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?
I looked inside more dollar shops, noting that prices were inflated (heavy tariffs I guess). Book stalls had a lot of propaganda and conspiracy literature.
I had a look inside the Havana Libre hotel which used to be the Hilton but was now managed by a Spanish chain. It had air conditioning and modern amenities but the toilets were a bit unclean and there were flies in the lobby. But nobody bothered me and I finished reading my book of Spanish short stories in one of the armchairs.
Lunch was taken in Trattoria Maraka's which was said to have the best Italian cuisine available in Havana. The anchovy pizza and Cristal beer weren't too bad actually.
After a nap, in the evening I headed out to the Malecón again. There was a strong wind whipping up seaspray and youths were taking advantage of that.
I had a look at the front of the Hotel Riviera whose construction dated back to the gangster days of the dictator Batista. It's one of the top hotels in Havana.
I decided to have a dinner outside the casa for a change. I had some difficulty locating La Complaciente, a paladar (a private restaurant tolerated and heavily taxed by the government). A young man offered to show me the way, protesting to my questions that he wasn't a tout and didn't want any recompense from me. I got a tasty and filling criolla dinner at the paladar only a little marred seeing my "guide" standing outside and waving cheerfully to me. So he was a tout after all, though perhaps an opportunistic rather than a habitual one. I'm certain the paladar must have paid him a dollar or two commission, which would have been built into the price of the meal. The things people have to do to earn a buck in this country.
As expected, I woke up early due to the jetlag. I munched a bit on müsli and nuts, watched a bit of CNN TV, and read a bit then went back to sleep. When I opened my eyes again, it was 0630. I took a picture of the dawn from the balcony, then went down for breakfast.
The dining room was overserviced. There were lots of waiters hanging around looking for something to do. The buffet offered omlette, potatoes, some kind of salad, and bread. Coffee and nice tropical fruit juices were available. It wasn't a memorable breakfast but at least ample.
My first order of business was to locate a casa particular, a home renting out a private room. The hotel room was costing me $50 per night, and my budget was $50 per day. According to guides and travellers who had been there, a private room costs $20 to $25, fairly invariant throughout Cuba, but slightly more in Havana, and the rest accounted for mostly by transport, food and sightseeing. The first place I tried on my list was full, but they told a neighbour who came around to collect me. This was to be a recurring pattern in Cuba: Cubans passing on business to acquaintances. The house was one block away from the hotel and the room was a private one containing its own bath.
Back at the casa, the owner was still not back so I went out sightseeing. Havana was an assault on the senses, after coming from neat Europe. There were potholes in the streets and dog shit on the pavements. Edifices were in disrepair. Money for spare parts and fuel was scarce so the government had developed long buses powered by truck engines, called camelos (camels) due to the humps, to transport many passengers at one go.
The streets were full of people. Many of them were looking for lifts. Fortunately it was not so hard to walk the whole distance from my casa to centro. Here I encountered these bright coco (coconut) taxis.
El Capitolio resembles the Washington one. This area was thick with touts trying to interest tourists in anything they could offer. They were quite pesky and persistent. Sometimes when sex services are involved, they are called jineteros, literally horse jockeys in standard Spanish, but Cuban slang for a tout or pimp.
I saw a couple of dollar shops selling hard currency goods and had a squiz out of curiosity. One has to leave any bags with the counter when going into stores.
This former Canadian schoolbus doing service as a public bus was a donation. I also saw buses donated by other countries, e.g. The Netherlands, amusingly often still displaying the original destination signs.
This is El Floridita, which was one of Hemmingway's favourite bars. He is supposed to have coined the famous line My mojito in La Bodeguita, My daiquiri in El Floridita which is displayed writ large for visitors. No, I didn't have a daiquiri there.
Reliable piped water was yet another one of Havana's problems.
Bacardi rum originated in Cuba, but after the Cuban revolution, they moved operations to the US. Bacardi is not a brand found in Cuba now, the major brand there is Havana Club. This historic building remains.
This museum houses the Granma, the yacht that brought Castro and his revolutionaries to the island. Surrounding it is a motley collection of other displays, including pieces of US warplanes that were shot down. Incidentally granma means exactly what you think, it was named by the yacht's original US owner after his grandmother. The name was also given to the newspaper of the Cuban communist party.
I ascended to the dining room of the Hotel Sevilla. From there one can look over the city. The view of these buildings in disrepair resembled to me photos of bombed out cities in Europe after WWII.
There is a view to the La Cabaña, the fortress on the eastern side of the harbour.
I walked a little along the Malecón, the seafront promenade that is a very recognisable emblem of Havana.
These crumbling buildings were a marked contrast to the new edifice further down the street, probably a tourist hotel, built with foreign investor funds.
Havana used to have a sizable Chinese community, and this gate is a memorial of that era. Many of them moved to the US after the revolution. I had eaten in a Cuban-Chinese restaurant in New York City back in the 80s. The fusion cusine was distinctive and meals in Cuba reminded me where I had eaten similar before. I also recalled a documentary I had seen about some remaining Chinese eking out their old age in Havana.
Fittingly I took my lunch in a restaurant that had been founded by Chinese, called El Flor Loto (Lotus Flower).
Dinner was taken in the casa. Nearly always Cuban casas can cook dinner for you because they can earn a few dollars more from that. It's usually good value. I chatted a bit with the family over pre-dinner drinks. The matriarch, the owner, used to work in the military but had retired.
The day of departure had arrived. I would fly on Martinair to Havana, spend 4 weeks on the island, travelling eastward, finishing up in the city of Holguin, where I would take another Martinair flight back to Amsterdam.
At the shopping centre I stocked up with nuts and dried fruits. I also had some Belgian chocolate. Chocolate is always good for an emergency. One of the Zuidtangent buses had disappeared into a black hole. Services are not always as reliable as you think for the Netherlands. No matter, I had safety margin and at the airport I discovered that the departure was delayed by an hour anyway.
The flight took 10 hours. As far as I could tell most of the passengers were Dutch with a handful of other nationalities, including Cuban. Service on Dutch airlines is restrained; portions are just big enough; no extravagance.
In Havana airport I sailed though immigration and customs though I got more than the usual questions. Perhaps an Aussie this far from home was a curiosity. I thought there might be cheaper Lada taxis outside the airport as mentioned in guides, but apparently not, they had newer European cars now. What a disappointment. Anyway I paid the US$18 for the trip. It's strange that they use the currency of their sworn enemy as hard currency here; that's one of the anomalies of Cuba, although the Euro is gaining a foothold. More on currency later.
The lady official at the taxi rank got a lift home into the city in my taxi, sitting in the front passenger seat. This was to be a recurring pattern in Cuba, people cadging lifts whenever possible due to the shortage of transport. In the taxi she struck up a conversation and professed admiration for Che. It was impossible to tell if it was sincere or for show. Cubans are cagey about their political views, if they have any, and probably with good reason. There were slogans everywhere, on billboards, on walls, for Castro, for Che, for the revolution. But the rustic surroundings looked more like rural Brazil rather than the outskirts of a capital. City buildings were severely dilapidated. It was like a time trip back to Malaysia in the 60s.
I had booked a first night in a hotel, so as to have an official hotel for the immigration form, and then for the rest of my time in Cuba I would seek out casas particulares, rented private rooms, which are tolerated by the state for the hard dollars they bring in via taxes, even though the idea of private enterprise is anathema to Cuban socialism. There was chaos at reception, but the receptionist was cool and dealt with it all deftly. She gave me small bills as change for my US$100 bill, so that I would be able to tip the bellboy.
The room was serviceable, though the fittings were worn and the outside railings were rusty. The air-conditioner worked. The bathroom was a little bare. The hotel directory on the table was very oddly phrased. It had obviously been translated to English by someone who had no knowledge but had a dictionary. I wish I had copied the text down.
Fortunately I had dinner on the flight so I didn't need to go look for a meal. The nuts and dried fruits were a handy snack. There was cable TV in the room so I caught up with the news and repacked my belongings to pass a bit of time. Then I had an early night as the jetlag meant that I was falling asleep in the early evening.
