Tea and toast in Ceylon

Gone are the days where excitement marked starting up my bike after a rebuild. To swing my leg over and kick the beast into life, blood rushing to my head giving a feel of heavy intoxication. The urgent need to stamp it into gear and rip open the throttle would be overwhelming; restrained only by the physical necessity to allow the engine to warm up and tick over without choke. The wait was a strain! Believe me, it beats jumping on a bike you've just bought, borrowed or stolen (actually the latter might well be more exciting, I wouldn't know, I couldn't bring my self to depriving someone of their precious machine). The act of creating is the ultimate for me, as enjoyable as the riding itself. In essence it completes the experience, making me truly a part of my machine. It isn't difficult to sit and envisage each and every working part in motion, doing just what it should. Only after stripping down and rebuilding my bikes do I attain an in-depth working relationship with them, and I'd rather ride what I've built than any other. As I lay in my hospital bed nearly two years ago, body broken but spirit intact, I vowed to rebuild my bike. I claimed I'd be fit to ride it just as soon as I was fit enough to rebuild it. In the intervening months my mind has been waylaid many times, it would have been too easy to have gone off on a tangent, forsaking that chosen path. But I was fortunate, circumstances conspired to bring us together, to provide the time and the space to get down and get dirty with each other.

Restrictions on time aren't the best of circumstances to plan a rebuild. Especially before you've stripped the beauty completely, before a full in-depth examination can be done. Though unforeseen, the time constraints made me pick up the pace; so thanks folks, thanks for setting deadlines and forcing my hand! I forged ahead and got the job done, overcoming the multitude of problems and mistakes that occurred. I'm glad it was me who overcame the problems, and various suppliers who made the mistakes. the moment of most anxiety came when it was time to wheel my bike out the barn. With a bit of thought and careful manoeuvring extraction was a painless experience, shunning offers of help I coped single handed without problem. My worries lay in getting it onto the farm track, a ride around the field, a lumpy, bumpy, rock strewn field. When the time came I bit the bullet and just jumped on with a bugger it attitude, ready to ride. Or would have been if the gear lever had been there; oops, not quite immediate perfection. Put bluntly, I was shitting myself! It wasn't how I wanted to test myself, I'd have preferred some smooth tarmac welcoming me back to biking. With feet paddling I wibbled and wobbled towards a rocky slope, each lump or bump adding to my discomfort. It felt like a journey of epic proportions, in reality I travelled only about 5 metres before planting my feet on the pegs and giving it more throttle. RESULT!! I even got round to purposely locking the rear wheel, to make sure a wheel slide didn't freak me out.

It's a thing of the past to relish hiring full highland dress for a fancy do. Losing the intensity of pleasure does not mean you have to forsake it entirely, I like dressing up. I always have done and believe I always will. The thought is still there, it's only the childish excitement that was missing. When Elin asked for formal dress on her 21st it took very little for me to decide to hire something nice, and what nicer than highland regalia. With complete disregard for traditional rights I went for a Black Isle Tarten, it more befits my morbid fascination of the morose. And what more can I say, "it was nice!' There was no running around, the life and soul of the party. There was no overly exuberant behaviour, but I felt special, the dress and the occasion felt special, your 21st only comes once in your lifetime after all. On Cai's birthday this year it done my head in, he would have been 21yrs old. I didn't know how this would effect my presence at Elin's 21st: it didn't! Which I feel has proved to be a turning point in the grieving process. I can remember saying after his birthday that no other birthday of his could ever be as relevant. I made it through that day, as I've made it through each and every one since his accident. I may not have found much joy and enthusiasm in life since then, but I have learnt I can still show my appreciation for special occasions and special people.

And a damned good time was had by all, kids, young adults, middle aged and even the old crusties; a truly multi-generation party of excellence. I believe us middle-aged folks (did I really just admit to being in that class?) showed most fortitude. Indeed it was only a hand full of us die hards who did not even bother going to bed.I even had the where with-all to set up the headlight on the bike in preparation for the MOT on Monday morning. Which entailed waiting until 10:30pm for it to get dark enough to see where it was pointing. Just as well I did, the height and direction was way out. But it passed, Tax followed immediately and suddenly I was once again the proud owner of a road legal motorcycle. So how was the experience? It was after all nearly two years since falling off and nearly crippling myself permanently.

Initially I felt overjoyed, and wanted to give it a fistful, mainly to convince myself i'd not lost my bottle. Bearing in mind six months ago I had reservations about my ability to ride a bike, I was sure I'd at least need a brace to support my knee. Once straddled my machine it was a whole different story, though one of varying sides. Doubts were gone, but weren't replaced by overwhelming joy. Traffic urged me to whip out and overtake with as much noise and jubilation as possible. Country roads instilled a touch more caution, especially on blind bends.When the rain started I became tense, almost uncomfortable. My eyes searched everywhere, all the time, for any sign of a hazard; constantly having to reassure myself all was well. I didn't overtake anything, being happy to follow whoever was in front, at whatever speed they dictated. That initial day was certainly one of mixed blessings, it made me wonder how fulfilling I would find riding my bike again. The stem of such thoughts was the lack of exhilaration, it didn't make me whoop with joy, it didn't allow me to forget the months of pain, or feel whole again. Not at first anyway. The following day I took a ride over to Yorkshire, three hours through drizzly rain and dense mist. Still hanging back, following the flow of traffic, not bold enough to pass and blat into the solid wall of fog. Why I thought that should have been the case I don't know: it is promising though, sensible thoughts appearing through my brash exterior. The return trip was even worse, more of the same impenetrable wall of mist with a constant deluge of rain. Isn't this just what I ride a bike for? Actually yes! It is in weather like this that has generally made me aware of the level of enjoyment I get from riding a bike, however bad the weather it doesn't put me off entirely. I haven't shaken my sense of caution on blind country roads, but I have got a smile on my face again.

Only in days long gone did my itchy feet start tingling as departing on another jaunt crept ever closer. Like many things in my life now the thrill is missing, I don't get off on much, when before there were any number of activities or indulgences that were guaranteed to get the juices flowing. My life has changed, every aspect of it; both the physical and metaphysical. My thoughts and feelings can take a sudden turn for the worse, seemingly happy one moment, holding back the tears the next. Nothing is the same as before, even walking can't be taken for grantedI know I've stated this before, but for me it is a constant reminder and much of the time I struggle to keep my head up and focus on a future. No-one expects much of me anymore, which is just as well, even if I gave a damn what they thought I could do little about it. Life is what it is, I can only create favourable circumstances to survive and hope the environment I put myself in will be conducive to my future happiness. And now I go galavanting again, to Sri Lanka this time, part holiday, part work. My intention is to write, to finish the story of the Americas, to close that chapter of my life. Without finishing the story it will never end! I feel it will give me closure, I have done since Cai died. Bearing that in mind, it must be done. So the situation that encourages me to write must be found, it didn't happen at home, let's hope it does abroad.

Not waving, but drowning!

The USA can become a thing of the past if I wish now! The legal battle has come to an end, in theory I can now have closure and move on. The way people state this is as if it all suddenly becomes alright. Sorry folks it doesn't! Is there a reluctance to let go, to move on? There is certainly a difficulty in doing so! Time and time again friends and family remark on how well I seem to have gotten over the loss of Cai; generally adding that of course you don't actually get over such loss. I'm glad they realise what they're saying, making the amendment to their statement. In reality all I've done is lower my emotions below the surface, I've submerged, taken the trauma out of the public eye. This is my grief, I don't need to subject others to it. I've been saying I need to get on with my life, and no truer words can be said, that grief will always be a part of my life so I shall live with it as a personal possession. Call me selfish if you like, but it's mine, I no longer need to share it; but don't be surprised if one day you find me broken, in tears, unable to contain the heartache. It still happens often enough!

There is one more thing to accomplish that will help the process of moving on; finishing the story which incorporated the death of Cai. It has come on in fits and start, at times being left for a considerable time before once again gaining impetus. I have constantly yearned to get this done, yet the circumstances have not been right. I need to have the space to open up to the experience, the security to dive into the emotional quagmire I wallowed in after losing Cai. North America came and went, barely registering on a conscious level. I knew then I would need to relive that episode, to take it in, to take on board the experience and learn from it. It isn't enough knowing I got through it, I need to understand the process. What was the point in writing avidly, if not to utilise the words? Initially it was to write a book from, before Cai died. It could be said it would honour Cai to publish the event that cost him his life, which would be true. However, it has become apparent how useful a tool it is for me and my bereavement. So the intention is still to create the situation, the head space, to sit and finish the book. Four chapters are finished, it feels great once I'm sat, tuned in and writing again. If there was ever an episode in my life I wanted to fully understand, to come to terms with, this is it.

Since returning from the States I have had to move from the house I was squatting in, courtesy of an understanding brother, and impose upon friends by taking up residence in their static caravan. It would have been great to have an indefinite time in either place, the problem is when you're in another's place you've got to respect their space. It doesn't take a lot for me to feel I'm intruding, which is where my head has been at for the last few months. This isn't good to get my head into writing, but it has got me motivated into rebuilding my bike, which is damned near completion. As I've said for over eighteen months now, "when I'm fit enough to rebuild it, I'll be fit enough to ride it". And the time has nearly come! What is happening is that my mind is finding it hard to accept any other form of transport to go off travelling again. Which is a good thing isn't it? We'll soon find out, I've no qualms riding the bike along the highway again, I'm not wholly confident about taking it off-road though. There is an overwhelming feeling that once I jump on the bike again you won't see me for dust, so I'm trying to put some order into my life before that happens. June 14th I'm off to Sri Lanka for three months! This is supposed to be creative time, the time and space to write and get my book finished. I've never been there before, which will mean a lot to write about whilst there. In this way my natural creativity with words will flow, as I write my journal. It should create the ideal situation to rattle out the rest of my book and prepare myself for the next journey. It also allows me time to get some dental implants sorted, to bring back my smile.

How many people live to realise their dreams? How many of us experience the pleasure of such fulfilment? For many people it's dreams that make life bearable, that keep us intact, give us reason to struggle through everyday difficulties. I'm a staunch advocate of living for one's dreams, but only if you realise them. What a waste of life to spend it, head in the clouds, dreaming of the unobtainable. Aren't dreams meant to be obtainable? Isn't it supposed to be about making dreams come true? I believe so, and have spent so much of my life in pursuit of those dreams. I've lost count of the times I've enjoyed what started as a flight of fancy; the dreams made real. Personally I've striven to realise my dreams and always encouraged others to follow the same philosophy of life. This is one aspect of my life Cai really respected, he grew to believe you could achieve what mattered to you, you could live your dreams. OK, it lead to his death; but does this mean it's less relevant? If he'd not had that sense of adventure instilled in him he would not have died on a freeway in LA, maybe. I still can't see it as a reason to shy away from realising your dreams. Isn't it better to die achieving the wonderful than to live in boring obscurity? For some it is, and they should follow their path. Other's lives will never reach the realms of wonder, for them that is fine too.

I'm in a position of relative wealth, health and freedom. I can go where I wish, for as long as I want. For so long now this has been the ultimate achievable in life, a truly enviable position. No commitments, no responsibilities and the financial backing to sod off for as long as I want. And the response of most people is enviable mutterings, even those who are close to me. Hey folks, I didn't want it to happen this way. Take it all back, give me Cai any day. I'll keep the slightly buggered limbs, just give me back my son, then you can comment what a lucky bugger I am!!

Yo termino al Quetzeltanango, proximo Los Angeles

Three weeks down the line and my brain has been ritually abused under the guise of Spanish classes. They say total immersion is the best way to learn a new language, I can’t disagree with this, it probably is. I do need to point out that some brains are not designed to cope well with another language. So many people ask how I manage in so many different countries, with so many different languages. For some reason I find it quite easy to pick up the basics in a language, once delving deeper I flounder drastically. Learning Welsh was a nightmare for me, only the patience of a welsh girlfriend managed to get me over that hurdle. Yet still I’ve lost any possible fluidity I had once gained. I’ve persevered with Spanish because I’m not about to set off into South America without the ability to converse properly with people. It’s my responsibility to speak their language, not expect to find English-speaking locals. The one thing I have come to learn, language is the only real tool to understanding other people, their culture and lives. It’s good making astute observations, but they are always tainted by your own understanding. To really appreciate different cultures you must understand the mindset of the people, saying hello and ordering a few beers just doesn’t achieve that.

Quetzetanango, otherwise known as Xela, is the capital of Mayan Central America. The last stand for an independent Mayan state, certainly the hub of modern day Mayan people. Xela, the Mayan name for the city, is shoulder to shoulder with people and vendors. The main avenue hosts a daily market, selling anything and everything. Stalls line each side of the street, often two deep. Narrow pavements give access one side whilst to browse the other stalls you’re forced to jostle with the constant flow of traffic. It’s not really a problem; traffic in this part of town is so slow moving it’s actually quicker walking. The main thorough ways are busy, crossing can be a nightmare until you get used to it. They are often divided by central reservations, just wide enough to offer refuge whilst waiting for a gap in the traffic. It freaks me out having to wait halfway across without their safety; traffic passing a foot either side of you is not very reassuring. The bulk of the traffic is minibuses that ply the same route for eighteen hours a day, charging Q1.25 (exchange rate is about ten Quetzales to the Pound) whatever the distance you ride for. You can pay your fare and ride round for as long as you like, these are inner city buses. The same driver works from dawn to well after dusk, his compatriot is most often a young lad who hangs out the door shouting their route and taking fares. As young as ten, they work the same hours. Chicken buses serve the surrounding areas and link up with other towns. They are slow; belch black clouds of diesel fumes, and provide many of the outlying villagers with a means to get their produce to market. Their roof racks are generally as full of produce as the interior is of people.

Closer to the centre streets of invariably one-way for traffic, with a cobbled surface giving just about enough room for a motorcycle and a car, until they meet pedestrians. With raised walkways wide enough for only one person you’re constantly stepping on and off the walkway to allow others to pass. It ’s vital to check for traffic, drivers rule by right of might rarely even slowing down for pedestrians. Towards the end of each working day these streets are nose to tail, all of them. The rest of the day it is only the main streets that are so busy. This all sounds very hectic and dangerous, at first glance it is! It took a few days to get used to it, now I weave in and out of moving traffic without even thinking about it. Hey, the last few days I’ve even had people stopping and waving me across! Maybe it’s a sign of my complacency, though I think to penalties for maiming pedestrians are pretty bad.

Another hectic market can be found near the Bus terminal, it’s like a rabbit warren. Countless walkways crisscross between hundreds of stalls, one section boasts mainly carnecerias (meat vendors), another mainly clothes, fruit and veg sellers line the path in and encircle the perimeter. But this makes it sound orderly, and it is anything but. It’s bedlam and I can spend hours walking around just looking, marvelling at the variety of people and goods. The sausages look especially appetising, I only wish I had access to a kitchen to cook some. Piped into raw intestines they are what sausages once were at home, the little red ones were so tempting, I just knew they’d be beautifully spicy. Pork scratchings are a firm favourite, but they do not come in nice neat, sealed bags. No sirree, sheets of pig skin deep fried, by the sack full. And the most pleasant aspect? This is Maya, no question about it, almost every stall within the market area is attended by Mayan women from the outlaying villages. I only wish I had more pictures of the experience, but it takes so much more than pictures, you need to be there. The sounds, the smells, the heat; it’s a total assault on the senses, a glorious one at that. My only disconcerting part was deciphering the sign which apparently advertising capital punishment. I have very mixed opinions with this, I'd rather get a whipping than spent time incarcerated, it would also be cheaper on the state. It is just a touch barbaric, but are prisons any better?


The surrounding villages are pure Maya, the city is chock a block with Maya, awash with beautiful hand woven, traditional garb. It doesn’t take long to realise that times are changing though, traditional attire is only evident amongst women, I’ve seen no men wearing anything but western clothing. The older ones favour cowboy hats, plain shirts and trousers. Those with a dash of flash complete the assemblage with cowboy boots and jeans. For the younger generation spiky hair and whatever they see on TV, must be worn. There isn’t an alternative for the youths, being hip means one thing, looking cool, and if you’re not hip you’re nothing. Facial piercings are seen around town, not much, but it is available. One thing that is not acceptable within current culture is tattoos. I haven’t seen anyone with one, though there is two tattoo shops in town. These are strictly the domain of undesirables, the criminal element in Guatemalan society. And yes, I do get stared at as I walk around town in short sleeves. And no, I have not been wearing vests when I go out, It is enough for locals to see the few on my lower arms. One guy explained to me that it would be almost impossible to get a job with a tattoo, yet it must be more than that, tattoos are easy to hide simply with a shirt.

The delight for me here is the rich variety of female clothing. The Maya are renowned for the fabrics they weave, the richness of colour and pattern. Nowhere are the Maya more prevalent than the Guatemalan highlands, this is their cultural homeland. Their best-known ruins may lay many miles away, but they merely represent a long forgotten Mayan empire. Today Maya lands stretch throughout Southeast Mexico, and Guatemala, I’ve seen plenty of evidence of this but am awed by this special place, the only one I’ve experienced where their culture is still the dominant one. A multitude of different weaves, patterns and colours are everywhere, wherever you are, wherever you look. Each area, village, even family has its own distinct look, its own identity almost. I guess a bit like the tartans in Scotland, unfortunately, here, machine woven fabrics are becoming more common. It’s hardly surprising considering the time taken to hand weave the fabric for their dresses. Many young girls still dress traditionally, including teenagers, though many are also seen in modern clothes. I wouldn’t like to guess the proportions of modern to traditional; neither is dominant, which is a comfort for me. Very few wear makeup, though I get the impression this is also changing, and they are not promiscuous.

Young kids sport western cast offs more often than not. Shops and market stalls have huge piles of second-hand clothes, there are a lot of outlets and the clothes are very cheap. It makes sense to spend time weaving items for tourism, earning money rather than spending precious hours clothing your kids in traditional clothes. Second-hand western clothes and shoes are mainstream business for many, dare I say, less developed countries. They’re all in decent condition, the people are not being dressed in rags. What gets to me is that they are being sold, people are making a profit from them. I personally have donated many unwanted clothes to charitable sources, assuming they are for distribution to the poor and needy around the world. Now I wonder who is actually benefitting most from such donations! OK, the more needy are getting a cheap source of clothing, the clothes are being distributed, which does cost money. But somewhere along the line, someone is raking it in. In Wales we have a new concept, notices through our doors asking for unwanted clothes, bags are supplied with information as to when collection will take place. Simply leave the bag outside your door, the clothes will be taken for redistribution, clothing for the third world. Many of these collections are not actually for charities. What a shame there is a market for ripping off the worlds most needy!

And now I come to the conclusion of nearly three years. Finally, I hope, the end to the fight for some form of justice. I’m on my way to Los Angeles, on my way to final mediation for the negligence that caused Cai’s death. I’m on tenterhooks, I know in their eyes it’s a financial conclusion. They just want to pay me off and see me on my way, I want liability accepted, I’m unsure whether this is possible. I’ve gone through enough though, I need to get on with my life! A crusade for justice will only prolong the agony. I know where the fault lies, do I really need a court to confirm this? I don’t think so! But I do want some acceptance of where the fault lies. At the end of the day it will be the various attorneys who profit from Cai dying, and their financial recompense will far outweigh mine. It’s the way of the world, I must accept this and move on!

And life goes on!

Wow, the end of my visit to Cuba and the following weeks have pretty much blown my mind away. I now sit in a home-stay in Guatemala, where I’ve come for a three-week language course. My Spanish needs improving if I’m to get the most out of a trip to South America. The biggest drawback to recent trips has been the language barrier, it’s constantly left me feeling isolated and lonely. It isn’t how I want to be, I want to get the most out of places I visit. I want to interact with people, exchange views, information and ideas. It isn’t enough to introduce myself and order food or drinks, more profound conversations are essential for me, I need mental stimulus. The vague basics of a language will not allow that to happen, so the only option is to learn better Spanish or restrict my travels to English speaking countries. I can’t imagine that satisfying me, so here I am!

I had poor start to arriving back home, missed connections, delays and a cold climate to fend off. All told it has made me want to turn straight around and jump on another plane. One of the biggest effects of coming home is not feeling I belong here, with no wish to be here. This isn’t unknown on returning from travels, in fact it’s a common situation, this time it has not diminished though. A week went by and it merely reinforced these feelings. I know I caused friends concern over my feelings, I love my friends dearly and don’t know what I would have done without them for the last couple of years. They’ve all been invaluable but all I’m doing now in Wales is slowly sinking in my own shit. Returning achieved nothing, quite the opposite, it leached away the energy and motivation I gathered whilst away. When it came time to leave Cuba I was more than ready, I only wish my return had been uplifting, unfortunately it wasn’t. Despite a weird and partly unpleasant last few days in Havana I had found inspiration whilst there. I began writing again and thoroughly enjoyed it, a month at home and my keyboard hardly saw my fingers. But now I’m here again, tapping away and slowly regaining my enthusiasm.

Slowly I’m becoming aware of this new person I seem to be, though I can take nothing for granted. I don’t act, feel or think in the same way I used to, how I could depend upon. I can’t, physically I can take nothing for granted, emotionally I’ve depleted all my reserves and I’m trying to get my head round it all. Unusual for me I actually became involved romantically with a Cubana, now that has taken a lot to confess so I hope you all bloody well appreciate it. It brought a smile to my face; woah, hang on, she brought a smile to my face. We made each other laugh, despite the difficulties of language. Most important, it brought me some happiness, made me feel good to be with her. It also put my brain into analytical overload and made me feel very self-conscious being seen together by other tourists. I had to look long and hard at my situation, had to distinguish between what I was doing and Cuba’s growing sex trade. Throughout my travels I’ve been adamant about not becoming involved with local women, been a staunch critic over interactions between tourists and nationals. It took a lot for me to get my head round and initially refused to get sexually involved. I’m not about to return to Cuba and start a new life, nor am I about to introduce a foreign bride to friends and family. In all honesty I can still hardly believe I allowed it to happen, but it did and I have no idea what will become of it. All I can say is I haven’t gone away and bought myself a woman, I haven’t gone and taken advantage of some young lass and I haven’t any plans to set up a new life with her. I have maintained contact though! This took a lot for me to make public, judge me if you wish, I can assure you I remain my own worst critic. I’d love to say I don’t care a damn what people think, but in all honesty I do; I don’t want to be seen as a dirty old man who goes abroad to buy sex.

So far in this blog I’ve been extremely open and honest about what’s been going on for me. I’ve shared everything, almost, and so decided to be open up about this too. It’s taken its toll on my psyche, so I’ll share with you the thoughts it initiated. It took a lot justifying it to myself, and if it hadn’t been in a foreign country it wouldn’t have the negative implications for me. I’ll treat you to my thoughts and observations on the subject!

Baracoa has a lot of Italian tourists. They make up the bulk of visitors to the town, for no apparent reason, I’ve not noticed a preponderance of them anywhere else in Cuba. Almost without fail the single guys are with local women. Language barriers are not as exaggerated for them, they all seem proficient in Spanish. That makes interaction with locals easier, to be honest though I don’t notice much going on in the way of conversation. Maybe that’s a crap statement, I don’t feel I can label the situation in Cuba as a rampant sex trade, though there is no doubt it is from the tourist side of it. If the intention is to pay for sex there are many willing contenders. I would not refer to the majority of women as prostitutes. It just isn’t as clearly defined in our use of the term, though many are getting what they can from having sex with men. There are obvious cases where the sole purpose is to make money, maybe more than I’m willing to see. Being picked up, taken somewhere for sex, paying for it and parting again does happen. I won’t pretend that is anything less than prostitution, and there were plenty of offers of sex as I walked down the streets in Havana. I would not pretend to be so naïve as to think otherwise, that is not the same as I refer to here.

The Cuban Chicas in general are hot and up for a good time, both dancing and in bed; it’s their way of enjoying life. Shagging tourists is purely a way to afford some of the things not accessible with Pesos nacional. I was assured by local friends that paying for a piece of hot totty is not only a tourist privilege, if you have sex with someone and it’s just a casual thing it’s likely you’ll be asked for some show of appreciation. I’m not sure where the boundaries lie but money changing hands after sex seems a common enough occurrence. From what I was lead to believe most tourists are all too happy to throw some money at the lass and walk away contentedly conscience free. I just don’t feel comfortable with it, Cubans were surprised how adamant I was over refusing to have sex for money. People were surprised at the way many westerners view it, they couldn’t understand why we see it as such an immoral issue, why the women are viewed with such distaste. And Chicas were gobsmacked, to them it’s no different to women in the western world going out at the weekend and having sex with someone they pick up from a club. Well it is the same thing; the only difference is you’re likely to be asked to show your appreciation afterwards there. They are generally not meeting a guy and taking him straight off for sex, they’re not selling their bodies in a straightforward transaction. They’ll dance, chat and flirt, if you take to each other the chances are you’ll leave together at the end of the night and sleep with each other. Isn’t that normal promiscuous behaviour, it’s afterwards that the boundaries become blurred.

Leaving Baracoa was a relief is many ways, I’d got fed up with fairly constant approaches for money, beer, or even the clothes I was wearing. There is no doubt about it a lone tourist is a prime target, and I remained alone for five weeks while I toured the provinces. I was wrong to tar them all with the same brush, I made a number of good friends. Despite brushing them off at times they remained friends, I’d been sure the sting would come: it never did. Two and a half hours out of town on the bus I got a text message from the UK, “are you OK, have you been effected by the earth quake?” It was the first I’d heard about it, apparently Baracoa had been evacuated in preparation for the tsunami, which never materialised.

My bus journey was thankfully short, I flew from Santiago de Cuba to Havana. I couldn’t stand the thought of another 14 hours on a bus. So it was back to Havana and my last four days, to spend more time with Grisel and her daughter, I hadn’t seen them for over four weeks. While in Cuba I was struck by how passionate and close couples were, always hand in hand, even old folks. It was a real pleasure to see, a shame being the same with Grisel caused awful problems with the police.

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.