Rest day in Heemstede

The overnight flight was uneventful and we landed on time at Schiphol. The baggage was a little delayed though. I caught the Zuidtangent to Schalkwijk, bought groceries and another strippenkaart, and had lunch.

I went over to P's place and the washing machine took 3-½ hours to do my laundry. But it was a very good machine and everything came out spotless. While the machine slaved away I regaled P with the story of my trip and photos. Then I went back to the flat to rest and to repack for the next segment of my trip. It was noticeably warmer than when I set out for Cuba; pleasant and cool after the tropical heat and humidity of Cuba.

In the evening I missed the bus to their place, so I walked for 20 minutes. The tranquility and beauty of the Dutch landscape soothed me and filled my veins with calm. I gave the cigars and rum to K. It was a short day, but I had to leave for Barcelona the next day.

Cuba, the summing

The mango tree in the landlord's garden drops fruit when the wind blows hard. He said that now and then you can hear a plop. He worked as an ideologue of the communist party. Presumably he wrote pieces in official newspapers, etc. I wondered if he really believed in the revolution.


Breakfast consisted of minicroquettes and scrambled eggs. No milk for coffee. If there is no desire for milk, then one will not be unhappy when it is absent, I reflected. I had a suspicion that my observation wasn't original. But I caught myself already starting to live in the future, imagining what I would do when I got back to the Netherlands. I was obviously Cuba-fatigued. Tired of being hassled by panhandlers. Tired of not being able to reach destinations. Tired of everything being a little messy, a little more bother. I yearned to be back in a country where things just worked.


I needed to kill time until noon. I wished I had some reading material left; I had given away all the books I had. I trimmed my toenails. At 1100 I couldn't stand the boredom any more and went out for a walk. I discovered that the cigar shop was open again. Cuba still managed to surprise. I bought a packet of 20 cigarillos for K. There was a strange export limit of 23 cigars in force when I was there. (It has probably changed since.) Incidentally imitation and poor quality cigars are a standard street scam in Cuba, so one is advised to buy from official shops.


I was tempted to buy some cheap books in Spanish for reading practice, perhaps Castro's History Will Absolve Me, or works of Isabel Allende and Henry Miller, but I knew that I would falter in my good intentions. Paulo Coelho seemed to be popular in Cuba.


There was neither spaghetti nor pizza available for lunch at Rumbos for reasons that will remain a mystery to me. The waiter was sullen. I spent the rest of my pesos on peanuts.


The landlord told me that Isabel had a couple of lodgers who were also going to the airport and I could share a taxi with them. I showered and checked out, abandoning my thongs and sneakers. The two were mother and daughter. The mother was Dutch Indonesian and had been visiting her daughter who was studying for a few months in Cuba. I accompanied them on a last-minute shopping spree in Holguin. They bought trinkets, cigars and rum.


It is a little odd that a small city like Holguin has an international airport, the Frank Pais airport. I suppose it, and Santiago de Cuba, are the largest cities in the east. The customs check was slow. I bought one last CD from the airport shop before boarding.


Our takeoff was delayed because a couple of Dutch nationals were denied entry and had to return by the same plane that brought them to Holguin. I never knew why they were personae non gratae.


Was it worth it? Would I do it again? Certainly one does not go to Cuba for the cuisine. While I ate many competently cooked meals, they were doing the best they could with basic ingredients. As for beaches, Australia has better ones, and other Caribbean islands can compare with Cuba. Cuba wasn't exorbitant but wasn't a budget destination either. You could get the same quality for much less in SE Asia. The Spanish colonial architecture is worth seeing, but a little wasted on me. I enjoyed Cuban music whenever I encountered it. Most of all though, Cuba was an adventure, one of those oddities that fascinate travellers. A place to collect tales to bore listeners for years to come.


What would become of Cuba? It was sad that it had fallen so far behind in development and it might be hard to catch up. The starvation days of the Special Period may be over, but there was so much human potential going to waste in Cuba. They did have the advantages of high literacy, excellent medical care and people who are adept at improvisación. I once saw a documentary showing a Cuban who had fitted a Lada engine to an American car body. Now that's clever.

Loma de la Cruz

I was pleased that there was an EGREM shop in Holguin. I had accepted that there might not be one when I did not buy CDs in Havana, to travel lighter. However many of the artists or recordings that I sought were not available, and those on sale were a bit unfamiliar. I picked out a handful of CDs and another two from Artex nearby. But the cigar shop we had visited on the first pass was closed due to the freeze. Apparently the freeze was in response to recent US belligerence. Maybe the shop at the airport might be open. Worst come to the worst perhaps I could get some in Schiphol airport. Wow, I thought Cuba was getting boring and this happens.

The other shops in the plaza had queues of Cubans outside, waiting to stock up. I got a bottle of rum from the counter at Rumbos. I carried the booty back to the casa, then walked to the foot of the hill to await the Swedes. They were quite late. Apparently they had overslept, they had no alarm clock, and the landlady didn't rouse them.


The steps up Loma de la Cruz were unergonomic so the climb was tiring but there was a good view of Holguin's surrounds from the top. There a church at the summit, as the name suggests, with residues (candle wax, devotional objects, etc) left by visitors. In a small cavern was an art gallery run by a local artist.


The Swedes couldn't change their tickets so they were committed to leaving for Santiago de Cuba the next day. They paid for their lunch with a whole mess of coins. They complained about running out of money, yet they seemed nonchalant handling it. I hoped that they would be more sensible with money for the rest of their holiday. I gave them my contact details, we parted at the natural history museum then I went back for a siesta. In the evening I had a good final dinner in Cuba at Restaurant 1720. I could shop for the rest of the souvenirs the next day as the flight was for late afternoon.

Holguin 3

Graphic deficiency warning: there are only a couple of photos left of Cuba to present, and none for today. I must have been really weary of Cuba and yearning to go back to Europe.


I reminded the dueña that she had promised to show me where the barber was, so she asked a kid to take me there. I had probably the cheapest haircut in my life. The official price according to the notice on the wall was 2 pesos, but he charged me 3 and I gave him another as a tip. That came up to under 16¢ at the official rate of exchange.


At 1230 the taxi came to take the three of us, the Swedes and I, to Holguin. It cost us $18 because the driver had only $2 change. Somehow I think that was not a coincidence. We went to the first choice of casa in the guide book. There was no answer and I soon realised that they were not operating any more. At Isabel's, L's former casa, it was full house. We tried another one from the book. They wanted $25 for only one night and we declined. I decided to try Hilda, the former dentist while the Swedes tried a neighbour of Hilda's. The neighbour sent them to another casa so we parted and arranged to meet that evening. I waited for a while but no sign of Hilda. I went back to Isabel who sent me back to the first offer. This time they agreed on $20 as I was staying two nights.


Later that afternoon, I discovered the probable reason Hilda was out was that the government had suddenly declared a freeze on the sales of dollar denominated goods. So people were out stockpiling. I wondered if it would affect my plans to buy cigars and a bottle of rum for K back in Heemstede.


We had dinner at Rumbos; that place was getting to be a regular haunt. Afterwards we had ice cream, but there were only sticks left, no cones.


I think this was the day I spotted a stretch Lada and regretted not taking a photo of it. (But if you do a search on "stretch Lada" you will find some specimens.) It was a superlong Lada, made by welding sections together, like how they make stretch limos. I supposed that it was used for weddings, etc.


The film at Cine Frexes was cancelled. I wondered if the dollar goods freeze had anything to do with it. Oh well, an early night then. I would shop for the cigars and rum after breakfast, then meet the Swedes to climb Loma de la Cruz which overlooks Holguin. When we first arrived from Baracoa, J had confused loma (hill) with lomo (pork) while reading the guide. Huh? Pork of the cross?, she had exclaimed.

Gibara 3

A young Swedish couple in my casa said that a boat left for the other side of the bay at 1000. So after breakfast we caught it. There were two armed guards on the boat. Apparently people have attempted to escape Cuba in such boats. At the other end, a man with a horse cart gave us a lift to the beach. We thanked him and gave him some pesos for the favour.

The beach wasn't that great, it had huge waves. The girl swam and sunbathed. I saw her reading Mutant Message Down Under. I was surprised to hear that she believed it. The boy didn't know what he wanted to do after finishing his national service, maybe a business and computing degree.


On the return trip there was only one guard. He even helped with the mooring rope. I sat in the centre that time so as to not get splashed.


We went to the pizza shop mentioned in the guide but they didn't have any pizzas so I settled for a bocadillo. When the girl paid for her order, I noticed that the waiter had shortchanged her by 5 pesos. I drew this to her attention, saying count your change, but she shrugged. It was a trifling sum, and the Cubans needed the money more than we did, but still I didn't like being cheated on the sly. The two of them seemed a bit naïve. Apparently they had overspent their budget in Havana and were slowing down their travelling to spend less.


Seeing some flowers for sale, I bought a bunch for the dueña to burn up some pesos.

That evening I went to the casa that I had been asked by the Holguin landlady to deliver a note to. The note was partly a ploy to get me to stay at her friend's place. She was a bit irked and asked me why I hadn't gone to her place. I said that I didn't like being constrained to a particular place. Also I wanted to enjoy the comfy casa that I had chosen, to use up a few more dollars, and it wasn't expensive by Cuban standards anyway. I did give her the last of my Aussie postcards though.


That evening we attended a video film in the town hall for 1 peso. It was a Bruce Willis film called Unbreakable. Interesting premise, but tedious. Not the most exciting of evenings but there wasn't much to do in Gibara on a Sunday night.


Earlier the dueña had asked me if I had any medicine, but I had already given away all my stock. What I had left was a home-made power cable with a US plug at one end and crocodile clips at the other, to connect my battery charger to the mains. That cable would make safety experts sharply suck in their breath, but it had served me well. I would not need it in Europe. So my beaten up pair of sneakers was the only thing left to give away in Cuba.

Gibara 2

There was absolutely no need to sightsee anything in Gibara, so breakfast was leisurely. The Dutch couple and I agreed to hire a car to Playa Caletones, about 17 km west of Gibara. The dueña made the arrangements. While waiting I went to get some bottled water for the trip. The queues at the shops were long, but the friendly locals pushed me to the front. At 1100 the Dutch turned up at my casa, with L, who had just arrived from Holguin, and we set off.

It took ½ hour to reach the playa along a gravel road. It was a tiny bay in front of a small village but it had very fine sand and a few thatch shelters. The constant breeze evinced by the coconut palms in the pictures kept the heat under control. I had forgotten to bring my towel but I dried quickly in the wind.

There were kids fishing in the water, and at one point a family of pigs trotted past. Some goats browsed near the beach. I joked to the others that I had approached a goat to get his opinion on Cuban politics, and all he said was bah! There was also a French couple at the playa; they were driving from Baracoa to Holguin.


The excursion cost us $15 split 4 ways. We returned to town quite satisfied.

In the early evening, we ascended to the mirador again and discovered that there was a restaurant in the building. They said that yes they served dinner so I made a round-trip to the casa to tell the dueña not to make me dinner. We dined to the sound of the wind rustling through the palms. The prawns they served were fairly good. The one disagreeable aspect was the filthy state of the toilet, due the shortage of water in the building. Not something you want to think about over dinner.

Down in the town again, we bumped into the student from the night before. He took us to a heladeria for some good tubs of ice cream. There was a rap concert in progress near the huge marlin shaped portal at the harbour. We went to the casa de musica to listen to a crooner singing boleros but I think the Dutch were bored by the old-fashioned music. So it was back to the main stage where the flamenco performance finally got going. The Canarian bore from the night before was still hanging around. Late that evening the student touched us for 50 cents to buy some cigarettes.

Gibara 1

I had under a week left of my Cuban sojourn, so I'd decided to chill out in a seaside town called Gibara, roughly north of Holguin. (Guardalavaca is roughly north-east.) I walked to the central plaza, stopping for a guarapo on the way. I had to search a bit as the taxi rank was not obvious. I accepted an offer to take me to Gibara for $17. We were stuck behind a horse cart and a hearse for part of the way. Well the occupant of the latter was in no hurry any more. When we got to Gibara, the driver had to ask people for my destination casa. I had no map, and not all the street signs were visible. I gave the driver a $1 tip for his trouble.

The casa was comfy compared to previous accommodations—it had a few rooms so the dueña was doing serious business. There were several Dutch people staying there. One couple was cycling, another had come by bus, and two men had come by rented car. There was also a Canadian couple. In one corner of the courtyard was a parrot on a perch. There was a shy cat. But perhaps not so shy as to not molest the bird; I saw the bird being moved somewhere safer that evening.

I walked around town to have a look. Like at Guanabo and Baracoa, there was a constant breeze flowing. There was a small fishing harbour in Bahia de Gibara.  I could see a better looking beach on the other side. This could be a day trip later.

In the centre of town was a huge tree with most peculiar seed pods. They were all sizes and seemed to dangle from random places on the tree. I felt uneasy in the presence of such undisciplined fecundity. The guide book said that this was a roble africano, an african oak. (Note from the future: A search for roble africano or african oak on the Internet turned up mostly hits from the same guide book. I couldn't find any pictures resembling this tree and also oaks have acorns, not pods. I found a suggestion that african oak can be a misnomer; it could refer to oldfieldia africana which is not of the quercus family, but I couldn't find any confirming pictures. So if anybody can positively identify this tree, I'd be grateful.)

I bumped into the Dutch couple from Holguin the day before having a peso lunch. I joined them. She had a Thai father and Dutch mother so she had one of those tongue twisting Thai surnames. We walked up to the citadel and mirador on a small rise overlooking the town. These schoolkids couldn't resist clowning around for the camera.

Afterwards we had guarapo from a stall to cool off. We encountered beggars in the streets, but the townsfolk were in general more friendly than in the cities of Cuba. We noted that there would be a rock and bolero night at the casa de cultura so we arranged to meet in the evening.

Dinner was not preordered but made on request so I was late meeting the Dutch in the centre. There we met a German couple on their honeymoon. We walked along the sea wall, but there was nothing to see there, just a strong cooling breeze to enjoy.

Back at the centre, we found townspeople gathering around the musical stage. The musos were playing loud rock but nobody was dancing. A Cuban student who had spent 3 months in Germany as an exchange student chatted to us. He spoke good German and English. A Cuban man hung around us chatting. He told us that his forebears came from the Canary Islands. I jokingly translated this for the Germans as he says he's a little yellow bird. He tried to persuade us to go to a disco. Some Cubans hang around tourists like that, hoping to touch the tourists to pay for their entertainment.