República de Cuba 26th January - 2nd February 2008
La Habana. Cuba. The cusp of my 8 months of summer, spanning from the end of January until the end of the English cricket season, a month or so after I return home.
Arriving at the airport, the lady at the Bureau de Change takes some gentle persuasion that I am who three forms of ID prove I am, and I am finally allowed to change some money - getting my hands on the Convertible Peso (CUC) which are what Johnny Foreigner is supposed to be using when he visits Cuba. My first outlay is for my taxi to my private accommodation, in the bustling streets of Habana Vieja. The ride in the taxi is an eye-opener, the country is undoubtedly quite poor as a result of various factors - including the US embargo - but the people seem happy enough, getting on with their lives, and mixed in a way that I have never come across before. Cuba's history is something of a melting pot for Spanish, French, African... incredible and fantastic to see the genuine integration of families, kids playing and so on.
I dump my belongings and set about the city. My stroll reveals street-side dominoes, and plenty of folk trying to fob off inferior cigars onto ignorant tourists. This is to become something of a recurring theme.
Breakfast. Fresh fruit. An omelette. Slightly fermented fruit juice. I am in good stead for the day. I plan my trip. Cuba is my oyster.
Taking to the streets of Habana again, I venture out from the bustling side streets into the opening in the centre of town, site of the"Capitolo" building. A dead ringer for it's counterpart in Washington, I am guided inside by one of the guards who lets me take a few snaps, answers a few questions, for a small tip of course, but I don't mind quite so much.
Meanwhile outside, people hustle trying to increase their monthly wage from well meaning tourists. Or 'suckers' as I prefer to call them. If you consider that the average monthly earnings are around 15USD, the best of beggars are soon earning the same as doctors in this strangest of scenarios. Not that I have a problem with people making an honest living, or honest-ish, but it's this kind of befriending you-then-ask-for-money bullshit which rapidly becomes exceedingly tiresome. There is a man with a foot for a hand (impressive), and then the slightly less impressive and just plain confusing, man-who-covered-his-head-in-mud-and-then-let-it-dry model of money making.
From here I take a taxi and enjoy the rather generic, wide-open Communistic space of 'Plaza de la Revolucion', set aside for parades and general bombast. I snap some pics of the iconic Che image on the building opposite, and commence my walk back to the centre of town. On the way I stop for some ice-cream, where I exchange 1CUC for 25 National pesos (local currency), and a cone of strawberry goodness for about 20p.
Trinidad (no Tobago)Trinidad is my second city visited on this trip. An advanced booking never materialised, so I'm left to run the gauntlet of locals hawking their private rooms with various degrees of intent. I take a house that's about 30 seconds walk away, from a young chap who is slightly less pushy than the others. I have a large room, with an en-suite bathroom and parrot.
The colourful houses in this colonial city make Trinidad a real delight, where the pace is much slower than that of Habana. The cobbled streets are a test for my shoes and ankles, but I get to know the town quite quickly.
Lethargy overtakes me on day two, and when I eventually wake, I have little desire to take in the outside world if truth be told. When I eventually get my sorry arse into gear and walk about, somewhat dazed and confused by the brightness of the day. The weather is not unbearably hot, what with it being winter and all, but it's certainly agreeable and somewhere over 20C.
"Tss tss tss", that's the noise people generally make here when they want to sell you something, yet can't quite be arsed to purse their lips to emit the equally popular "Amigo!" or even "Wanna buy a cigar my friend?" I suppose the main idea is to attract your attention and eye contact with that noise and then go from there, but regardless, it's pretty fucking irritating. I reckon I completely blank 25% of any attempts at communication by a 'jintero' or hustler... maybe make that 50%, with 30% polite refusal and 20% prolonged, unnecessary conversation (ie. >20 seconds) dispelled by being from 'Slovako' and not having any knowledge of the English language.
Though still not farting with confidence after my roadside omelette, I go for more simple fare - 5 peso pizza, which is reasonable and hearty and has the added bonus of being wrapped in two sheets of grey paper which keep one's fingers just on the right side of 100C, as the pizza is rather warm. Plus I'm happier not pissing away more than 25x the cost on dinner in a proper restaurant.
My hosts were able to book me some accommodation in Santa Clara, after my attempts at internet booking failed. Most people have friends with private rooms scattered across the country, so it's never a problem finding a place to stay here. A 3 hour bus ride later, I'm met at the station here, fed and watered well, and chat with my host.
BeadleSome called it 'the day laughter died'. No, I've not given up on comedy; Jeremy Beadle. Dead. Aged just 59. I have a smile on my face, despite this tragedy, as time was when the need for humour in my life was filled with a Saturday night of Beadle and Noel Edmonds. These were truly simpler times. One might even say, happier. Part of me still thinks this could be one last prank from the man himself to revive a once-popular career. I await the influx of low brow jokes.
There’s a real, but unnerving kind of communistic whimsy that prevails here amongst the commercial sector. Thankfully, sensibility exists in so much as it is possible to just by toilet paper roll-by-roll, when a four pack is unnecessary, and indeed - they are priced as such; but why, is it not possible for me to buy my bus ticket until 8am… meanwhile the fucking flies in the bus station are driving me quite mad, buzzing around aimlessly, fighting and fucking and tumbling all down me. WHAP! Two are instantly added to my diary - like some kind of messy errata.
How I’d love that. Two less of the fuckers, replaced by twenty more - but I don’t do fiction. Not often. Lies upon lies, limited by the author’s own imagination and command of the English language.
In the evening, I return to my rather simpler concerns - feeling more than a little apprehensive at some of the costs involved - particularly in French Polynesia. I consider a) much fasting, b) stockpiling cheap supplies in the USA, or c) thinking that there must be a way to survive, however basically - when I arrive. I knew I should have had that beer. Or maybe I’m just too decadent. At least I realise it.
Shortly before my visit there had been an election in Cuba. Perhaps surprisingly, the only party on the ballot won. A short time after my visit, Fidel Castro stood down as leader, with his brother Raul, one of the original revolutionaries - his successor. He has appointed a deputy of a similar age and ilk, which doesn't really make a statement that change is imminent.
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