On Saturday we went up to Coventry to see a new version of Strindberg's play, 'The Father' by Laurie Slade at the Belgrade Theatre. I met Laurie on an Arvon writing course in November 2010 and was keen to see his play and give support along with several other ex-Arvonites.
The play explores the claustrophobia of a long marriage and the power struggles and trust issues that go with it. Laurie wanted to bring something fresh and dynamic to the original and he is very successful in doing this. Tension builds from the opening scene, it never palls and the ending is shocking. Joe Harmston directs an excellent team of actors, many RSC old hands. Joe Dixon plays the Captain and Katy Stephens his wife, Laura. In the programme he says,"My acid test is 'will people leave the theatre with questions?'...I hope people will leave arguing about how they feel about what they've seen." The ex-Arvonites certainly did that. At the Bella Pasta we chewed over the nature of madness, fidelity, seduction and sex in the relationship, the use of an only child to play out power struggles, the expected roles of husband and wife in the 1880's, and the role of Laura in the Captain's descent into an eventual mental breakdown.
As if we hadn't had enough drama for one night, at 3.30am we were sleeping soundly at our Premier Inn when we were awoken suddenly by a high pitched screeching drone. I bolted out of bed, thinking it was the TV and Rhys fumbled about looking for the on/off button. It wasn't the TV. It was the fire alarm. I grabbed Rhys's shirt and he got up on the bed waving it madly underneath the ceiling alarm as if he were trying to tame smoke from burning bacon in our kitchen. No luck. Still semi-comatose we opened the hotel door of our room to see guests in various states of undress marching resolutely towards the staircase. I don't normally wear anything in bed, but luckily on this occasion I was wearing a shorty nightdress bought at the time of my hip replacement. With some difficulty I pulled on my only footwear- laced ankle booties and grabbed my priorities- denture, handbag and mobile phone. Rhys put on a pair of trousers and out we trooped; into a crystal cold night to join a hundred or so others shivering in their nightclothes or quilted jackets depending on their foresight. No information and no staff visible.
The following morning we found out that it had been someone smoking in their room. One member of staff had been trying to wake a party of profoundly deaf while the other dealt with the culprit. No staff available to deal with the rest of us. The culprit's punishment? A lifetime ban from Premier Inns. Our reward? The guarantee of a full refund when you don't get a good night's sleep. Bingo!
With all these visuals in mind, it was apt that Pontardawe Script Cafe's speaker this month was Elen Bowman on 'Thinking in Pictures'. Elen is a RADA and Stanislavsky trained actress and director and has advised The Royal Court Theatre on the Russian's methodology. She is directing The Tempest with Teater Genedlaethol (The Welsh language National Theatre of Wales) later this year. She work-shopped a play, 'Mrs Pink Power Ranger' by a new member, Geraint Desmond, and helped us consider how to build the visual world of our play through the characters. A stimulating evening.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
Sunday, 1 April 2012
'SORRY' IN PONTARDAWE & OTHER SORRIES
This week we launched our joint exhibition of art work and poetry,'Sorry I don't eat fish' on the theme of climate change and a celebration of the natural world at Pontardawe Arts Centre with a wine reception and an open mike poetry session. About 50 people attended and a number of poets read their work. Two people sang, one of whom had composed and written a song himself. Some poets had produced work at a workshop led by Susan Richardson, Eco-Poet with Radio 4's 'Saturday Live' and organised by Awel Aman Tawe for a competition on the theme of climate change to be judged by Carol Ann Duffy, the British Poet Laureate. Profits on sales of Rhys's work will be donated to the trust representing families affected by the Gleision Colliery disaster. On the evening we made about 150 pounds on prints and catalogues and are hoping that this amount will increase by the end of the exhibition, the 20th of April 2012. If you are interested in buying an original the Arts Centre can offer Collectorplan, an interest-free credit service to help people buy contemporary art and craft in Wales. Originals range from 100-200 pounds.
Other events at Pontardawe in March included attendance at a scriptwriting weekend workshop organised by Script Cafe and led by Louise Osborn on issue-based playwriting. Louise is a very experienced writer and director, who I first met over twenty years ago when she was an actor with Theatre Powys. She inspired me to start writing a new play that I'd been thinking about for some time, its working title, 'Crisis of Confidence' a love story set in Tent City during the' Occupy London' protests this winter. The first five minutes were read at Script Cafe's open mike session and I had helpful feedback. 'Mess up the Mess', a youth theatre group joined us to read their own and our plays. Some of our members had written pieces especially for younger people. Their involvement was refreshing and we hope to invite them back again sometime soon.
The Sherman Theatre in Cardiff re-opened after renovations. There's a clinical new entrance hall that needed filling. The Artistic team invited writers on their data base to submit plays no longer than a page to decorate the walls. I submitted five plays but after some searching I could only find one laminated and left on a table for easy reading. Plays are strung from bars on ribbons resembling fly-catching paper, way out of reading sight unless you're a stilt walker. Others are printed in pale orange and green and pasted on pillars. A good idea to promote playwriting but in presentation appears tacky and somewhat dismissive of our efforts. One new bonus is that 'Writers nights' offer concessions on ticket prices and a free drink. It's the team's plan to pick their favourite plays-on-a-page and paste them on their website.
However, we did see three very good plays there in the past month. Pity that the renovations didn't run to more comfy seats in the smaller theatre but that didn't stop us enjoying Greg Cullen's new play 'Muscle'. I first met Greg when he worked as writer with Theatre Powys and did some work with Spectacle Theatre. 'Muscle' has an all male cast and through a series of personal stories tells us with great energy, pathos and humour what it's like to be a man.
Kate Tempest's debut play,'Wasted', is the story of three old friends coming to terms with loss, love and struggling to find meaning in life. Much of the action was rapped to an exhilarating score. This young performance poet, rapper and playwright is a talent to watch. The Paines Plough production was excellent.
The third production in the comfortable larger theatre was absolutely outstanding. 'Lovesong', by Abi Morgan with Sian Phillips in a leading role, tells the story of an older couple reflecting on their younger lives together. It is one of the most moving plays I've seen for a long time. There was a lot of sniffing going on in the audience. It is beautifully written and produced with clever surprises, such as a disappearance through the double bed, the actors reappearing out of the fridge or the wardrobe, and the old couple and their younger selves dancing around each other with poise and elegance.
The only disappointment was Peter Gill's adaptation of Chekhov's, 'A Provincial Life.' It was so boring that we left at the interval.
On Friday night Rhys sang with his 'singing for the natural voice' group at an event to raise money for Water Aid, led by their tutor, Laura Bradshaw. This sorry goes to the penny whistle players who may have been distracted by the laughter from the back of the hall as my friend and I did a French and Saunders type impersonation of Irish dancing. Or as one woman said, 'You remind me of Morecambe and Wise.' I really must lay off that Taffy Cider.
Other events at Pontardawe in March included attendance at a scriptwriting weekend workshop organised by Script Cafe and led by Louise Osborn on issue-based playwriting. Louise is a very experienced writer and director, who I first met over twenty years ago when she was an actor with Theatre Powys. She inspired me to start writing a new play that I'd been thinking about for some time, its working title, 'Crisis of Confidence' a love story set in Tent City during the' Occupy London' protests this winter. The first five minutes were read at Script Cafe's open mike session and I had helpful feedback. 'Mess up the Mess', a youth theatre group joined us to read their own and our plays. Some of our members had written pieces especially for younger people. Their involvement was refreshing and we hope to invite them back again sometime soon.
The Sherman Theatre in Cardiff re-opened after renovations. There's a clinical new entrance hall that needed filling. The Artistic team invited writers on their data base to submit plays no longer than a page to decorate the walls. I submitted five plays but after some searching I could only find one laminated and left on a table for easy reading. Plays are strung from bars on ribbons resembling fly-catching paper, way out of reading sight unless you're a stilt walker. Others are printed in pale orange and green and pasted on pillars. A good idea to promote playwriting but in presentation appears tacky and somewhat dismissive of our efforts. One new bonus is that 'Writers nights' offer concessions on ticket prices and a free drink. It's the team's plan to pick their favourite plays-on-a-page and paste them on their website.
However, we did see three very good plays there in the past month. Pity that the renovations didn't run to more comfy seats in the smaller theatre but that didn't stop us enjoying Greg Cullen's new play 'Muscle'. I first met Greg when he worked as writer with Theatre Powys and did some work with Spectacle Theatre. 'Muscle' has an all male cast and through a series of personal stories tells us with great energy, pathos and humour what it's like to be a man.
Kate Tempest's debut play,'Wasted', is the story of three old friends coming to terms with loss, love and struggling to find meaning in life. Much of the action was rapped to an exhilarating score. This young performance poet, rapper and playwright is a talent to watch. The Paines Plough production was excellent.
The third production in the comfortable larger theatre was absolutely outstanding. 'Lovesong', by Abi Morgan with Sian Phillips in a leading role, tells the story of an older couple reflecting on their younger lives together. It is one of the most moving plays I've seen for a long time. There was a lot of sniffing going on in the audience. It is beautifully written and produced with clever surprises, such as a disappearance through the double bed, the actors reappearing out of the fridge or the wardrobe, and the old couple and their younger selves dancing around each other with poise and elegance.
The only disappointment was Peter Gill's adaptation of Chekhov's, 'A Provincial Life.' It was so boring that we left at the interval.
On Friday night Rhys sang with his 'singing for the natural voice' group at an event to raise money for Water Aid, led by their tutor, Laura Bradshaw. This sorry goes to the penny whistle players who may have been distracted by the laughter from the back of the hall as my friend and I did a French and Saunders type impersonation of Irish dancing. Or as one woman said, 'You remind me of Morecambe and Wise.' I really must lay off that Taffy Cider.
Sunday, 26 February 2012
'BUT IS IT ART?'
This was the title of a lecture we attended today run by The Celtic Learners Network, a private initiative set up by a small group to complement what's provided by the local authority's adult education classes and the national museum service. We'd just got back from a few days in London, visiting visual art exhibitions and theatre performances, so the timing was perfect. Mair Jones, a young art historian took us back to where contemporary art began; at the invention of photography.
Artists looked for different subject matter-the challenge was to create something that a photograph couldn't. We journeyed superficially through Impressionism, Post Impressionism, Expressionism, Cubism and made a pit stop in 1910 with Marcel Duchamp, who she dubbed 'The Godfather of Conceptual Art'. He placed 'found objects' in galleries to shock the establishment and challenge their perception of what is art. His 'Fountain'(a urinal) being one of his found pieces, possibly pulled off the wall of the gallery's toilet wall or one waiting to be found in a builder's yard. The craft of making was less important than the idea behind it, which presumably was his need to pee while waiting for visitors to his launch.
Then the Surrealists took the question forward, reversing our expectations and incorporating their dreams and fantasies. Art becomes more of a puzzle. Merit Oppenheim's tea cup, saucer and spoon created in animal fur-made for a rabbit to drink from, perhaps? Frida Kahlo, my favourite painter took up the challenge and expressed what it was like to be her- a Mexican woman, who'd had a series of mishaps in her life-a terrible accident, several miscarriages and not least, a passionate painful marriage to Diego Rivera.
The baton was passed to Jackson Pollock, an Abstract Expressionist, with a love of swirling and dancing while throwing paint at a canvas. So although those paintings look random . .. He passed the question onto the Pop Artists, who used everyday images from the media, who passed it on to the Fluxus Movement, performance artists who used their own bodies and invited others to take part in the action. Yoko Ono invited John Lennon into her gallery to walk up a ladder and read a tiny message on the ceiling, that said,'Yes'. The rest is art history. Joseph Beuys felt strongly about the Vietnam war and locked himself and a Coyote dog in a room in New York for three days. Nobody asked the dog and there were no disclaimers.
They threw the question over to Arte Povera, who used their own blood, sweat and tears, displayed in plastic to express their political ideology. The question transformed itself into, 'Does art have to be permanent?' Artists built installations that could be site specific or be recreated easily somewhere else. They consist of multi-art forms and use technology. So called ephemeral pieces were usually filmed, kind of defeating the objective. But who wants to destroy their own creation, especially when so much thought has gone into it? So to Tracy Emin's 'Unmade bed', whose title I used in a play about an art teacher in the 1960s working in Rhondda. Not that far from Tracy's concept and expression of a weekend in her wretched life in 1998. She was already an established artist, part of Blair's Brit Art movement nurtured by Charles Saatchi, and that helped her work gain credibility- and a market. It wasn't work you could put on your wall at home though, was it? Although it did make us look at our own unmade beds differently - could you make money from your own life detritus?
Onwards and upwards. The question marched through the dangerous mountainous and white water terrain of issues: globalisation, national identity, gender, technology, the environment, shock and awe. Are any subjects taboo for the question,'But is it art?' In 1997 Saatchi lent his collection to the Royal Academy in an exhibition entitled, 'Sensation'. Marcus Harvey's piece, 'Myra Hindley'; a huge painting of her police mug-shot created from tiny hand prints of children, seemed to set the limit in the public eye of how far an artist could go in being creative and earn a living. Or some pimp curator or art dealer to make a profit.
So in thinking about the art shows we'd seen in London this week: David Hockney, Grayson Perry, David Shrigley, Jeremy Deller, Adrian Wisniewski, Chihuly, et al in Cork St, community artists mapping the changes on Hackney life of the forthcoming Olympics, and performances: Lorca's' House of Bernarda Alba', set in Iran, and Sofi Oksannen's' Purge', set in Soviet occupied Estonia in the 1950s. All can be described as Art. What's the criteria then, the yardstick to use in critiquing contemporary art to know if what you're seeing is excellent, good, bad, or just the Emperor's new clothes? Can we rely on the judgement of the curator or media reviewer to be our enlightened guide?
Grayson Perry in his quirky exhibition at the British Museum, 'The Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman', tells us at the beginning not to look for meaning there. Yet it is art full of meaning and self expression. And ideas. I felt changed by the experience. This is his summing up.
'Craftsmanship is often equated with precision. I feel it is more important to have a long and sympathetic relationship with materials. A relaxed humble, ever curious love of stuff is central to my idea of being an artist. An important quality of great art of the past was the pure skill in the artist's use of materials. In celebrating craftsmanship, I also salute artists, well most of them.'
Artists looked for different subject matter-the challenge was to create something that a photograph couldn't. We journeyed superficially through Impressionism, Post Impressionism, Expressionism, Cubism and made a pit stop in 1910 with Marcel Duchamp, who she dubbed 'The Godfather of Conceptual Art'. He placed 'found objects' in galleries to shock the establishment and challenge their perception of what is art. His 'Fountain'(a urinal) being one of his found pieces, possibly pulled off the wall of the gallery's toilet wall or one waiting to be found in a builder's yard. The craft of making was less important than the idea behind it, which presumably was his need to pee while waiting for visitors to his launch.
Then the Surrealists took the question forward, reversing our expectations and incorporating their dreams and fantasies. Art becomes more of a puzzle. Merit Oppenheim's tea cup, saucer and spoon created in animal fur-made for a rabbit to drink from, perhaps? Frida Kahlo, my favourite painter took up the challenge and expressed what it was like to be her- a Mexican woman, who'd had a series of mishaps in her life-a terrible accident, several miscarriages and not least, a passionate painful marriage to Diego Rivera.
The baton was passed to Jackson Pollock, an Abstract Expressionist, with a love of swirling and dancing while throwing paint at a canvas. So although those paintings look random . .. He passed the question onto the Pop Artists, who used everyday images from the media, who passed it on to the Fluxus Movement, performance artists who used their own bodies and invited others to take part in the action. Yoko Ono invited John Lennon into her gallery to walk up a ladder and read a tiny message on the ceiling, that said,'Yes'. The rest is art history. Joseph Beuys felt strongly about the Vietnam war and locked himself and a Coyote dog in a room in New York for three days. Nobody asked the dog and there were no disclaimers.
They threw the question over to Arte Povera, who used their own blood, sweat and tears, displayed in plastic to express their political ideology. The question transformed itself into, 'Does art have to be permanent?' Artists built installations that could be site specific or be recreated easily somewhere else. They consist of multi-art forms and use technology. So called ephemeral pieces were usually filmed, kind of defeating the objective. But who wants to destroy their own creation, especially when so much thought has gone into it? So to Tracy Emin's 'Unmade bed', whose title I used in a play about an art teacher in the 1960s working in Rhondda. Not that far from Tracy's concept and expression of a weekend in her wretched life in 1998. She was already an established artist, part of Blair's Brit Art movement nurtured by Charles Saatchi, and that helped her work gain credibility- and a market. It wasn't work you could put on your wall at home though, was it? Although it did make us look at our own unmade beds differently - could you make money from your own life detritus?
Onwards and upwards. The question marched through the dangerous mountainous and white water terrain of issues: globalisation, national identity, gender, technology, the environment, shock and awe. Are any subjects taboo for the question,'But is it art?' In 1997 Saatchi lent his collection to the Royal Academy in an exhibition entitled, 'Sensation'. Marcus Harvey's piece, 'Myra Hindley'; a huge painting of her police mug-shot created from tiny hand prints of children, seemed to set the limit in the public eye of how far an artist could go in being creative and earn a living. Or some pimp curator or art dealer to make a profit.
So in thinking about the art shows we'd seen in London this week: David Hockney, Grayson Perry, David Shrigley, Jeremy Deller, Adrian Wisniewski, Chihuly, et al in Cork St, community artists mapping the changes on Hackney life of the forthcoming Olympics, and performances: Lorca's' House of Bernarda Alba', set in Iran, and Sofi Oksannen's' Purge', set in Soviet occupied Estonia in the 1950s. All can be described as Art. What's the criteria then, the yardstick to use in critiquing contemporary art to know if what you're seeing is excellent, good, bad, or just the Emperor's new clothes? Can we rely on the judgement of the curator or media reviewer to be our enlightened guide?
Grayson Perry in his quirky exhibition at the British Museum, 'The Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman', tells us at the beginning not to look for meaning there. Yet it is art full of meaning and self expression. And ideas. I felt changed by the experience. This is his summing up.
'Craftsmanship is often equated with precision. I feel it is more important to have a long and sympathetic relationship with materials. A relaxed humble, ever curious love of stuff is central to my idea of being an artist. An important quality of great art of the past was the pure skill in the artist's use of materials. In celebrating craftsmanship, I also salute artists, well most of them.'
Thursday, 22 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 14-SUMMING UP
We didn't get to say goodbye to the family as Rhys lost his passport getting off the plane and by the time he'd changed into warm clothes and found it, we missed them at the baggage pick-up. Pity, I would have liked to say 'thank you.' Each one of them contributed something to my holiday. Mostly positive. I think I may have been a bit too lairy for some, too eccentric for others, and kept Ainsley talking too long for others' liking by asking too many history questions. If it spoiled your holiday, I'm really sorry.
I'm still processing what this holiday means to me. I went to try and understand to what extent the socialist revolution had worked-is still working. I learnt that it's not communism or socialism in Cuba. It's Fidelism. Raul Castro, Fidel's brother was with him from the very start of the revolution and they fought along aside each other. There's a memorable photo in the Che Guevara museum, where a young Raul is looking up at Fidel given instructions or a speech, perhaps? I wondered what he might be thinking and feeling. Is he in awe or jealous? The emotions of a younger brother towards his older sibling are always complex. Ainsley said Raul is a very different character from Fidel but believes that before he takes any significant action he might ask himself, 'What would Fidel do?'
Fidel is sick and so are some of his friends. Chavez, in Venezuela for example, has cancer. The two countries have a special relationship. Venezuela sells oil cheaply to Cuba. What will happen after he dies? The Cuban economy has been through many ups and downs since the fall of the Berlin Wall. In Havana they learnt to use any piece of spare land to grow food. Russia's withdrawal as a reliable trade partner that previously bought Cuban sugar at inflated prices and sold industrial goods at knock down prices, is long gone. Obama promised an end to Guantanamo Bay and a review of the US trade embargo. Both still exist.
There is some easing of the absolute socialist state. It has started with small businesses aimed at the tourist industry with people renting out rooms and using their yards as restaurants. But it is creating a two-tier system. Those who work in the tourist industry and those who don't. Dual currencies perpetuate inequality of income and standard of living. Ainsley's view is that it is not politics that is the problem for Cuba. It's the mentality. If you're having everything provided, why work? The revolutionary woman at the Moncada Barracks told him,
'Our generation was lucky. They knew who the enemy was.'
A friend who's an astrologer told me before I left Gatwick that Mercury was in retrograde and this might mean problems with communication. Well, the Chinese bus we travelled on did break down on a couple of occasions. Not as reliable as the old Volvos. She said it could also mean that I would have insights and be inspired. I was certainly inspired by Cuba. I respect what the country has achieved in such a relatively short time. It has made its priorities the eradication of poverty, literacy, free education and healthcare and stuck with it. Nobody would appear to be starving or homeless, although undoubtedly there is still a lot of poverty. The only beggars we saw seemed to have disabilities or mental health problems and I didn't learn how the State takes care of the vulnerable. Housing and basic food are provided by the State but in the cities we saw overcrowding and a lack of maintenance. Then there's what most tourists go for- the sunshine, the rum, the music and the dancing.
'What about freedom of speech?' I hear you say. I put this to Ainsley when we were on our own and we had an interesting discussion on how you could still be creative, an independent thinker and discursive. You can in Cuba, but in private. In public it would be very difficult to air a dissident voice. With three political parties in Britain all speaking the same bland language, a massive deficit and the right to make a profit put above all other national objectives, are we in a position to gloat?
I enjoyed the group travel experience with Adventure Travel. Accommodation, food and travel was much better than I expected. I loved the warmth and protection of our Guide, who was so willing to go the extra mile to make us happy. I liked the banter and enjoyed the company of the family. No need to take any responsibility for making arrangements. However, I think you would have a much broader experience of the country if you were to travel independently.
'You have come to Cuba at an interesting time,' Ainsley told us. 'Things are changing fast.'
He was certainly right. If you can live with the guilt of the carbon emissions produced on a long haul flight or convince yourself of the benefits of carbon off-setting, don't wait! Visit Cuba now! It's a holiday of a life time. Well, it was for me.
I'm still processing what this holiday means to me. I went to try and understand to what extent the socialist revolution had worked-is still working. I learnt that it's not communism or socialism in Cuba. It's Fidelism. Raul Castro, Fidel's brother was with him from the very start of the revolution and they fought along aside each other. There's a memorable photo in the Che Guevara museum, where a young Raul is looking up at Fidel given instructions or a speech, perhaps? I wondered what he might be thinking and feeling. Is he in awe or jealous? The emotions of a younger brother towards his older sibling are always complex. Ainsley said Raul is a very different character from Fidel but believes that before he takes any significant action he might ask himself, 'What would Fidel do?'
Fidel is sick and so are some of his friends. Chavez, in Venezuela for example, has cancer. The two countries have a special relationship. Venezuela sells oil cheaply to Cuba. What will happen after he dies? The Cuban economy has been through many ups and downs since the fall of the Berlin Wall. In Havana they learnt to use any piece of spare land to grow food. Russia's withdrawal as a reliable trade partner that previously bought Cuban sugar at inflated prices and sold industrial goods at knock down prices, is long gone. Obama promised an end to Guantanamo Bay and a review of the US trade embargo. Both still exist.
There is some easing of the absolute socialist state. It has started with small businesses aimed at the tourist industry with people renting out rooms and using their yards as restaurants. But it is creating a two-tier system. Those who work in the tourist industry and those who don't. Dual currencies perpetuate inequality of income and standard of living. Ainsley's view is that it is not politics that is the problem for Cuba. It's the mentality. If you're having everything provided, why work? The revolutionary woman at the Moncada Barracks told him,
'Our generation was lucky. They knew who the enemy was.'
A friend who's an astrologer told me before I left Gatwick that Mercury was in retrograde and this might mean problems with communication. Well, the Chinese bus we travelled on did break down on a couple of occasions. Not as reliable as the old Volvos. She said it could also mean that I would have insights and be inspired. I was certainly inspired by Cuba. I respect what the country has achieved in such a relatively short time. It has made its priorities the eradication of poverty, literacy, free education and healthcare and stuck with it. Nobody would appear to be starving or homeless, although undoubtedly there is still a lot of poverty. The only beggars we saw seemed to have disabilities or mental health problems and I didn't learn how the State takes care of the vulnerable. Housing and basic food are provided by the State but in the cities we saw overcrowding and a lack of maintenance. Then there's what most tourists go for- the sunshine, the rum, the music and the dancing.
'What about freedom of speech?' I hear you say. I put this to Ainsley when we were on our own and we had an interesting discussion on how you could still be creative, an independent thinker and discursive. You can in Cuba, but in private. In public it would be very difficult to air a dissident voice. With three political parties in Britain all speaking the same bland language, a massive deficit and the right to make a profit put above all other national objectives, are we in a position to gloat?
I enjoyed the group travel experience with Adventure Travel. Accommodation, food and travel was much better than I expected. I loved the warmth and protection of our Guide, who was so willing to go the extra mile to make us happy. I liked the banter and enjoyed the company of the family. No need to take any responsibility for making arrangements. However, I think you would have a much broader experience of the country if you were to travel independently.
'You have come to Cuba at an interesting time,' Ainsley told us. 'Things are changing fast.'
He was certainly right. If you can live with the guilt of the carbon emissions produced on a long haul flight or convince yourself of the benefits of carbon off-setting, don't wait! Visit Cuba now! It's a holiday of a life time. Well, it was for me.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 13
We were coming towards the end of the holiday, spending two nights in Baracoa on the south-east coast and then flying from Holguin, the area of copper and cobalt mines, several hours north on roads so potholed you might think it was a war zone, ending with two final nights in Havana.
Some of the family had been disappointed that too much time had been spent listening to history in the Sierra Maestra. Some of the men would have preferred to have spent the time scaling the highest point from where the rebel radio had broadcast. For some, the whole trip had lacked any physical challenge. At Baracoa there was a chance to do another walk or you could go shopping. Rhys went off in a truck for the walk and I went off on the bus to the town.
In the past couple of days we had passed by Guantanamo Bay naval base and heard how in 1902-4 the Americans had managed to secure their bit of Cuba in case they ever needed to use it. Our last stop Santiago de Cuba, apart from the extraordinary Moncada Barracks experience, had been disappointing, full of motor bikes and choking pollution. Seeing the fort and the lighthouse at night had been really special though.
Baracoa is a lovely little country town with a chilled feeling. The main form of transport is horse and cart or rickshaw bicycle. It has the best music and Casa de la Trova we'd visited. Unfortunately, two members of family had fallen out. It had taken much longer than I thought but was bound to happen. We still managed to party.
I wandered around on my own. I could see why the renegade sneaked off from the group for a cigarette and a wander when he could. You get to meet local people that way. Being in a tour does set up a barricade of opportunity in this respect. In most of the towns we visited there was very little in the government shops. Cubans have ration cards for basics; rice, beans, cooking oil etc. There are two currencies in Cuba: the national currency and the convertible currency. There are 24 national pesos to one convertible peso and about 70 convertible pesos to the pound sterling. Locals are paid in national pesos. Tourists use convertible pesos. Those Cubans in the tourist industry are paid in national pesos but get tips in convertibles. Consequently, there is an inequality of income based on working in the tourist industry or not. Doctors and lawyers earn less than tourist guides.
We had wondered how some Cubans seem so well dressed, when there's so little to buy in the shops. Family and friends abroad send clothes and there must be a black market, although we heard very little about how it might operate. I was touched when I went into a book shop, looking for Cuban poetry in translation, that the woman at the counter took me into the back of the shop and whispered to me, asking if I had a pen she could have. On the back streets of Baracoa I saw some more fashionable T shirts and trousers for sale. Further down the street I managed to have a CD made of downloaded Cuban songs for 3 convertible pesos. A woman asked me if I needed a room and a man tried to thrust a live chicken at me. Perhaps he thought I wanted to take part in some Voodoo ritual. The Catholic Church is stronger since the Pope's visit at the end of the 90s but African religion still lives.
Baracoa town wasn't the place to buy a fridge magnet or a Che Guevara cap. That would have to wait 'til the covered market in Havana.
Some of the family had been disappointed that too much time had been spent listening to history in the Sierra Maestra. Some of the men would have preferred to have spent the time scaling the highest point from where the rebel radio had broadcast. For some, the whole trip had lacked any physical challenge. At Baracoa there was a chance to do another walk or you could go shopping. Rhys went off in a truck for the walk and I went off on the bus to the town.
In the past couple of days we had passed by Guantanamo Bay naval base and heard how in 1902-4 the Americans had managed to secure their bit of Cuba in case they ever needed to use it. Our last stop Santiago de Cuba, apart from the extraordinary Moncada Barracks experience, had been disappointing, full of motor bikes and choking pollution. Seeing the fort and the lighthouse at night had been really special though.
Baracoa is a lovely little country town with a chilled feeling. The main form of transport is horse and cart or rickshaw bicycle. It has the best music and Casa de la Trova we'd visited. Unfortunately, two members of family had fallen out. It had taken much longer than I thought but was bound to happen. We still managed to party.
I wandered around on my own. I could see why the renegade sneaked off from the group for a cigarette and a wander when he could. You get to meet local people that way. Being in a tour does set up a barricade of opportunity in this respect. In most of the towns we visited there was very little in the government shops. Cubans have ration cards for basics; rice, beans, cooking oil etc. There are two currencies in Cuba: the national currency and the convertible currency. There are 24 national pesos to one convertible peso and about 70 convertible pesos to the pound sterling. Locals are paid in national pesos. Tourists use convertible pesos. Those Cubans in the tourist industry are paid in national pesos but get tips in convertibles. Consequently, there is an inequality of income based on working in the tourist industry or not. Doctors and lawyers earn less than tourist guides.
We had wondered how some Cubans seem so well dressed, when there's so little to buy in the shops. Family and friends abroad send clothes and there must be a black market, although we heard very little about how it might operate. I was touched when I went into a book shop, looking for Cuban poetry in translation, that the woman at the counter took me into the back of the shop and whispered to me, asking if I had a pen she could have. On the back streets of Baracoa I saw some more fashionable T shirts and trousers for sale. Further down the street I managed to have a CD made of downloaded Cuban songs for 3 convertible pesos. A woman asked me if I needed a room and a man tried to thrust a live chicken at me. Perhaps he thought I wanted to take part in some Voodoo ritual. The Catholic Church is stronger since the Pope's visit at the end of the 90s but African religion still lives.
Baracoa town wasn't the place to buy a fridge magnet or a Che Guevara cap. That would have to wait 'til the covered market in Havana.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 12
So, the day we'd been waiting for...a walk up through the Sierra Maestra to Comandancia de la Plata, Fidel Castro's operational HQ during the revolution. Ainsley was worried that it would be too strenuous for me with my prosthetic hip. He had seen how I'd huffed and puffed on the first walk in Viñales.
'I've wanted to do this for years,' I said. 'It won't be my hip that stops me. The problem is more likely to be my weight and the heat. I know you're only thinking of me, but I'm going.'
Ainsley and the family weren't expecting me to be dressed in my pink pyjamas though. 'Is she planning to sleep up there?' was a comment relayed to me afterwards. No! my other trousers- a pair of see-through chiffon baggy pants, I'd tripped over on the last walk weren't going to be tough enough and my jeans were likely to chafe; my pyjamas are made of soft cotton-tough enough to withstand any falls or rough bits, absorbent enough for the heat. Respectable mama to troublesome teenager to eccentric old dear in 12 days,not bad, eh?
Our guide on the last walk had been called Janet. I've never heard the name given to a boy before. This time our guide had the good looks of a Mayan Indian and the patience of Job as we (okay, I) plied him with questions. He'd been warned by Ainsley that it was the women's history I was particularly interested in.
Celia Sanchez was at the heart of the Cuban revolution for over two decades and after meeting Fidel Castro in 1957, she became his indispensable aide working with him until her death at the age of 60. She was the architect and logistician. It was the clandestine network of peasant families organised by Sanchez that was critical to the rebels' survival. She had oversight of food, clothes and arms-everything needed to sustain the rebel forces in their guerrilla war. She also went into battle showing great leadership and bravery. Later she organised a national archive of the revolution.
See the BBC News Magazine of the 11 December 2011 for more about her in an article by
Linda Pressly: 'Celia Sanchez- Was she Castro's lover?'
Below is an article about other women, known as 'The Marianas' who made up the platoon of 13 who fought in hand to hand combat. But even better than hearing about their story from the Guide and gazing at their photos in the museum at la Plata, was later actually meeting one of these women in the flesh at the Moncada barracks in Santiago de Cuba. We didn't catch her name. We think she must have been in her late 60's. She stood in front of us looking down humbly and quietly shaking as if she might have Parkinson's, and Ainsley introduced her and briefly told us her story. By coincidence on that same day and time we were visiting the barracks museum, she had brought in for the archives her uniform, her medal, a piece of camouflage rebel parachute, and her photograph at 16 when she volunteered to fight the battle against illiteracy in the area and had signed up with the rebel army.
She shook the hand of every member of the family. I asked her if she'd written her story. She shook her head. I hope the museum makes sure they get her individual story in the archives that Celia Sanchez set up. These women are living heroes but they won't be around for much longer. The stories of macho men living in the mountains and fighting in the jungle for a cause are the romantic stuff that captivates tourists. Their stories are inspirational but for me the bravery of the women who fought is even more so. I think it is for other women and will be for generations of young women to come.
As we left the barracks, it wasn't only the women who were moved by the experience of meeting a real live female hero.
'I've wanted to do this for years,' I said. 'It won't be my hip that stops me. The problem is more likely to be my weight and the heat. I know you're only thinking of me, but I'm going.'
Ainsley and the family weren't expecting me to be dressed in my pink pyjamas though. 'Is she planning to sleep up there?' was a comment relayed to me afterwards. No! my other trousers- a pair of see-through chiffon baggy pants, I'd tripped over on the last walk weren't going to be tough enough and my jeans were likely to chafe; my pyjamas are made of soft cotton-tough enough to withstand any falls or rough bits, absorbent enough for the heat. Respectable mama to troublesome teenager to eccentric old dear in 12 days,not bad, eh?
Our guide on the last walk had been called Janet. I've never heard the name given to a boy before. This time our guide had the good looks of a Mayan Indian and the patience of Job as we (okay, I) plied him with questions. He'd been warned by Ainsley that it was the women's history I was particularly interested in.
Celia Sanchez was at the heart of the Cuban revolution for over two decades and after meeting Fidel Castro in 1957, she became his indispensable aide working with him until her death at the age of 60. She was the architect and logistician. It was the clandestine network of peasant families organised by Sanchez that was critical to the rebels' survival. She had oversight of food, clothes and arms-everything needed to sustain the rebel forces in their guerrilla war. She also went into battle showing great leadership and bravery. Later she organised a national archive of the revolution.
See the BBC News Magazine of the 11 December 2011 for more about her in an article by
Linda Pressly: 'Celia Sanchez- Was she Castro's lover?'
Below is an article about other women, known as 'The Marianas' who made up the platoon of 13 who fought in hand to hand combat. But even better than hearing about their story from the Guide and gazing at their photos in the museum at la Plata, was later actually meeting one of these women in the flesh at the Moncada barracks in Santiago de Cuba. We didn't catch her name. We think she must have been in her late 60's. She stood in front of us looking down humbly and quietly shaking as if she might have Parkinson's, and Ainsley introduced her and briefly told us her story. By coincidence on that same day and time we were visiting the barracks museum, she had brought in for the archives her uniform, her medal, a piece of camouflage rebel parachute, and her photograph at 16 when she volunteered to fight the battle against illiteracy in the area and had signed up with the rebel army.
She shook the hand of every member of the family. I asked her if she'd written her story. She shook her head. I hope the museum makes sure they get her individual story in the archives that Celia Sanchez set up. These women are living heroes but they won't be around for much longer. The stories of macho men living in the mountains and fighting in the jungle for a cause are the romantic stuff that captivates tourists. Their stories are inspirational but for me the bravery of the women who fought is even more so. I think it is for other women and will be for generations of young women to come.
As we left the barracks, it wasn't only the women who were moved by the experience of meeting a real live female hero.
Vol. 75/No. 29 August 8, 2011
Role of women’s platoon
in Cuba’s revolutionary war (Books of the Month column)
What led to the unit’s formation?
PUEBLA: In May 1958, as the dictatorship’s military offensive began, the army stepped up its repression against the population of the Sierra Maestra… .
After the army’s offensive had been defeated, we asked our commander in chief to allow us to fight arms in hand. He agreed. Fidel said yes, women had won the right to fight with a rifle face to face with the enemy.
On September 4, 1958, a meeting took place, a sort of roundtable. Fidel assembled his general staff at the time, those who were left in the Sierra Maestra… . There was a discussion at this roundtable meeting that lasted more than seven hours. Fidel had a very big argument there. There were still not enough weapons for everyone, and the men were saying, “How can we give rifles to women when there are so many men who are unarmed?”
Fidel answered: “Because they’re better soldiers than you are. They’re more disciplined.”
“In any event,” he said, “I’m going to put together the squad, and I’m going to teach them how to shoot.”
So on September 4, the Mariana Grajales Women’s Platoon was formed. As I explained, Isabel Rielo became the commanding officer. I was named second in command. The squad came to have thirteen combatants in it. The commander in chief chose the name as a tribute to Mariana Grajales, a heroine of our war of independence and the mother of Antonio Maceo, the legendary general who fought heroically in Cuba’s wars of independence for over thirty years.
Fidel was the one who taught us to shoot. We had to hit a quarter—or a 20-centavo coin—20 to 30 meters away, depending on how he wanted to test our aim. And he drilled us. We had to split that coin… .
Then Fidel informed us: “You’re now going to be my personal security detail.”
From that day on, when people saw us, they would comment: “The Marianas are here. Our commander in chief must be arriving.” We were his advance detachment. He did this to demonstrate his confidence in women, in women’s equality… .
The first combat we saw was the battle of Cerro Pelado on September 27, 1958. This was the Marianas’ baptism by fire. The entire squad participated.
This was a tough battle. Remember that the enemy had artillery. The area had become the last redoubt of the dictatorship’s troops who had fled the territory after our counteroffensive had begun. We had to fight to get them out of the Sierra Maestra. Five compañeros were killed in the fighting; there were no casualties among the Marianas. Fidel has talked about this battle.
Afterward, Fidel went up to Eddy Suñol, one of the officers who was most opposed to having us as combatants, and he said: “I have a mission for you. We want to send you down to the plains, but you’re going to take the girls with you.”
Right then and there Commander Suñol said no. “I’m not going to the cities with them.”
Frankly, he was forced to take us. Fidel told him: “Either you take the women or you’re not going.” Suñol took us, although he did so gritting his teeth.
We arrived in Holguín on the night of October 20. The first battle began at dawn on the 21st, near the Holguín reservoir, where we were surprised by two trucks and a jeep full of the dictatorship’s soldiers.
We were surrounded with no way out, because the soldiers were less than ten minutes away from us. We agreed among ourselves that we would never surrender. We’d die fighting.
WATERS: The army troops must have been surprised to see you.
PUEBLA: Yes, because they had never before seen women in combat.
Back at the command post, when the report on the battle was made, the question was asked: “How did the women conduct themselves? What was their stance?” After that battle, the issue was settled. Women could fight alongside the men. Radio Rebelde was reporting it. We suffered two wounded and captured eleven rifles.
MADRID: What about Eddy Suñol?
PUEBLA: Suñol sent a message to Fidel apologizing for having opposed him on this question and acknowledging that Fidel was right. Because that battle had demonstrated that what Fidel had been saying about women was correct. They are as good soldiers as the men.
Related articles:
Miami protest hits bill to further curb Cuba travel
Cuban Revolution sets the example
Front page (for this issue) | Home | Text-version home
Role of women’s platoon
in Cuba’s revolutionary war (Books of the Month column)
Below is an excerpt from Marianas in Combat: Teté Puebla and the Mariana Grajales Women’s Platoon in Cuba’s Revolutionary War, 1956-58. The Spanish edition is one of Pathfinder’s Books of the Month for August. Puebla, a brigadier general in Cuba’s Revolutionary Armed Forces, joined the struggle to overthrow the U.S.-backed dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista in 1956 when she was 15 years old. She served in the Rebel Army’s first all-women’s platoon and was a founding member of the Federation of Cuban Women. The interview was conducted by Mary-Alice Waters, president of Pathfinder Press, and Luis Madrid. Copyright © 2003 by Pathfinder Press. Reprinted by permission.
WATERS: The founding of the Mariana Grajales Women’s Platoon marked a milestone in the Cuban Revolution. It demonstrated in practice the social course a victorious Rebel Army would fight for. As Karl Marx put it, you can judge any society by the status of women.What led to the unit’s formation?
PUEBLA: In May 1958, as the dictatorship’s military offensive began, the army stepped up its repression against the population of the Sierra Maestra… .
After the army’s offensive had been defeated, we asked our commander in chief to allow us to fight arms in hand. He agreed. Fidel said yes, women had won the right to fight with a rifle face to face with the enemy.
On September 4, 1958, a meeting took place, a sort of roundtable. Fidel assembled his general staff at the time, those who were left in the Sierra Maestra… . There was a discussion at this roundtable meeting that lasted more than seven hours. Fidel had a very big argument there. There were still not enough weapons for everyone, and the men were saying, “How can we give rifles to women when there are so many men who are unarmed?”
Fidel answered: “Because they’re better soldiers than you are. They’re more disciplined.”
“In any event,” he said, “I’m going to put together the squad, and I’m going to teach them how to shoot.”
So on September 4, the Mariana Grajales Women’s Platoon was formed. As I explained, Isabel Rielo became the commanding officer. I was named second in command. The squad came to have thirteen combatants in it. The commander in chief chose the name as a tribute to Mariana Grajales, a heroine of our war of independence and the mother of Antonio Maceo, the legendary general who fought heroically in Cuba’s wars of independence for over thirty years.
Fidel was the one who taught us to shoot. We had to hit a quarter—or a 20-centavo coin—20 to 30 meters away, depending on how he wanted to test our aim. And he drilled us. We had to split that coin… .
Then Fidel informed us: “You’re now going to be my personal security detail.”
From that day on, when people saw us, they would comment: “The Marianas are here. Our commander in chief must be arriving.” We were his advance detachment. He did this to demonstrate his confidence in women, in women’s equality… .
The first combat we saw was the battle of Cerro Pelado on September 27, 1958. This was the Marianas’ baptism by fire. The entire squad participated.
This was a tough battle. Remember that the enemy had artillery. The area had become the last redoubt of the dictatorship’s troops who had fled the territory after our counteroffensive had begun. We had to fight to get them out of the Sierra Maestra. Five compañeros were killed in the fighting; there were no casualties among the Marianas. Fidel has talked about this battle.
Afterward, Fidel went up to Eddy Suñol, one of the officers who was most opposed to having us as combatants, and he said: “I have a mission for you. We want to send you down to the plains, but you’re going to take the girls with you.”
Right then and there Commander Suñol said no. “I’m not going to the cities with them.”
Frankly, he was forced to take us. Fidel told him: “Either you take the women or you’re not going.” Suñol took us, although he did so gritting his teeth.
We arrived in Holguín on the night of October 20. The first battle began at dawn on the 21st, near the Holguín reservoir, where we were surprised by two trucks and a jeep full of the dictatorship’s soldiers.
We were surrounded with no way out, because the soldiers were less than ten minutes away from us. We agreed among ourselves that we would never surrender. We’d die fighting.
WATERS: The army troops must have been surprised to see you.
PUEBLA: Yes, because they had never before seen women in combat.
Back at the command post, when the report on the battle was made, the question was asked: “How did the women conduct themselves? What was their stance?” After that battle, the issue was settled. Women could fight alongside the men. Radio Rebelde was reporting it. We suffered two wounded and captured eleven rifles.
MADRID: What about Eddy Suñol?
PUEBLA: Suñol sent a message to Fidel apologizing for having opposed him on this question and acknowledging that Fidel was right. Because that battle had demonstrated that what Fidel had been saying about women was correct. They are as good soldiers as the men.
I have to tell you that after having been one of the main opponents of women’s integration, I’m now completely satisfied. I congratulate you once again because you are never wrong. Beforehand I believed that this time you were mistaken. I wish you could see—even if it were a movie, so you could smile with joy—the actions of Teté in particular, as well as the other compañeras. When the order was given to advance, some of the men stayed behind, but the women went ahead in the vanguard. Their courage and calmness merits the respect and admiration of all the rebels and everyone else. EDDY SUÑOL Letter to Fidel Castro, October 1958 |
Related articles:
Miami protest hits bill to further curb Cuba travel
Cuban Revolution sets the example
Front page (for this issue) | Home | Text-version home
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 11
'Today we will be having a walk in a national park, swimming under a waterfall in a cave, taking a dip in the Caribbean and visiting Trinidad de Cuba, a UNESCO heritage city. I am sure you will love it.'
What I really like about Ainsley is his enthusiasm. He's been a guide for ten years and must have done this trip over a hundred times at least, and despite the difficulties behind the scenes, he really wants to look after you and to give you a good time. That's why we tried to keep what else happened in Trinidad a secret until one of the family slipped up and spilled the beans a few days later. It was then I think he went from seeing us as responsible mama and papa to being the troublesome teenagers of the family. All in jest of course.
Trinidad is said to be Cuba's best-preserved colonial town. It sits in the lee of the mountain, within sight of the Caribbean. It's hilly cobbled streets are paved with stones that once served as ballast for ships on the empty outward journey from Europe. We had two days staying in the countryside outside the city, going in for sightseeing, eating and music. On the second afternoon while we were wandering about aimlessly, a beautiful woman approached me and asked me if were looking for somewhere to eat. We agreed to go and have a look at her family home, a casa particulares, where she could provide a banquet: fresh fruit, salad, with a choice of chicken, fish, lobster, pork, followed by pudding- all for 8 pesos-little more than a fiver. Up to that point Ainsley had arranged places for the family's evening meal. We walked through the living room, decorated with pieces of ceramics and stuffed animals, out to the back yard, where tables were laid for dinner. It looked clean and comfortable. We promised the woman that we'd let her know how many of the family wished to eat there later, by arranging to phone a neighbour and leaving a message. She also asked if we had any soap and clothes that we could give her.
It was the usual sub-group of the family who were up for it; mama, papa, the renegade, bolshie teenager, and uncle, with the addition of the blonde Czech woman and the quiet athletic couple. He wore a canary T-shirt which said, 'Lean, mean, squidgy machine,' referring to the race he'd run with a prize of 16 malt loaves.
Rhys handed over his worn denims and a jumper I'd given him for Christmas the year before. The woman gave her apologies and said she had to go back to the square to seek more business. We sat down, wondering if indeed this was her family home. She'd looked quite poor and this place seemed relatively affluent, with a large kitchen and lots of people milling about. Four men tumbled down the stairs into the yard, picked up their instruments and started playing. Apart from a couple of other guests we were the largest party.
The food and the drinks started to flow. One of the band did a long riff on his guitar using a glass ashtray. The renegade shouted out requests for ABBA, greeted a young man he'd met earlier, and the band changed track from Guantanamera to Fernandez. One of the musicians handed Rhys his guitar and Rhys did a short piece (Those guitar lessons from Dewi next door hadn't been wasted after all). The singer asked the Czech girl to dance. I asked the singer to dance and the singer asked the bolshie teenager, while 'Squidgy' played the maracas and his partner videoed us all.
I was just wondering when Rhys would start singing Calon lan as he had on the coach on our wedding anniversary. But at that point the singer pointed at Rhys feet. They were wearing the same style of baseball sneaker. Except the singer's were black, old and torn and Rhys' were in relatively good nick and were green. Rhys took his shoes off and the singer ran off to the kitchen with them, coming back a few minutes later smiling and wearing the green sneakers. He offered Rhys his own, but Rhys declined. They had their photo taken with their arms around each other as if they were blood brothers. We paid the bill and Rhys stepped out barefoot on to Trinidad's cobbled streets.
We hadn't gone far when Squidgy insisted Rhys have his socks. At least he wouldn't injure himself quite so easily. I was just worried that Rhys might decide to give other items of his clothing away before we got home. So we hobbled to the square holding each other up laughing and wondering what Ainsley might think if he knew. Cubans and tourists were sprawled on the steps of the square watching the dancing and appreciating a band with a loud brass section. We had another drink or so and when the band stopped around midnight we stumbled down the cobbled hill to catch a taxi back to the hotel.
As we reached the corner we now refer to as 'machete corner, something started to kick off between two taxi drivers, one who owned a 50s American car and the other who owned a Lada. Machetes flashed and members of the respective gangs rushed forward to offer restraint and support. For a moment I thought I was in a scene from West Side Story. Squidgy was pushed by a man who thought he was chatting up his girlfriend, a drunk with a bottle lurched through the small crowd, and bolshie teenager ran to the restaurant on the opposite corner to ask for help in getting a taxi. She later told me that she was trained in responding to major incidents. The owner stepped forward and indicated to the Lada gang that we wanted to a taxi. I would have preferred an American car, but it seemed churlish to argue. Two Ladas thundered out of Trinidad. When we arrived at our hotel other Ladas were already there waiting. Safety in numbers I suppose.
What I really like about Ainsley is his enthusiasm. He's been a guide for ten years and must have done this trip over a hundred times at least, and despite the difficulties behind the scenes, he really wants to look after you and to give you a good time. That's why we tried to keep what else happened in Trinidad a secret until one of the family slipped up and spilled the beans a few days later. It was then I think he went from seeing us as responsible mama and papa to being the troublesome teenagers of the family. All in jest of course.
Trinidad is said to be Cuba's best-preserved colonial town. It sits in the lee of the mountain, within sight of the Caribbean. It's hilly cobbled streets are paved with stones that once served as ballast for ships on the empty outward journey from Europe. We had two days staying in the countryside outside the city, going in for sightseeing, eating and music. On the second afternoon while we were wandering about aimlessly, a beautiful woman approached me and asked me if were looking for somewhere to eat. We agreed to go and have a look at her family home, a casa particulares, where she could provide a banquet: fresh fruit, salad, with a choice of chicken, fish, lobster, pork, followed by pudding- all for 8 pesos-little more than a fiver. Up to that point Ainsley had arranged places for the family's evening meal. We walked through the living room, decorated with pieces of ceramics and stuffed animals, out to the back yard, where tables were laid for dinner. It looked clean and comfortable. We promised the woman that we'd let her know how many of the family wished to eat there later, by arranging to phone a neighbour and leaving a message. She also asked if we had any soap and clothes that we could give her.
It was the usual sub-group of the family who were up for it; mama, papa, the renegade, bolshie teenager, and uncle, with the addition of the blonde Czech woman and the quiet athletic couple. He wore a canary T-shirt which said, 'Lean, mean, squidgy machine,' referring to the race he'd run with a prize of 16 malt loaves.
Rhys handed over his worn denims and a jumper I'd given him for Christmas the year before. The woman gave her apologies and said she had to go back to the square to seek more business. We sat down, wondering if indeed this was her family home. She'd looked quite poor and this place seemed relatively affluent, with a large kitchen and lots of people milling about. Four men tumbled down the stairs into the yard, picked up their instruments and started playing. Apart from a couple of other guests we were the largest party.
The food and the drinks started to flow. One of the band did a long riff on his guitar using a glass ashtray. The renegade shouted out requests for ABBA, greeted a young man he'd met earlier, and the band changed track from Guantanamera to Fernandez. One of the musicians handed Rhys his guitar and Rhys did a short piece (Those guitar lessons from Dewi next door hadn't been wasted after all). The singer asked the Czech girl to dance. I asked the singer to dance and the singer asked the bolshie teenager, while 'Squidgy' played the maracas and his partner videoed us all.
I was just wondering when Rhys would start singing Calon lan as he had on the coach on our wedding anniversary. But at that point the singer pointed at Rhys feet. They were wearing the same style of baseball sneaker. Except the singer's were black, old and torn and Rhys' were in relatively good nick and were green. Rhys took his shoes off and the singer ran off to the kitchen with them, coming back a few minutes later smiling and wearing the green sneakers. He offered Rhys his own, but Rhys declined. They had their photo taken with their arms around each other as if they were blood brothers. We paid the bill and Rhys stepped out barefoot on to Trinidad's cobbled streets.
We hadn't gone far when Squidgy insisted Rhys have his socks. At least he wouldn't injure himself quite so easily. I was just worried that Rhys might decide to give other items of his clothing away before we got home. So we hobbled to the square holding each other up laughing and wondering what Ainsley might think if he knew. Cubans and tourists were sprawled on the steps of the square watching the dancing and appreciating a band with a loud brass section. We had another drink or so and when the band stopped around midnight we stumbled down the cobbled hill to catch a taxi back to the hotel.
As we reached the corner we now refer to as 'machete corner, something started to kick off between two taxi drivers, one who owned a 50s American car and the other who owned a Lada. Machetes flashed and members of the respective gangs rushed forward to offer restraint and support. For a moment I thought I was in a scene from West Side Story. Squidgy was pushed by a man who thought he was chatting up his girlfriend, a drunk with a bottle lurched through the small crowd, and bolshie teenager ran to the restaurant on the opposite corner to ask for help in getting a taxi. She later told me that she was trained in responding to major incidents. The owner stepped forward and indicated to the Lada gang that we wanted to a taxi. I would have preferred an American car, but it seemed churlish to argue. Two Ladas thundered out of Trinidad. When we arrived at our hotel other Ladas were already there waiting. Safety in numbers I suppose.
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