Cuba, in land (8th to 15th of November 2009):

Vinales

I wanted to back-pack it in the bus, V wanted to hire a car. In both our guide books it said – hiring a car; don’t. So we hired a car. Beforehand we purchased the only known map of Cuba, with pictograms of the motorways (number of bridges, train track crossings – really) so you could at least guess where you were. A nun would give you more indication than the signs in Cuba. I think they were all taken down and remoulded into Lada doors. Or fridge freezers.

I also wanted some supplies, so we had a look in the best equipped grocery store in Havana (according to my Lonely Planet). Some tins of tuna, bread, shampoo, biscuits, ham and water. And a lady asking us for money so that she could buy her baby some milk. Not good.

After 4 days, we were happy to leave. Tchau, Havana.

We said good-bye to Edilise, thanked her for her hospitality and with our bags that weighed the equivalent of a sofa, we went to hail a taxi. With luck we managed to grab an old chap who graciously necked his beer so we didn’t have to wait. You couldn’t make this up. V sat in the back with the distended rucksacks, as the boot on his Lada seemed to be for decoration. Closing the passenger door there was a gap that could be seen from space. Still, he was very nice and very calm (perhaps due to the beer).

As we picked up the car at the hotel on the other side of Havana, we did the inspection; rear windscreen wiper – missing; side indicator repeaters – gone; spare wheel – in the boot so it couldn’t be pinched from beneath; tyres – 3 different makers – Dunlop, Yokahama and Toyo. At least 2 were the same, just at opposite corners. A tropical storm was passing Cuba as we left and that is when I discovered that my windscreen wiper would have been more use as a comb. I drove with the same visibility as you would have looking through your front door letterbox. Thankfully, the passenger side wiper was in a better state so V could hunt out those mythical roadsigns.

There is no chance of you dozing off on the motorways in Cuba. The road surface makes the Basse Corniche feel as smooth as Cadbury’s Caramel. So you weave from side to side to try and avoid losing a wheel. Some parts have recently been resurfaced, but these are rarer than an X-Factor (Star Academy/ Pop Idol for the French) contestant with an IQ over 60.

On the motorway we encountered:

• Bicycles. Coming towards us, going in our direction and crossing the 6 lanes.
• Cows and goats on the grass verges. There are no barriers.
• Tractors. Coming towards us, going in our direction and crossing the 6 lanes.
• People selling roast or unplucked chickens, onions, garlic and cakes. All you need for a square meal.
• Train tracks. No trains though. Apparently 80% of the trains are late, 20% cancelled. The only one we saw we actually managed to get in the cab with the drivers. More on that later.
• Horses and carts. Coming towards us, etc, etc.
• Hitchhikers. Lots and lots. Soldiers, policemen, mums, grandmothers, kids, young people going to work, coming back from work, students.   

Hitchhiking is a way of life in Cuba because people are not allowed to have their own car. If you are fortunate enough to be employed in an occupation where a car is provided by the state (invariably a 25+ year old Lada) even then it does not belong to you. It is the state’s. The infrastructure for moving people around the country, from their homes to their places of work (or even to see their families) is non-existent. There are smoke-belching buses and trucks which do stop (sometimes) to pick up groups of people huddled under bridges sheltering from the fierce sun, but they are few. If you are the owner/ guardian of a vehicle with a blue number plate you are obliged to stop. This was Fidel’s idea to circumvent the transport shortage. Problem is that very few vehicles with these plates do come to a halt, much to the chagrin of the poor hitchhikers. Us being tourists, our Peugeot 307 break (La Classe – it turned heads, honestly) had a brown/maroon matriculation plate with a big T before the number.

The hitchhikers were obviously not used to tourists stopping so we were rarely signalled. Some proffered moneda nacional (MN, the local currency) in their fanciful fists to increase their prospects of a ride. It took us a while to pluck up the courage to stop. It was the help and directions we received from everyone we met - there were many, as there are no signs. None. Not even on the entrance to a town. We had to ask people where we were (thank the Lord that V speaks “Portunol”) and when we showed them the map, it was obvious that they had never seen one before – that compelled us to do so.

It is like having the train and bus strike in Monaco everyday. Except the people are friendlier. The time and effort lost by Cuba and Cubans waiting by the roadside is staggering.

After ferrying a few motorway stragglers, we picked up 3 students about 25km from Vinales. They directed us to the door of the Casa Particular where we hoped to spend the next 2 nights. Cubans are helpful and mannerly.

Unfortunately the Casa Particular was fully booked, but the owner’s son led the way in his tuned car (bright green, turbo badge, baked bean tin sized exhaust) to his cousin’s house. She also ran a Casa Particular.

So we bunked in with Gloria.

This was the start of our laziness. Knowing that we need never reserve anywhere in the future, we would turn up in the village and the locals would find somewhere agreeable for us to stay. They would phone their contacts in the places we planned to visit, booking the room for us. Brilliant.

Gloria is a fantastic cook and her fish was the best we tasted in Cuba. No offence, Oivind.

We ate at the house as the food was invariably superior to what could be found in a local restaurant and it also added a little to the coffers of the proprietor.

After the fall of the Berlin wall and the iron curtain, the Soviet subsidy to Cuba crumbled too. It is estimated that this was to the tune of US$3M per day. The standard of living plummeted. The motorway construction stopped abruptly. Testament to this is the unfinished bridges spanning the motorway. Slip roads just end in fields. At one stage of the highway, the 3 lanes end and you have to share the other side with oncoming traffic for about 100km. Middle lane is for those with a set of oversized swingers. Or X-Factor/ Star Academy/ Pop Idol contestants.

With near riots in Havana, Fidel opened Cuba to tourism and let people rent their homes to the influx of visitors. So was born the Casa Particular. Those fortunate to live in a beautiful area such as Vinales, Trinidad or Cienfuegos could have a tourist pay per night what a lawyer or doctor earns in a month. About US$25 = 25CUC (pesos convertibles).

At the same time the dichotomy of modern Cuba took place. Those with access to tourist money. And those who don’t. Oivind summed it up well; ‘tourists don’t need lawyers or doctors. Tourists need taxis.’ So a lot of lawyers, dentists and doctors drive taxis in Cuba.

Not quite what Fidel envisioned in 1957, methinks.

Gloria was extremely friendly, the room was clean – the ants and helicopter-sized mosquitoes were equally comfortable – and the food was a delight. On the 2^nd night we even had birthday cake.

Two English girls were renting the adjacent room to us on our first night. Hello Asha and Rita.

Only problem chez Gloria was a rooster next door that liked to crow at 5.00am and then every subsequent 30 seconds. This is a problem when you do not have glass in your windows, only louvers. Earplugs saved the day/ morning (good advice, Jim and Rhona) and I hoped to see the miscreant either roasted or hanging upside down by his scrawny legs on the motorway.

Unfortunately the weather was pants, so we could not fulfil what we wished to do in Vinales on our first full day, which was to take a horse and trek through the countryside. Vinales is stunningly green. Like a sea-sick Ireland supporter in pea soup.

So under the sheet rain on the first day we visited the huge painted cliff face (love it or loathe it), one of the smaller caves and a woman’s garden. Her grandfather had greenfingers (green hands if you are French) and had begun his botanical experiment generations ago. Her family had continued it to this day and she happily led us around, even offering V a little flower. Bless. The dolls’ heads on poles are not to everyone’s taste, unless your name is Vlad.

The 2^nd day we visited the larger and more impressive of the caves, where V managed to fall on the muddy trail at the exit. No bones broken, thankfully. Makes a change from me.

V and I made a logistical error trying to cut across the smaller roads to reach Cienfuegos, instead of heading north to the larger, saner National road or motorway.

No roadsigns, towns that did not exist on the map at least (sorry Junca), parts of the map which were simply lies and roads that would take the tread off a Sherman. After 3 hours of swerving like a Beckham free-kick around potholes it was time to step back onto the path more travelled. Again, we stopped often so V could ask the locals for directions.

Numerous hitchhikers were transported and as a rosy fingered sunset formed, we were still an hour from our destination.

Cienfuegos

It was with dusk falling that the trusty 307 threw in its second surprise; the headlights. They were as bright as a Glasgow Rangers supporter. The only way that I could discern if there was something ahead of me was to use full beam, or the Force. Not being a Jedi, I resorted to the former which although allowing me to see a good 20 metres ahead of me (yes, on full beam) it also had the benefit of blinding the oncoming horses, cyclists, trucks, buses and cars.

Cubans are the most courteous of drivers and they were obviously having the same visibility problem as me. So they would dip their lights some metres ahead of me (as would I) so we could pass each other in stealth mode.

There is nothing more furtive than a horse and cart at 10km/h with no lights or reflectors on an unlit road. I almost rear ended one when my lights were dipped. I could hear the silent scream from the girl we picked up on the slip road as the back end of the cart suddenly appeared 3 metres ahead of me. Full beam, the only way to travel.

V weaved her directional and map magic on the way into town and we arrived at the casa where we hoped to stay. Unfortunately it was full, but the might of the Cuban Cienfuegos Casa Contacts swung into action and we were escorted by a gentleman to the casa himself and his wife, Perla ran.

Perla and her husband were jewels and they overfed us with their home cooking while offering advice on what to do in and around town.

Fidel has his home in Cienfuegos. It is a sleepy holiday village with well looked after colonial houses and other buildings. We drank mojitos and daiquiris on the roof terrace of the Palacio del Valle, overlooking the bay and the town while a band played Cuban favourites.

The following day (after being awoken by the neighbour’s rooster) we explored the town a little, walking up and down the Prado to the Punta Gorda (where we were staying).

All very civilised.

Trinidad

We took a quick detour via the botanical gardens where we managed to upset an old English couple, the gent being in mid focus of a prize winning photo of two butterflies when V and I bumbled through the brush. He was less amused than the two ants that tried to carry off my big toe.

Perla reserved in advance our guesthouse in Trinidad. All we had to do was get there. We decided not to drive at night ever again and we left at mid-day.

On arrival we were signalled by a Jinetera (female hustler) with a wave of her finger in ‘no, no’ gesture. I stopped the car as I thought that we were heading up a one way street, the wrong way. No signs, you see. After a short conversation we bounced away from her up the cobblestoned street before a jinetero leaped in front of the car trying the same act of finger waving. This time I continued on without stopping, rounding him as Roberto Baggio would a training cone.

A friendly copper directed us to what we thought was our Casa. An old style colonial building with furniture to match. Long story short, it wasn’t. The proprietor took us to another building where we were to stay, again a beautiful old house. Unfortunately the room Perla had reserved for us had been rented out. Such is the desire of the owners to ensure that their rooms are filled, they take any opportunity. Owners of Casa Particulares are strictly controlled by the state and pay $100CUC - $250CUC every month to Fidel’s fund even if their room(s) has not been rented.

There then followed a flurry of phone calls to find us somewhere to stay. We were offered an attic room with a little terrace in a modern house. It was more of a tart’s boudoir than a bedroom. Red silk sheets. Hmmmm. V wisely said that we were looking for something more 'traditional' so not to upset the owner (we couldn’t have lugged our rucksacks up to the room via the narrow precarious stairs in any case).

Eventually a room was found for us with Yaniesy, a lovely, timid lady with a little private terrace adorned by a hammock. Perfect. She has a young parakeet called Cuca, who can whistle and speak.

Trinidad is a timewarp back to Spanish rule. Undulating cobblestone streets, ornate architectural buildings and a quiet picturesque main square.

After a hard day wandering through the museums we sampled the local drink, Canchacharas at a bar of the same name.

Canchacharas are like breasts. 1 is not enough, 3 are too many.

We then feasted chez Yaniesy before taking in the live music, salsa and a few mojitos in the centre.

The following day we took the car to Playa Ancon, a white sandy beach 15km from Trinidad. Sea temperature was around 25 - 26°C. Fabulous.

We gave two Irish lads, Sean and Francis a lift back to Trinidad in the Peugeot.

Later on we met up with them again for mojitos and beer in the main square, where the nightly live music and dancing was taking place.

The heavens opened, so sheltering from the torrential rain at the bar, we swapped stories. Francis has spent a long time travelling in Australia and New Zealand, in between working. Sean has been to Nigeria outfitting cinemas. Bizarre. So we continued to get smashed, ending up in a little nightclub. Even the police turned up to have a drink inside.Cuba. The safest place in the world.

Francis told us of the reaction he had with his alternative Cuban t-shirt. Wherever you are, there is always a picture of Che Guevara and his face can be seen on everything from mugs to postcards to t-shirts. Francis had Fidel Castro on his shirt the previous night, and received some awkward looks from the locals and some disgruntled comments from some Norwegian ladies. He then had to explain irony to them. The Norwegians, not the locals.

When we ran out of money – the price of a beer is the same everywhere, even in a club ($1.50CUC) – and liver capacity, it was time to roll home. I have to apologise to the boys for leaving so abruptly but I had to go before my legs failed.

Next day, with a royal hangover we packed our bags with our clean clothes (Yaniesy had a friend do our laundry for $6CUC) and we pointed the Peugeot in the direction of Sancti Spiritus.

Sancti Spiritus

Yaniesy had reserved a room for us with a contact there and we parked up the car nearby to continue on foot to find the Casa. We knocked on the door of what we thought was the guesthouse to be met by an old man in his humble abode. He invited us in while he went to the back of his home to find the address we were looking for. On his whitewashed walls were sepia pictures of himself, his family and in the corner of the sparsely furnished room his wheelchair folded against the wall. Pointing us in the right direction he told us to take care crossing the busy road at the bottom of the street. I almost cried.

At the actual Casa, the owner was waiting for us and opened her door with some string to save her having to come down the stairs to open it by hand. In truth, she could have used the exercise. She hadn’t skipped on her rice and beans.

Again, a clean room with solid furniture and good shower. Outside was a little terrace where we sat and wrote at night.

Taking the car into town to find somewhere safe to park it, and old gent jumped in front of us. Excitedly he instructed us to go back to the Casa. After much discussion he showed us a little piece of paper with our names and the number of the car. He had been posted by our Casa owner to direct us to the house on our arrival in town. Marvellous. Eventually he succumbed to letting us park the car and his friend guarded our car overnight for the princely sum of $2CUC.

Heading out for an exploratory tour we encountered an old man pushing his bike into the town centre. He walked along beside us chatting about his time in Angola fighting for the Cuban Army. Merlyn’s dad had also been involved in this campaign, spending 4 years in Africa. This old chap had been there for 2. A forgotten escapade of Cuba’s history in many ways. The soles of his shoes flapped while he walked abreast of us. We gave him a $1CUC note and he thanked us for permitting him to have a good meal tonight. For the 2^nd time I nearly cried. He had the most expressive face I had seen. One regret from our time in Cuba was that we should have taken photographs of the people we met. Their faces told many tales, even if I could not understand their Spanish.

Apart from the people the most memorable part of Sancti Spiritus was a little contemporary art gallery in the pedestrian area. Free to enter, the minds of the artists were also free, even through they could not leave Cuba. Thought provoking and inspiring in equal measure, it was a little jewel.

Santa Clara

Again we had our accommodation arranged for us by our previous hosts. This time it was with Rolando and Adelaide. He is an engineer, she a doctor. Adelaide continues to work as both a hotelier and in medicine, Rolando seems consigned to his fate as a B&B owner. More than a little disillusioned with the state, he still keeps his engineering texts next to his books on Fidel and Cuba. One book he has is the same as which I used at University (Shigley is the author, for you engineering fans out there).

He was proud to show the book (Papillon) that he loaned to a Sky News presenter (forgotten his name as I don’t have Sky at home, only council TV) which the presenter signed and returned to him once back in England. I left him one of my books as a little thank you, although it was not in the same class as the other works he had. With the restricted genre Rolando has access to, he seemed mildly pleased.

Overshadowing Rolando’s library was his array of soaps. Soap is a valuable commodity in Cuba. Many times people in the street asked us for it (they were not French or from Paisley, obviously).   

Having a drink in one of the local bars at night we saw the differences between the young and the old in Cuba. One youngster with his silver belt-buckle emblazoned with ‘Rich’, and two lads who would periodically step outside to swig from their half bottle of rum while the band played in the corner, combined age: 406. There were 5 in the group.

Touring Santa Clara that first day we were looking for somewhere to grab a bite to eat. We followed the stream of people munching pizza to find a little outlet. Each round molten (these were the same temperature as lava) snack was $7MN or 25 Euro cents. As V and I approached an old lady grabbed my arm and gave me an imploring look. She had teeth like Shane McGowan but again the most open of faces. While we queued we saw the two girls we had picked up as hitchhikers into Santa Clara. They smiled and said hello. So for $1CUC we bought 3 cheese and ham pizzas. The third we gave to the old lady and her face was worth 1000 times the cost. I didn’t look after she took hold of the pizza, lost her fingerprints and received 2^nd degree burns from the dripping nuclear cheese. What was needed was an asbestos mitt from NASA, not the wafer thin piece of tissue in which the pizza was actually given.
It is the thought that counts.

We wandered up to the spot where Che Guevara and his merry men derailed an armoured train during the fight for independence. We then took a stroll to his monument, the shrine where his remains are buried and then to a statue of the man himself stacked with symbolism.

Rolando gave us some MN coins adored with the famous face of the man himself.

Day 2 in Santa Clara we headed to the sugar museum just out of town. The machinery is non-functioning and stands as a monument to the drive to mechanise the all important Cuban sugar industry in the early and mid part of the 20^th century. Most of the equipment was constructed in the US, ironically.

We arrived just before 12.00pm and I thought that with lunch approaching the lady would be a little dismissive. On the contrary, she gave us a personalised tour, pausing while V translated her Spanish to English for me. She had a genuine interest and knowledge of all the now defunct plant. She explained how the raw newly harvested cane arrived by train. The content of the wagons were tipped onto a conveyer belt where the product was ground, mixed with water to recover more of the sugar, separated into molasses, dehydrated in large towers and the husks conveyed to and used for fuel in a boiler which provided the steam for the whole process. All the time her little girl was hand-in-hand. Meanwhile a couple of workers chipped off decaying material and sploshed on paint in a vain attempt to halt the decay. A bit like Kuito but without the paint.

Another group arrived and our guide asked us to wait for a few moments whilst she attended to them. Then she gathered us all together which was the most memorable event of my time in Cuba. The museum still has a fully functioning 1916 built steam locomotive. Capable of a mighty 19km/h and operating at 60psi, we stopped traffic (one guy parked up at the crossing when he saw us, got out and took photos) as we trundled through to Remedio to drop off the group for lunch. On the return journey, V and I rode on the engine. I even had a go tooting the whistle. The stretch limo-taxi Lada that passed on the nearby road could not compete.

They wouldn’t let me touch the business parts, which was probably wise. This embodied Cuba for me. People who loved their job, went out of their way to make you feel welcome and kept the equipment running with what they had (there were valves from B&Q/ Leroy Merlin on the gauges which are the same as those beneath your sink).

On a high we took the car to the Cayo Santa Maria, an archipelago of islands joined by bridges. Stunning scenery, deserted roads we attempted to seek out the only beach you could reach for free (according to our guide books). We crossed a few lost tourists searching for this Holy Grail. It appears the hotel chains severed the access to increase their custom. At one intersection we discussed options with an elderly couple (coincidently the same that we had destroyed their butterfly photograph) and they decided to follow us. Into a military base. The looks we gained from the guards as the two cars simultaneously 3-point turned were priceless. The wheels almost came off the Peugeot as I harried the car along the rock strewn dirt tracks away from the camp.

So we succumbed to consumerism and entered through one of the hotels. The beach was talcum-powder perfect, the restaurant/ bar unimposing on the scenery. Unfortunately the food, service and atmosphere was polar opposite from our time in Cuba. With the rush to embrace tourism there is a burgeoning ‘them and us’ attitude between the tourists and those in the trade. We had tried to reserve a room there for our last night in Cuba, but thankfully it was full. Of Germans. Again we had been lucky in our accommodation.

So back to Santa Clara, Rolando and Adelaide who were much more accommodating.

The following morning we thanked our hosts and took ‘three colours; blue’ (if you looked at the car it wasn’t all the same shade of matt blue) for our last trip.

We had a fair drive back to Havana to catch our plane to Mexico City, so we left plenty to spare in terms of time.

We picked up as many hitchhikers as we could. No soldiers though, as we had vetoed the military after we asked one for directions outside a prison when we were hopelessly lost. He had glanced up from his newspaper and said ‘you’re outside the prison’. Genius.

Anyone who has tried to return a hire car at an airport knows that this is about as difficult as finding a solution to the Middle East ‘predicament’. Try this in Cuba.

Again everyone we asked was more than helpful, even the policewoman when I went (deliberately) the wrong way up a one way street at the airport. I played the stupid tourist, both parts coming naturally.

So the 3 hour margin was consumed with fannying about trying to find where to leave the car.

So to memories of Cuba. A marvellous place in internal flux. Beautiful, courageous, educated, helpful people in a wondrous landscape.

How long it can keep out consumerism and growth is anyone’s guess. V thinks that the only way Cuba has remained in its present form is due to it being an island and not having any major reserve of natural minerals or oil. Besides Cuba is not a political threat, now that communism has fallen in the Soviet Union.

With communications changing, with a disenchanted youth that cannot see other countries (I asked Rolando if he had ever been to Mexico. He retorted ‘we’re Cuban, we cannot travel’) and the increasing presence of the Chinese, Cuba may be very different soon.

One main advantage of Cuba today is that you will cross few Americans (they are banned by their own government from travelling to the island).

On the other hand, if it was not for Fidel’s revolution, Cuba would be probably just be another corrupt tax-haven just like the Bahamas. Perhaps. Better for the population? Who knows?