Cuba, part one: Interrogations, Harassment and 30p Pizza

"I'm definitely the only European on the plane. The only white person, anyway. I'm trying to work out who the average traveller to Cuba is- Cubans don't travel, nobody goes there for business unless they're Chavez. I saw a couple of Argentian passports. Everybody else looks... kind of Caribbean?...

"Most stressful airport run ever- might beat the mad dash Olie and I had to Bucharest. Of course now the flight is delayed by 30 minutes and we're sitting on the runway while we "try to locate the baggage"..!

"God, I hope they serve dinner. I can't deal with a snickers dinner again. Bring me a steak. Vegetables! Lots of Vegetables! AARGH.

"Supposedly, a taxi to the airport would have been $35, so I decided to tackle the local buses- which involved buying a transport card- and leaving extra early. Checking my flight itinary online, I realised this afternoon that my flight was actualy an hour earlier than I thought. Cramming my newly panic-bought souveneirs into my already stuffed bag, I caught a taxi to the first bus terminal under the instructions of the hostel owners. From here I scrambled through crowds, bought my stupid oyster thing for $3 and asked about 100 people where to get the right bus from. By this time it was already 4- the time I should have arrived at the aiport. The journey on the bus took almost an hour, and then dropped me right at the back of the terminal. I guess most people travelling on the bus work at the aiport and use the back entrance [I certainly got some funny looks as a tourist on the bus].

"My stresses were not over because I still needed to buy my visa, find a bank and buy some suncream (for three times the price that I'd seen it sold at earlier in the day- Idiot). I bought a hat to make myself feel better about this- it was exactly the kind of floppy hat I'd been looking for over the past five months... Better late than never.

"In the back of my head, I was also aware that I hadn't written down the address of my accomodation in Havana. I assumed that with Panama being such a multi-cultural, first-world city at the world centre of importation, it would have some kind of internet access in it's airport- just as I'd assumed I'd be able to exchange some cash. But no. Only wifi in a designated area. This at least made it easy to target my next saviour... a clean looking man with an ipad sat alone. I (sort of) inconspicuously peered over his shoulder to see if he was doing anything very important and business-like. He was on facebook chat... In my politest, smiliest, "I won't steal your stuff" voice, I asked if I could use his ipad to check my email. He replied English and was super friendly and obliging. Thank God. I would never have found interenet in Cuba and may have had to stay in a hotel tonight. We chatted, although both our flights were now boarding, and he wrote down the name of his home town for my next visit to Guatemala.

"The cash thing is a bit of problem- I was hoping ot find some pounds or Euros- or anything other than dollars, but no hay in Panama. So at an ATM, I panicked and took out a ridiculous amount of dollars. This just means I'll get totally robed when I change any to Cuban convertibiles- up to 30% commission. And ATMs are difficult to come by there, apparently. I'll try to find one and hope my non-US company card works. Either way, I'm going live in fear of being robbed over the next 10 days seeing as I'm carrying around more cash than I actually own in my bank. Oh well.

"Ooh, a drinks trolley. 5 G+Ts here, please. It's to ward against mosquitos."


"00:14 (or is it 01:14?!)

"Sleeping in the buff because I have a private room wooop. The place is nice! Too nice, I don't know how much this is costing me...

Stepping into the aiport in Havana, I felt as I were ten and in my grandma's house- ie, it smelt of smoke and was a maroony-cream 50s time-warp. I liked it. Going through immigration seemed fine, my photo was taken and my tourist card stamped, before I was released through the big locked doors. My bag was first off the conveyor and I skipped through security. That was a little odd, because they spent a while staring at my newly purchased hat and discussing amongst themselves where I was from [possibly not realising that I could understand their spanish]. Then, as I walked through towards the exist, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and turned to see a small, stern looking woman in a uniform and her male doppleganger.
             "Rachael Pells?" she said, reading a quickly printed note in her hand, "please come to the side for the moment."


This was slightly Big-Brother-esque and I could only guess that she'd been given a message through her walkie-talkie from the security folk to "grab the blonde one".

"What followed was pretty intense. In a side room, I was asked where I lived, where I'd come from and what I did for a living. I explained that I'd been travelling for a few months, which received disbelieving expressions.
         "By yourself? Completely alone? That's strange". They talked amongst themselves for a while and asked if I had any purpose for my trip. I repleid in the vaguest, simplest terms I could that I was just a tourist and I liked to experience other cultures. Then my bag was searched and my camera closely examined.
             "Do you intend to take pictures of Cuba?"
             "Well, yes..."
             "Of anything in particular? Do you have a motive?"
In times like this I've learnt that playing the ditzy blonde innocent works pretty well.
              "Oh, I just like to take pictures of pretty things like the old buildings..."
              "Are you a journalist?"
This hurt the most- [whilst inside I was screaming YES!] I said no, just a student (false).
               "What do you study?"
               "English Literature" (a year ago...)
               "What is that?"
               "Literature"
               "Que?"
                "Like... books. Poetry. Articles."
                "Journalism"
                "No, just literature."

I explained the principles of English Lit. in spanish and english but neither my interrogators had any grasp of what it was. In the end, I settled for English Language (also false), which received the response: "Oh, language, well you should have said. At which university?"
                    "Goldsmiths, London." (Not technically true, but I'll be there in September!) I had to write it down for them. As if they'd actually check... (Right?)
          "Do you have any other hobbies for which you have purpose for in Cuba?"
Writing. Taking photos. Discussing the revolution.
             "No, I just want to see it"- best idiot tourist smile.

They took down the address of where I was staying in Havana- thank god I managed to get the address off that Guy's ipad! They were pretty unimpressed that I hadn't planned my accomodation beyond Havana, but took down the names of the other towns I said I planned to visit, discussed how suspicious and weird it was that I travel alone [also asking my where my boyfriend or husband was repeatedly], and sent me on my way. Geeeeez.

"A taxi ride took me to my casa particulare, where I received a warm welcome and the nicest bedroom I've seen in 5 months. I had to sign a form so that the host could show Big Brother my whereabouts. And I guess for their own pruposes- taxes, food rations etc. I changed some dollars into CUCs (convertible tourist currency) for probably a painful rate, but today in the old town managed to find a local money exchange and got some local currency. This means that I can get the local taxis for 30p instead of the tourist taxis for £3 or more. Snacks and drinks are also sold in local currency for 30p or less in comparison to the £6 I'm paying for my dinner at the house in CUCs. For lunch I had 'peso pizza'- pretty much the only thing the locals eat on the street, which is tasty enough and most importantly cheap. This part of my trip will definitly still be the most expensive though- so it's a good thing I'm going home and starting my job soon!

"Today was pretty exhausting- I left for the old city at about 10 and walked solidly around for about 6 hours, stopping for peso pzza and a lemonade. I'm also quite tired from yesterday- I didn't realise that Cuba is an hour ahead of Panama, Gradually closer to home- step by step. The centre was cool- huge, old American cars everywhere, just like we imagine it to be. As I walked in line for the local cash exchange, a salsa band on stilts came dancing down the road. A sweet (bit simple) man (really old) picked a flower off a tree, giggled and gave it to me before running away. The rest of male Cuba is expectedly less shy and I've lost count of the number of "beautiful mamey!"s I've heard today. (Quick fact- a mamey is a fruit which most Cubans consider the best and tastiest. [Therefore it's the ultimate compliment]). Also, "I have a question for you. Would you like boyfriend." [The only phrase many seem to know in english]. No, ta.

"A couple of them followed me down the road, persistantly teling me that they'd show me Havana and I would be rude not to go with them. Easy enough to dodge by slipping into doorways. But by mid-afternoon, I was melting and decided to visit the national art gallery, which was conveniently air-conditioned. While the building itself was beautiful, the art was ok- mostly spanish 18th century. I was quite disappointed not to see anything Cuban. Also, I go to art galleries for the peace and thinking space. Seeing as the place was almost empty, I didn't expect anything different here in Havana, but lo and behold, an attendant came over to disturb my peave, asking if I lived in London, did I have a boyfriend etc... I spoke to him for a little while but when I told him I was travelling, he said with all honesty: "oh, but that's boring."

            "Have you travelled abroad?" I asked,
            "No, of course not"
            "Well then, how would you know?"
            "Because it just would be boring after that long".
I would have loved to have explained that actually it's pretty boring to stay in one city your entire life, but of course I couldn't. Maybe "boring" is what they teach Cubans to encourage them to stay in their communist bubble. He followed me as far as his gallery perimeter allowed him, asking it I'd like to go to salsa.

           "I don't like salsa." I said, jumping into a lift. In another life, salsa with a local would be fun, but I was tired and it's pretty exhausting when politeness fails.

"Walking along the malecon, I saw several tramps sifting through rubbish in the water, and other people fishing off the sea wall. I want to understand more about the day to tday politics here- how can such a prasied socialist system have people hungry enough to fish with old bits of shoe, or nibble empty boxes? On the other hand, the people whose house I'm in seem pretty comfortably off. They have a latop in their kitchen too- [the casa particulare owners seem to be the new emerging middle-class, I suppose].



"I got a lift home in a huge pea-green 1956 Pontiac, and have been sitting around ever since. The guy- house owner man- possibly se lama Ariel? He was telling me that he moved to study in Russia when was 17. I didn't really think about the fact that they are all taught Russian in school- or, they were until the soviet union broke. Now they learn English. Strange thought though- 17 year old Cubans in Minsk.

Travel brochure spew, Rorcharch tattoos and definitely no loo.

At 5am the day after my Panama Canal trip, the Irish and I set off in a 4x4 up to the Caribbean coast once again.

We needed a 4x4 because we were off to the Kuna Yala region, where the roads were known to be bad or non existent. What I didn't plan for was being crammed in the back like sardines for three hours with a very nice but very tall couple from New Zealand- but in Central America even I am a giant, it seems.

Finally at the coast, we were met by some locals with boats to take us over to the islands- our group were staying on a tiny one named 'Ima's', which was home to one extended family and their children. The Kuna people are the indigenous Panamanians who live traditionally along the north coast and hundreds of islands off. It's a separate community and government from Panama- not quite it's own country, but we needed our passports to cross over. Their flag has a swastika in the middle of it, which was interesting to see for the first time with a Jewish couple in the car...

Crammed into the little dug out canoes and already sweating from the heat, we waited as the rackety old bike motors on the canoes failed to start and spotted crocodiles chilling in the water just a metre from us. I could feel my face burning in the morning sun, and spent most the boat ride cowering over trying to shield it, while the girl in front of me cowered over trying not to be seasick.

At some point during this mentally muggy time, I sprayed some 100% DEET on myself. One of my nature- killer doused legs was pressed against my water bottle, which had a label with dark blue ink on it. The result was a tattoo reminiscent of a Rorcharch test which didn't come off fully for a month, and which sadly a lot of people mistook for a genuinely terrible tattoo.

After a brief stop to one of the bigger (but still hilariously tiny) islands to buy some basic food provisions, we were at Ima's. And it was bloody gorgeous.

For the next two nights, the five of us: Kiwi couple, Mexican free-spirit, the Irish and myself, slept in wooden huts with sand for floor and sky for roof. Drinks were the water we brought with us from the mainland, the coconuts which we shook down from the trees, and the odd can of beer kept in supply. Food was very basic- rice every day- no vegetables, BUT fresh lobster caught from the waters just around our sandy beds.

The days were passed with snorkelling, reading, chatting and I'm not sure what else, really... it's amazing how easily the time went by just with the everyday basic functions. We found a parrot who couldn't fly: it's wings possibly clipped by one of the family members on the island who kept it as a pet, who knows because we couldn't find such a person... he kept us amused for most of an evening, eating pieces of coconut we would cut out and feed him.

I saw a mantel ray grace past me on my evening swim. I also saw a man adjusting a hand-made radio, who then saw me and shouted at me for trespassing. I suppose that section of sea was his back-garden.

I met a Swedish guy who travelled with nada but a guitar in a bin bag and somehow managed to hitch a ride down to Columbia on a little motor-boat with locals and their fish.

The best thing about the island were the evenings. Being so close to the equator, the sun set rapidly at 6pm every night. At this point, a generator fired up to provide enough power to cook dinner and keep one outside light going, although when storms were in the air (almost always), the power cut out and dinner was cooked by candlelight over what felt like several hours... At 10pm every night, the generator went out and the entire island and neighbouring islands were plunged into complete darkness and silence- asides from the insects in the trees and waves at our feet.

The final night was one of the best of my entire trip: I sat on the sand under the most incredible starry sky, watching an electric storm over another island on the horizon. The sky's illuminations alternated between shooting stars above me and picture-perfect fork lightening striking in the distance. I write as if I've accidentally swallowed a whole back-catalogue of honeymoon brochures, but even so I cannot describe just how idyllic that place was. As we took the boat back to the mainland, a school of dolphins followed us, jumping out of the water and generally acting in a sickeningly stereotypical tropical paradise way, to remind us of the perfection we were leaving behind.



Of course there is one problem with the Guna Yala lifestyle- beyond that of no Facebook and having a curious flag design, of course; they have no litter disposal facilities. Beyond that, they don't even have a plan for litter disposal- or even the glimpse of an idea that they might need a plan for litter disposal. They just throw it all into the sea- where else? It wasn't a problem around Ima's- supposedly this island had very little rubbish to throw away and were encouraged not to since they were obviously involved in a tourism plan. But further out, and around the first island we stopped at for provisions, the shore was layered with the stuff. Noodle pots, beer cans, plastic bottles and sanitary towels- pretty awful to see floating around in such an otherwise perfectly unspoilt place. But it's simply because they've only had access to such things as plastic packaging within the last few years, and have no way to dispose of it. They're not paid to spend their precious fishing time transporting the stuff back to the mainland where is most likely unwanted anyway, so there is no incentive to clean up. Sad, but I'm sure Greenpeace and overpriced Gap Yah project teams will latch on to it in a few years time and sent out grinning sunburnt Brits straight out of public school and ready to Change the World.

But enough of all that.

Back in Panama City, I had two days in which to panic buy All Of The Souvenirs and enjoy a final drink with friends, watching the night-time sky-line. This was really it: I was leaving Central America. Not for home just yet, admittedly, but it was still very hard to digest. Sitting on the plane to Havana on the Friday evening, I did have to force back some tears. I will absolutely return to all these places one day, but I know they will have changed and the journey will be a completely different one. No choice but to close the chapter on the places I've seen and the person I was when I saw them.