Viajes en Sudamérica

Monday, 12 April 2010

A GOLDEN RULE IS BROKEN ON THE BUS TO TRINIDAD

I have always lived by a strict self-imposed policy never to use a toilet on a bus, but somewhere between Santa Clara and Trinidad, I have to make an exception.

Unfortunately, the countryside is hilly, the roads bumpy, and the bus driver slightly erratic. The best I can report is that the toilet door did not slide open half way through and that my legs were still dry afterwards.

The worst? The worst will not be reported, as what goes on the bus in Cuba, stays on the bus in Cuba.

Sunday, 11 April 2010

A FEAST OF LOBSTER IN SANTA CLARA

When I arrive back around seven at Hostal Las Arecas, Vila informs me that dinner will be around eight. Gilda then tells me that she loves me (´te amo´), causing me some surprise, and significant discomfort that she would suddenly announce this in front of her husband, until I realise she has actually said ´te llamo´ - she will call me (when dinner is ready).

When dinner is ready, it is a feast of lobster, rice, salad and chips, and also my first can of the Cuban Coca Cola - TuCola. I am slightly disappointed that my hosts do not eat with me so I can practice my Spanish, but they both chat to me after I finish my cena.

Gilda tells me about her other son that is working as a doctor in Arizona. Vilo tells me he plans to watch every football match during the World Cup. I tell him that I hope Inglaterre do not win, but without the vocabulary to explain about Braveheart and the pillaging of Scottish oil.

Vilo and Gilda and their son Pedro are good people and I will be sorry to move on tomorrow.

UN PASEO EN DOMINGO EN SANTA CLARA

Santa Clara on a Sunday reminds me of Spain. The people come to the main square to meet and enjoy a refresco. There is music, laughter and sun. The seats in the shade get take early. A band is playing and there is somewhat of a party atmosphere. Old people gossip. Mothers shout at their children not to eat ice cream that has fallen on the floor. Poor people try to sell almonds. And of course, beggars beg and drunks get drunk.

An old man in a mickey mouse tshirt sits next to me to talk. I think he has had several too many. He does all the talking, and I do all of the not understanding anything that he says. I smile and shake my head occassionally, and he eventually gets up and moves on when I give him the dregs of my can of orangeade.

Later, a couple sitting next to me explain that the band plays every Sunday for the old people to dance. The man is an electrical engineer and his wife is some sort of administrator. Her brother lives in New Orleans, and they want to visit him but cannot. I asm them if they think the US and Cuban governments will change things in the future, to which they smile and reply ´quizas´ - perhaps.

FAST FOOD IN SANTA CLARA

I had made a conscious decision to limit my intake of McDonalds during my travels, but no effort is required in Cuba because the Golden Arches doesn´t exist. That said, I am already on my thirf EL RAPIDO, a quite impressive achievement in only four full days in Cuba. I can confirm that the food is cheap and indeed rapido, but I will try to limit my intake for the rest of my time in Cuba. Tonight I done with my hosts Vilo and Gilda and am expecting a feast so have only one hamburguesa for lunch.

REFLECTIONS ON THE BUS FROM VARADERO TO SANTA CLARA

Today I arrived in Cuba. Varadero was an imposter. If you ignore the antiquated cars (mostly lada 1600´s, Cadillacs and 1960 Fords), the empty supermarket shelves, the odd chicken in the road and the fact there are no Hilton Hotels overlooking stretches of golden sand and azul sea where you would normally expect to find a major US hotel chain, Varadero could be any holiday resort in any tourist destination in the world. Some of the pueblos on the way to Santa Clara are definitely not what Varadero look like.

There are many signs on the road there, with messages of encouragement for the Revolutionary cause such as ´Patria Es Humanidad´, ´Revolucion es Unidad´ and ´Revolucion 100%´. I notice that very few of them have been freshly painted in years.

The situation in Cuba is already starting to strike me as slightly hopeless. Do the locals not look at the modern, spacious, air-conditioned tourist coaches and wonder why they need to stand like sardines in delapidated 50 year old buses. Do they not see the adverts on the Latin American television and question why they can never buy these things? some of the younger people I have spoken to have told me ´para luchar´with little conviction when I ask them about their circumstances. There were certainly none of the younger generation standing in the queue at the Correos de Cuba kiosk the other day, waiting for Fidel´s reflections. Have the reasons for the Revolution started to be forgotten with the passing of time?

Friday, 9 April 2010

A COLD BEER ON A BENCH IN VARADERO

When I was walking back to the hotel this evening, a security guard outside a primary school asked me if I was German, and then for some money for a Coca Cola. At least I think this is what he asked for, but either way, I told him I was Scottish and had no dinero, and asked him why he was guarding a primary school.

He explained it was because of the Revolution and specifically because of borrachoes extranjeros (foreign drunks). He then said something about Estados Unidos that I didn´t quite understand, partly because he talked quickly, but mostly because I was too busy trying to conceal the can of Cristal (the preferred beer of Cubans according to its logo) that I had just been drinking on a bus stop bench minutes earlier, behind my back.

A SORE FOOT IN VARADERO

Although I am already questioning some of the things that I have packed in my rucksack (will I really need a sleeping bag that is comfortable to -5 degrees C?), and also already picked up on a few luggage oversights (a travel sink-plug and suntan lotion that actually works being two), I can happily report that I have already had to make use of both my sewing kit and first aid kit.

Needing to perform some open-toe surgery on a painful blister, the sewing kit provided the safety pin to burst the blister, and the first aid kit provided the antiseptic cream and elastoplast. No needle and thread was needed to stich up my big toe after this delicate and complex operation.

THE REFLECTIONS OF FIDEL CASTRO RUZ

I passed a crowd of viejos queing outside a closed post office kioskthis morning. None of them were holding letters, and there seemed to be a mood of impatienceso I decided to sit down in the shade opposite to investigate. Minutes passed, and the queue got longer. Old heads were shook, and lips were pursed. When the Correoes de Cuba eventually opened about fifteen minutes later, it transpired the locals were waiting to buy GRAMMA, the official newspaper of the Cuban Communist Party. I raised a revolutionary fist in the air, joined the queue and bought a copy for fifteen pence.

Fidel himself had an article in the newspaper. He described the recent final session of the Congress of the Young Communists of Cuba as being one of the most emptional moments in his long life. He then reflected that when their powerful neighbour to the North decided to annexe Cuba, it was like a ripe fruit being picked from a rotten tree, and went on to talk about the US in no uncertain terms, using a lot of words that I was less certain about. Fidel finished by concluding that the reasons for fighting the Revolution multiply every day. I wonder if the Cuban people agree, and intend to find out tomorrow.

SWANS MADE FROM TOWELS IN VARADERO

I´ve always thought highly of hotels that make baseball-capped swans out of towels for their guests, so I´ve decided to stay another couple of days in Hotel Dos Mares.

This is in part because I have discovered that sunburn is only painful if you move, so I intend to lie perfectly still on my bed for the next two days, watching el Clasico (Real Madrid versus Barcelona) on a Spanish TV channel, and the outer perimeter of the US Masters on ESPN.

IS THAT YOU, JW?

I´ve noticed that all Cuban women wear tight fitting clothes. I don´t yet know if its the fashion to wear clothes that are two sizes too small for them, or if they have recently all collectively put on weight.

If its the latter, I know how they feel. The elastic in my swimming shorts has been painfully chaffing the insides of my legs since I arrived in Cuba. I am already walking like John Wayne.

Thursday, 8 April 2010

THE FISHERMEN IN VARADERO

The Varadero peninsula apparently offers 26 kilometres of beach. I walked along a good part of it this morning. Some stretches were deserted, some filled with sunbathing holiday-goers, and other parts with a few locals. Being an angler of some repute myself, I stopped to talk to the fishermen casting from the shore along the way.

- Has cogido mucho?

They showed me their buckets of fish.

- Que tipo pez es este?

They told me.

- Para comer?

They were apparently delicious to eat.

They all asked me where I was from. I think the fishermen were pleased that I stopped to speak to them, and even more so that I did it in Spanish. A couple of them told me that my Spanish was very good. I smiled and told them I needed practice. I didn´t tell them that I didn´t have a clue what type of fish they had caught.

I noticed that the fishermen with sizable stomachs hanging over their trouser belts all had nets and caught the most. The fishermen of medium build all fished with rods, and the thinnest men all fished with just a line cast off from a hand-held reel.

It was one of the thinnest fishermen that asked me if I wanted a fish to take home and cook. When I told him I had no money, he seemed surprised that I would think he offered it for anything other than free. Los Cubanos are apparently all generous, as on my walk back along the playa to Hotel Dos Mares, a man asked me to take his wife back to Scotland with me. I told him Cuba was better (and no thanks).

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

VARADERO: ANTI AMERICANISM & AIR CONDITIONING

Cuban censorship has struck its first blow. The ESPN transmission of the US Masters has got a big black box across the middle of the television screen, so I cannot watch the golf.

I have noticed a lot of anti-americanism since I arrived. The holiday rep on the bus from the airport cracked one to many anti-American jokes, at least for the American on the that was on the bus. I have also yet to see an American flag flying from any of the hotels along Calle Primera, Valladero's main hotel street. I suspect flying a star-spangled banner in Cuba would be tantamount to flying a St Georges Cross during the World Cup, outside a pub in Glasgow.

The rep also informed us that the Cuban national sport is hitchhiking. Certainly there were large numbers of people standing at the side of the road between the airport and central Varadero. I wonder if there is any etiquette involved, or if you can just drive past the old-weak and only pick up the air hostesses off to start their shift with Air Cubana.

Hotel Dos Mares is a hotelroom of compromises. Do I watch the television or have the air-conditioning on? Do I sleep of have the air-conditioning on? The air-conditioning is extremely antiquated and loud. My bed vibrates when I put it on minimum temperature. I don't think I would notice an earthquake in Valladero if I had it on maximum temperature.

Thinking about derrumabas de tierro suddenly makes me wonder if I need an earthquake strategy, particularly since the ceiling rafters in room 106, Hotel Dos Mares look like they were not constructed with earthquake-proof structuring in mind. Also, I think my bed would collapse if the roof caved in, as it nearly collapsed when I put my rucksack on it when I first arrived.

In conclusion, I think I will horse it downstairs and outside if my hotel room suddenly starts to shake, and my air-conditioning is not switched on.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

THE JOURNEY BEGINS (SCOTLAND > ENGLAND > CUBA)

I head back down to London today, to catch my flight on Wednesday from Gatwick to Cuba.

Next stop Varadero.

Saturday, 3 April 2010

LAPTOP BASTARDOS

I've been deliberating for several weeks now on whether to take a laptop with me to South America. It’s evident from the numerous backpackers seen tapping away on laptop at airport and coffee shop wireless hotspots in recent years that a computer is an increasingly commonplace thing for non-business travellers to pack in their luggage, probably because price is much less of a barrier nowadays, and it’s possible to get a high-spec notebook for less than GBP 200 – less than I paid for my Malarone anti-malarials.

But in the end, I have opted not to take one with me. First and foremost, it feels the right decision to make given a large part of my reason for taking a Sabbatical in the first place is because I am sick of staring at a computer screen for 10-12 hours a day. Another important factor I considered is that I need to travel light, and a laptop cannot really be considered an essential item to take up the limited space I will have in my rucksack. Lastly, I realised that carrying a notebook computer will probably increase the likelihood of attracting the unwanted attention of thieves, or as BabelFish just advised me: 'bastardos de toma de muestras'.

I will stick to cybercafés to check my email and write this blog, and hopefully avoid the bastardos.

Friday, 2 April 2010

THINGS THAT COULD HAPPEN DURING MY SABBATICAL

I could get brainwashed by the Heaven’s Gate cult just outside San Francisco. I could get given a love bite by a Chagas Disease carrying assassin bug whilst sleeping in a straw hut in Quito. I could lose all my money in Vegas, and have to go home early. I could get eaten by a shark whilst scuba-diving in Corpus Christi. I could dance a drunken rumba with a mysterious Bogotán chica, and wake up the next morning in a hotel room bathtub full of ice, with vital internal organs missing. I could get buried in an avalanche near Aconcagua. Some homies in California Angeles could take offense at the insignia on my trainers, and pop a couple of caps in my ass. A lovestruck teenager in Guatemala could get distracted by a text message from her boyfriend and not see the green man as I cross the road towards me, whilst I cross the road. I could get a fatal pulmonary oedema in the high altitude foothills of the Andes. I could get buried alive by rockfall in Honduras. I could get robbed of all my money and passport in El Salvador. I could be bitten by a mosquito in Costa Rica and catch plasmodium falciparum malaria. I could get eaten by a crocodile in the Everglades. A bus driver in Mexico City could fall asleep at the wheel and crash the bus I am on. I could have a fantastic journey and come home safely. I could get buried in the rubble of a Guadalajara earthquake. I could get beheaded by Monterrey gangsters that think I am from a rival gang. I could jump of a tall building in Dallas because England win the World Cup. I could die of a high-voltage electric shock in a poorly-wired cyber cafe in Panama City. I could get murdered by pirates off the coast of Barranquilla. I could get caught by police with a hidden package of cocaine in my rucksack, having being unwittingly set-up as a mule by some Medellin drug-runners. I could catch Dengue Fever in the tropical Amazon rainforest. I could get swept away in a flash flood in the Amazon basin. I could find the lost city of gold (El Dorado), but then get lost and not be able to find my way back out again. I could get bitten by a mosquito in La Paz, and then discover that the Malarone tablets I bought off the Internet are fake. I could drown in a tsunami in Trujillo whilst sunbathing. I could be bitten by a rabid dog in Lima. I could fall into the lava at Pacaya. I could drown in a mud landslide near Machu Pichu. I could get beaten up by the Senderos Luminoso outside Cuzco for being a capitalist pig. I could be taken a politic prisoner in Buenos Aires over the second Falklands War. I could break an ankle doing an over-exuberant Samba in Rio. A cuban cigar could explode in my face in Havana.