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.

Vinales disappears in a drunken haze!

Last couple of nights have been with a couple of fellow travellers, two women, one a Brit and the other French. Neither reside in their own country and they both provide enjoyable company. It’s made for a nice change to have other people to sit down and chat to, I know it’s all been in English and my Spanish has been suffering recently. The trouble has been writing, my mind has been filled with the subject matter, the job in hand, with little room for tackling Spanish as well. I can only do so much at a time and my expectations coming here were too high. Looks like the diving isn’t going to happen, it still could but I’m not prepared to put the effort in now. A decision must be made once home whether this is a permanent decision or whether to keep my new kit for another time. At present thoughts of jumping back on the diving bandwagon don’t inspire me at all. I’ll give it some time and see how it goes.

Yesterday I trekked out the other side of the village, just followed the road really to see what was there. It provided some good photos and some really gory sights. It wound up the hillside until it came to the town rubbish tip, at first I was too busy trying for decent photos of vultures to notice what it was they were circling above. So there were the pigs, dogs and vultures all rooting around for sustenance. And then I noticed the reciprocation of this arrangement. A vulture was perched atop a dead dog proceeding to open its stomach and tuck in. The photo came out so well it made for an even worse scene than initially thought, you can see the stringy bits stretching from the dog’s guts to the vultures beak. The original scene wasn’t found to be at all disturbing, though I’m sure it will upset the sensibilities of many folks back home. The picture is the last in this blog, be warned, it’s strong stuff.

Went out to the disco again on Christmas eve, this time with female accompaniment, the French woman. We had a bit of a dance, she didn’t seem keen to spend too long there, which was fine by me. The real fun was watching a young lass take control of a poor unfortunate tourist, and didn’t she play the game well. For me it was an amazing experience, watching it from a more objective point. At one stage he was just stood there looking utterly bewildered as she gyrated her arse in his direction, bent over double leaving nothing to the imagination. I can’t remember if this was the same one I danced with last week, I don’t think it was, she was really fit anyway. It was interesting to observe, it was only young women playing the tourists who were grinding and rubbing themselves off against their dance partners. Boy aren’t they good at the game, the guy had no chance.

So with regret my time in Vinales comes to an end, my visa needs extending and I couldn’t do it there. My hosts at the Casa have been lovely, much more than patrons of the guesthouse. Half my time has been spent typing and chapter three of my book is finished, now for the next instalment. With careful planning I’ve chosen another quiet place, this time with a definite French influence, Cienfuagos! Who knows where it will be after, I can’t be bothered travelling all the time. which is nothing new for me, I prefer more time in fewer places. You get more of a feel for each place, and the locals get to know you and appreciate you as more than a brief tourist. I do so hate playing the part of your everyday tourist.

Meet two climbers from Manchester, Vinales is the place to come and climb in Cuba. With a profusion of bolted routes it’s gaining a reputation as an international venue for climbers. Does it make for a bleak future for the town? They climb hard and play even harder, it took me little time to decide they weren’t the companions for me. Boasting of mega drinking sessions, falling over and chucking their guts up, made me cringe. And now I feel a hypercrit, but hey, I’m fast becoming an old git who no longer appreciates pushing it that far. Maybe it’s because I no longer need to drink to such excess before falling over. In reality I find it a shame, their climbing prowess earns them massive respect from the local youth, it’s bound to follow their debauchery will have the same effect. And Cubans have so far been saved from the decadent excess’ of the west. That is not to say there isn’t alcoholism, it can be seen on the streets of every town, but not in the same way. It lacks the bolshy hostility so often displayed by drunks at home. They remain polite and friendly, open hostility is a foreigner to these parts. The two Daves were spotted in the disco later that night, in an uncontrollable mess, falling all over the place and loving every minute of it, larging it up! Yep, I’m showing my age!

Getting my hair re-braided later, but still can’t decide whether to renew them for the trip back home. Personally I like it in corn rows, but would love a whole head of rat-tail dreads. Once home it would be almost impossible to continually get the corn rows done, I don’t know the people with the expertise. The most recent thoughts are to have normal plaits done to return home and then turn it into dreads. It would be easy, tie up each plait at the root and leave the braids to fester for a few weeks. Treating them with dreading wax in the mean time will ensure a head start. Then undo the plaits, giving three dreads, very thin and half formed. Job done really!

At the moment I’m very much on my own, I feel comfortable with this, with no cravings for friends and family. Sorry folks, no insult meant! My life must be my own, not dependant on the company of others. I’m constantly being told not to become insular, to remain open to other people. Generally this is meant as the possibility of a new relationship, a new love in my life. OK, I agree! I shouldn’t shut out that possibility: it shouldn’t be the focus of life though! I adore the heart warming closeness of sharing time with someone special, but there is so much more to life. I don’t wish to go on a global hunt for a new love, I have faith, it may come, but it may not! Why waste years trying for the improbable? I’m a wanderer, I crave new experiences, I love being out there living amongst the weird and wonderful. How I’d love to share this with someone else, someone who captured my heart, meant the world to me. But I’m not about to give it all up for some vague hope! We all create our own world, our own destinies. Being true to ourselves, we can’t forsake all we hold dear for a shallow promise.

And folks, if you know of sources to promote my writings, my photos feel free to make them aware of me, my life. I’d be more than happy to express myself to a wider audience.

No room at the Inn!

And how careful was I the other night meeting Andreis for a pre-arranged supper with his family? I went out with virtually no money and nothing of value, and it was an unnecessary caution. He turned up as promised, took me to his Chica’s family home and had a great meal, con carne, with the whole family. It was lovely and almost made me ashamed of any suspicion. OK, so the fact he’d served 6yrs for armed robbery did enhance my paranoia; but hey, caste the first stone and all that! They lived in a large but very rudimentary home, bare breeze block walls not even reaching the ceiling. But it was spacious, with all the amenities needed, and they were tight knit and obviously making the most of things. I was open and honest about my doubts, he was sincere about not wanting to scrounge off me. I didn’t care about buying a few beers for him, just wouldn’t tolerate being hustled; which I was careful not to accuse him of. We spoke of matters closer to the heart and formed closer bonds, I even admitted my own legal infractions and consequential incarceration. That isn’t something I’ve done often, so I was opening up. Actually turns out to be a good understanding between us. To be honest, my own opinions of tourists isn’t that different from the locals. If they’re that friggin’ blind and stupid then do they really deserve anything else but being taken advantage of? Wouldn’t the world be a fine place if this wasn’t necessary, if the huge cultural differences and financial imbalances didn’t make it an unavoidable reality. Isn’t it only redistribution of wealth? Until it’s my wealth their trying to redistribute, I’ll decide how that pans out, no-one else! Typical hypercrit eh?

So, about the pros and cons of Cuba. The medical system is free, a big plus, especially in a third world country, which to be absolutely honest Cuba is. There is a catch here though, which I agree with entirely! If you earn above a certain amount you must pay for it, so for the wealthier members of society it isn’t free. For folk like Federico (the new patron, who’s a lawyer) some of the cost must be meet by them. Of course they are not too happy about that, so slag off the Castros and the system over that. In my mind so they fucking should, Viva La Revolution! Isn’t always the same, those who have more are the ones who complain most. It sticks in the craw! A woman I got talking to had a really hard labour and ended up with an emergency caesarean, her daughter has asthmatic problems and has needed some emergency treatment a number of times. For her the free medicine has been a massive help, how can we question that. Screw the more wealthy, screw the professional classes, why should they deserve more than anyone else? Because they have had better opportunities? Surely not. More often they work fewer hours for lots more money, sorry folks I really can’t agree with the imbalances which dominate our world. Hey, I’ve even given money to a few people who I’ve judged might actually be poor and needy. One guy with buggered legs, there’s a surprise hey; I think not!

Education is another biggy! Where in the world does the population not benefit from education? Originating in a country that used to offer free higher education to all, who had the mental capacity for it, I’m all in favour of maximising the educational potential of the general population. If university students came from wealthier homes their contribution towards study increased, otherwise fees and maintenance were sponsored by the government. OK, the system of calculating financial means had it’s problems, but now students leave owing the equivalent of a mortgage and spend years paying back the huge debt. Great for Wales, they’ve bucked the system and grant fee-less places for students coming from, and going to universities in, Wales! Where-ever you go will be found a social class which does not appreciate the benefits of education, from observations it would appear that in itself is a product of a defunct society. Without social pressures to eat and provide shelter who would not improve the possible outcome of their lives, at least not with an official positive attitude and credible financial inducements. So Cuba isn’t perfect here, there are a lot of poverty stricken people who obviously do not value education. Unfortunately there is not enough money in the coffers to provide for all, tourism brings in a lot but to get it off the ground free enterprise had to be initiated to some extent. And there lays the problem, profit for the wealthy investors, piss poor wages for the workers. So even in Cuba, one of the last bastions of socialism, the rich get richer whilst the poor scrounge what they can.

I’m still trying to come to grips with losing Cai and almost becoming a quadriplegic. There’s little recognition of the body I inhabit, few thoughts that remind me of the person I once thought I knew so well. My current journey is one of rediscovery; who is this person who has twice risen from the ashes? What value can there be for life, a life that is beyond previous imagination? Losing Cai seemed the end of all ends, losing my mobility could easily have been the final straw. Instead it gave me renewed strength to fight back, a stubborn refusal to give in to hands of fate. I was determined to remain in control! Now even simple decisions prove a burden, it’s easier to allow whatever to happen to me. Is it really necessary to create a whole new persona? The physical and emotional aspects of my old life are totally different, obviously, otherwise it wouldn’t be a new life, DOH!

Another wonder is the extent of reconstruction in progress. UNESCO have ploughed huge amounts of money into the project of restoring Cuba’s historical heritage. I doubt if the tide will ever be significantly turned, many public buildings are ringed by scaffolding, even vast numbers of tenement buildings are earmarked for restoration. Meanwhile the city crumbles! Buildings with nary an intact wall are still lived in, blackened ruins hiding hardy residents, the gradual disintegration of 400 yr old slums now speedens towards its final resting place, as piles of rubble encroaching onto the sidewalk. The antiquity of the city adds to the vibe, but it can surely never regain the majesty it must once have displayed. Spending hours wandering the old city, I’m under no illusion as to the extent of degradation. Whole edifices shored up by huge timbers, defying the laws of gravity, even they give the impression of originating from the Kings of Spain’s navy. I find it enthralling, yet appalling! Look beneath centuries of grim and the slums show a rare quality, one of perseverance. Combined with a plethora of vehicles half a century old you’re left feeling you’ve entered a forgotten world which is struggling to catch up with itself, let alone the rest of the world!

Rap and Hip-hop reach the streets of Havana, not quite with the severity of American Ghettoes, but the signs are emerging. As a few youths lurch down the middle of the road, one proudly leading with his Pit-bull cross, NINA shaved into its flanks. Gangster Rap finds its mark in Cuba. Throughout the rest of the city no signs of swaggering youths have been seen, but ghettoes are special places. No openly friendly advances, no happy hustles, not even curious interest. The open streets are used for ferocious games of football, with little in the way of happy participation the ball is kicked with as much force as possible, oblivious to passersby. I moved accommodation to one of the most run down areas to be seen in the city, suspicion can be seen in most people’s eyes, distrust of the unfamiliar. There seems little clearly shown hostility, but people are guarded, helpful if approached, yet short and to the point. A nod in the required direction, a wave of the arm for indication, yet no more than required, no extra information on offer. My immediate feelings are uncertainty, why have I chosen this area, did I have my eyes closed when coming to view this apartment? Probably, desperate for more space and privacy I jumped at the chance.It was not the hub of tourist Havana, off the main roads there is no sign of other tourists. Isn’t this what seeing the real life of a foreign place is all about? Of typical Latino layout the whole of Havana is on a grid system, on first contact each street looks no different than its neighbour. Once over the initial sense of disorientation it isn’t so bad to navigate, all you need is a basic sense of direction. Unlike the main tourist area there is room for vehicles and people to share the roads. Being Cuba there is a distinct lack of vehicles in comparison to most countries, it isn’t devoid of them by any means, the main highways around the city sport a constant stream of smoke belching monsters. Between the common thoroughfares in this part cars are as often parked up on blocks. The most common form of transport lining the road are Bici-taxis. Those wonderful variations of bicycle, frame adapted to hold heavier duty, double rear wheels, generally with a couple of old plastic school chairs for two passengers, covered by a ratty canopy. They’re illegal to take tourists in, and few do, I’ve been in a few and only seen one other tourist in one; well, my bigotry keeps telling me white skin denotes a tourist.

At last I arrived at Maria La Gorda (literally Maria the fatso), renowned for its excellent diving. So the story goes Maria was stranded by pirates on the coast here and had to make ends meet by prostitution, so an honourable Cuban eh? Having meet the waitress here I think she must be a direct descendant, the quantities are correct, but I didn’t ask her name. It was the smile and wink she gave as she popped my cork, and I do mean for my bottle of wine! Yeah well, I think I’ll give that a miss. Whatever, Fat Maria’s legacy has done me no favours, on reaching the resort there was no room at the Inn. Not for long enough to make it worthwhile anyway. I so very nearly turned straight around and returned to Pinar del Rio, that was too defeatist though. The receptionist promised to do what she could, I can’t see the point, there is no way I want to leave my Christmas accommodation to chance. Not in such a hit and miss way, not hanging around each day to see if there might be space once expected guests have booked in. Two nights is the lot then, my decision has been made, for better or for worse. Ever onwards; with only a little back tracking to get to Vinales; otherwise it’s across the sea to Jamaica and I don’t really want to go there. Spanish lessons and horse riding is the hope, with a deeper desire to keep writing.

The drive from Pinar del Rio was over 100km and took well over an hour, I could see why the cost seemed so high. The journey was a really nice one, albeit hot. Rural Cuba seems the place for me, how could I have thought it would have been different. A profusion of well tended fields sporting a variety of crops, I recognised rice, maize and beans. From prior research this is known to be tobacco country, having no idea of the type of plant there was no way I could identify the crop itself. This is a rustic part of Cuba, many ox driven carts were in use and ploughs seemed their forte rather than that of tractors. Horses were everywhere, most in good robust health with the occasional example of a poorly kept beast left grazing on barren soil. Generally, they seem well cared for, respected and adept at providing both personal transport and a means of income. A fairly common form of cart were trailers fitted with canopies and bench seats, sitting as many as 20 or more people. With such fierce heat it was little wonder to see some bathed in sweat, still giving it their best without complaint. It was a far cry from the tourist traps to be found in Havana, they faced relatively easy lives in comparison. It wasn’t all fun and games there either; one night as I crossed a turning point at the roadside a driver came into the area much too fast and nearly fucked up. He had to turn too sharp, the horses hooves couldn’t fine the purchase on the tarmac and it was sliding sideways, almost losing it with me in the way. I didn’t know which way to go; to the curb meant the risk of it going over and taking me with it, back out into the road being knocked down when it recovered, if it did. I got the distinct impression the driver had been giving it loads to show off to his mate in the carriage, borne out by their rather inebriated behaviour. A similar situation to a guy at home putting his foot down with a mate, howling with laughter and nearly coming to grief by losing control.

How strange, writing the date in English doesn’t look right; I must be going mad! In another Casa now, in Vinales, a really quiet, tranquil town in the western most province of Cuba. It’s little more than a village, hardly bigger than Tregarth. The hustle appears directly proportional to the size, basically there is none; only those arriving by bus are greeted by a mass of Casa owners vying for custom. They form an impenetrable wall waving placards or simple hand written plaques displaying the names of their Villas, in the same way the Thai’s bombard new arrivals as the disembark. Walk down the street with a pack or travel case and hopeful patrons hail you from their porches, trying to entice you to stay with them. I think they are all comparable, some make a good job of promoting themselves, all will offer to show an alternative if you don’t want a place with them. English is widely spoken here, a prominent selling point at many places, as is any mention in the Lonely Planet guide. Take your pick, you’ll not be too disappointed. The food is delightful and plentiful, what more can a man ask for? I went straight to the pick of the guide book, true to form they were booked but showed an alternative across the road. Not wanting to be hustled into anywhere else I insisted on looking elsewhere first, it was much the same without being separate to the owner’s home. Explaining my preference for the first place I was asked which other one, it was her niece’s home. I returned chuckling to myself, Vinales is indeed a small place!

Second night out dancing last night, again the music was excellent. Being too self conscious to try and salsa I took to the side lines, not for long. An extremely hot and horny young lass lead me to the dance floor and preceded to grind her crutch into me, in the most delightful way. Compared to a Dutch guy (meet him earlier) I could at least keep the pace and respond in equal style to the dancing. I felt embarrassed for him, he could not dance at all, barely capable of lifting his feet or moving in any way connected to the music. Not that he cared, his woman had gotten his attention and he was game on, so played the fool rather than continued any attempt to actually dance. Needless to say he left arm in arm with her, happily on their way for a financial transgression. This was certainly not the case for me, after a few tracks of dirty dancing she requested we sleep together, I apologised and declined. It rather took her by surprise and wanted to know why, initially I used the excuse that I had a woman in Havana, “she isn’t here, so what’s the problem?” With little else to say I praised her beauty and claimed to be much too old for her, she couldn’t have been older than twenty. Such temptation is not for the feeble hearted; I must be mad, she was simply gorgeous and if we responded as well in bed together it would have been a night of intense pleasure. And it didn’t stop there, another, then another, and another asked me to dance. I refused all other offers and finally left, alone, fed up with the consistent and persistent hassle. No, “sucky, fucky, fifty bucks,” for me!

And this morning my legs ache like buggery again, quite conclusive really, much as I love a good hip gyrating groove with hot, horny chicks it costs me dearly. At least it was only in my own discomfort, my wallet and morals stayed intact. I didn’t suffer this extent of hassle in the Havana night club, even outside three women were offering me the choice between them. Claims of having a woman didn’t perturb them, even persisting that I was a one woman man meant nothing, concluding with my dismissal. Money is the name of the game here, morals mean nothing, sentiments have no bearing. I’m happy to maintain my stance, there is more to life and love than sticking your dick in someone.

Today Cuba, tomorrow the world!

Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? In fact it seems forever since I last wrote my blog, nine months is a long time when filled with constant hard work and physical endurance. My reconstruction surgery went well, the ensuing physio became my whole focus in life. I was desperate to regain full use of my legs and guess I’ve come a long way. The day I first stepped onto the treadmill and managed to run was exhilarating, if painful. A constant battle has been fought with hamstring problems, maybe due to pushing too hard, too often. How could I do anything else? I felt my own physical well being was all I really had in life. So yes, I’ve come a long way! I’d love to say there is still a long way to go, yet must accept being faced with permanent restrictions on my physical abilities. It’s now obvious none of my limbs will ever be the same, I only hope I can still claw back more by not giving up yet.

After a long wait, and numerous reductions in the price, my house has been sold. I’m now a hobo, content to be so and looking forward to life with no responsibilities, no commitments and few ties. I still don’t feel inspired to greatness, still only going through the motions and still wish I could find solace in the lovely people who still stand by my side, offering support and lending me strength when most needed. I’m sorry, I can’t! The gut feeling is that life is meaningless, empty. It isn’t a question of glass half empty or glass half full, I have no frigging glass!

I don’t know why people express admiration for my strength and fortitude. Frequently I doubt their judgement, no-one knows the quagmire of thoughts and feelings encumbering my every day; nor would I wish that on them. I wouldn’t want people to feel the scorn that fills me as they whinge and whine on about the truly petty issues they concern themselves with. I’m not comfortable with these feelings, I don’t welcome them and I don’t act upon them. They enter unbidden and have to be dealt with, otherwise I would become an unbearably cynical bore. It matters that folk wish me so well, that they want to see me obtain some pleasure from life. I can understand how desirable a globe-trotting lifestyle must seem, I’d willingly swap it for my son, but not new limbs! And so I manage to get away for a very welcome break, it is purely holiday, albeit a long one by common standards.

Havana, a seething metropolis, yet reported to be one of the safest cities in Latin America. Whilst the streets are widely pedestrianised thoroughfares there is a dribble of traffic in the narrow roads in the old city, the arterial roads are not that busy. Certainly not when compared with those of Central America, Indonesia, Thailand, India; in fact virtually every other poorer country I’ve been to. I expected to find a host of dilapidated old heaps barely kept running, belching clouds of exhaust smoke. They are certainly to be seen dominating the roads, but Lada’s rule the roost. They are the dominant vehicles in use, seconded by ancient old American Dodges, Chevys, Buicks etc. Most are so old they have no insignia, and I’m not an expert in US vehicles, I can merely identify them as American, full stop. The surprise is the growing number of newer imported vehicles, Toyotas and Peugeots the most common. I blacked out Mercedes passed me today, I assume that was a government official of some sort, or maybe one of the few commercially successful people on the island; there aren’t many!

I’m staying in Havana Viaja, the old city, an enchanting mix of crumbling old colonial buildings with a small number of architecturally brazen new edifices peeking out in between. Many of the old buildings are undergoing renovation, they are gutted and made good rather than torn down and replaced. Scaffolding is a common sight, generally for renovation work rather than new construction. The side streets are narrow, in typical grid formation layout. Initially hard to navigate, it quickly becomes second nature to find your bearings and locate your destination. Random wandering is made easy, the first two excursions saw me hopelessly lost, now it’s all simple and much is recognisable in an instant. The blocks are frequently interspersed with large Plazas and small parks, providing greenery, benches and shade to rest in. It is a tourist hub and Obispo is the main tourist street for cafes and bars. Every bar and cafe seems to boast its own group of musicians, all selling their own CD’s. The quality of music is excellent, not so the CD’s, I’ve bought two and they were both appalling quality. You live and learn, at least I try to; after all, if you’re not learning from life any more what’s the point.

On arrival at my Casa particulares Pueblo gave me a prep talk on the vagaries of Havana, where not to go, who not to trust. He didn’t want me getting into difficult situations, didn’t want to see my stay soured. So within 50 metres of walking down the street I’d stopped and got talking to some guys, accepted a drink of rum and was about to go on my way when Pueblo appeared. Of course he’d seen the exchange and got instantly worried, I’d done everything he’d warned me not to. There was no point arguing the toss, caution should be taken when newly arriving in strange cities. The correct thing to do was apologise and give re-assurance that I would heed his warnings, so I did what was desired of me. I wasn’t being blasé, I had no camera, little money and nothing else worth stealing on me. He made it sound worse than I’d been lead to believe! He only felt responsible for me, which I can sympathise with.

The hustlers (Jineteros, males; and jineteras, females) abound. In fact I’d say it is a common occupation, with a profusion of wannabes! The variety of hustles could be said to extend infinitely, but they are mainly variations of only a few. There are those who merely beg, or should I say openly beg. More common is the approach of friendship, used to hustle you into a bar, to splash your money down their throats and earn them a commission. Their pretext is often to get you a free invitation to a wonderful evening of music, unavailable without their personal invite. Then there are the hard luck stories, which attempt to use your pity to relieve you of money. “Senor, just one peso, it is very little money.” Almost guaranteed to follow offers of a swig of rum will be one of these hustles. Requests for help are wide ranging, and not only from single people. Often accompanied by pleas of wanting no money you’ll be asked to simply buy some much needed supplies. A good one is by a pregnant couple, desperate for baby milk or nappies (I’ve had both). The shopping bill can be very high once succumbed to the scam, apparently the goods are exchanged back for money once you’ve buggered off; yes, the shop keepers are in on it too! It has sorely taxed my energy fending off constant approaches, surely they realise how often a tourist is hassled each day. Each and every time so far I’ve maintained a smile, apologised and politely refused. I haven’t ignored anyone, but have started to say Hola and continue on my way. Straight prostitution is uncommon, you are more likely to be offered an escort, company by some very attractive women. It doesn’t always involve sex, it may only be to cash in on some nice meals or new clothes, it’ll still cost you though. But don’t most relationships? Actually that puts me into the realms of whoredom at times in my life, and I thought I was merely a slut! There are more, probably too many to list, and I tire of even writing of them. Tomorrow will bring more, with luck of a different variety; a change is, after all, as good as a rest.

The history of Cuba is astonishing, many factors can only be marvelled at, and many admired. The Mariel boatlift was one I admire for Castro’s brilliant solution to an internal problem caused by disenfranchised citizens. A number of people stole a bus and crashed through the boundary fence of the Peruvian embassy, once inside they claimed political asylum. Which they were granted! His immediate action was to remove the guards from the embassy gates, a mistake, as thousands flooded the Peruvian compound in a bid to leave Cuba. It didn’t take long before the numbers increased to a 11,000, with the American government offering to take in the asylum seekers. So how did Castro deal with the problem? He made the most of a bad situation, and made it known that any citizens who no longer wished to remain in Cuba could leave, they merely had to go to a coastal pickup point, providing they could be picked up. Lead by Cuban exiles from America a huge flotilla of 1700 boats left to help the fleeing Cubans. 125,000 left successfully, in horrendously overloaded boats, it was a massive rescue operation. America and their resident exiles achieved their aims, or so they thought. Castro emptied out the island’s jails and mental institutions, allowing them to join the asylum seekers, thereby ridding Cuba of thousands of their undesirables. America actually denied asylum to 2700 due to their violent dispositions. This was the basis of the film, “Scarface,” featuring the central character Tony Montana, the psychotic Cocaine dealer from a Cuban jail.

Rationing is still an everyday part of life here! Most foodstuffs are rationed and some are impossible to get with the national Peso, even sanitary towels are rationed. So the local Peso currency allows really cheap living, but only of limited amounts. By using CUC (Convertible Peso’s), which I call tourist money, much more is purchasable and it isn’t rationed. This is the reason locals are so desperate to get hold of CUC, it overcomes many of the endemic shortages. Recent years has seen private enterprise allowed to a limited extent, there are small open air markets permitted now, that work outside the rationing system. Average wages are in the region of $12cuc per month, equivalent to $300 peso nacionales. I get the impression it’s enough to provide the basics to live on, most houses have TVs, few people are dressed in rags, so it can’t be completely prohibitive. What is noticeable is equality of wealth, the enormous differences between rich and poor aren’t evident, unlike the majority of countries, especially 3rd world countries. Bearing that in mind, is it any wonder the local populace put so much effort into relieving tourists of their abundance of wealth.

What an amazingly vivid dream I had last night, about Cai! To be more precise his resurrection; coming back into my life, flesh and blood. It was so vivid I could touch him, feel us physically hugging each other, talk to him, hold a conversation. There was no room for doubt, miracles were possible. I couldn’t have wanted or hoped for more, and would have been content if I never had anything else again. And then it transpired it was a purely personal reality, no-one else shared this enigma, no others could see, hear or even feel his presence. I was dumbfounded, couldn’t believe it at all, what was wrong with everyone? The bottom line was it didn’t matter to me, I was content to be the only one. It didn’t matter that everyone thought I’d lost it, that I was seen as insane. If that were true I could live with my insanity, in fact nothing could entice me to even question it. I’d been re-united with the only thing that truly mattered, why would I risk losing him again by entertaining doubts? Waking didn’t diminish its profound effect, I only wished it had not been just a dream, if I could experience such an occurrence I would happily give up my sanity. I could retire from life, happy and complete once more. If such a re-union were possible I would gladly give up this life! Unfortunately my belief in a conscious afterlife is not strong enough, I must continue making the most of the life I have, and hope that someday I will be proved wrong, that we will indeed be reunited.

Up, up and away!

What a lot of anger! Just below the surface, ready, waiting, hoping for an avenue of escape. Am I too far into a rut to vent this anger? Maybe I’m too fed up with the abundance of shite in our world, unwilling to contribute my own share. If the truth be known, I don’t give a damn as to the whys or where-fores, it just is! It stands to reason there will be plenty of anger harboured due to losing Cai, I don’t have a worthy target though. There isn’t anything to focus these destructive feelings on, and isn’t that beneficial? To be faced with a responsible party, to bite into the legal crusade of liability, surely that in itself would consume me. I’ve been looking for direction in my life to lead me away from destructive influences, or feelings; I’d rather not taint myself. Why add to the feelings of contention?

The knack has to be concentrating on whatever brings out the constructive side of me, which is what I’ve been trying to do! OK, so I haven’t been up and raring to go, ready for anything. But I have been getting my arse into gear, ensuring I don’t cop out of regular exercise. Most weeks a couple of visits to both the gym and swimming pool have been managed, it doesn’t matter the aftershock. It may cause my limbs grief, but each week seems to enable me to do a bit more. How I’d love to run, jump, dance about, be daft and get dizzy with the thrill of it: I can’t though, so there’s no point doing my head in about it! It’s purely a matter of knowing my limitations, and constantly pushing them. There is little desire to push myself short term, but I desperately want to recover fully, so I must overcome this lethargy. I WILL NOT SUCCUMN!!!!

So many times in my life I’ve been gagging at the bit, desperate to get out for the weekend, dance my ass off. Recently the thought has been deplorable, I’ve not wanted to face hoards of people. Had a lingering desire to strut my stuff, but not felt too capable. New year felt more like falling around in time to the music, it made for an interesting dance style. So when asked to go out for friends to Hendre Hall I wasn’t keen, I hadn’t been there since Cai’s wake, didn’t know how I’d handle it! I didn’t feel strong, felt too vulnerable, physically and emotionally. Throwing caution to the wind (sounds more like me) I agreed to go. It was seen more as another hurdle to overcome, face my fears, expose myself to situations where I felt vulnerable. Let’s face it, I could always sit quietly and get hammered, whilst the rest lived it up on the dance floor. It’s obvious, writing this, just how far I’ve withdrawn into myself!

Listening to dance music at home, or friend’s, has really got me going. My body was screaming out to boogy, and a slight wobble in time to the music was not enough to satisfy my desires. The music at Hendre was very good, courtesy of Les Patteson, the Orb. I literally danced myself off my feet, nearly fell over and dozed is a corner for the end of the night. Call it primal urge, if you wish, maybe an immature reluctance to grow old and boring; fact is, music does a very good job of stirring up my soul! I live for the joys of life, as if you hadn’t realised, and whatever fills me with joy is likely to be the focus of my attention. Simple things please simple minds! With my knee operation looming I’ve had to keep my mind occupied, and so, at last, I had my first Micro-lite plane flight.

These flexible wing planes have always given me the impression of being little more than flying motorcycles! And I wasn’t wrong! The whole feeling of exposure, freedom and being at one with your machine are there in abundance. The controls are fairly simple, you don’t need a degree to understand the basics and very little space is needed for takeoff and landing. Wow, what a travel tool! The art of banking, climbing and diving are all purely a matter of ‘getting the feeling’ of the controls. It is so interactive, largely emphasised by the exposure. It was breathtaking climbing to 5,000ft and hovering over Snowdon’s peak. Following the Menai Straits was awesome, what a great way to go hunting for large sea creatures; the clarity of water was so good. I could easily imagine catching a glimpse of a Whale shark, or dugongs; any of the harder to find stuff. Not so easy to go diving from, though I’m sure where there’s a will there’s a way!

Perfect timing really, two flights within three days of going back into hospital. I wanted a pleasure flight to dwell on during my recovery, you know, something to look forward to. Trouble was, I returned after the next day for my first lesson. Now, was that predictable or what? Surprisingly, it did take a while to sink in, I hadn’t been overcome with excitement on the first flight. It was excellent, but not wild; mind blowing yes, an adrenalin it wasn’t. It relaxed me, put me into a higher sense of being (ha ha, no pun intended), made me feel so detached from the rest of the world. Only after a few hours did I suddenly realise how awed I’d felt throughout the flight, no wonder I’d been so quiet at the end. It pretty much took my breath away, it was beautiful. So, of course, I had to treat myself to a lesson, see the extent I needed to heal before flying again. All I can say is watch this space!

For seven months I’ve pushed myself, getting as fit as possible before my final operation, the reconstruction of my left knee. By grafting ligament from my hamstring, they have made a replacement for my AC ligament. It did necessitate a few holes drilled through my Tibia and Fibia, to thread the new ligament through. But what’s a few holes between friends? If it gives me the chance to run again, I have no qualms! From the way my legs have been, I was starting to worry whether such things would be possible again. Apparently yes, there should be no reason why not. I find myself almost reluctant to believe it, can it really be true, full use of both legs? Like many an early diagnosis for pregnancy, I’d rather wait a while to make sure, there are still too many variables! Besides, from the pain and awkwardness of using my limbs, there is still a long way before that might be. I’ve managed to keep mostly positive for too long, to give up now; another six months and maybe, just maybe, I could be cruising over the great plains of Africa, taking in elephants, giraffes, wilderbeast.......

Pain lets you know you're still alive!

How do you measure the passage of time? What new things you buy, how much deeper into debt you get, how far you are from losing it all? Maybe, if you're lucky,how much money you've made; more likely, how much better you feel, how much more mobile you are, how few tears you've shed! But hey, who-ever said life was easy? Not fuckin' me mate! But does that mean it's not worth living? Only if you've no value in your own life, in your own acheivemnts, in your own pleasure! AND YOU BLOODY WELL SHOULD HAVE!

Alright, let me explain a wee bit here. In the light of a our current, global, economic crisis, we should all be worried about the disintegration of our competant capitalist system. Shocked and horrified that our precious bricks and mortar may not actually make us the richest people on this planet. Poor misguided fools that we are! But is it really that important? Couldn't we just hang on in there, maybe plant some veg to ease our food bill, live within our means? Wow, what a novel idea! But hang on, what about the rich twat who screws it all up? Don't worry about him, the government will sort him out. Probably give him a nice fat pension too! EXCUSE ME, where's my friggin' safety net? Of course I forgot, I'm not in the privileged class, I'm scum, it doesn't really matter if I cop out!

Honestly, it does my head in! What sane person would want to associate themselves with the complete f**k up the world's ruling party are making of things? Who's interest is it in anyway? Only their's! Consider yourselves well and truly shafted folks. But don't worry, they'll print a bit more money so you can kid yourself you're not brasic! Don't worry, the government will save you; though you may end up paying for it for the next three generations. And we actually give these people our support, put that way, who are the stupid ones?

As I wander around my house like a caged lion, I wanna rip someone's head off! I'd love to assasinate the whole ruling class, and every member of the constabulary who believes they're doing it for our own goods. But of course, that might get me into trouble! The authorities might see me as a danger to the public, never suspecting that it was, actually, in the public interest! But on a serious level, I'd love a legitimate target for my anger. And the government make it so easy to assume that position, their actions are deplorable, but it isn't really them my anger is centred on. They just deserve it so much! No, my anger is over my loss, and is focussed on anything breakable, as I feel it.

Anger and grief are so closely interlinked, more often than not anger acting as protector, to the more precarious emotion! Isn't the human mind a gloriouos organ? The depths it will go to preserve itself, the illusions it will weave to ensure a feeling of sanity. But like beauty, sanity is on the eyes of the beholder! Now where do you stand? If normality, in our society, is considered sane; stop the world, I wanna get off!