Steven’s Cuba Blog

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Twelve

PROCEEDS FROM PANDEMONIUM

Havana, Wednesday October 5th, 2005, 11pm

This is the last post in this series. Also, there are no photos in this post at the moment because I’m posting this directly from Cuba and I forgot my USB cable from my camera. I’ll update it with pics when I get back.

If you’re paying attention, you’ll have noticed that a lot of time has passed between the time stamps on this chronicle and the last; two weeks, to be precise. In those two weeks, I left Santiago de Cuba, retraced my steps to Trinidad, Cienfuegos, Santa Clara and Havana, and picked up some company along the way - all of which I’ll explain in this post.

On the frigid overnight bus from Santiago to Trinidad, I met two English tourists from London, Jasmin and Sarah. While we (and most everyone else) tried to sleep most of the way, we got to talking a little about our trips (they were only here for a week or two) and experiences around Cuba, which proved to be quite different from mine (as they would be for two attractive obviously foreign females). They apparently witnessed a bit more of the tougher side of Santiago than I had; they met someone who had their purse stolen. Other than that, they enjoyed the city and found it to be as lively as I did.

Off the bus early the following morning in Trinidad de Cuba, we parted ways after exchanging contact information. I headed back to Mercedes’ casa and promptly went to bed - I had gotten little to no real sleep on the crazily air-conditioned bus. Waking up around 2pm (hey, what? I’m on vacation, right?), I walked over to the ETECSA office across the street from the Parque, and posted some of the pics and a blog entry I had written in Santiago. Later that evening, I went to the Casa de la Musica and ran into Sarah and Jasmin again. We had some nice conversation and lots of fun sitting outdoors on the steps of the casa, watching the fantastic cuban dancers move their feet around like clockwork (and the somewhat not-so-fantastic foreigners move their feet around like ducks).

We walked the streets for a while until we quite literally lost ourselves, and at night the streets of Trinidad are not as well lit as in most other towns [read: not at all]. Without too much fuss we were able to find our way back to their place (and after I asked bemused strangers “Donde esta la Calle…” 3 times, Sarah finally had enough and decided to take it upon herself to properly teach me the difference between “ser” and “estar”).

I don’t make that mistake anymore.

Their casa was interesting in that they had a whole floor to themselves and could come and go in complete privacy as they pleased, although they had no access to their host’s actual home. That could be a good thing or a bad thing depending on who you ask, but they seemed to prefer my setup, where I shared Mercedes’ home with her family.

They were leaving the next day, so we arranged to go to the beach together and get some sun before they did. It was very hot, and I had biked like a bat out of hell all the way there behind their cocotaxi to prove to myself (them) that I could keep up with it (I couldn’t), so the moment my sweaty body hit the water everything else just disappeared. I do vaguely remember discussing the theological implications of different forms of time travel (unidirectional, bidirectional, multithreaded, etc) while looking like a moron running after a beach ball that kept slipping out of my hands. Good times. I did enjoy hanging out with them and they were gracious enough to spend some time with me and walk me around part of London a month later in November as I was passing through England.

The day after they left I also left Trinidad, and Mercedes’ Casa - a surprisingly sad moment for me. Surprisingly because, after all, they are running a business, and for all I know they treat all of their “clients” as well as they treated me. Sad because I did genuinely feel that they let me into their home as part of the family, and I got the chance to get to know each and every one of them. I spent more time there than anywhere else in Cuba, and that’s a testament to how much of a great time I had.

Next, a one-day stop in Cienfuegos led me to Bertha’s Casa, where the hosts Bertha and her husband were the perfect example of professional courtesy. Because I was only staying a night I didn’t get the chance to get to know them at all, but they were friendly to a fault, very interesting, professional and Bertha is a fantastic cook. I will definitely go back. The only (admittedly very minor) drawback is that it’s a bit further out from the city center than the previous casa I stayed at, but there are still lots of great sights nearby and I had no problems walking the 15 minutes from her house to downtown. The other great thing about their place was that it was in a very quiet and peaceful suburban neighborhood. All in all, highly recommended. I did actually head to the city center that night, but for reasons unknown there was barely anyone out. The clubs were empty and I returned home pretty quick.

On the bus from Cienfuegos to Santa Clara I met a lovely young woman from Holland, with whom I’d end up spending most of my remaining days in Cuba with. We split up for a while after the bus, and met up again at night in the Plaza. After a nice time in a nice club on the boulevard, we walked back to the casa… and she felt sick, then immediately fell asleep - courtesy of Havana Club and overly loud music.

We were both due for some beach time, so we agreed to spend a couple of nights in Varadero. We had some luck finding a decent, clean, inexpensive hotel (sans hot water) and spent a couple days lounging on the beach. I’m not really much into that, but after nearly two months of biking and exploring I have to admit that it did feel nice to just do nothing, lay on the sand and swim in what are some of the world’s best beach waters.

From Varadero, we arrived in Havana Vieja after a brief [rainy] stop in Matanzas, where I met the owner of the Casa my Dutch friend had stayed at previously, Ibis. Ibis’ home is very comfortable and clean, and I got along with her whole family extremely well. Every time I’ve been back in Havana since meeting her, I’ve never stayed at another Casa. It’s 2 blocks from Prado (”the main”) as well as a block away from the Malecon. Amazingly, it’s also the least expensive official Casa in Habana Vieja I’ve found. If you have any plans at all to stay in Havana, I strongly recommend staying at Ibis’ house:

/** (Plug)
Casa de Ibis
address: Genios #214 apt 2 e/ Industria y Consulado, Habana Vieja
phone: (07) 8662949
email: robertola@infomed.sld.cu
*/

Vinales was our next stop; though I unfortunately didn’t get to enjoy much of it. The day we arrived there I fell ill due to some food I ate from a street vendor (the only time this happened to me in Cuba - you can eat pretty much anything without danger, but stay away from egg, cheese and dairy when buying from a food stall that sells in Cuban pesos). I went for a brief walk with the Dutch girl, then promptly went to bed after eating very little. The next day, I felt like I had to leave. We were supposed to stay together here in Vinales a while longer, but a certain animosity came between us and we decided to part ways. I’ll spare you the details of why and how.

Back on the bus to Havana, I bought 3 latas of Tomato juice - the ultimate cure for whatever ails my stomach. Copious amounts of tomato juice, lemon juice, and a single Imodium later, I was feeling perfectly healthy again. After a couple more days in Havana, it was time to go.

I hadn’t used my bike in a couple days (for me, that’s an eternity), so I took advantage of the beautiful weather on my last day here and biked from Havana Vieja to the airport - about an hour’s worth. Even after all the time I had just spent in Cuba, I was still amazed at how safe it was to bike on the highways. The road to the airport - Rancho Boyeros - was packed with morning rush-hour traffic, but I never had to worry about them all the way to the airport. I got there fairly early, so I had plenty of time to carefully disassemble my bike and take a nap; my last in Cuba until nearly a year later.

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Eleven

THE HAND THAT BITES

Santiago de Cuba, September 21st, 2005, 8:00am

“Be careful in Santiago…”
“Santiago is very dangerous…”
“There’s lots of crime in Santiago…”

These were the typical reactions I’d get when I’d mention to people that I was headed for Santiago de Cuba. It seemed like there was some ominous predilection that upon arriving in Santiago I would be robbed, murdered, drawn and quartered. From conversations with people who had actually visited Santiago I knew this to be far from the truth (which of course it was), but it was interesting to gauge people’s feelings and thoughts about the “Courageous City” as a haven for “antisocial elements”.

Of course, Trinidad is nearly 1000km from Santiago, with a whole bunch of interesting cities in between. So why am I writing about Santiago so soon? Well, as I left Trinidad on my bike, not 20 minutes went by that my half-assed repair job on the bicycle’s panier came undone.

I’d had it.

I limped the bike back to the casa in Trinidad, took off the panier, and told Carlos (the owner’s son) that he could use the bike (sans panier, of course) as much as he liked while I was gone. I then walked up to the Viazul bus station just in time to get on the early bus to Ciego de Avila (I skipped Santi Spiritus; it will be for next time).

Because I had spent so much time in Trinidad, I didn’t have as much time to spend in the other cities as I would’ve liked. I only ended up spending a couple nights in Ciego de Avila and Camaguey, so that I could get at least a week in Santiago de Cuba. A week is of course not enough for such a bustling city as Santiago, but it was definitely a week well spent.

I arrived at the Santiago de Cuba bus station at night, and the owner of the casa where I was staying, Paco, was already waiting for me in his nice Peugeot 206 hatchback with his father. Their spanish was a bit different, more continental then the rest of the spanish I’d heard on the island. It was very smooth and pleasant and just sounded real cool to hear, even from the vocals of a 70-something great-grandfather who’s been smoking his whole life.

Similar to the casa in Cienfuegos, this one had a modest entrance that led to the living room with a modern, sprawling estate behind it, with 3 floors including the rooftop, an open-air corridor through the house, and several small rooms scattered about. The streets are also in somewhat worse condition here than in Havana (which is saying something). I witnessed several potholes along main streets that would swallow a big part of an automobile, chewing it alive with its concrete teeth.

Santiago is known by many as the most African, the most musical and the most passionate Cuban city, and I’m tempted to agree. From my waking hours until I’d fall asleep at night, I’d have the sounds of congo or salsa ringing in my ears (in a pleasant way) most of the day. There is a tangibly larger black population here, and most non-blacks have at least slight mulatto tendencies.

I actually found Santiago to be “livelier” than Havana - again, that’s saying something - in that the main streets were also burgeoning with activity, but much more densely and at all times. Aguilera and Heredia streets were pedestrian only when I was there (though I think they always are), and they were full of people - most locals - shopping in the small boutiques (for everything except electronics, of course… a small CD player costs upwards of $180), eating snacks and treats (the tasty 50 cent pork burgers followed by insanely addictive 10 cent ice cream cones - you can have it in any flavor you like, as long as it’s strawberry - became my staple lunch in Santiago), and just people watching, sitting on a bench in one of the numerous parks along the downtown core.

The city was designated “Cradle of the Revolution” by Fidel Castro, and I arrived at the perfect time to see why; a week from now would be a country-wide festival celebrating the 45 year anniversary of the “Comités de la Defensa de la Revolución” (I soooooo spelled that wrong, somebody correct me please). These neighborhood watch programs were instituted to provide a sort of peer-to-peer policing service both for civil and criminal security for citizens, and to suppress counter-revolutionary activities. Giving a large berth to the political and social implications of these committees, they also serve as a reason for people to get together in the neighborhood and build stronger ties with one another. One lady I spoke about this to joked “If a criminal ever tries to steal my purse and a few neighbors are around to catch him, then he better pray that the police get there quick”.

In preparation for this anniversary, decorations and signs were being put up, impromptu barbecues with full pigs were being set up (just imagine picking what is basically bacon off a pork as it roasts), and kids were rehearsing their parades and dances. It was a good time to be in Santiago (though probably miniscule compared to what it must be like during the Carnival, which is one of the most famous in the world).

I got to use a gruesomely slow internet line from a small school nearby (though later in the week I bit the bullet and walked the 45 minutes to the hotel Melía Santiago), where I got a much better connection) to check my email and see how some of my projects are going. Speaking of walking, Santiago is a great walking city. I do wish I had my bike with me though - the uphills and downhills and extreme slopes and staircases along the streets are quite conducive to some awesome city riding. I could totally picture myself getting some serious air off some of these hills (and with my luck, landing on the back of a parked Peugeot).

One oddity I’ve noticed in Santiago is the disproportionate amount of photo studios here. On Heredia or Aguilera, every fifth or sixth street shop seems to be some sort of photo lab or studio. I only found one or two in Havana. Is there any reason why Santiago loves photos so much?

I visited Céspedes Park, Santiago’s main square. There are several museums and beautiful sites of interests here (asides from the immaculately golden-tanned, long-legged, fake-prada-sunglasses wearing gorgeous university students lounging in the shade reading their books…), namely the moorish-influenced home of Diego Velázquez, the 15th century conquistador. Renovated in 1965, it is now a nice, quiet little museum (with a $2 entrance fee). Here you can also find the city hall (where Fidel Castro gave his first speech to the Cuban people, January 1st 1959), and the Hotel Casa Grande, painted as a spy’s meeting haven in Graham Greene’s suspense novel, “Our man in Havana”.

I also visited the impressive Basílica del Cobre, the holiest shrine in Cuba and home of the Virgén del Cobre, Cuba’s holiest artifact. Legend has it that three slaves returning by boat from working in the El Cobre copper mines hit rough weather, capsized, and were about to drown when they saw the image of the Virgin Mary floating above the water, and it guided them to dry land. The image was actually this small statue of Virgin Mary. Soon after, the idol was being worshipped throughout Cuba, and people have continued to visit El Cobre ever since to ask for the “miraculous favors” that they attribute to the effigy. Hemingway left his Nobel Prize for Literature as an offering here, and several artifacts from revolutionary fighters (surprisingly, even Castro himself left personal objects here) in thanks to the Virgén for helping them.

To reach El Cobre - 20 km west of Santiago de Cuba - a family member, Enrique, let me use his ‘57 Pontiac, which he built himself. He works in construction and claims he isn’t a mechanic, but just likes to “tinker” a little. In this case, “tinkering” means installing a turbodiesel engine from a delivery truck, a Toyota Tercel steering system and a 5-speed transmission from a Toyota 4×4, in addition to 4 disk brakes from a late-model Skoda. The thing looks harmless enough, but turn the key and it rumbles and shakes like a soviet tank. It sips less fuel than his father’s Hyundai Accent, and diesel is way cheaper than gasoline here. He’s been running it this way for 10 years now with no problems, but would like to fix up the body a little.

As everywhere in Cuba, physical beauty is omnipresent here. Most girls go to great lengths to get noticed - if I have so much trouble finding a friggin’ pack of razors and maybe some shaving cream here, I am completely unable to fathom how the girls manage to keep their legs so smooth, their hair so shiny, and their skin so clear. Of course, there is some prostitution here, as in any big city in the world. It’s just much more nebulous and difficult to define in this case. As I was walking back to the casa to meet a friend, I noticed this stunningly attractive young schoolgirl walking on the sidewalk towards me, staring right at me and smiling. I’m a little shy, so I smiled back from behind my shades but looked away afterwards. Thing is, as we walked past each other, she bumped into me a little and dropped a few of her books. Being the clichéd chivalrous gentleman that I am, I stopped to help her and so we started talking a little. Like all Cuban females, she knows exactly how to talk to a guy, raising her eyebrows at the right moments, brushing against your arm just so, smiling and laughing and correcting your mistakes in spanish, tilting her head to feign interest in what you’re saying… but I was honestly in a rush to meet my friend, and couldn’t really stay to chat. As I tried explaining this to her (and practically begging her for her number / if I can meet her again sometime) her enthusiasm and friendliness quickly turned to impatience and frustration, and she just wished me a good day and turned away.

I was a bit taken aback by the whole episode, but went on to meet up with my friend and tell him what had happened. His guess was that she was a jinetera; a prostitute. I couldn’t believe what he was saying - how could such a gorgeous, innocent-looking early-twenties student here in Cuba be a prostitute? I didn’t want to hear what he was saying.

Then the next day, as I was leaving back to the bus stop (taking a different route), I saw another beautiful girl - this one a little older - smiling and walking towards me. I gave her a wide berth to walk past me, but then - lo and behold! - she nearly went out of her way to bump into me and drop her books. I was amazed. I apologized, but this time, I also kept walking… and could feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Ten

A MAGNILOQUENT MADNESS

Trinidad de Cuba, September 14th, 2005, 6:30pm



Founded in 1514 by Diego Velazquez, Trinidad runs on a different clock that anywhere else I’ve been. Actually, it runs on no clock; time feels to have stood still for eons here. A UNESCO world heritage city, it is nearly impossible to walk down a street or turn a corner without stopping to admire the detail in every little window sill, the workings of the streets cobbled with riverstones, or the sounds and smells of the salesmen traveling to and fro, selling their limes, eggs, fresh bread (really fresh and soft!) or what have you.

I quickly became friends with the family living in the splendid house. The maid / granddaughter of Mercedes, Yani, was incredibly gracious and accompanied me to the beach, the Casa de la Musica, and all around town.

/** (Plug)
Casa Mercedes
Mercedes Albalat Milord
Calle Josè Martì no.330 e/ Simòn Bolìvar y Francisco Javier Zerquera
Trinidad
Tel: phone and fax: 0419/3350
email: ico974 (at)lycos.it
*/

The town square is called Plaza Mayor. Because it’s a relatively small city, most of the action is within walking distance. Convenient to the Plaza, you’ve got the gorgeous XIXth century Iglesia Parroquial de la Santisima Trinidad (where a youth rock band plays in lieu of a choir) which is very, very full on Sundays, the Iglesia y Convento San Francisco, from whose tower you can grab some splendid shots of the town, the Canchanchara cocktail lounge (cradle of the drink with the same name), and the famous Casa de la Musica. Or - in my case - infamous.

I don’t dance. I also don’t smoke cigars. I do drink the rum, though. So one outta three ain’t so bad. But sitting down on those steps, words can’t describe how it felt, watching the perfectly coordinated dancers move as if their bodies were all connected by some complex gear mechanism. Cuban men regularly would prowl the staircase for foreign girls, eager to show off that their hips, also, do not lie. I was more than a bit jealous, daydreaming a little about getting on that dance floor and sweeping the crowd off their feet as I effortlessly twirl some beautiful cubanita around and around with a picture-perfect smile on my face. More likely, however, would be me falling flat on my face after somehow tripping over my own leg.

I need to take dancing lessons.

The general mood in Trinidad is very content, even festive. As everywhere else, the economy is slow, and most people you talk to here cite that as the main problem they’re facing. Compared to elsewhere in Cuba, there seems to be less discussion about ideology, politics and such. Conversations seem to turn more towards the pragmatic, the real problems people are facing today and the tangible solutions that they are taking to overcome them. I didn’t meet many pessimists in Trinidad.

The historical center is comprised of some unbelievable colonial homes, like the one I stayed at. Most have only a single floor, and they usually form around a single plaza within the block.

Staying nearby to where I was were two delightful young French sisters, who were only here for a couple more days. We quickly became friends, and along with a friend of the Casa owner’s son, we spent the next day horseback riding, hiking and swimming through Topes de Collante, the majestic virgin natural reserve north of Trinidad. The horses were a bit uppity, but I survived.

The hike to the waterfall was pretty trivial considering that I had done Mount Washington a couple times recently with my sister’s friends in addition to Mount Mansfield a couple years ago with some old acquaintances, so within less than an hour we were bathing in a clear, cold little lake, fishes trying to tickle us and all. Sounds kinda lame now that I read it, but it was awesome. It was also the first time I walked through so many conglomerations of butterflies, flapping all about and brushing up against me as if I wasn’t even there.

Like I said, I was only supposed to stay here for a few days, but I just couldn’t bring myself to leave. Besides, my bike’s panier was still in disrepair, so that was a convenient excuse to hit the beaches with Yani, stay up late talking to the French girls, and just generally wander around, trying to discover every nook and cranny of the place.

Eventually, I went to the tiny town of Casilda, a few kilometers away, and met Yani’s family who were all very very cool. Their house was recently struck by a hurricane, so the living room literally had a ceiling beam and debris instead of furniture.

I left early again sometime at the end of the week, though my bike’s condition left a lot to be desired - in fact, I’d soon have to discover the beauty of the Cuban ViAzul tourist bus system…

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Nine

THE CALM BEFORE THE CALM

Trinidad de Cuba, Tuesday, September 13th, 2005,1:30pm

My host failed to wake up this morning in time for breakfast. Trouble is, some of the doors in this large estate are locked, and I had no choice but to wait for him before I could leave. I prepared my belongings so that I could be ready to leave asap. I would soon find out that my problems for the ride from Cienfuegos to Trinidad were only beginning.

Not 5 minutes after I left the casa, I started to hear a grinding noise and my bike felt very heavy all of a sudden. Fearing the worst, I looked back and was relieved to find that my sports bag was still on my bike, and hadn’t fallen off. I stopped the bike at a busy intersection on the outskirts of Cienfuegos at 7:30am, and saw that my panier (the platform above my rear wheel where my luggage is mounted) had bent its support arms to the point where it was rubbing against the rear tire.

I briefly wondered how it managed to support all the weight since the beginning of the trip, only to suddenly bend under less weight (My luggage - and myself - had been getting progressively lighter since the start of the trip). For some reason, there seemed to be an obscene amount of traffic going by that morning; busses, trucks, horses, motorcycles, cars and bicycles all slowed down to observe as I performed first-aid on my bike. About an hour, 6 tie-wraps, a quarter-roll of electrical tape and a sore shoulder from bending the aluminum back into place with my hands, I lightened the load of my travel bag by putting the heaviest items into my backpack. This didn’t make the ride any easier for me, of course, but it kept the panier from bending any further than it already had. I slowly started riding, often looking back to make sure everything was still in place. The bike felt a little off-balance, but I didn’t really have much of a choice but to go on at this point.

It wasn’t until 9:00am that I had left Cienfuegos, and the day wasn’t getting any cooler.

Immediately after leaving Cienfuegos towards Trinidad, you’ve got a very steep climb with sharp corners and very little area to build up your speed, and, like the view, are breathtaking. I’m loathe to admit that I walked my bike quite a bit over the first mountains. I only had to stop and ask for directions a couple times, mostly in the mountains upon leaving Cienfuegos, but after that, the scenic road (via escenica) levels off, wedges itself between the glorious mountains on your left and the inviting ocean on your right, and makes a bee-line for Trinidad.

I was amazed to find myself worried more about my bike than about myself. So far, we’d ridden together all the way from Havana, half-way through the island, to Trinidad. With no one else to talk to I often found myself talking to my bike… when I’d be tired or discouraged, I’d create these elaborate discussions where we’d take turns weighing the pros and cons of stopping to rest now or going on for a few more kilometers. We’d admire the scenery together, joke about that cute girl we saw waiting for a lift, or go over some of the multitude of worries that I unwillingly brought with me on this trip, about personal life, finances, or relationships. My bike became a close friend to me on this trip. Kind of like cowboys with their horses. Only weirder, I guess. On this stretch, though, it was more worry than conversation. I felt sorry for my bicycle as I could definitely tell that she was under a lot of strain. The steep climbs, muddy puddles and canyon-sized potholes didn’t help at all, and I resolved to give it a complete tune-up once we got to Trinidad.

As I was thinking this, I hear a “pop”, and just catch, out of the corner of my eye, a small shiny object being flung far into the shrubbery bordering the road. Indeed, it was the aluminum panier - the other side, this time. It would seem that I “repaired” it so tightly that it had no leeway to move or sway, and that the pressure of one pothole too many caused the bolt to head for the hills. I repaired that side as well, leaving my bike looking like a frightening amalgam of orange metal, tie wraps, and electrical tape - a two-wheeled Darth Vader, if you will. Despite all of this, it kept on going strong for the rest of this ride, all the way to Trinidad.

The extra weight on my shoulders, the later-than-usual departure, and the misalignment problems on my bicycle all started to take their toll on me. Somehow, I lost track of my water and food intake during the ride, and ended up finishing all my water with still at least 25 km to go. Now, if you know the temperatures in Cuba during the day, you know that there’s no way you’re going to bike 25 km on a sunny afternoon over hills without any water. I had no idea if there were any paladares or canteens between where I was now and Trinidad. So what did I do? Well, I pulled over to the first house that I saw, and knocked on the door. A friendly young lady answered, and I explained my situation to her, while her kids and some other people kept talking and glimpsed at me occasionally. Before I could finish, smiling and without saying a word, she went to her kitchen, and returned with her arms full of several bottles of water, juice and other drinks. It would’ve been enough for a small family. She insisted to the point of impatience that I take everything, and when I told her that I was no way that I would take anything without giving her something in return. In a generous, human battle of attrition, she finally conceded and took some money that I had offered her (still less than I would’ve paid at a restaurant or bar). Before I could leave, she wrote down her address on a piece of paper and made me promise that next time I was in town, I’d visit them if I had some more time to talk.

With my spirits much higher, I continued on my way to Trinidad. I’m not too sure what the beverages I was drinking were, but they were damn good. Half a bottle after the miscellaneous-sugary-orange-drink, I felt a surge of energy as if I had been drinking sweet black coffee all morning. Averaging 30km / hour, I met the “Bienvenidos a Trinidad de Cuba” sign in less than an hour after stopping at the house.

My first impressions of Trinidad were mixed - on one hand you’ve got the beautiful cobblestone streets, historically fascinating buildings and homes, stunning horses sharing the streets with Audis, gorgeous geography with the main part of the town nestled in between the Topes de Collantes mountain range / nature preserve on one side and the ocean on the other. A lot of this was offset by the fact that there seemed to be more tourists than locals in this small town - therefore “hustling” is carried to an art form, here. One person tried to convince me that he was sent to “wait” for me from the casa owner in case I got lost. He was extremely convincing, clever and believable, but his story failed to pan out when he claimed to be the owner’s husband; he looked about my age (late 20s); the casa owner is in her 80s.

I quickly got my bearings, and found the “Casa Mercedes”, with her son and grandson sitting right in front of it. Like the casa in Cienfuegos, it was a huge estate sprawling reaching from one street to the one behind it, all behind an unassuming exterior.

One thing I love about these homes is how they combine durability, elegance and common-sense with esthetics. This particular home had many rooms, covered and well-shielded from the elements, all leading to a central semi-covered “courtyard / dining room”, with a staircase added that leads to the sprawling terrace on top of the house. Given the climate, of course, it makes perfect sense - but I’d still love to have a similar place here in Montreal. That would probably cost a few magnitudes of order more than I can afford, though.

Like Yadin’s casa in Santa Clara, this was another one of those homes that I just couldn’t bring myself to leave. More so than any other place I’ve been, I quickly became “part of the family” and had some of the best conversations of my trip here. I ended up spending an insane amount of time here - about 16 days, or 1/3 of my trip, to be exact. Not consecutively - 10 days on this leg of the trip and 6 days later on, on my way back from Santiago de Cuba. That’s pretty telling about what an incredible time I had here. I’m tempted to say that it was my favorite destination in Cuba, but then… I’m tempted to say that about every city I’ve been to there.

Trinidad is a city with an incredibly rich history.

The beach most convenient to Trinidad is Playa Ancon. Its main sandy stretch contains some cookie-cutter tourist resorts, but head eastward a few more minutes and you end up at a spectacular rocky shore with the clearest waters I’ve seen on the south coast of Cuba. I spent a few entire days biking and lounging here, whether alone, or with the casa owner’s grandchildren.

I’ll go into more detail about Trinidad de Cuba itself in the next Cuba Blog entry.

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Eight

AT SIXES AND SEVENS

City of Cienfuegos, Saturday, September 10th, 2005, 12:30pm
Getting from Santa Clara to Cienfuegos was easy - I had to backtrack a little on the carretera, then take the wide, smooth “Autopista Nacional” westwards for half the trip. Eventually I stopped to ask for directions - and just in time, too. A police officer told me “yeah, just get off the autopista by taking that dirt road south, and turn right when you hit the carretera”.

“That dirt road” ended up being somewhat less hospitable than what we consider a “dirt road” here. Cows, goats and other mammals chained to farmhouse fences blissfully ignored me as the “whizz whizz whizz” of my bike pedals swept by them, and potholes the size of basketballs kept me swerving like a getaway driver. This was obviously a very tight-knight farming community, as people either followed me with cautious eyes or smiled and waved at me. After about 10 minutes, I saw someone biking the other way, and stopped to make sure I as going in the right direction. He said yes, and told me that the carretera central is just around the corner, which it was.

Slightly less smooth than the autopista, the carretera was still a ways better than the cratered dirt road I just passed - which, incidentally, would come back to haunt me soon. I came across a large, open-back people-carrying truck / bus, that was carrying many kids to school. The kids were taunting and/or cheering me on, so I decided to have a little fun and race with the truck. I managed to pass it for a while as it stopped to pick up / drop off passengers, but then it caught up to me - the kids were cheering like it was a baseball game, and I had a huge smile across my face, as did they. For no reason, I felt really happy all of a sudden.

I kept up the pace, playing hide-and-seek with the truck for a while, 2pac blaring on my headphones, not realizing how long or far I had been going. To the kids’ disappointment, the truck turned off onto a dirt road, and I raised my eyes to see the city limits of Cienfuegos only a few kilometers away - I had just covered 25 km in little over half an hour! I also hadn’t eaten anything, so I stopped off at a roadside cafeteria for some rice, pork and beans - and beer, of course. A side note - while I’ve always been something of a beer snob, having very pointless opinions on what kind of brew I drink, I’ve slowly fallen in love with Cuban beer. Cuba - known more for its rum and cigars than its beer - has several different styles of beer brewed all over the island - from the clean, refreshing Cristal to the stronger, malty Buccanero (gotta love the name), and always served very cold. I wish I could get some of it over here. Hey, Cuban export and trade ministry, you reading this?

I struck up a conversation with two thirty-something ladies (who, of course, looked younger than me), asking about Cienfuegos, its history, what to do, etc. I took down some notes in my moleskine, thanked them, and got back on the road. The first thing you see when approaching Cienfuegos from the northwest is the huge smoke chimney from one of its many factories. Once inside, though, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the city is very similar to Santa Clara - geographically, at least.

Symmetric streets laid out in the neoclassic style, and a town center with an expensive, ritzy “boulevard” nearby. While they have many points in common - like actually having street names printed at intersections - they also have a very distinct atmosphere. Cienfuegos has a certain air of “nobility” to it somehow. There is a palpable sense of pride - everyone walks with their hide held high, but without any air of superiority or condescension.

I pulled over to take out my notebook and look up the addresses of a few casas I was recommended - to find that I no longer had it! I had the list of all casas in that notebook, emergency numbers, and - most importantly of all - my travel journal! I was really, really upset. I biked around the city a bit to get my bearings, then finally came across two women sitting and talking in front of their house. I stopped and asked them if they new of any casa particulares around here, and they spent the next 10 minutes, walking with me, asking their friends, and finally getting me to a casa of a very nice family, not far from the town square.

The facades of these homes don’t look like much at all, but once inside, you’re greeted by a deep, sprawling estate, with high ceilings, open-air corridors, and beautiful architecture from many differents episodes of Cuban history. A similar home would easily go for over a million dollars somewhere else in North America.

And why oh why do all these casa owners always have gorgeous , twenty-something daughters?

I brought my bike in, and left it in the garage for most of my time in Cienfuegos - I ended up walking most of the city instead. Like Santa Clara, I felt comfortable and safe here. I was close to the town square, so spent a lot of time there on benches, writing (in a new, kindergarten notebook with frogs on the cover, that I bought from a state stationary store along The Boulevard / Paseo Del Prado), taking photographs, or people-watching.

I ate at the casa that evening, then went to bed early. The next day, after breakfast, I decided I was due for another day at the beach. I got my gear together, got on my bike, and cycled the mountainous but picturesque 20km to Playa Rancho Luna, a beach frequented by locals and tourists alike - although, on that day, mostly locals. The view on Cienfuegos’ bay from the high road is absolutely incredible.

It was nice to be surrounded by so many families and kids playing, and I met a young, re-married couple with a daughter that I spent the day talking to. The husband reminded me tremendously of one my uncles in California, and I bought them some drinks while we chatted.

After a few hours, the saltwater and sun started to take its toll on me, so I said my farewells and headed back to Cienfuegos, stopping at another roadside cantina for some pork and rice.

After a nice shower, I took a quick nap, then went for a walk before returning for a light supper. I was determined to go out tonight and get some music and rum in me (not necessarily in that order), so I went to “El Benny”, named after the famous Benny Moré, one of Cuba’s most famous singers, and a Cienfuegos local. It was a very nice looking place, although the music was the more traditional disco fare than anything you would hear from Benny Moré. I took a seat in the back near the terrace, when I overheard people talking English. I turned my head, and saw a group of Europeans - 2 guys and 3 girls - laughing about something. I asked if I could join them, and I spent the rest of night talking with these complete strangers about all sorts of stuff, as people came and went from our table and everyone wanted to get to know everyone. Two of the girls were Norwegian, and studying politics and spanish here in Cienfuegos for a few months. The others were Scottish and / or English, and were simply traveling around. One of the Norwegian girls caught my eye - until she started talking.

You know, when I was a kid growing up in the 80s, I always had the misguided belief that all Europeans are all some classy, elegant, cultured, perfectly educated group of superhumans compared to us North Americans. As I started traveling in my teens, I quickly realized this was far from being the case. The behavior of some Europeans I saw on this trip was quite colonial, and at times I felt almost embarrassed for them as they did or said very inappropriate things when in Cuba. Although, to be fair, a few of the Canadians I met weren’t much better (with some exceptions).

Anyhow… I got home around 3:30am, and fell asleep like a baby. I slept in the next day, of course. I spent most of it running errands, such as changing money or buying drinks for my ride to Trinidad tomorrow (tuesday). As I was sitting in the town center writing, a huge tour bus unloads a crowd of elderly white French tourists, and they quickly hurry to walk around the park, their hawaiian shirts nice buttoned and their camcorders and point and shoot camcorders ablaze. The sky has been grey and thundering here for at least an hour, but it still hasn’t rained.

A gorgeous young mother and her daughter are walking through the park, feeding rice to the pigeons. A few bright looking kids are running around, playing, occasionally asking one of the tourists from the bus for money.

I sat back here and enjoyed until the first drops started coming down, and went to bed early for my ride the next day.

Technorati Tags: chronicles, cienfuegos, cuba, cuban society, rancho luna

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Seven

RETROGRADE

City of Santa Clara, Thursday, September 8th, 2005, 10:00am
I didn’t sleep much last night.

The heat was unbearable, but every time I turned on the air conditioner it rumbled like a Panzer. I was also thinking too much about what had happened the previous day, worried that the rest of my time here would be punctuated by encounters like these (they wouldn’t - I would end up not having any more “problems” in Cuba for the rest of my time here).

Yadin sensed my unease, and suggested that I take a day off (aren’t all these days ‘off’?) to relax and unwind. She was right - also, I’d been in Cuba for two weeks without ever visiting the beach! Without any (or rather, with considerably little) hesitation, I booked a bus to Las Brujas, a very small mixed tourist / cuban beach resort on the cayos of the north coast of Santa Clara. It’s about an hour away, past the little town of Remedios.

I met two italian tourists on the bus - they seemed alright but we didn’t talk much. After a brief stop in Remedios, we made it to the beach. As we pulled up, lo and behold, clouds were already moving. “Story of my life…”, I said to myself. My pessimism was unfounded, though, as the sky cleared up while I walked along the coast, away from the few other people on the beach, in search of a deserted area with a palm tree and a cheap plastic lounge chair.

With the sand under my feet, the sun beating down on my sunscreen-less (except for my tattoos) skin, and the ocean mist beckoning me to the waves, and not another human around (well, not in my immediate vicinity at least), everything just slowed down. For the first time in a very long time - years, perhaps - I felt completely, utterly relaxed. No work, no email, no responsiblity, no car payments, no ex-girlfriends, no debt. Nothing. Just the caress of the sun like a blanket on my (still-too-pale) body, the sound of the waves gently rolling up the sand, then retreating, and the sight of the pinkish translucency of your eyelid that you get when you sleep in sun with your eyes closed for too long… then you open them up and everything seems duo-tone, like you’re dreaming - or watching Requiem for a Dream.

The iPod shuffle starts playing “Sleep Now in The Fire“, which breaks the mood a little bit, so I do something I’ve never done before - I skip a Rage Against the Machine song. Bebel Gilberto starts whispering her silky smooth Brazilian Portuguese into my ear - August Day song.

Just like this rainstorm
This August day song
I dream of places far beyond

Ouvindo a chuva cair
No cinza um brilho aqui
Fico sózinha, distraída
Mesmo tom
Mesmo som
Como é bom, tão bom

This is the place, far beyond, I’ve always been dreaming of. This Island, this beach, these sights and sounds.
Anyways, this isn’t a blog about music; it’s a blog about Cuba.

My daydreaming is interrupted by the sound of giggling girls approaching. “Great,” I think to myself, “there goes my peaceful day of complete relaxation”. Slowly opening my eyes from their comatose state, I briefly catch a glimpse of the five twenty-something babes who then proceed to sit on the chairs right next to me (the rest of this side of the beach is nearly deserted), and start talking very loud in their lispy continental Spanish (”Cuantos Somos?” becomes “Cuantoth Thomoth“?) remove their clothing, and rub sunscreen lotion all over each other. I won’t get into details here, but I enjoyed the rest of the day very much talking to these complete strangers sitting topless a couple of feet away from me.

“Shit like this just doesn’t happen to me.”, I thought to myself. It seems to happen even less to the young cubans manning the bar at the other end of the beach - when I went there to refill my water bottle, they were zooming in on the girls with a pair of high-powered binoculars, giving me broad smiles and thumbs-ups while one of them gave me a new water bottle without accepting payment. They told me that cuban girls don’t sunbathe topless as Europeans do, so it’s pretty exciting when they get a bunch of young european tourists around here. As a joke, the bartenders offered to accompany back to my spot on the beach - just to be safe.

As the sun crept away over the horizon, I reluctantly realized it was time to leave. After stopping to get a sandwich composed of two paper-thin layers of bread covering a ham-like substance (probably ham), I grabbed the bus back to Santa Clara, and went over the conversation I had with the Spanish girls. In retrospect, I was pretty damn smooth - a rare event indeed. Now, I had met lots of incredible friendly Cuban girls (as mentioned previously), but I’d always been reluctant to go beyond anything resembling respectful distant conversation with them. With these spanish extranjeras, I was able to open up much more… why?

Well, here’s the thing - while it’s no secret what I think about Cuban women, I also have to mention that all the guys I met in Cuba were also fantastic people as well. I met lots that I had wonderful conversations with, and came away thinking, “Man, if I knew this dude back home in Montreal, we’d probably be best friend now.” I sometimes almost felt guilty flirting with a Cuban woman, because I’d be thinking to myself what incredible people the Cuban men are as well, and felt like I wasn’t allowed to “step on their territory” - I’m pretty childish and petty that way sometimes. Why? Well, one of the main reasons was that I often got the impression that my main draw to some of the ladies I’d speak to was the fact that I was a foreigner. My suspicions would be confirmed as I would talk about this topic candidly with others later on during my trip; some Cuban men don’t appreciate seeing a foreigner with a Cuban lady, for various [totally understandable] reasons I’ll get into later. Then again, it really shouldn’t matter - foreigner or cuban, we’re all human beings. Sadly, the impression I got of most other foreigners there was a very negative one, so I suppose it’s understandable why Cuban guys are wary of them.

Anyhow, the next couple of days in Santa Clara were great yet pretty uneventful… next stop: Cienfuegos.

Technorati Tags: cuba, cuban society, puppy, remedios, santa clara, trip report, villa clara, visit

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Six

INCEPTION

City of Santa Clara, Wednesday, September 7th, 2005, 10:30am
I woke up early and feeling great to the sounds of dogs and pigs making their respective noises - this in downtown Santa Clara - and after a great breakfast and a lovely chat with my host Yadin, I drew up a list of sites that I wanted to visit. Santa Clara is a hotbed of revolutionary sites, museums and items to see, which makes sense given its rich history and central position during the 1959 revolution.

At the top of my list was the Che Guevara memorial (and, since 1999, mausoleum). I decided to leave the bike at home and take advantage of the beautiful morning air, walking the 15 - 20 minutes from downtown to the memorial. It’s pretty much a straight line up one of Santa Clara’s main boulevards, lined with peso ice cream stands (about the equivalent of 6 canadian pennies for a surprisingly good cone of ice cream) and other small ‘businesses’.

Now, regardless of your politics, a visit to the memorial is a nearly religious experience - and the museum’s caretakers make sure of it. A huge, sprawling homage to the most recognizable face of the Cuban revolution, it’s a must-see if you’re in or around the Santa Clara city area. Entrance is free, though there is a small fee for storing your bag or backpack before entering (they aren’t allowed inside the complex). Photography is also permitted outside, but not inside.

I started off indoors, preferring to take advantage of the air conditioning after my walk right away. There are two rooms: the first is the mausoleum where the remains of Che and some of his fellow guerilla soldiers lay entombed in the wall. There is some quasi-religious music playing, very dim lighting, and an ‘eternal candle’ burning at one end of the room. Although photographs are not permitted, I asked the attendant if I could take some notes. This would prove to be a mistake as I’ll explain later, though she didn’t object at the time.

I spent some extra time walking around and reading the name under the faces on the wall, though I didn’t recognize any of them besides Che. I then left the room, went outside (the mausoleum and museum aren’t directly connected) and entered the (heavily air-conditioned) museum. Here, you can find all sorts of items and tools used by Che during his campaign in the Sierra Maestra, as well as letters he wrote and some photos of him that I haven’t seen anywhere else. All of the items have some interesting accompanying text, and some of them were quite fascinating to behold (the Molotov Cocktails made from Canada Dry bottles were particularly cool). It does get a bit much at one point, though… I could do without seeing his inhaler, or improvised dentists tools he used in the wild.

Now, I was debating over whether or not I would publish this next part of the story, but I decided to go ahead and mention it anyways.

During my time at the memorial, I kept taking notes in my moleskine notebook. Since I had asked the attendant beforehand, I figured it was alright… As I left the memorial, two uniformed police officers and one in plainclothes approached me, and asked me why I wanted to take notes here… I guess the attendant tattled on me after all. They questioned me along the usual lines (”Who are you?” “What are you doing here?” “Why are you taking notes?”). This went on for a good 5 minutes, culminating in being asked to see my passport. Normally, I’d go along with it, but I’d felt I did nothing wrong. There was a crowd of tourists there watching what was going on, and I was getting pretty upset. As I started to raise my voice, and argue that this is a public museum and not a military installation, the officers backed off and apologized. I tore out the pages with notes from my notebook and offered them to the plainclothes agent… he flashed an embarrassed smile and said “No lo necesito!”, but I insisted and he took them reluctantly in front of the other tourists. I just wanted to leave, so I also gave him my passport, whose number he made a note of.

I was a little pissed off at this point, so I only half-heartedly walked around the outside monument, snapping a few pics here and there before leaving back to town. 20 minutes of sun and 3 (20 cents worth!!!) ice cream cones later, I was already starting to feel better. I then walked all the way past the town center, to the “Monumento del tren blindado“, or “Monument of the armored train”. This is a monument to an assault that the revolutionary fighters led against a train full of the dictator Batista’s men and weapons. They used a bulldozer - which can be seen at the monument - to destroy the train tracks early in the morning, then laid in wait until the train derailed and they would ambush the troops (most of which were already dead). It was a major victory for the rebels as they captured a huge number of arms and supplies. The inside of one of the train carts is a small museum display, and costs 1 CUC to enter.

I was getting pretty hungry by 2:00pm, so I went back to the town center, where I had earlier spotted what looked like a fast-food joint. On closer inspection, it was a fast-food joint in Cuban pesos. This meant that I could buy 5 hamburgers and a glass of juice for what amounted to about 40 Canadian cents. Now, you get what you paid for… the burgers were literally bread and patty - no condiments - and I didn’t bother asking what the meat was, nor did I want to know. But they actually tasted pretty good… I had one at the restaurant, then I wised up, went back to the casa with the remaining 4 burgers, and got some ketchup, tomato, hot sauce and onions to freak them up with. Hmmmm… this is a tasty burgah! I was stuffed until dinner for less than a couple of Canadian quarters. I was always pretty much the only non-Cuban there, and this place became my mainstay lunch visit for every day I spent in Santa Clara.

I spent the remainder of the evening sitting around the town square, writing, listening to music, talking to strangers - who cease being strangers once they know your name - and girl-watching. After the sun went down in a dark red blaze of glory over the horizon, I made my way back to the casa, where Yadin had made sure a *huge* meal consisting of half a fried chicken, home fries, rice and much more was waiting for me. Stuffed beyond anything I’d eat over here - I generally don’t eat much, but feel terrible to leave food on the table, especially delicious Cuban food - I capped off the night having a drink with Yadin and talking while watching clips from Telesur on one of the state-run networks. After Telesur, we watched some Cuban shows, and I have to say that I was very impressed with the production values of Cuban television, all things considered. I mean, I catch some arab shows here sometimes, and they look like the producers, artists and designers came out of retirement after a 20 year hiatus. Cubavision compares very favorably to Al-Jazeera.

A note about my run-in at the Che Guevara monument: Yes, I was bothered, annoyed and upset at what happened. In retrospect, though, it really wasn’t a big deal, and it was the only “incident” I had in my two months in Cuba - and one which was arguably my own fault. I don’t exactly look harmless and unsuspicious, and they don’t often get people walking around taking notes. I’ve had much worse things happen to me in the United States. I’ve also heard scarier horror stories arising from similar situations elsewhere, especially in Latin America.

Technorati Tags: che guevara, chronicles, cuba, santa clara, trip report, villa clara, visit

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Five

UPRISING

Carretera Central from Colòn to Santa Clara city, Tuesday September 6th, 2005, 5:30am
With the aforementioned farm animals urging me to wake up, I literally rolled out of the hard bed onto the floor, took a cold shower - there was no hot water in this little guest room in the backyard - and got dressed. The funny thing about cold showers is how great they feel after a hot day at the beach or on the bicycle, but how awful they are in the morning before the sun comes up. I was literally talking to myself out loud into putting each body part under the low-pressure stream of water, soaping it up, then rinsing it off: “Ok, and here comes the left arm! The left arm is getting cleaned… time to rinse it off Steve. And it’s rinsed! Followed by the right arm…”

Once again, the pre-dawn road to Santa Clara was beautiful, flat and straight. However, unlike the short 80km of the previous day, this trip would be 50% longer - 120km. Despite this, I was in high spirits. The strong tailwind I had and the many motivational billboards along the way - Venceremos! - kept me going strong until about a quarter to 1pm, when I reached Santa Clara.


A big, clean, attractive city with few tourists, the first thing you see upon entering the city from the North-West (after the billboards about quitting smoking, teen help hotlines and reminding you to always use a condom) is the huge Che Guevara mausoleum and memorial complex, which I visited the next day.

Biking into the city from this direction also lets you enjoy an awesome downhill from the outskirts into the heart of city. Flying past crowded horse-drawn carriages filled with smiling girls and old taxis honking at the car in front of them is especially rewarding after a long, straight, somewhat monotonous ride on the highway. I easily found my casa just a couple of blocks away from the city’s beautiful main square, settled in, and enjoyed a well-deserved shower - lukewarm.

This casa was one of my favorite ones throughout my entire trip. The owner, Yadin, was really, really, cool. We hit it off from the start, and got along very well the whole time I was there. A former computer programmer, she left IT to rent out a room in her beautiful 2nd floor flat. She’s also got two adorable and very bright kids.

/** (Plug)
Casa de Yadin
Bonifacio Martinez 60, between Sindico (E.P Morales) and Caridad (gral. Roloff)
Santa Clara, Villa Clara
Cuba
Tel: (053) (42) 206754
Tel2: (053)(42)274760
*/

Disclaimer - I will occasionally post the addresses of my favorite casas here. This is not an endorsement nor a service I provide, and I receive no commission or compensation for references. Nevertheless, if you do decide to stay at one of them, I’d appreciate if you mentioned that you heard about them from me, “Steve, el muchacho con la bicicleta naranja.”

After I unpacked and settled into my very comfortable, air conditioned room, and took my shower, I got dressed, and walked back to the beautiful town square / park that I flew by at 40km/h just an hour ago. It’s amazing how different the experience of visiting a city can be based on your method of transportation. No matter where you are, whether you’re walking, bicycling, on a bus or driving through the city, you’ll see a totally different side of it. Biking through the city on my in, I was struck by the symmetry of the streets and buildings, and the thought that this city was probably the most “modern-looking” city overall I’ve been to in Cuba so far.

Leaving my casa on foot along the same route led me to a similar impression, albeit from a different angle. People here seem to be, at first glance, somewhat more well-off in general than the other places I’ve been to. The pedestrian-only town square - center of most activity - is bustling at any hour of day or night, with people young and old sitting on the benches, laughing, just talking about everything and nothing. It was mid-afternoon, so all the uniformed students had just left class and were converging on the town square to hang out.

The boys in their white dress shirts - and I mean white; I’ve never ever seen anyone manage to get a piece of clothing so bright white - and the gorgeous girls in their also-white dress shirts and decidedly-too-high-for-their-age brown suede skirts were meeting, playing pranks on each other, talking about the teachers they love and hate. All of a sudden, I felt really, really relaxed, and comfortable. I lied down on an empty bench (it was in the sun, and everyone usually chooses the benches in the shade - and move along with the shadow when the sun starts hitting them again), took out my moleskine notebook, and started to write - about everything and nothing.

Right about then, two students, both spanish-looking classic beauties, walked by me, looked me up and down, and smiled. Unfortunately, they couldn’t be older than 17, so all I could do was smile back.

Yeah, I think I’ll hang in Santa Clara for a few more days.

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Four

RECLAMATION

Carretera Central from Matanzas to Colòn, Monday September 5th, 2005, 6:45am
Despite 3 straight nights of partying at Las Palmas outdoor nightclub - usually followed by more partying at a nameless after-hours “young communists” underground club paid in Cuban Pesos - I woke up energized at 6am Monday morning, having packed and secured my bicycle the night before. The flat, straight 82km to the small town of Colòn turned out to be surprisingly easy - I made it there by 11:45, with few stops.

I guess I was “in the zone” that day, feeling good, the jungle mist playing games with the light as it slowly rose above the palm trees. A bunch of little things helped too - there were hordes of butterflies out, some of them following bike or leading in front of me, criss-crossing and waving through the air. There are hundreds of species of butterflies endemic to Cuba, and some of them are really incredible to behold.

Colòn is a very small, quaint town, with lots of horse-drawn carriages. I easily found my casa through the unmarked streets - they all branch off the main street, which is just the carretera central, really - and went to my spartan but comfortable room. I was only staying here for one night, as a pit stop between Matanzas and Santa Clara, my next “real” destination.

The good news is that as a small town Colòn was very inexpensive. Everything - including the fancy restaurant in the hotel I ate at - was paid for in Cuban pesos. I had a huge, delicious pork filet with potatoes, beans, salad and rice, for something like 50 cuban pesos, or about $2.50 CDN. For reference, a similar meal here in Montreal would cost me at least $15. I spent the rest of the day running some errands, making phone calls and posting a couple of blog entries from the local ETECSA (phone and internet state company), and taking photographs.

Then, I returned to my casa and found the owner chatting with her daughter who had just arrived - an absolutely stunning 21 year old bombshell, and a single mom. This would be a recurring theme throughout my stays at casas (especially unofficial ones), and I would have to try quite hard indeed not to get myself into any trouble staring at them too long.

What is it, exactly, that makes Cuban women so incredible? To be fair, there are beautiful women all over the world - again, I love Montreal - but there just seem to be more of them in Cuba - especially tucked away in the villages and small towns. It’s just the little details that jump out and grab your attention - the way they walk, the way they coyly look at you as they walk by, the way they shift their eyes and bat their eyelashes semi-consciously when talking to you, the way their hips meet their waist at the most perfectly curved angle. Why, why, why? There are several reasons that come to mind:

• The climate? Sure, people sweat more and dress less than elsewhere, and get nicely tanned but there are other hot countries too.
• The genetic diversity? Yeah, this is a big part of it. Cuba was really a total melting pot of cultures - Spaniards, Africans, Natives, Asians, and even Arabs have lived here - and intermixed - for 500 years. Today, most people of mixed-descent have inherited the best features of their ancestors; it’s not uncommon to meet a stunning, dark-skinned mulata with curly long blond hair, and slightly slanted green eyes.
• The diet? Well, beans, pork, salad and rice are a staple here - along with rum and beer. But most everything is fresh - frozen and canned foods seem to be rare, and as far as I’ve discovered, everything is organically grown. In fact, most of the farms / hydroponics I visited also had their own lab for research into new organic growing techniques.
• The economic situation? Not having many cars means that a lot of people are walking, standing around for a bus, or biking all day. People just seem healthier than literally anywhere else I’ve been.
• The culture? Well, there’s the dancing…

Sorry, I got sidetracked there a bit. Where was I? Right. Colòn. I conversed with the daughter and absolutely adorable granddaughter for a while before retiring to bed; I wanted to get an early morning start for the long 120km to Santa Clara.

My spartan room had suddenly become not-so-spartan; a few small green lizards had found their way into my room. They were pretty cute, so I let them stay, turned off the light, and went to bed, with the sounds of roosters, squealing pigs and barking dogs singing me to sleep - and waking me up at 5am the next morning.

Cuba Chronicles, Chapter Three

LAUNCHPAD

Autopista between Havana and Matanzas, Thursday September 1st, 2005, 10am
I got off to a rocky start this morning - I had planned to be on the road by 8am, but I had some complications getting my sports bag and other equipment secured to my bike. The fact that I had to set everything up downstairs, outside in the morning mist (I wasn’t about to set up my bike upstairs and then carry it down or shoehorn it into the tiny elevator) didn’t help matter much either. I paid the casa owner, got on the bike, and rode up to the Malecon. I took my time and headed all the way east until the Paseo, then turned right onto to it until the Capitolio and the ramp onto the ciclobus - a conveniently gutted city bus used to ferry people with their bicycles to and from the Playas Del Este (the only other way to get across the Bay is the tunnel, and bicycles aren’t allowed there for safety reasons).

The bus ride costs a few cents, and it’s worth just about that. I ended up standing next to several other people, mostly men, some in work clothes, others in suits, all with bicycles, mopeds or small motorcycles balanced treacherously on the bus’s uneven floor. I was in a particularly awkward position, in the center of the bus with one arm steadying my overweight Marin mountain bicycle and the other trying to steady myself on the overhead hand grip. Every turn the bus took, I had to lock my arm so that I didn’t fall over my bike. This 15 minutes bus ride was almost as gnarly as the hours-long bike rides I would later undertake… in all fairness, though, my bike was horribly unbalanced with way too much weight on the back.

At the other side of the tunnel, we got off the ramp single file, and everyone went their separate way to work. I got on the right-most lane of the highway, reserved for bicycles, and started making my way to Matanzas. The highway is mostly straight with few hills, but there were a couple of forks where I had to stop and ask people which way to go. Everyone was immediately friendly and helpful - I didn’t get lost once anywhere in Cuba, mostly due to everyone’s approachability and willingness to help.

The excessive weight I was carrying quickly became apparent whenever I faced an uphill climb, even a very small one. I never had to resort to walking my bike, but I came pretty close a few times. I did make sure to build up a lot of speed on top gear before an uphill (my speedometer creeped over 50km/h several times), and I overcame a few of them en valseuse - standing up on my pedals.

It would become all too obvious that leaving as late as I did would make it very difficult for me - by 11:00am, the heat was nearing unbearable levels, and by 12:30pm it was painfully clear that I would have to stop until the sun started going down, whether I wanted to or not. I pulled into one of the tourist resto-stops at the side of the highway, ordered a soda and relaxed in the shade. I also took advantage of that time to ask for some tap water, and refill my 1.5L Ciego Montero bottle, adding some drops of purifier (Tap water is more or less safe around the city, but I have a history of bad luck while traveling, so I didn’t want to take a chance at the very start of my trip). At around 1:45pm, I got back on the road. I only stopped once more at 3pm to drink and water and relax in the shade near a big oil refinery with a Canadian flag flying high.

The scenery, needless to say, was quite breathtaking all the way from Havana to Matanzas. It starts off as your average, “Autoroute des Laurentides”-ish divided highway, but the crowded leafy trees and lampposts quickly give way to spectacular natural views just kilometers away from Havana. You’ve got the ocean and sandy beachy shores on your left (I was almost tempted to stop and jump into the waves on more than once occasion), and vast fields and hills just covered with Palm trees and all sorts of vegetation as far as the eye can see. There are many species of flora and fauna endemic to Cuba, so it’s no stretch of the imagination to say that you’ll only see sights like this in Cuba.

By the time I made it to Matanzas, a light rain had started so I had to stop and cover my equipment with my tarp and put my raincoat on. I had serious trouble getting my bearings in this city - there are two “parts” to the city separated by a huge bay (Matanzas is the 4th-busiest sugar port in the world), and as with several other Cuban cities (as I’d be loathe to discover), there are also two addressing schemes; the “old” one and the “new” one - names, and numbers.

My good luck invariably had me carrying contact addresses in one format while in reality the city still functioned on the other. I rode for a full 30 minutes through the unmarked suburban/rural sprawl of eastern Matanzas, searching for an address I wasn’t even sure was accurate, eventually realizing that I was going in circles.

Tired, soaked and with the sun disappearing past the horizon, I gave up, and approached a group of 8 young inked / pierced guys sitting on the curb in front of their house - something I would never do here, not out of fear, but out of embarrassment. I explained my situation to them, told them the address I was searching for, and asked if one of them would get on his bike and show me how to get there. The youngest one - Yanmay - volunteered, and soon we were on our way. Within 10 minutes we were at my casa. I thanked him, paid him some change (very little for me, but probably a couple weeks salary for him), and he offered to show me around the clubs and such while I was staying in Matanzas.

I spent the next few nights hanging out with him and his friends, and - as a sign of things to come - made my first real friend in Cuba (excluding people I already knew through work or the Internet). I made many more of what I call “friends” (I don’t use the term loosely) in Cuba these +/- 2 months than I have in the past year in Montreal.