Sunday, 18 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 6
November 30 2011, our 32nd wedding anniversary.The differences in those used to city life and the country bumpkins were beginning to show We woke up in a cabin on the San Vincente Ranch to the sound of tropical birds, early sun streaming through the shutters and mist rising from lush vegetation in the forest. When I asked the girl with jet eyes, who hadn't been sleeping well, if she'd heard the dawn chorus, she replied, 'No, thank God, I was wearing ear plugs.'
We visited a cave and on our way out, as we were browsing the hand-made crafts a couple of local women approached the few women in the party, rubbing their hands and arms in a washing gesture. 'Baby. Soap?' Soap wasn't something we had thought of bringing from the UK. From then on I became a soap monitor. Members of the family donated small white cubes or bottles of shower gel from the hotel if they weren't using it. Every time the bus stopped there would usually be a disabled man and a very thin woman waiting for soap monitors. We also had the odd child asking for sweets. On one occasion after a bit of hassling Rhys gave away his half eaten packet of Hacks. As the child popped the cough sweet into his mouth, I had to turn away.
Ainsley saw to it that our wedding anniversary was one we wouldn't forget. I smoked my first hand-rolled cigar at the tobacco farm; at lunch we were serenaded by a salsa band and treated to pina coladas made with fresh coconut cream; applauded by the audience of an open air night club and treated to many drinks. To finish the evening I pulled an older member of the family we called 'Uncle' into the swimming pool with me, fully clothed.
We visited a cave and on our way out, as we were browsing the hand-made crafts a couple of local women approached the few women in the party, rubbing their hands and arms in a washing gesture. 'Baby. Soap?' Soap wasn't something we had thought of bringing from the UK. From then on I became a soap monitor. Members of the family donated small white cubes or bottles of shower gel from the hotel if they weren't using it. Every time the bus stopped there would usually be a disabled man and a very thin woman waiting for soap monitors. We also had the odd child asking for sweets. On one occasion after a bit of hassling Rhys gave away his half eaten packet of Hacks. As the child popped the cough sweet into his mouth, I had to turn away.
Ainsley saw to it that our wedding anniversary was one we wouldn't forget. I smoked my first hand-rolled cigar at the tobacco farm; at lunch we were serenaded by a salsa band and treated to pina coladas made with fresh coconut cream; applauded by the audience of an open air night club and treated to many drinks. To finish the evening I pulled an older member of the family we called 'Uncle' into the swimming pool with me, fully clothed.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 5
The following day on the way to the Viñales valley, west of Havana in the Pinar del Rio province, the bus pulled up at a cigar factory. The guide leaned out of the bus and spoke to the security guard who shook his head. The bus moved on.
'I'm sorry, but the factory's shut,' Ainsley said.'There's been a power cut and the workers have been sent home. . . Welcome to Cuba, my friends.'
'But we need compensation,' one of the family piped up.
'Compensation? Ah! I'll see what I can do,' Ainsley laughed. 'But don't worry, you will see a cigar factory, I promise.
Ainsley had talked non-stop for the three hours or so it took to get to Viñales. He told us more about Cuba and it's history as we drove through the striking landscape. If he caught somebody snoozing he'd call out their name in a half-joking tone and ask them to remove their sunglasses. He pointed out places of interest that we could see and some we never got to see because he was worried about hotels over-booking. Our mission each day was to get to the next hotel before any other tour party, learn as much as we could from him about Cuba, and have fun. I couldn't get enough.
The roads were deserted of traffic through most of our journey through Cuba. Imagine being the only vehicle on the M4 for several miles on a week day in December? People stand by the side of the road at designated places to hitch a lift from a government truck or private car. Although there is an inter-city bus service for the tourist and better off, local buses are few and far between and are like cattle trucks. A hundred or so local people cram, standing, a few sitting, suffocating in the heat with just a grill to let air in.
We drove on. Boulder like hills formed some 160million years ago by rain and erosion and covered in vegetation, known as 'mogotes' are similar to the limestone hillocks you see in China and Vietnam and loom out of the valley floor giving an ancient and eerie feeling. Ainsley pointed out tobacco plantations and other crops. He told us that there's little incentive to work the tobacco now. 90% of the crop yield goes to the government, leaving 10% for the farmer.
'You will visit a tobacco farm tomorrow, he said, as he went round the bus with plastic cups, pouring from a bottle of rum. 'In the meantime, here's the compensation.'
.
'I'm sorry, but the factory's shut,' Ainsley said.'There's been a power cut and the workers have been sent home. . . Welcome to Cuba, my friends.'
'But we need compensation,' one of the family piped up.
'Compensation? Ah! I'll see what I can do,' Ainsley laughed. 'But don't worry, you will see a cigar factory, I promise.
Ainsley had talked non-stop for the three hours or so it took to get to Viñales. He told us more about Cuba and it's history as we drove through the striking landscape. If he caught somebody snoozing he'd call out their name in a half-joking tone and ask them to remove their sunglasses. He pointed out places of interest that we could see and some we never got to see because he was worried about hotels over-booking. Our mission each day was to get to the next hotel before any other tour party, learn as much as we could from him about Cuba, and have fun. I couldn't get enough.
The roads were deserted of traffic through most of our journey through Cuba. Imagine being the only vehicle on the M4 for several miles on a week day in December? People stand by the side of the road at designated places to hitch a lift from a government truck or private car. Although there is an inter-city bus service for the tourist and better off, local buses are few and far between and are like cattle trucks. A hundred or so local people cram, standing, a few sitting, suffocating in the heat with just a grill to let air in.
We drove on. Boulder like hills formed some 160million years ago by rain and erosion and covered in vegetation, known as 'mogotes' are similar to the limestone hillocks you see in China and Vietnam and loom out of the valley floor giving an ancient and eerie feeling. Ainsley pointed out tobacco plantations and other crops. He told us that there's little incentive to work the tobacco now. 90% of the crop yield goes to the government, leaving 10% for the farmer.
'You will visit a tobacco farm tomorrow, he said, as he went round the bus with plastic cups, pouring from a bottle of rum. 'In the meantime, here's the compensation.'
.
Saturday, 17 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 4
It's getting hotter and we're all getting thirsty.We carry on wandering, hoping we'll soon reach the Havana Rum factory. Ainsley greets two young women dressed in khaki short skirts and introduces them to the family.
'These women are working to eliminate Denghe Fever.'
'Bloody hell,' I think.'That's one disease we didn't get vaccinated for. Isn't it a killer?'
He reads my mind.
'It's a killer. The mosquito lives in clean still water. These girls go round houses and have the right to demand entry to fumigate. It's an offence not to let them in. There's no known cure.'
The girls take out their cleaning materials from their bag to show us. We later meet a guy on the street mending what looks like a back-firing vacuum cleaner. It's the fumigator.
I now realise I never asked an obvious basic question. Do homes in the old town have running water? Presumably not. We were probably told. Ainsley would be disappointed with me. Like so much of the information about Cuba we were given in those early days it washed over me in a haze of Havana rum.
We did the tour of the Rum Factory, saw a model of the process, the story of slavery short-circuited, and tasted samples of three and seven year old rums. The seven year old tastes like a single malt whisky, warming the cockles but not quenching the thirst. You need a mojito to do that. Now, where are the cigars?
'These women are working to eliminate Denghe Fever.'
'Bloody hell,' I think.'That's one disease we didn't get vaccinated for. Isn't it a killer?'
He reads my mind.
'It's a killer. The mosquito lives in clean still water. These girls go round houses and have the right to demand entry to fumigate. It's an offence not to let them in. There's no known cure.'
The girls take out their cleaning materials from their bag to show us. We later meet a guy on the street mending what looks like a back-firing vacuum cleaner. It's the fumigator.
I now realise I never asked an obvious basic question. Do homes in the old town have running water? Presumably not. We were probably told. Ainsley would be disappointed with me. Like so much of the information about Cuba we were given in those early days it washed over me in a haze of Havana rum.
We did the tour of the Rum Factory, saw a model of the process, the story of slavery short-circuited, and tasted samples of three and seven year old rums. The seven year old tastes like a single malt whisky, warming the cockles but not quenching the thirst. You need a mojito to do that. Now, where are the cigars?
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 3
We tumbled out into the sunshine of Havana Vieja, the Old Town, following the loping walk of our guide, Ainsley. It's winter and not yet 10am but the temperature is in the mid-twenties and Ainsley's shaven head is already glistening. His name of course isn't Ainsley but he's the spitting image of the 'Ready, Steady, Cook' chef. He even has the same shoulder gestures as he towers over us and laughs.
Havana's success and riches were founded on the strength and position of its harbour in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries built on the sugar trade and slavery. As the conquistadors plundered the treasures of the Americas, Havana became a regular port of call, also attracting merchants and pirates, such as the infamous Welsh pirate, Harry Morgan. The Spanish built a protective fortress around the harbour and city that survives today.
The nineteenth century was a period of growth when some of the most elegant and beautiful buildings in the colonial style were constructed around shady squares. At the same time crime and corruption pushed the bourgeoisie into the suburbs leaving the old town to the poor.
In the first half of the twentieth century Americans invested in the City, building palaces in the Art Deco style devoted to drinking, gambling and the tourist industry. Gangsters and the mob ruled the roost until the Revolution in 1959 led by Fidel Castro & Che Guevara. The socialist capital and the old town was cleaned up of crime and prostitution, land nationalised and the houses of the rich handed over to their servants. With an emphasis on improving conditions in the countryside for the rural poor, many fine buildings in the capital were left to crumble and residential overcrowding increased. It wasn't until the 1990s when Havana was declared a UNESCO heritage site that many architectural treasures-churches, houses, and government buildings were restored to their former status.
Ainsley stops every few metres to greet an old friend, flirt with an older woman, stroke the head of a younger one, put his arm around the shoulder of an old man selling peanuts, and laugh at a mother-in-law joke with another guide dressed in the red T-shirt of Cubanacan-the government tourist agency they both work for. He wants us to get the feel of the 'real' Cuba. Fourteen digital and one analogue camera snap in 360 degree circles at his every stop.
We wander up dusty narrow streets filled with wooden scaffolding and peer through double doorways into courtyards. Washing hangs from grimy balconies, small dogs lie on their backs in the sunshine, good-looking young men with their backs to the wall hang round doing nothing, and children ask for pens.
'Come on, family!' Ainsley shouts, as we linger at a taxi rank admiring the 1950's Chevrolet Bel Air in maroon and chrome. ' I hate those American cars,' he says.'There's much more I want to show you.'
Havana's success and riches were founded on the strength and position of its harbour in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries built on the sugar trade and slavery. As the conquistadors plundered the treasures of the Americas, Havana became a regular port of call, also attracting merchants and pirates, such as the infamous Welsh pirate, Harry Morgan. The Spanish built a protective fortress around the harbour and city that survives today.
The nineteenth century was a period of growth when some of the most elegant and beautiful buildings in the colonial style were constructed around shady squares. At the same time crime and corruption pushed the bourgeoisie into the suburbs leaving the old town to the poor.
In the first half of the twentieth century Americans invested in the City, building palaces in the Art Deco style devoted to drinking, gambling and the tourist industry. Gangsters and the mob ruled the roost until the Revolution in 1959 led by Fidel Castro & Che Guevara. The socialist capital and the old town was cleaned up of crime and prostitution, land nationalised and the houses of the rich handed over to their servants. With an emphasis on improving conditions in the countryside for the rural poor, many fine buildings in the capital were left to crumble and residential overcrowding increased. It wasn't until the 1990s when Havana was declared a UNESCO heritage site that many architectural treasures-churches, houses, and government buildings were restored to their former status.
Ainsley stops every few metres to greet an old friend, flirt with an older woman, stroke the head of a younger one, put his arm around the shoulder of an old man selling peanuts, and laugh at a mother-in-law joke with another guide dressed in the red T-shirt of Cubanacan-the government tourist agency they both work for. He wants us to get the feel of the 'real' Cuba. Fourteen digital and one analogue camera snap in 360 degree circles at his every stop.
We wander up dusty narrow streets filled with wooden scaffolding and peer through double doorways into courtyards. Washing hangs from grimy balconies, small dogs lie on their backs in the sunshine, good-looking young men with their backs to the wall hang round doing nothing, and children ask for pens.
'Come on, family!' Ainsley shouts, as we linger at a taxi rank admiring the 1950's Chevrolet Bel Air in maroon and chrome. ' I hate those American cars,' he says.'There's much more I want to show you.'
Friday, 16 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 2
The Ambos Mundos Hotel, situated on the corner of Obispo, in Havana, combined the grandeur and faded glory of the Conquistadores with the grime of last month's tourists. The pregnant woman pointed out she could write her name in the dust on the bedside table. Funny place to leave your autograph. But that wasn't her only gripe. Because of over-booking and the sex ratio of single people, she and her husband had been separated and invited to sleep with two complete strangers. She with the blonde bombshell and he with an older gentleman. Strangely, they weren't keen on wife-swapping on the first night of their holiday. But isn't it always the way? Depending on your outlook, some people always seem to get runs of bad or good luck.
The following night she didn't have any hot water, the night after she had an army of ants running across the back of the bed, and later she found a toe-nail on the floor of her cabin. Not sure if that was the result of the torture she seemed to feel being in a group of rowdy old people. To be fair, although she felt sick and tired most of the holiday she kept a low profile. In fact, so low you could hardly see or hear her. On the other hand, her husband was extremely generous. He treated us all to lashings of 7 year old Havana rum and frequent rum cocktails. They maintained their status by sitting in the front seat of the bus for the whole holiday. Even when it broke down.
It's all a matter of expectations, I suppose. They had been on adventure holidays before and had clean rooms and good facilities. We, on the other hand, had been independent travellers staying in some really grotty places over the years. We hadn't expected swimming pools and hot water. So when they appeared it was a huge bonus. Not sure I would have wanted to have been split up from Rhys though, not on the first night. Not without our lock knife.
The following night she didn't have any hot water, the night after she had an army of ants running across the back of the bed, and later she found a toe-nail on the floor of her cabin. Not sure if that was the result of the torture she seemed to feel being in a group of rowdy old people. To be fair, although she felt sick and tired most of the holiday she kept a low profile. In fact, so low you could hardly see or hear her. On the other hand, her husband was extremely generous. He treated us all to lashings of 7 year old Havana rum and frequent rum cocktails. They maintained their status by sitting in the front seat of the bus for the whole holiday. Even when it broke down.
It's all a matter of expectations, I suppose. They had been on adventure holidays before and had clean rooms and good facilities. We, on the other hand, had been independent travellers staying in some really grotty places over the years. We hadn't expected swimming pools and hot water. So when they appeared it was a huge bonus. Not sure I would have wanted to have been split up from Rhys though, not on the first night. Not without our lock knife.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 1
'Madam, are you sure you don't have anything sharp in your hand luggage?'
'No, my husband has a knife but he packed it.'
'Well, we'll just put your bag through for the third time.'
The Security Guard emptied everything out, felt the corners of my grubby bag, and hey presto! Rhys's knife fell out. Just like that.
'Err. . ., but he said he'd packed it in his ruck sack.'
The man examined the knife we'd bought in Mexico last year to peel fruit. He gave me an 'Oh, yeah?' look.
'You know it's an offence to carry a lock knife like this in a public place, don't you?'
'No, but...'
'The funny thing is it's not illegal to own one.' He clicked it open. The blade glinted. ''But I'm afraid I'll have to call the police.'
'Yes, but . . .'
So our search for a revolution began... in Gatwick.
15 hours later at Havana Airport, wondering how we'd manage without our flick knife, we staggered to the bus, our rucksacks on curved backs like endangered turtles, wishing we hadn't brought so much stuff. We noticed with envy soft cases on wheels and purveyed their owners who would be our travel companions. They looked a random bunch of white middle aged to older adventurers with a few exceptions: a young woman with jet eyes and infectious laugh, a blonde Czech woman, a pregnant Brummie couple, and a tall Indian man with presence-possibly gay. Together with our chocolate (his description), basketball net-high Cuban guide, it would seem we would tick all the boxes for a good mix. All that was left was to spend two weeks together to see if it would work.
'No, my husband has a knife but he packed it.'
'Well, we'll just put your bag through for the third time.'
The Security Guard emptied everything out, felt the corners of my grubby bag, and hey presto! Rhys's knife fell out. Just like that.
'Err. . ., but he said he'd packed it in his ruck sack.'
The man examined the knife we'd bought in Mexico last year to peel fruit. He gave me an 'Oh, yeah?' look.
'You know it's an offence to carry a lock knife like this in a public place, don't you?'
'No, but...'
'The funny thing is it's not illegal to own one.' He clicked it open. The blade glinted. ''But I'm afraid I'll have to call the police.'
'Yes, but . . .'
So our search for a revolution began... in Gatwick.
15 hours later at Havana Airport, wondering how we'd manage without our flick knife, we staggered to the bus, our rucksacks on curved backs like endangered turtles, wishing we hadn't brought so much stuff. We noticed with envy soft cases on wheels and purveyed their owners who would be our travel companions. They looked a random bunch of white middle aged to older adventurers with a few exceptions: a young woman with jet eyes and infectious laugh, a blonde Czech woman, a pregnant Brummie couple, and a tall Indian man with presence-possibly gay. Together with our chocolate (his description), basketball net-high Cuban guide, it would seem we would tick all the boxes for a good mix. All that was left was to spend two weeks together to see if it would work.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)