J2 was flying to Havana, and we would not meet L until noon, so we had a leisurely morning. J was taking the bus westwards that night. At the breakfast table I joked with the landlady that I needed to get a new wife.
J and I walked around town a bit before lunch. After another lunch at Rumbos we caught up with L. She wanted to check her email at the Pernik Hotel, which was also near the Plaza de la Revolución. We bargained with some bicitaxis but eventually settled for a normal taxi for $2. There were some monuments at the Plaza. We studiously read the inscriptions, but mostly we enjoyed walking around the shady park there.
At the Pernik Hotel, an edifice from the Soviet era, L checked her email over the slow connection, J read a bit about Cuban history from the guide, and I napped on a chair. Afterwards we caught a bicitaxi back to the centre.
We met for pre-dinner drinks at the Begonia, a bar fronting the plaza. Dinner at the Piropo consisted of a chicken pizza for me and spaghetti for J. There was some kind of fashion show at the plaza that evening but we had to leave L before it started.
I walked J to the bus terminal. Nobody was selling tickets. A German traveller waiting there also had no ticket. Which meant there was nothing to worry about. In some places procedures can be informal and I was sure that tickets would be sold either just before the departure or on the bus. While waiting we chatted about our experiences of South America. J would be continuing to Central America after Cuba. She had an address from the landlady of a dentist in Mexico City who could do some dental repairs. Then it was time for her to go. A big hug, and she departed into the night.
I went back to the casa instead of the festivities in the plaza. The next day I would have an early start as L and I would attempt to catch a workers' bus to the beach town of Guadalavaca.
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?
