Cuba

March 2011

Diane has pulled this bargain fare out of her computer: an all-inclusive resort at Playa Guardalavaca (guard-the-cow beach?), near Holguín in eastern Cuba. This resort thing is not really my cup of tea, but it’s not too far out to be discussed. And so we discuss. At the end, we’re going, and I will visit Cuba while Diane hangs out at the resort.

The resort is a big place, 600 rooms, several restaurants, all you want to eat or drink at any time, beaches, entertainment, all included. Tours and excursions are on offer at extra cost. Most of the inmates are Canadian, and the Canadian Consulate for eastern Cuba is located in this place.

Standard gear for inmates in the know is a Tim Horton travel mug which is always kept full of beer.

Well, here we are. So, what do we do now?

Cuba is a good place for cycling. Traffic here is light and it consists of a mixture of cars, trucks, buses, ox carts, horses, push carts and bicycles. The simple rule is that the faster vehicles must yield to the slower ones. If you want your Mercedes bus to get past the bicycle, you have to pass on the left side of the centre line. The Cuban cyclist is very territorial; he will hold his place in the middle of the right lane while a big diesel bus crawls along behind waiting for a break in the traffic.

We have a crew of disabled cyclists in our resort who are doing daily excursions.

Our big resort has many names, it’s Club Amigo Atlantico Cameleón Guardalavaca. The cameleónes are everywhere; you can see them change colour as they move from green to brown environments.

Now I’ve spent the evening of day 1 and all of day 2 in the resort; the place has run out of all possibility of further interest. If I stay any longer, my travel diary will become an illustrated essay on the deadly sins of gluttony and sloth. After all, I’ll have to do something, anything, to fill up the time. But who would want to read it? Not I.

Early on day 3, I’ll be gone on a bus or ox cart, or whatever.

Public transportation is a challenge in Cuba; you have to be resourceful and adaptable and it helps a lot to have your Spanish.

Outside the resort a bus is standing, about to depart to Santa Lucia which is on the way to Holguín. The driver bids me sit down, but he declines the fare. Not far along the road, we pull up behind another bus. “That one” says he “will take you on to Holguín.”

My new driver is concerned because he’s not supposed to haul tourists from the resorts; he could get into trouble. He sends me to the back of the bus to hunker down in my seat and pull the curtain closed. He comes to me with a ticket for 6 Cuban pesos, 25 cents in our money; I give him 3 convertible pesos, about $3.00 Canadian. To me this is a bargain price for a 55 Km journey and the tip is more than a week’s pay for him. In Holguín. I get off with a crowd before the bus enters the station.

The shadow economy is pervasive in Cuba, even for a casual tourist like me. Like an acid, it corrodes the socialist system. The government is taking baby steps toward freeing up private enterprise, but the people are far ahead of them. “We are Cubans. We have the right to free education. We have the right to free health care. And we have the right to steal from the government.”

The Holguin Bus Station is on the Carretera Central, the highway that connects all of Cuba like our Trans-Canada. In front is a relic of the Soviet period, an ugly concrete structure above the road, bearing a big sign that says пешеход to mark a tunnel that takes pedestrians under the road. The tunnel looks like an entrance to Hell, but it does its job.

From the station I walk towards the centre of town, getting my directions from people along the way. A young woman spotting my little Canadian flag, tells me she is studying French. We walk along talking French until our paths separate and with a "merci" both ways, she turns away and points me toward the centre.

Holguín is the third biggest city in Cuba, but this doesn’t make it a big city. It’s a town blessed with more than enough public plazas and a relaxed, easy-going nature. Nothing much ever happens and there isn’t much to attract tourism. Unlike New York City, you might say of Holguín, it’s a nice place to live, but I wouldn’t want to visit there.

Parque Céspedes is a sun-dappled plaza with an old stone church on one side. Carlos Manuel de Céspedes was a poet, lawyer and plantation owner in the 19th century. He entered into Cuban history when he called for the abolition of slavery and freed his own slaves as an act of solidarity. This treasonous act led to a long and unsuccessful bloody war with Spain and the martyrdom of Céspedes.

Young students are visiting the birthplace of Calixto García, another hero of the struggle for liberation from Spain. García captured Holguín from its Spanish rulers, spent many years at war, and as prisoner of war and died in Washington in 1898 just as the new imperialists were replacing the old imperialists. It’s true of all Latin America, that having so few victories in their history, they commemorate and cherish their defeats.

Day four, I’m up early and out of my casa particular for a walk to the bus station, a gloomy shed with no schedules, no signs, no clock, no buses and nothing to eat. There’s a lunch counter that appears to be closed for lack of interest. Shortly, a young man appears out of a back room and he makes me a breakfast of sliced wiener on a bun, 5 pesos, (20 cents in Canadian). I have some water in my backpack. This is clearly not the Club Amigo Atlantico Cameleón Guardalavaca.

I meet Raphael, a taxista who would like to drive me to Santiago, but he would have to round up a quorum of 3 people at least. Too late; I’ve already got a ticket to ride the bus de paso that should arrive from Havana at nine. Undeterred, Raphael tells me about his friend in Santiago who has a casa particular right in the centre of town. Just say the word and he will be waiting at the station holding a sign with my name on it. OK, that’s a deal.

At Santiago’s station there’s a crowd of touts at the exit and one of them has a paper with RODRIGO pencilled on it pressed against the window. That’s my man.

The bus station is at some distance out from the centre, so we also have a taxi. Across the street an ugly Soviet style war memorial sticks its rusty, twisted fingers up to the sky. The Cuban memorials are so much more restrained and dignified; typically a stone or bronze sculpture of Jose Marti, the icon of Cuban nationalism, neatly dressed in a suit with bow tie, looking like a haberdasher. The Soviets liked to do things BIG.

This is the view from the window of my room in a quiet residential area just around the corner from Plaza de Marte.

Santiago is Cuba’s second biggest city, a ramshackle affair, hot and humid. Facing away from the sea and sloping landward into Santiago Bay it has that feel and smell of a gently decaying tropical backwater town. The streets are full of life and the city is great for walking.

An afternoon siesta and then more long walks. A jinitero helps me with his advice on a decent paladar on a rooftop. That gets me some good pictures of the city’s skyline in the soft evening light.

A paladar (palate) is a privately operated restaurant, licensed by the government and employing family members. It’s a legitimate free enterprise in Cuba, (there are a lot more illegitimate enterprises). He got a small commission for bringing me in, and I got a good dinner, two lobster tails, salads and two beers, under twenty dollars.

The truck is the kind of vehicle you see providing bus service on short suburban and rural routes, packed tight with people. They are privately operated. This rig today is hauling not passengers but crates of food to the city’s market which is just across the street.

Day 5, Saturday, I’ll start with a visit to the Cuartel Moncada, but first the empty tummy calls out for attention. The only thing open in the zone is this street vendor. Ham on a bun and a strong, black cafecito, all very good, for 6 pesos, (25 cents). In the picture you can also see at left the yellow walls of the Moncada.

This is the place where the 26 year old Fidel Castro, with all the confidence that a huge ego provides, led his followers to a disaster. Their attack against a far superior military force depended on perfect timing and the element of surprise. It was meant to be a master stroke that would incite a general uprising. First their habanero driver got lost, and then the soldiers noticed that these guys with the faked military uniforms were all wearing civilian shoes. Most of the rebels were killed or arrested, and many of the arrested died from abuse in Batista’s prisons. Fidel still says it was a good plan and he would do it all again.

The walls are carefully painted around the bullet holes, and inside a series of displays present the story of the attack, with an emphasis on the brutality of the U.S. – backed Batista regime.

Fidel's rifle, taken from him when he was arrested, is proudly displayed..

I walk down to the waterfront park, where I hope to catch a taxi to Castillo de San Pedro del Morro, the big fortress that stands on a high cliff to protect the harbour of Santiago. A triciclero calls out “Taxi?” There are many of these, and I normally wave them off. This time, just for the Hell of it, I tell him I want to go up to the Castillo. “No problem, jump in!” The Castillo is 10 Km away at the top of a very big hill, and this guy doesn’t look very sturdy. So I question him about this. “Not too far? Can you handle the hills?” “No problem!” We negotiate a fare at $15 and off we go.

We stop around the corner where a group of tricicleros are hanging out. He passes me to his brother Antonio who is much bigger and stronger. “Mi hermano tiene las piernas muy fuertes.”

Near the base of the hill, Antonio flags down a motorcycle buddy and they huddle for a discussion. A deal is made and Ernesto with the tinny little two-stroke bike is driving us up the hill, one foot pushing against the corner of the trike. The road is rough, the triciclo has no springs, and Ernesto is going for a speed record. I hang on to both sides and calculate how to swing out so as to land on top in case it rolls.

When he is not pushing on the hill, Ernesto hangs back, keeping an eye out for the police.

We arrive quickly at El Castillo, Antonio with his what-me-worry smile, one triumphant biker and one old gringo, all shook up.

The most remarkable thing about the Castillo is the air. Santiago slopes down into the bowl of Santiago bay where the surrounding hills block the breezes. The main streets are filled with diesel trucks that turn the air black, old cars and stinky little two-stroke motorbikes that turn the air blue. Away from the main streets, the air is clearer, but laden with the heat, humidity and funk of the tropics, domestic sounds and smells tumbling out of open doorways.

I stand at the parapet, leaning into a blast of clear pure wind, blue sea below and a bright sky above. It’s almost like flying. If I lived in Santiago, I’d want to come up here once a day and hyperventilate. Better than an oxygen bar.

Plaza de Marte (Mars Place), just around the corner from my Casa, used to be, in the nineteenth century, a Spanish Army parade ground and the place where executions were carried out by firing squad. Now it’s very nicely set up with trees and benches and statues of revolutionary heroes. Saturday, there are free performances by youthful musical groups and kiddie rides for 1 peso. The whole sun-dappled scene is so peaceful and cheerful, I just want to sit and watch it all go by.

I’m sharing a bench with a couple and their glum little boy who is seated between them, looking at the ground. The man explains to me that he’s a school teacher and it’s too close to the end of the month; he can’t give his boy a peso for a ride or an ice cream cone. He’s not begging, he’s just passing on a message that I have heard frequently. “En Cuba, la vida es dura.”

A shower and a siesta are in order now, for it’s been a big day. I’ll come out again in the cool of the evening.

Dinner this evening is in Hotel Libertad, a short walk up the hill and facing the same Plaza. de Marte is a model of socialist efficiency, a big and rather formal dining room with linen table cloths, a reasonable menu, perfunctory service and no customers. One other diner enters while I’m here, a man dressed in a suit and, I presume, staying in the hotel and traveling on the government’s account. Places like this are dreary, but now and then I want to just sit down and have a quiet dinner and a cup of wine.

There are only two paladares in town that I have heard of, and I have already attended both of them.

This picture is from the second paladar.

A “Casa de Trova” is a bar that presents Cuban traditional music. Trova comes from the same root word as troubador. One of these has its front door facing the plaza. I enter this “Patio de los Dos Abuelos” for I'm an abuelo (grandfather) too. I get a beer and take a seat at the front of the empty room. Empty, that is, except for a large group of musicians at a near-by table waiting for the show to start. They pull out a chair and invite me into their group. The show will start when they start the show.

They want to know if I could take some pictures and put them in the mail; they are making a CD and they need a cover picture. No one in the group has a camera or an internet access. OK, I’ll try, but my little tourist camera may not be up to the job.

The room has a dim religious light and the flash is unable to fill this large space. The camera has compensated for the low light by taking a long fuzzy exposure. I have sent them some pictures, but I don’t think there is anything they can use. It’s disappointing because if we had time to set it up properly, we could make it work. Not having lights, we would have to shoot outside in daylight. But, when the sun rises tomorrow I will have to be at the bus station. Everything is more difficult to do in Cuba.

We have one set of music, some beers, some attempts to make the pictures and then they pack up. No audience. I thought the performance was very good, hope they send me a CD even if my pictures aren’t usable.

Seven thirty in the morning, day six, my host is sleeping soundly and I need him awake to open the door. Having tried everything else, I go into the matrimonial bedroom and shake him by the shoulder. “Hola? Ah, sí, no hay problema.” He unlocks the door; with a smile and a "come again" he points me toward the bus station.

As usual, there’s no breakfast, no nothing in the station. A young man hanging around the front door claims he owns a restaurant and he will bring me a brekky. He runs off with a wait-a-minute gesture. His claim is not at all credible, but you never know what’s going to turn up. He returns shortly with a ham sandwich and double shot of steaming hot espresso. The price he wants clearly includes a good commission for himself, but it’s not unreasonable. When the bus pulls out from the back of the station I will see the food pushcart in the back street.

Around noon we pull up in front of the station at Holguín, and there is Rafael wearing his Canada T-shirt and a big smile, right at the door of the bus. “Hola Rodrigo”. His 1949 Chevrolet taxi is waiting across the street. We have already made a deal at $25 for the fare and his buddy in Santiago has tipped him that I’m on my way. Once you get yourself plugged into this network of taxis and casas, you have a seamless travel service to any place in Cuba.

I have 24 hours now to rest up after my vacation, to re-unite with Diane, to eat and drink like the other inmates and have a swim. This all-inclusive resort thing is really not so bad if you don’t take too much of it.