Tuesday 27 August 2013

Cuba part five: rum on the bus, a beach with less fuss, and a taxi goes bust.

16/06/13, 07.38, Bus back to Havana, Cuba

"It's father's day- I have just realised this because all the men on my bus are drinking rum [before 8am...] and shouting "Felicidades Papá!". Oh and now some music is playing. This will be a long five hours.

"Pablo walked me to the bus station- all five doors down, and started chatting to taxi drivers about taking me to Havana for the same price. I finally got sick of being puppeteered and told him and the taxi driver thanks, but I'd get the bus. Hell, the taxi may be quicker but at least on the bus I don't have to talk to anyone or deal with the driver chatting me up. Or so I thought.

"Trinidad is pretty and there is a great salsa atmosphere at night, but I think it's a place for couples, really. I got a bit fed up walking around and being thrown comments left right and centre. Even a security guard who sits (day and night, it seems) by a gate near my casa particular beckoned me over the other day. Seeing as he wears a uniform and was at work and all, I thought maybe he had something valid to tell me- but no. He asked me if I wanted a boyfriend. [May have been repeating myself here!]

"Last night I was walking up to the plaza and a woman peering out of the shadows asked me if I wanted a job in Trinidad. I can only think of so many jobs she might have meant, and I don't think I look much like a salsa dancer. This bus smells awful. Karma for leaving the taxi driver hanging.

"Wolfgang: I'm going to have to just start calling him Stefan now- his plan was to stay in Viñales until the diving opened up in Maria la Gorda on the 15th, but I had a phone-call on Friday to say he was on his way down to Trinidad. To cut a long story short, he missed his bus, got a taxi to Havana, then another one down to Cienfuegos anyway, but the Watchers (ie. my hosts) had already booked me for the set three days which Roberto from casa number 1 booked for me. [Afternote: Quite a sentence!] Since Pablo from this casa didn't seem to handle it very well when I just arrived home when I felt like it in the day and he wasn't expecting me, I just couldn't be bothered to argue and so on Sat. morning when he said to me: "so today you'll go to the beach and then have chicken for dinner at 7pm?" I just wearily agreed."

And that's the end of most of my notes! I have a feeling I got distracted at this point by the many drunk and leery men on the bus, one of whom insisted I have a swig of him rum.

Receiving the phone-call from Stefan was really quite nice. Although I had decided to go to the beach regardless on this day, I knew that going alone would result in another day of agitation due to the unwanted attention I would inevitably receive. I also found it hilarious and uplifting the way in which this hyper-active and oblivious Austrian man managed to find his way down to the south through such a ridiculous means, find the phone number of where I was staying and communicate his wishes to call me despite knowing absolutely no Spanish, and at times insisting on trying his luck with french words. I'd found the man fun yet insufferable over the past few days by the ways in which he managed to (and enjoyed) childishly winding me up so that we would bicker and I would snap in what I imagine to be a sibling-like fashion. Despite this, I'd missed him- and it was lovely to be met by a familiar face once I hopped off the bus to Cienfuegos.

We spent the day at the local beach. The day trip we'd taken together before was to a private island off the north coast, which locals were not allowed to visit. Here at Playa Ancon, the atmosphere was certainly different- busy and cluttered, but better for it. Huge cuban families (both in number and physicality) gathered along the beach, eating barbecue food and ice-cream. Hundreds of them stood in the sea together- under parasols, beer in hand. Quite a funny sight.

To get in the sea was a delight and cooled me down both physically and mentally after my building irritation towards people over the week. When I got out, I shared a parasol with a friendly family on the beach- everyone is so trusting of valuables etc. Stealing from each other is just something that would never cross Cuban minds, and so there is no rota of paranoid bag-watching as one might find in other places. Of course this attitude may indeed be different towards tourists, as with most things in the country. Most enjoyably, I didn't receive any comments, propositions or gormless staring eyes- most probably because Stefan was there, but also because by being on this beach we were seemingly accepted as locals. "Comrades".

After polishing off a litre of chocolate ice-cream each, it was time to make our way back to the city. Locals had made their way to and from the beach by sharing cars, as always, and I was determined to do the same. Not only did I not want to be overcharged in dollars, but with only a couple of days left in Cuba I still had a purse full of local money which I wanted to use up. We stood around for a long time, laughing at the most pointless roundabout in the world before analysing each car and its owner, wondering if there were in "collectivo" mode. Nobody seemed to be leaving at this point, until one guy in a more modern looking golf turned up. I tried to bargain with him to take my local pesos, but he refused. This made me very angry, because I knew that he would have taken anybody else there for 10 pesos- the equivalent of about 30 US cents. Stefan is too laid-back and European to argue over such matters, and we finally agreed to let him take us for $7 US, since we had no idea when the next car would be available.


For the whole duration of the journey, the driver whinged on to me about why it was necessary for him to charge us so much money, and I practised my Spanish debating skills in return. I was just in the middle of telling him how much it costs to run a car in England and that no, my Papá did NOT buy it for me, when the engine made a chugging noise and we ground to a holt. In the middle of a long, deserted motorway, we all hopped out of the sweat-box and our driver assessed the engine. I found the whole thing very funny, which yes, I know is cruel. Once I had managed to stop cackling like a witch who had placed a curse, I did my bit of standing in front of the bonnet, peering in and scratching my head like the men. I gave some suggestions as to how we might push-start it (I have experience of this from my own beaten-up little car...) but hark lest we forget I am a WOMAN and was therefore completely ignored. I don't think I was this man's favourite person during this moment.


Eventually another car passed, stopped to talk to the driver and made a phone-call. Stefan and I hopped into this car, which took us to our requested destination. I handed him $5 and jumped out. Poor Mr. Sweat Box was not destined to receive any of our dollars. And the moral of the story is...?


Saturday 24 August 2013

Cuba part four: Trekking through tobacco, ATM-based agro, and independence is a no-no.

14/06/13, 10am, Central Plaza, Trinidad- Cuba

"Just tried to get cash out with both cards upon seeing my first Cuban ATM, but neither worked. I changed the last of my dollars but now am slightly worried I won't have enough to last. If there's one thing only that Cuba needs to pull together already, it's the banking. A handful of ATMs in the whole country which don't even work, banks with really odd opening times, two currencies which street vendors and shop assistants completely screw tourists over with, 30% commission sometimes on USD!.. It's a F-ing mess. And another good reason to travel to Cuba with someone else- double the chance of being able to get money. I already owe Wolfgang.

"Honestly, right now I feel ready to go home. I don't think I would if I was still in Central [America], but maybe I don't have quite enough energy left to fully embrace Cuba. I'm fed up of spending so much and I don't like the feeling that the huge amounts I am spending is going straight into Fidel's pockets (or his associates, because I am convinced he is actually dead. But that's another topic for another day.) I still haven't worked out if I am really enjoying myself here or not. It's a beautiful country, with so much going on- pretty much every activity one could want asides from skiing, but at the same time I feel so restrained.

"Maybe I wouldn't notice it so much if I hadn't just come from Central, where I made all my own decisions and was able to just jump on a local bus to wherever... here I feel constrained to the strict tourist routes, watched and noted everywhere I go and unable to make split decisions. My route was pretty much decided for me by my first casa host- and while I'm sure I could say to this guy: "actually, I don't want the three nights here, I want to go to Cienfuegos tomorrow", it feels like it would be a hassle, possibly offend him and easier to stick with the plan. I find myself just agreeing to everything. Dinner in the house? Sure. Add it all onto my never-ending bill. I hate having to tell someone every movement of my day. By 9am, I must have told my host what time I want dinner and what do I want and how do I want it... By dinner time, we've planned breakfast. My whole week has just been chugging along, going through the motions of a plan. And I'm tired. I am so F-ing tired. I can't do all that I would do usually, I can't really enjoy drinking late into the night, because the energy is gone. And I don't think it's so much the fact that I'm coming to the end of the 5 or 6 months or whatever, it's that I can't relax here and do things exactly as I want to. There's not time to myself. I am always watched. Even sitting on the roof terrace in the house, Pablo knows I am there, keeps an eye on me as I climb up and down.


"Changing these dollars in the bank, I had to give all the details of my passport but also where I'm staying, how long I'm staying there... so they can match it up to the information I gave before and make sure I'm where I should be? Yes that sounds crazy paranoid and nobody should really care about a harmless 23 year old girl, but how else should I think when I was greeted at immigration with a full-on interrogation?

"But maybe I need to relax and chill out. Maybe it's just that places like El Ostional in Central [America] were really special. It's nice to sit here in the square- a group of girls in school uniform are singing around a guitar, a man sits in the shade with a cigar and a bucket of some kind of fruit to sell. Two women sit next to me, chatting: one holds a newspaper in her hand. Maybe I'll buy a newspaper- practise my spanish reading skills and get angry at the biased stories."


"17:51
"What kind of country doesn't sell diet coke of any kind?

"Could today be the longest day ever? I've done a lot of wandering around, but the heat is getting to me. Making me even sleepier. Had a local ham sandwich, had a little nap. Sat in the park but got fed up of the male attention. Even the gate-guard/ [security] person thing was at it. Came over all serious to ask me a question, so I paid attention, thinking it might be important- then he asked with a still, straight face "tiene un novio?" ["Do you have a boyfriend?"] !! I don't know, I could handle it ok in Central, but here it really is something else.


"Back to the story of my life. We were horse-riding. I wore my big, new blue hat and I was loving life. We trekked for almost seven hours, stopping first to climb up and see a cave (NOT my favourite thing to do, but it was very open), later to see another cave through which we were promised a natural pool to swim in. I assumed the pool was on the other side of the cave- ie, open air and not underground. I would never have gone through otherwise. As this cave went on longer and deeper, I was really starting to panic and thought I might have to be carried out. But I was pushed along and concentrated on not stepping in water. Actually, I was mostly ok until I looked up and saw my close proximity to the ceiling. It was hot outside and my stress was making me sweat even more, so when we finally reached the pool- lit by candles, I just jumped straight in. Wolfgang threw me a beer, which we cooled in the water and which made me feel a whole lot better. Not for the first time on this trip, I was pretty proud of myself.

"Towards the end of the trail, we stopped at a tabacco farm, where we were shown how to roll cigars. The farmer told me that they were a family business, run for generations, but recently had become a government official stop for tourism. They were allowed 10% of their farm produce or income- the other 90% goes to Fidel. After a couple of mojitos- todo organic, it was time to go, but the heavens had suddenly opened and we all sat in the barn a while longer. The farm brothers gave us a cigar to share and played some Reggaeton on their phones. Then I was watching them and Wolfgang trade songs through bluetooth an discuss the iphone 5. Que Bizarro.

"We arrived home covered in mud- my shoes completely destroyed- and starving hungry. After showers and peso pizza, we saw our local friends in the square once again, and the night ended in drinks and me watching while all the amazing salsa dancers sauntered round the dance-floor to a live band.


"Wednesday was a beach day. Took a boat across to Cayo Levisa, where I swam, slept and read on the beach: a perfect beach, but I think I've been spoilt by white sand and blue seas recently, so it felt normal. As with everything in Cuba, the trip was methodically programmed. We were confined pretty much to a hotel area, where a sound system shouted about just how much fun we were going to have, and all the creepy-smiled waiters called me "laydeeee" and bugged me for drinks. Good day, though.


"And then Thursday bright and early, I said goodbye to the Austrian and set off on my eight hour bus ride to Trinidad."



Sunday 18 August 2013

Cuba part three: My last roof terrace.

13/06/13, 12:30pm, Bus to Trinidad, Cuba

"Just squashed a huge mosquito against the window next to me and now I have to watch my own blood drip out of it. Little bastard.

"The last couple of days have been fun. On Tuesday morning, my Austrian friend and I went on a trek through the valleys on horses. My horse was a babe, called "Moreno"(I think), which basically means "brown". Pretty unoriginal, but there we go. Our guide picked us us from the house dressed as if he was ready to kill some indians. His name was Andrés, he was very serious, but clearly loved his home: pointing out every fruit and tree we passed. He also liked me best, because Wolfgang can't speak any spanish.

"This bus journey is totally bizarre. They're playing 80's music videos like 'Take on Me' on a little TV screen. I don't want to concentrate on it, but it's hypnotic. Maybe they're sending out subliminal messages to tourists through the white noise."

Later: on the roof, sometime in the evening, Trinidad.

"Over the past few months I have:

  • Sat on Rossy's roof in Guadalajara learning spanish, chatting to Flacco, watching the cathedral bells and remarked and how the colour of the clock fact exactly matched that of the sky. It's also where I had my very first beer of my trip.
  • Sat on the boat roof in Belize, drinking rum with a great group of people, watching some of the best sunsets over the Caribbean. 
  • Sat on the unfinished roof at Lilia's house in Antigua, with John, discussing love, life and death even through a thunderstorm.
  • Sat on a sort of roof terrace in Tegucigalpa by myself, watching a thunderstorm at a safe distance from the dodgy city below.
  • Oh- and sat on a bar's roof when the electricity went out and the music system broke, with a lovely Australian in Cancun.
  • Sat on the roof in Viñales, breaking mojito glasses and counting the stars with Wolfgang.
  • And sat on the roof here in Trinidad, by myself watching the first stars pop out and remembering all the incredible things I've seen.
This could be my last roof terrace.

"I have been called names by men in the street, such as:
  • Werita/ Wera (white girl)
  • Guapa
  • Mango
  • Mamey
  • Mamasita
  • Caliente
  • TAXI AMIGA
  • Bonita
  • Linda
  • Chica me gusta
  • Novia
  • Gringa
  • Britney (?!)
  • Suave
  • Puta (whore)
  • Perra (dog)
  • and now "white trash".
"I have travelled by:
  • Plane
  • car
  • taxi
  • 4x4
  • chicken bus
  • local mexican bus
  • first class mexican bus
  • subway train
  • shuttle bus
  • boat- ferry, fishing boat, canoe, kayak, dive-boat, largo...
  • truck- vegetable, construction, pick-up
  • foot!
  • van
  • tuk-tuk
  • motorbike
  • police van
  • horse
  • collectivo
  • volcano board
"The crazy nights in I have if ever I'm somewhere without dorms/hostels and therefore have my own private room I:
  • epilate
  • cut my toenails
  • usually eat some chocolate in bed
  • wander around naked. Bit of stretching.
  • binge on lists/ reviewing past lists (* didn't even occur to me that's what I'm doing right now!)
  • maybe wash some underwear in the sink
  • pee with the door open [*share too much]
Luxury.

"Books read this trip:
  • The Power and the Glory, by Graham Greene [Left in my room in Mexico]
  • Travels with my Aunt, by Graham Greene [Brought from home]
  • Better than Fiction, various authors: Lonely Planet [Brought from home and still have it]
  • Life of Pi, by Yann Martel [Found in hostel in Antigua]
  • Sweet Tooth, by Ian McEwan [Swapped in shop in Utila]
  • Brave New World by Aldous Huxley [Found with some pages torn out at the Surfing Turtle island hostel, Nicaragua]
  • My Horizontal Life, by Chelsea Handler [not proud of this one! Inherited from my Canadian friend]
  • The Reader, by Bernhard Schlink [From book swap in Panama City]
  • Queer, by William S. Burroughs [Also from Panama City]
  • On the Road, by Jack Kerouc [Which I brought home and was an excellent novel to end the trip on].
"Useful Things I have discovered:
  • shampoo= body wash= hair wash= clothes wash= bag wash
  • The best way to keep the sand flies and even mosquitos at bay is to smother my legs in baby oil or similar (at night)- the little eejits get stuck in it and can't get through to bite me.
  • Mexican, Guatemalan and Honduran shoes will not survive hiking or rivers and are generally not built to last."

Thursday 15 August 2013

Cuba, part two: Hemingway's bed; attracting the crazies again; and dancing in the plaza with many gay men.

09/06/13, 19:30, Street outside the cemetery, Havana


"Really weird day. Good, but crazy. Sitting in the street as I write this and people keep stopping in front of me to stare. I guess it is weird to see a blonde, white girl in the street with a notebook. One guy was carrying an x-ray sheet of his own chest... who is the weird one, I ask you?!

"Woke up feeling disorientated and a little bit daunted by Cuba. Odd, I haven't felt that anywhere else. Had a pretty good breakfast- lots of fruit here. Yesterday, I had about 7 of my 5 a day by 9am!" [yes, these are the things that excite me no matter where I am in the world...] "Headed out to try and tackle the taxis locales. It's more like organised hitchhiking than anything else, and I didn't want to flag down a car with nobody in it because then it would become a private taxi and they'd charge me with tourist money. Seeing a woman flag down a full Chevrolet, I ran over to join them, asked for the cathedral and hopped in. So far, so good.
"But after ten minutes, when the driver gestured for me to get out, I quickly realised that I was nowhere near the old town where I had wanted to be. I wandered around for a long while, anyway: past the mayhem of the local peso pizza stalls and general residential Sunday socials, then saw a hospital and realised that he'd probably thought I'd said "hospital" rather than "cathedral". He may also have assumed that I was a medical student (hilarious, I know) because apparently lots of internationals study that here. This surprised me- I don't know why... I suppose like many things here, I'd sort of assumed that the medical care would be a little sub-standard. In fact, Cuba so far is SO organised- neat, clean, and seemingly wealthy compared to most of Latin America. Makes it even more difficult to understand the reality of the situation. And it's hard to get hints of any struggles from local people when speaking to them, too. Maybe socialism really is perfect. But I know it's not.

"Anyway. I bought a litre of water from a local shop with local pesos (very satisfying), and hailed another taxi going in the opposite direction. This was successful. I spent the day walking around the old town- for miles, again, and saw even more than yesterday. I felt comfortable again and enjoyed Havana more after a few days' acclimatising. I saw a famous bar where many poets and writers have frequented, Hemingway's bedroom on the top floor of the Hotel Ambos Mundos (complete with a 50year old half-drunk bottle of rum, mmm...). Bought a local-money ice-cream and a pork sandwich for lunch and sat in the Plaza del Armas. It was when I stood in line for my ice-cream sandwich that I noticed I was being stared at by a massive black guy. I'm pretty used to being stared around here, but something about his stare was cold and rude, rather than gormless and appreciative. I raised my eyebrows at him and he spat on the floor, before shouting "white trash!" several times as I walked away. Nobody else said anything or seemed to take notice- perhaps they didn't understand the english, and whilst I got over the shock of finding the only aggressive man in Cuba pretty quickly, it definitely ruined my ice-cream.

"It's so much fun just wandering around the city- its like a huge outdoor museum with all the old cars and buildings. So much so that I decided to skip the Museo del Ciudad and watch it all first-hand in the squares.

"Just as I was about to find a taxi back,-"

12/05/13, Playa Levisa, Cuba

"I can't remember what happened there. I think dinner happened. This Panamanian suncream is burning my skin- pretty sure that's the thing it's supposed to stop from happening.

"So. I was about to hail a collective back to the house, but thought I might as well walk along the Malecón to see the forts first. That's when I saw a rather eccentric looking tourist with his professional-looking camera- possibly french; I'd definitly seen him around Havana earlier that day. He walked up to me and asked to take my photo. I didn't really find anything odd about that, because I spend most of my life asking strangers for photos- or not asking and taking their photo anyway. Besides, as a 'photojournalist' I know how much easier it is when people respond well. So I said yes, and he asked me some questions about Cuba: what was I expecting to find? Did I feel safe as a single, female traveller?

"He was quiet, even as an interviewer, and quite camp. I was pretty sure he was gay, but these crazy European artists- he may just have been flamboyant. Not flamboyant. Effeminate. Turns out he was spanish and working for a magazine (Algo? Argo? something like that...). We walked along the Malecón and took more pictures, discussing our cameras and travelling. It's funny- a few months ago there's no way [in hell!] I'd have felt comfortable being in a magazine with no make-up or clean hair (!), but I really didn't care- especially as I doubt I'll ever see the photos anyway.

"We went for coffee and I took photos with his fancy camera while he danced with the daughter of the house band. He wanted to show me his professional prints in his apartment, and since I'd already decided he was pretty harmless, I went back to look.

"The rented apartment was small, but homely, with an aquarium and photos on the wall of somebody else's family. And his photos were incredible. But I do think more and more that it depends mostly on the camera [*afternote: not sure about this anymore!]. If I'd taken the same on mine, there would only be half the detail when blown up [true]. I need a new camera..!! [still true].

"I drank water out of a glass which wasn't quite rinsed of coffee, and we left the apartment to meet his Turkish friend- although he couldn't quite remember whether he was supposed to meet at 5, 6, or 7.

"He told me that the little girl in the café had talked about school- she must have been 6 or 7; apparently the teachers hit the children with sticks if they don't behave.

"The most bizarre part of my day was when I found myself in his bathroom, having foundation slapped all over my face. I was a little pink from the sun and he told me I'd look better for it. Most probs gay.

"We met the Turkish guy at the café de Hotel Inglaterra, along with another guy he'd met somewhere or other. They were going on to a Rumba show, and wanted me to come along, but I had dinner waiting in my house and I wasn't quite sure I was drunk enough to go out dancing with three strange men in downtown Havana. I said I'd come back out later, although knew it wasn't true even as I said it. I feel a little bit guilty. Javier was a genuinely kind man who would have been fun to party with, but I just wasn't feeling it. Only as I was walking back through the centre of town did I realise that none of us had paid the drinks bill.
"Early the next morning, I left for Viñales. The first casa host-man very kindly said he'd drive me to the bus station at 7am. He was especially keen that we leave on time- worried that I'd miss my bus, worried that I hadn't packed my sunglasses or suncream and generally being a bit of a dad. 

"My bus didn't leave 'til 9am. In the meantime, he gave me further lectures about being safe, about not getting burnt, telling me not to worry, he'd arranged for my hostess in Viñales to meet me off the bus... I know he was just being kind, but it felt pretty suffocating after having been so independent through Central America by myself. I didn't need anyone to hold my hand while I bought a bus ticket after hitching rides on the back of trucks.

"At one point, when host-man, (I just can't remember his name [I can now- Roberto]) went to go and check the bus times for the millionth time, another man on the bench tried to make conversation with me. I was distracted by host-man flapping around at the ticket-desk in front of me, but also disinclined to have another painful spanglish conversation with a keen spanglish-speaking Cuban. So I ignored him.

"Later, I apologised and we began again- both on the same bus for 3 hours and all. He was Austrain and had had several weird and wonderful jobs in several different countries. We shall call him Wolfgang. Because I've always wanted to call something that. Another good reason to never have children.
"Wolfgang and I are staying in the same house- run by a woman called Elenor. She is precise and prompt in every way. Her house is lovely, with a roof-terrace and front porch complete with rocking chairs, but all around the home there are odd little touches, such as a family of plastic ducks in the bathroom, some fake ivy wrapped around the shower pipe, and bowls of fake fruit in the garden. [Little signs of a house-wife gone mad]. Every morning, Elenor summons me ("Raquel!") and tells me what I need to know about the day/ the booking/ the dinner, and tells me to translate to Wolfgang. She asks me what time I want dinner and what meat options there are... she is a fantastic cook. If I ask for dinner at 7.30, it is on the table at 7.30. She is every inch the perfectionist housewife.

"On the first night, I accidentally broke two glasses. Since then, I've felt like a naughty school-child, constantly trying to make it up to Elenor with creepy amounts of politeness and over-compensating smiles. Wolfgang told me to get over it, Elenor doesn't care- it's just two glasses. But she does care. I can see it in her matriarchal eyes. And I don't blame her for caring- I've heard that Cubans have to file for permission to buy pretty much everything, from chairs to glasses.


"It began at lunchtime, when we'd just arrive and decided to have a beer in the square. A few beers later, we got chatting to some locals-namely a massive Cuban guy who had been working in Paris as a salsa teacher. He wore his sunglasses even after dark and it helped to improve his 'Parisian stare'. A bottle of rum appeared and suddenly the gay community of Viñales were surrounding us. By 4pm I was (somewhat) salsa dancing in the plaza and the rest was a blur. For such a tiny village- one road in the valley, pretty much, Viñales has a huge gay community. Pretty unexpected, but hilarious to watch our new friends pick out 'mangoes', ie. attractive-looking tourists in the street.

"Wolfgang and I stumbled home at 7.40ish, remembering dinner, through which the mojitos continued. Sitting on the roof terrace, singing songs from 'My Fair Lady' and practising my ballet (?!), I knocked over a table and broke the mojito glasses. We woke up the following morning with headaches and Elenor may have been punishing us by only giving bread and butter for breakfast."