Cuba and Ireland: two island peoples in the same sea of struggle and hope”. It’s a pity my government don’t share this sense of solidarity given some obvious commonality in our histories, particularly when it comes to having large, dominant, next-door neighbours.
I also attempted, in my last days, to visit the Museum of the Ministry of the Interior. Apparently it documents the ways in which the CIA have attempted to kill Castro and is apparently a fascinating exhibition. Its not just propaganda either – one of the former CIA Chiefs when asked to comment on the alleged 20 attempts on Castros life by his organization, replied that he was only aware of 6. One of which was an exploding cigar. I always knew smoking was bad for you. Unfortunately this little nugget of novelty was closed early for a meeting on the only day I could go. Doh.
My final day in Cuba was lovely. I bought the obligatory Che t-shirt and some postcards (as yet unsent), and then I attended a big sunday-morning rumba street party in an amazingly muralled street near my casa. The artist, Salvador Gonzalez, has used the entire street, up to four floors high as his canvas, and its is a stunning place. The music was great and the swaying crowds on a hot sunday morning was really most of what Cuba is about. I had dinner in the evening with my four friends and we took some awful photos to remember each other by, not that I will be forgetting of them any time soon.
(Continued in Part 2)
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