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."