I got a filling breakfast with more of those succulent home-grown mangos again. Time to go sightseeing. I walked to the parque and took pictures of the surrounding buildings. Cienfuegos has some beautiful neoclassical buildings from the Spanish colonial period. It is on the UNESCO heritage list. Incidentally although the word literally means hundred fires, it was so named because a Capitan-General of the same name lived on Cuba.
One building in particular reminded me of the railway station in Kuala Lumpur because of the Moorish towers, domes and arches. It's interesting that the Arab influence went both ways, via the Moors to Spain, and thence to the New World, and via Arab traders to South-East Asia.
The cemetery with the tomb of La Bella Durmiente (Sleeping Beauty) was close by so I thought why not have a look? The guard there was kind enough to show me the tomb with a statue of a languishing woman over it. The beautiful statue has given rise to many legends (page in Spanish), but nobody is sure what the real story is. Most stories revolve around a woman dying young at 23, of some melancholy reason, a broken heart, excessive medication and so on.
There were some preparations in progress at the Malecón (sea wall). Later Gladys told me that the next day would be Foundation Day. I decided to walk to the promontory, Punta Gorda. Cienfuegos lies at the head of a large bay so it wasn't open sea.
Along the way I stopped at a dilapidated boat landing to check the view and take some pictures. A woman in her late 20s or early 30s in a green bikini at the water's edge came over and greeted me, and shook hands. We started conversing, then a policeman on a motorcycle came around and she fell silent. The policeman took out his bocadillo (sandwich) lunch and started eating.
After a moment I decided to move on and reached Punta Gorda. There was a gazebo at the tip but not much to see except the view across the large Cienfuegos bay. I took some pictures of the point and nearby architecture and walked back. On the way a pitiful old woman asked me for alms so I gave her a dollar.
When I returned to the landing, the young woman was still there but the policeman had left. We resumed our conversation where we had left off. She was having a day out with her father and two kids, 2 and 4, who were swimming nearby. She had a common-law husband but was separated now. She worked as a social worker of sorts, looking after old people. She said that her casa was near the parque. Then she asked: What are you doing tonight?
Ah.
I should have seen that coming. I instantly decided that one big lie would be easier to sustain than a series of excuses: Tengo novia.
But she wasn't convinced and asked, So how come she's not travelling with you?
Well, I said, she has to work and I was visiting my friends in Europe who are not her friends.
She persisted, You love her very much then?
Sorry, yes, I lied.
She couldn't gainsay that so we talked about other topics. Before we parted she asked me for a quarter. I readily gave her two.
Well, that was an interesting experience, I thought. That explained the policeman, he was trying to curtail contact between a Cubana and a foreigner. Turning the incident over in my mind, I was curious how it might even pan out. Since I wasn't allowed to take chicas back to my casa, I imagined that I would have to turn up at her casa with a bottle of rum, money and prophylactics. The scenario seemed so tawdry. I realised that I had forgotten to compliment her a bit on her looks at the beginning of the conversation; I always forget little courtesies like that. She was somewhat attractive, though she had let herself go a bit at the waist, perhaps after having had two kids. Or maybe it was the starch in the Cuban diet. I believe too that like the tout who took me to the criolla restaurant in Havana, she was an opportunistic rather than a habitual operator.
I went back to my casa to shower and wash my clothes. There was a clothes line in the courtyard. I hoped that they would dry in time for tomorrow. While the sunshine was doing its work, I walked around the corner to the bus station to buy my departure ticket for the next day, but the counter was already closed. Never mind, I could do it before breakfast then.
Here are two forms of transportation in Cienfuegos. This old technology works.
This newer one hasn't for a while.
A doctor neighbour of my hosts who had some stomach ailment came around, so I gave him some of the medication I was carrying. Dinner was filling again.
I was hoping for a spectacular sunset but the sun was obscured by clouds and the industries at the edge of the bay contributed to an insipid picture.
I finished my paperback copy of The Odyssey. It was sort of disconcerting to be in a parallel odyssey of my own, complete with sirens. No wine-dark seas in mine that's for sure. I told myself to be always in the present no matter how tiring and irritating Cuba was.
Time to hit the road. I had decided in advance to omit the Pinar del Rio province from my Cuban itinerary, essentially all of Cuba to the west of Havana, about 100 km of the 1250 km long island. Geographically, Cuba is like an east-west crocodile, long and stretched, only about 100 km north-south. It was regrettable, but I couldn't visit every place and had to leave something out. In fact I would even skip one province between Havana and Cienfuegos in its eponymous province, Matanzas province, containing Varadero, the package tourist enclave on a long spit of sand.
This is the José Martí Memorial. It is possible to get an aerial view from the top, but it cost money and I was in budget mode.
And this is a wire-frame outline of Che Guevara on the front of the Ministry of Interior Defense. This iconic image has been reproduced on uncountable T-shirts. The original photo was taken in 1960 by Alberto Korda at a march. In 1967 Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, the Italian publisher of Guevara's captured Bolivian Diary, obtained a copy from Korda to accompany the diary to draw attention to Guevara's plight as CIA backed Bolivian forces closed in on the guerrillas. After Guevara's capture and summary execution, there was no stopping the image from spreading to worldwide recognition. Korda got nothing out of it but forgave Feltrinelli because he had drawn attention to Guevara.
Here is a view of the parade ground, seen from the base of the José Martí Memorial. I had to snap the photo and leave quickly before the guardians of the memorial might declare that I was inside the memorial grounds and would need to pay an entrance fee.
At departure time, I was taken, along with a couple of other tourists, to the bus via a different entrance, bypassing the Cuban crowds. It was warm in the bus, but the breeze from the open windows helped. I had to fasten a flapping curtain by wedging it against the window pane.
As the bus headed out of Havana, I saw people gathered at stops and junctions hoping for a seat on the bus. Some of them waved clutched dollar bills to highlight their willingness to pay in hard cash. But to no avail, because the bus was full. Once in a while, a passenger would alight, and a lucky Cuban would get the freed up place.
The Autopista Nacional (National Highway) was actually in good condition. Built before the economic crisis, it got little use and thus little wear.The constant onshore winds were evinced by the tilt of coconut palms. Agricultural land in Cuba looked dismal. Because of shortages of transport fuel, horseback riders could be seen. A large bush blaze generated smoke visible for kilometres around, but nobody did anything about it, probably due to lack of fire engines and water. It would have to burn out by itself.
Reception on my FM radio faded out as we distanced ourselves from Havana. Progress was slow. It took 5 hours to cover 184 km. At Cienfuegos, I walked a couple of blocks to a casa that I had picked out of the guide book. The house was shared between two sisters and a brother, all retired. I was a lodger out of the blue as opposed to coming from a recommendation, and my welcome was probably warmer for that. Miriam was the outgoing sister. She had been a schoolteacher and true to her training, she could not resist correcting my conjugation of the irregular verb poner (to put). Then there was calmer Gladys who was also a former teacher. The brother's name I had forgotten to note. They made a point of telling me: no chicas. The idea hadn't even crossed my mind.
The room was spacious and comfy, with two beds and a noisy but working air-conditioner. As I knew ahead of time, there was no reduction for being a single lodger. Casas pay the same amount of tax whether one or two people stay.
Before dinner I showed Australian postcards to an enthusiastic Miriam. As with each place I stayed at, I left one or two postcards behind. The ones of Australian fauna were the most popular. The dinner portion was large and I felt guilty not being able to eat everything; I left some salad on my plate. I got to taste mangos from the tree in their courtyard for desert.
After dinner I walked down to the Parque José Martí. It was more like a town square than a park. Perhaps in Cuba a plaza is something larger, like the one in Havana. There were people looking out doorways, savouring the evening breeze. Streets were clean and not so worn, a marked contrast to Havana. I saw a shop with sound equipment and whitegoods. Prices were about twice what they would be in Europe. The brands appeared to be mostly Korean, probably evading the US secondary sanctions through some complicated selling chain.
Earlier that day, an old lady had chatted me up while I was waiting in Havana bus station. I think she just wanted to talk to a foreigner. Nothing political I should add, but mostly about religion. When I had to go she had scribbled her postal address on a slip of paper asking me to write. But I didn't expect to use it. What could I write that would not remind Cubans that they were not free to visit the outside world?
