Cuba takes its toll!

In general tourists and locals are not permitted to intermingle, out in the sticks it isn’t any problem, in the busier tourist places the constant police presence make it difficult. The tourists themselves are virtually untouchable, locals can be whisked away in handcuffs, unlikely to be seen by you again. An American guy in Baracoa was escorted to the police station when spotted walking along chatting to a musician he’d befriended. The Cuban was handcuffed, Alix wasn’t! At the police station they asked Alix if he knew the Cuban, if the Cuban had been hassling him, or molesting as they call it. Insisting the guy was a friend and not causing him any trouble at all done no good for the Cuban. Al was told in no uncertain terms the guy was no friend of his, that he did not know him, and then released. He didn’t see the guy around the streets again! I find it hard enough being summoned through queues of people into a bank, or public building, by-passing the locals. It’s embarrassing and all I can do is apologise, I’ve persistently tried telling the doormen that other people were first, to no avail. I’m a tourist, privileged!

Touting for business is rife at every tourist transit point, the worst by far is at bus stations. Some are worse than others, by and large they all involve numerous people jostling for the first chance to hustle the new arrivals. You often have to fight your way through, many bus stations have an enclosed area for access to the buses themselves. Beyond this expect a mass of touts, all trying to outdo each other, offering taxis or accommodation. They will line up against windows with signs declaring price and location of their Casa, try shoving business cards through metal railings into your hand, anything to get your custom. At Baracoa there are huge metal gates barring access to the bus compound, the locals are well behaved here, they will not intrude beyond the line of the gates. Instead they form a solid pack barring your exit. With no exaggeration they form a battle line six deep, there’s no way around them, you have to go through; it’s a formidable sight. It’s far worse than Thailand, but similar for the instant bombardment at transit points. I was the first off the bus arriving here, it raised a laugh as I approached the impenetrable wall and blew out my cheeks in bewilderment. At least it caused a break in the cacophonous sound, but only briefly. Whatever happened to my usual way of dealing with this? In Thailand I’d allow everyone else to go first, let them take the worst of it, once it had quietened down I’d deal with the remaining few. I generally found these to be the less pushy, therefore easier to deal with, and more pleasant. Here I was unsure of getting a decent place to stay, having picked one form Lonely Planet I didn’t want to delay, I wanted to get there first, have first choice. As the crowd started rising to fever pitch I hollered out, “Is anyone from Casa Colonial Lucy here?” It worked a dream, with laughter one guy was thrust forward with unanimous declarations that he was family to the Casa owners, problem solved. The noise had changed, agreeable good humour for the manner in which I’d dealt with the situation, it was a new one for them. I was at my Casa and settled before any other Bici-taxis arrived in town, I felt rather proud of myself to be honest. Despite being overcharged I didn’t even argue with the Bici-taxi guy either, I gave him less assuring him it was still too high a price, then shook his hand goodbye. Hey, I don’t want to bear grudges, I’m here for at least a week, better to have a friendly wave each time we pass.

How dangerous is life in this country? Amputees are common, especially legs, though probably because they are more noticeable. I have no assumptions as to why, I can’t imagine it has anything to do with landmines, which is the common cause in many areas of the world. Only around the US naval base at Guantanamo are there any landmines, and I don’t think there is any rush to get in there. I can only think it is a money saving issue, having shortages of medical supplies and equipment it must be easier to amputate than initiate the lengthy process of long term treatment and rehabilitation. I know many Cuban doctors have travelled to places like Africa, especially Angola in years gone by, so their familiarity with the process of amputation could well make it their first choice. Makes my mind boggle, what state would I be in if having an accident like mine here. There’s a lot of talk of Cuba having one of the best medical services in the world, I have severe reservations over that. The most widely available quite likely, the cheapest almost definitely, but the shortages of equipment and medical supplies place grave restrictions on available treatment.

So much information in so little time, is it a true insight into Cuban life or one man’s biased view? If I was to question all the information gained by talking to people I would stay as ignorant as ever. What other source am I meant to use for insights into life in other countries. An interesting phenomenon is the housing issue, I knew all property was state owned, how housing was apportioned I’m still not clear. What I know now is the procedure for moving house, basically you must find a willing person to exchange property and make the appropriate application. It’s a straight swap, except money often changes hands unofficially. It makes it hard to move areas, if you have to find a person in Havana who wishes to move to Baracoa, for example, that can be almost impossible. If you live rurally, or in a very dilapidated house finding a willing exchange can be hard. So living in a campisimo, a farm in the backwaters, that is your destiny. Animals are privately owned, yet killing large animals is illegal. Pigs, chickens and goats are no problem; cows, mules and horses are. I was told the penalty used to be 8 years prison, Raul has now changed that, introducing harsher penalties, increasing the incarceration to 12 years. They are for milk or transportation, not food. If you steal your neighbour’s animal that is less of a penalty, no wonder beef is rarely seen as part of the menu. I believe tourist resorts have no such limitations, I have seen evidence of beef stock in the countryside, maybe it’s provision for the select few.

Went to a cock fight, can’t say I was impressed. Seeing two cockerels fighting didn’t faze me at all, it’s what they do. It was the bloodlust of the crowd that I found hard to accept, they were positively baying for blood. Every fight was to the death, and a lot of money changed hands. The crowds were vast, it was an all day event with dozens of birds. Set up like a fiesta, whole families attended, though it was dominated by males. Food and drink stalls were set up, and many alternative means of gambling were in evidence; dice, dominoes. It was interesting though, the second fight I was thinking it too much. One cock was just legging it away from what seemed the dominant, it ran round the ring in flight for a good ten minutes; I thought the outcome obvious. One guy was shouting himself hoarse cheering on the apparent loser, taking more and more bets on it. After a lengthy game of cat and mouse the tables turned, once it had worn out the supposed victor. Then it rapidly dispatched the other, a decisive victory. I never realised they had the forethought to use tactics in that way. I only watched the two fights and then got bored. Of more interest was the reactions of the crowd, that was what I wanted to photo. My first attempt to take a photo of the ring and attendants I nearly got a walking cane thrown at me. A youngish guy, obviously an important part of the event organisation, was the one who got threatening towards me. I fiddled with my camera to get the ideal settings and by the time I was ready for the shot he’d noticed and flipped out at me. I should have been quicker, but it marked the end of any possible photos.

For much of my adult life I’ve held the belief that anger is an emotional barrier, a protective barrier against our pain and suffering, especially for western males. Instead of having to deal with that which causes us grief we get angry. This has caused me to spend an awful lot of time and effort trying to deal with my anger, trying to overcome the angry response, allowing myself to deal with the sadness accumulated throughout my life. In our western traditions males aren’t encouraged to express our softer emotions, anger is the one emotion expected of us, I don’t hold much faith in such philosophy. This has been the root cause of the aggressive manner displayed in international politics. It’s male bullshit, and about time it became a thing of the past. On a personal level, when Cai died my grief was so overwhelming anger stood no chance at all. If it was to act as a protective barrier I would have had to go on a murderous spree, wiping out every single person I could in any way hold responsible for my grief, and that is just not me. Since then those destructive emotions have dissipated, only vague thoughts of venting my anger have emerged. Now and again I may be sat and get a random thought to throw something against the wall , or out the window. It’s never been a consideration, just a random thought which generally precedes a strong feeling of sadness, of loss. It would appear anger has lost its foothold on me, for which I can only express gratitude, but what a price to pay! I’ll honour this new found freedom from the scourge of my life, I’ll welcome a life without the threat of anger overwhelming me. But I still wish, beyond anything else, I could have my son back.

Baracoa, wild and wind swept!

What a palaver Sunday was, failed to reach Guantanamo, but managed to make Santiago de Cuba. Being precise, it was Monday by the time I made it there, 00.30 am. I had no food from breakfast and was danger of running out of money. Having been careful with the information about train times I went out to Guayos for the train to Guantanamo, only to find there wasn’t one until 1.30am Tuesday and I wasn’t about to wait over 36 hours. 1 2hours might have seen me settle down for the duration, instead I done a quick rethink and decided to strike out for Sant de C, by bus. Financially it made little difference! Lonely planet had quoted $10cuc for taxi fare, so I waited outside a central hotel waiting for a passing cab, in vain. Eventually a woman from the hotel walked me round the corner and got a Bici-taxi to take me to the hospital, where he sorted out a cab for me. I didn’t even have change to pay him so had to change a $10cuc note with a cabbie, getting $240 peso. The taxi out was only $15 peso, a return on an empty bus $10 peso, there and back only cost $1cuc, bargain. After a wait of 3 hours, I was on a bus. This dual currency lark can be beneficial once you deal in peso, it can also be a pain. Tourist tickets must be paid for in CUC, CUC and pesos must balance for independently in the ticket office. They were $1cuc short of the change I needed so couldn’t issue the ticket, despite saying I’d accept the change in peso, because the currencies wouldn’t balance. Never mind it worked out eventually, the guy tried real hard for me and came out trumps in the end.

The ever shifting scenery lay under a deep blue sky with clearly defined, puffy clouds, under slung with foreboding grey. The weather remained clear, they were some distance away and showed no signs of closing in. It was only as we came over the pass, nearing Baracoa, the weather closed in and the rain came down, since then it has continued to rain, or should I say drizzle. Temperatures have stayed OK and the rain, minding the flooded stretches of road in the town, poses no problems, I didn’t even have to go paddling, although I was tempted. Travelling east has brought about very different scenery and a different emphasise on food production. Initially, once clear of the immediate urban surrounds, Sugarcane stretched to the far horizon, with unseen refineries belching smoke into the atmosphere. A number of derelict sugar mills marked an end to the large scale sugar production, since then very little has been seen. Only the odd patch of cane, not enough for sugar production. Of course the cane itself is still valued in its raw state, a delicacy to suck or chew. From the layout of the land I think it was mainly sugar cane, for processing. Knowing this took a downward spiral due to the harsh environmental effect, it would appear to have become more grazing for cattle now. Not that there are huge numbers of cattle around, now and again there are smallish herds, more often there’s just a thin scattering of them. And there appears a lot of empty land previously cleared, maybe it’s just being left fallow.

Towns and villages have a hotchpotch of tightly packed compounds as soon as you leave the urban sprawl, each with a small patch of bare earth, space for chickens and pigs. Leaving the immediate vicinity small holdings make the most of extra space, larger compounds bordered by an acre or so given over to the production of one main crop, seemingly destined for local markets. Most common are bananas, maize and beans. Often an assortment of other produce can also be seen, smaller patches, which I assume are for personal consumption. Root veg must be commonly grown, they’re for sale all over the place, I wouldn’t be able to identify them though. Of the produce seen in the markets, sweet potatoes, onions, peppers, garlic, tomatoes, cucumbers, cabbage, yams and a number of other tubers are the basics. Fruit seems pretty much restricted to mango, papaya, fruta la bumba, pineapples and citrus, whose variety depends on the region. There is all you need for a healthy diet, yet you’ll only find local produce, seldom are goods transported needlessly over great distances. As in Vinales, Baracoa has mobile merchants plying their wares, by Bici or cart they thread through the narrow streets calling out the produce they have for sale; just like they used to at home, even in my life time.

From Santiago de Cuba the land becomes less cultivated, much more natural, a matter of necessity as the terrain is much rougher. Hilly land, short lumpy hills laced by waterways, backed by steep rock densely wooded. This was even more pronounced after Guantanamo where a bluff of rock followed the road for a number of miles. This offered some interesting opportunities for climbing, though bare rock was less frequent than steely forested crag. It’s all more interesting than seen elsewhere in Cuba, which has been widely cultivated. Before the only natural aspects seem to have been where the land itself made ensured agriculture was impractical, which I guess is the case over here in the east, just that there is a lot more rough terrain. If there is a crop in abundance here it’s bananas, small plots of dense banana groves. To me they all look the same, whether plantain or banana I know not. I’ve been lead to believe they are the same, depends when they’re harvested. I don’t believe it, you get finger, or fig, bananas which are small and invariably sweeter than the larger ripe ones. Plantains tend to be fairly large and can get to be huge, much bigger than the imports we have at home. They are different though, cooked differently, one size favoured when cooked in a particular manner.

A few more observations on the people of this delightful country, concerning attitudes, situations and behaviour. Equality of the sexes is a weird one! Apparently women are seen in official positions as frequently as men, administratively I’d agree, or would I. No I wouldn’t, men are rarely seen serving in government owned shops or service centres; like the Etecsa (telecommunication centres). As waiters, in bars or behind counters in shops there is an even distribution; tills are the domain of women exclusively. A majority of bank clerks are female, but there isn’t an overwhelming majority here. Doormen are always men, and I don’t mean bouncers. Entry into all public buildings and service centres have men attending to entry, restricting numbers whenever necessary. Taxi drivers, coachmen (the ones with horses), drivers and attendants on public transport are men, always. In the home women seem to spend the vast majority of their time washing, cleaning and cooking. Put simply the men do bugger all, except smoke and drink. The number of homes without a father present is staggering, in my estimation it’s more the norm than an exception. I’d go as far to say they are not expected to hang around for long, and this is not just the younger generation, it’s prevalent throughout all generations. Whatever age they can also be seen ogling and propositioning women of any age, however relevant. Probably why there are so many gorgeous young women with fat, balding, foreign sugar daddies.

If pushed to declare a nation form of dress for Cubans I’d have to say muscle shirts for men and crack splitting shorts for women. The latter are worn by the vast majority of younger women and a large percentage of the slightly more mature, whatever their size. Whilst they present a constant distraction most the time it is a bit much being subjected to the more rotund. From the youngest age possible it’s their daily dress, for the more provocative they’re suitable for the disco. A distinction must be made here, more often than not jeans are favoured by the lasses accompanied by their boyfriends. When not in sandals the guys tend to wear those elongated shoes with the square toes, the ones I detest the look of, so guess who won’t be buying a pair of them?

West is best, I don't think so!

Cienfuagos, a short breath and it was blown away on the wind. On arrival I merely secured a Casa and went to suss the place out. I’d not had a great start so wanted to see more of the place in a relaxed way. No camera, just a bit of money and myself. True to Lonely Planet’s word, the Malecon is nice, a popular haunt for old and young alike. Punta Gorda is much nicer than being in the town, the Casa Particulares overlook the bay and have open relaxed space outside, even private roof terraces, I wasn’t about to change Casas again though. The day was earmarked for securing my visa extension, all being well I’d continue on to Sancti Spiritus. And it all went well enough, despite nearly going on a strop with the immigration officer. When I got there he just looked at me and said I couldn’t make my application, because I had shorts and a t-shirt on. Despite being livid I merely laughed and walked out, I fought against all the stupid thoughts that went through my mind, the temptation and dressed to impress, as far as I could. Even put on my shoes because I wasn’t wholly sure whether he’d meant my shorts or flip-flops being unacceptable. More important I kept my smart-arse mouth shut when arriving back, an hour later I had the relevant extension. Then I could dress in scruffy shorts and vest to parade myself around town, I actually went straight to the train station and booked a ticket for the next day. Sitting outside an old woman approached, toothless, dressed in tattered, soiled clothes the initial assumption was that she was a beggar. Wrong! Shaking my hand she proceeded to tell me how good looking a man I was. Signifying my hair and facial features, my blue eyes, she told me how strong my looks were. We exchanged a little information about ourselves, I understood a little of what she said but can’t remember her name and couldn’t make out where she came from. Then we sat in silence on the bench, as she gazed at me. I hate to admit it, but eventually I felt awkward, apologised and excused myself.

A multitude of people packed tight around the doors leading onto the platform, for some obscure Cuban reason these are kept shut until the train is actually ready to depart. At the given time, once they manage to force them back against the pressing crowd, they are opened. It made me seriously worried that people could get hurt in the crush, even folks at the back were visibly pushing into the crowd. Behind the madness sat the wise ones, generally women and kids, shaking their heads in bewilderment. All I can say is I’m glad I wasn’t stupid enough to have gotten in the middle, I let them go and walked nonchalantly down the platform a few minutes later. Making no sense of the coach or seat numbers prompted me to enquire of a uniform, their own fault if they insist on wearing a uniform, who passed me into the eager hands of the train conductor. Actually he was sweating profusely and stressing about everything, a whole four seats had been cordoned off for my reservation, he’d not let anyone into the other three, it was embarrassing but he did start letting kids and old grannies have two of the seats, keeping two available for me. After a while I refused to take it, tried telling a woman who’s kid was sat next to me to take my seat but she refused. The conductor had told her she was not to sit there, even though I was sat on my luggage hanging out the window taking photos. They moved when other seats came available, I then insisted another woman use my seat and made do with my dive bag. So it became apparent why there was so much of a crush to get to the train, seats get scarce, but only for the first leg of the journey to Santa Clara. Which took a few hours, what a laugh!

Whilst stopping at a profusion of small towns and villages there were as many stops in the middle of nowhere, merely points at which a mud track crossed the rails. I did notice that each one had a battered rusty metal cross at the trackside, so it wasn’t completely hit and miss. Being lead to believe the Cuban rural areas were abject poverty I was pleased to confirm it was a belief imparted by a typical tourist, unused to how most the world live. Like everywhere else in Cuba many buildings were falling apart, crumbling into dust. Their age can only be assumed as old, though look more like antiquities. In Havana I wasn’t surprised to see deeply ingrained grime, the result of a profusion of smoke belching monstrosities plying their way through the capital for so many years. Time has been no kinder rurally, blackened facades crumble, yet their life more often outlives the inner structure. All too common are missing walls, sections of roof fallen in, temporary fixes made to ward off what the weather throws their way. Luckily there are no bitterly cold winters, no prolonged rainy season, little to protect themselves against. Also like the capital, the old public buildings stand tall and proud. Meticulously restored to their former glory, it must be hard for the general public to see this yet live in near ruins themselves.

Let’s cut to the quick shall we? Since arriving in Cienfuagos I felt unsettled, not at ease at all. Not staying for long enough to settle myself intensified things, the feeling followed me to Sancti Spiritus and made it hard to establish myself here. It’s made me doubt the wisdom of coming to Cuba for so long, even doubt my choice to set off alone on another adventure. Feeling cut off and alone has been exacerbated in cities, bearing in mind my incompetence with Spanish. I didn’t feel it in Vinales, though I quickly found security in my hosts. But let’s be bluntly honest, this is largely a language problem; one felt many times before in foreign cities. I know I’m not a city person, they do make me feel on edge, even at the best of times. The more people about, the more I feel isolated and insecure. Being more withdrawn since losing Cai again exaggerates these feelings. No longer do I walk into local bars without hesitation, have a few drinks and attempt to converse with the other customers. Maybe that’s a good thing, though I always felt it added a lot to my travels. After last night it’s lessened, I’ve been walking around the really small back alleys and dirt tracks, wandering willy nilly, experiencing the cities real life, rather than the tourist sites. With camera strap over my shoulder I’d size up a possible picture before exposing my obviously expensive bit of kit, I’ve had no adverse reactions, only curious enquiries. I have exchanged words using my limited vocabulary, apologising for my lack of Spanish, explaining where I come from. I enjoyed it tremendously and got some lovely shots. One interesting reaction is an assumption that I’m taking professional shots, that it’s work not idle tourism; after all, tourists do not walk blindly around a cities run down areas happy snapping. Neither did I, gaining a better eye for a photo I’ve started leaving my camera alone until the right shot, from the correct angle has been decided, then out comes the camera. Now and again after a quick look through the eyepiece I’ll adjust my position, sometimes finding myself shaking my head and not bothering. It isn’t all show, entering a square I want the best it has to offer in a picture, the best background showing tree and tumbledown shack. Waiting for the shot as well, lowering my camera if traffic passes. I respect people’s privacy, if it’s obvious the photo includes them I’ll call and use a gesture for permission. It works well, and has given me another tool to ease my linguistic failings, and few people mind here. Rather the opposite, many ask for their photo to be taken, and why not!

A new year, or just another day? Not for the inhabitants of this city. The morning started quiet and peaceful, a seeming end to the madness that appeared to proceed. A truck load of police turning up in the city square looked ominous, I was sure it spelt trouble and went out with my camera, ready for the big off. I’m tempted to say no such luck, yet for the people it was a good thing. The square was packed, hundreds of youths milling around in all their finery, the police posted at every corner. To me it looked set for disaster, did they expect a riot? Actually no, it was very good humoured and my initial reluctance to be seen taking photos passed, I openly clicked away at the police and crowds mingling. OK, the authorities stood around in groups, but it wasn’t a standoff. Smiles and handshakes were frequently exchanged. The night before music had blasted out across the square, for the actual occasion there was none. Everyone drank constantly, there must have been a profusion of hangovers this morning. Not for me, I hardly touched a drop, a couple of beers and a nice glass of Glenlivet I found in a bar. Once seen taking photos loads of groups wanted their picture taken, and of course to laugh at the results. My preliminary attitude was caution, once reassured by a happy carnival response I used the flash. I could have happy snapped all night, enthused by the crowd, maybe I should have, they loved it. Their thoughts of being viewed by the public in Ingleterra delighted them.

There is no institutionalised poverty, by and large the people have very low cost housing, all are catered for. At times the quarters are cramped by our standards, yet homelessness is seldom seen. There are no signs of people living on the street, in the gutter. And here I must be careful because I know it would not be tolerated, the police would not allow it; they are the force to be reckoned with. Impoverished people are evident though; I wouldn’t describe them as dressed in rags, dirty and smelly yes. It’s impossible to get to the bottom of this, even those seeking escape from Cuba do not explain how these very few are so pitifully poor, or appear to be so. Cubans themselves are generous to the walking wounded, and I don’t mean purely physical. Friends I’ve eaten with will not waste food, instead have it collected into our equivalent of a doggy bag and distribute it to needy people on the street. A lot of care is shown, discerning common people unwilling to let those less fortunate suffer. Tourists may snub beggars, the locals are less likely to.

In my life I’ve loved a lot and lost a lot. I can remember 15 years ago, stood on a spit of land in Norway, alone and lonely, shouting into the cosmos, “ I just want to love, I want to be loved!” And now I begin to realise the extent to which this has been achieved. Now I begin to realise how fortunate I’ve been, how deeply I’ve loved, how deeply I’ve been loved. For which I am eternally grateful! Twenty years ago I wrote of obtaining the ultimate in solitude by the time I was 50 yrs old, a cave high in the hills. A place to sit and contemplate life, to cast off all the distractions that could hamper this contemplation, a chance to obtain my own personal nirvana. It’s been said no man is an island, but aren’t we at our best when completely self contained? Surely to be needing no more is a point of strength, it doesn’t mean we must alienate ourselves. Does this not mean we need nothing from others, we are not dependant on taking, we are free to give selflessly? Riches beyond my wildest dreams has rarely been the guiding force in my life, though money has taken its share of my attention. Yet I have amassed so much, a wealth of experience, a wealth of knowledge, an abundance of skills. How can I look at my life and be dissatisfied with my achievements? Yet I have insisted on doing so. Cai was my biggest exponent, proud of those achievements, and unafraid to remind me. As I sit and thank him for all he taught me, I know it is myself who is responsible, each of us is responsible for that which we absorb, that which we learn. Others can merely help us on our way, guide us on our path. “Experience is the only true knowledge,” a philosophy I’ve adhered to for as long as I can remember. So until you’ve lived it, isn’t it just blind faith? I’m no longer seeking my cave, I haven’t finished learning yet. I’m still alive, how could I have finished? Some time out to catch up with myself is useful, but not to give up on life.