Day two and leaving Havana

Day two in Havana isn’t quite as crystal clear in my memory as other days, but I remember the afternoon and evening, and our first night out in Cuba.

After some consultation with a map of Cuba we decide that we will head down to the town of Cienfuegos (translates as 100 fires – named after Camilo Cienfuegos, the leader of Column 1 of rebel troops during the revolution – Che leading the other). We head to the bus station and while looking for the ticket selling office a man comes over to us and asks where we are headed. We say we want to head to Cienfuegos the following day. He offers to take us for $15 (it is a two hour car ride) and says that the bus will cost $14.50 each. We go and check, he is telling the truth. So we arrange to meet him at our house the following morning. This is our first encounter with the illegal tourist trade that the Government works so hard to shut down. The Cuban economy has very little income and is supported mainly through tourist dollars, hence the strict controls in place to ensure that Cubans and tourists aren’t doing business unless it is officially licensed. I have already spoken to a couple of guys around La Habana Vieja who have shown me their fines for unlicensed trading or asking for money. Not vast sums, and probably not enough to dissuade the search for the valuable Convertible peso that tourists are supposed to use. It feels mildly hypocritical to support the law but still break it. But I’m far poorer than the vast majority of tourists who visit Cuba on their package holidays and at least the money is making a substantial difference to one person (well we can all justify anything can’t we). We head home and prepare to explore Havana by night.

We have our cold showers and dress (a t-shirt is smart casual in Havana as going topless seems to be the norm). We make the 25 minute walk into La Habana Vieja (old Havana, the downtown that is bursting with Cuban culture, partly for the tourists and partly because it is were the oldest and grandest buildings are). Around the corner from El Capitolio (the parliament that looks like the White House) is a large square (I don’t recall the name). We locate a bar on the corner that appears to be populated by Cubans rather than tourists. We order a steak and a couple of Bucaneros Fuerte (the ubiquitous 5.4% Cuban beer). A pair of middle aged Cuban women across the restaurant are giving Lucas the eye and waving to him.

We’ve learnt earlier that day that a large number of Cuban women, if they like the look of a tourist, will try and sleep with them if they think they can get a few dollars out of it. Known as jiniteras, they only practice this sort of prostitution with tourists, not Cubans. It explains the large amount of attention that Lucas and I have been receiving from women we walk past (especially Lucas with his beard and long hair – and Che Guevara looks).

The pair of Cuban women finally come over and sit down at our table, we don’t want to be rude so we chat to them for a little while before announcing our departure. We head to another bar for another rum and continue to stroll around La Habana Vieja. Then we find a large courtyard in front of what seems like a castle. There is some live Cuban music and therefore lots of tourists. But we sit down anyway to admire the dancing and the castle. While we sit, another pair of women walk past wearing skin tight tracksuit outfits (one in white, the other in fluorescent green). They pretend not to notice us although we spied them watching a few moments earlier. They appear to be archetypal jiniteras. When we finally decide to leave the bar and head home the pair of jiniteras are waiting in an alley way around the corner. We quickly set off, striding briskly. The jiniteras are trying to get our attention with the usual ‘psssst’ that Cubans use in place of ‘oi’. It reminds me of being chased by the transvestites in Rio. We make our escape and head home.

The following morning we pack only our daypacks, sleeping bags and a guitar (storing our larger packs in Ramiro’s closet) in preparation for the ensuing three-week adventure across to the most eastern point of Cuba and back. Our driver arrives a few minutes late – it is actually a mates car and his wife – he must get a commission for finding them extra passengers. We are given the instructions of when the windows need to be up so we aren’t seen and we are off. It isn’t long and we are into the countryside, hitchhiking Cubans are everywhere as we roar along the highway in the long 1970’s model vehicle. I feel somewhat free from the tourism in Havana and can’t wait to see a new town with a different vibe and different traps….

The first day in La Habana

I wake up to one of those hot sunny tropical mornings, it feels great, the thin sheet being just enough to keep me warm as the fan blasts air at me. Lucas has already vanished, I assume exploring, which is standard for any morning, but especially when we arrive somewhere new. I already know that he will return dripping in sweat with the makings for breakfast, wide-eyed at how cool this new country is. I have another cold shower and stroll around the house looking at all the trinkets. Just when my hunger is starting to get the better of my mood Lucas appears – dripping in sweat, with the makings for breakfast, wide-eyed about how cool this new country is, and with a box of Cuban cigars….

I am told about the dual currency system and what the apparent cost of living is (not as cheap as we first thought – it seems) while we make a fried ham and bread breakfast with a fruit salad. Then Ramiro arrives. He is a well dressed middle aged professor. He teaches English (and possibly something else) at the University. He then starts to tell us most of what anyone visiting Cuba will ever need to know. There are 24 cubanos (Cuban pesos) per convertible (convertible peso). An exchange rate that makes Lucas realise that he was a fraction hasty in changing some of our convertibles, and also that the cost of living, when buying in cubanos is extremely low.

Lucas has already figured out a vague idea of where the city centre is so we put our hats on and step into the blazing sun, a heat I haven’t felt since Townsville. The Cuban strategy is to pull your t-shirt up under your armpits (also exposing everyone’s chiselled abs). The first impressions as we walk is that Havana (La Habana) was once one of the most beautiful cities in the world but is now in disrepair. Again I am in awe of the colonial architecture that has survived purely because there has been no need to demolish and replace with safer and more modern buildings for doing business in. I am also struck by the beauty of Cuban women, the afro-latino mix that is a feature of Brazil also seems common here. After three hours of walking (and having fallen in love at least 6 times) and finding ‘café’ after ‘café’ to be empty and not serving anything except rum, we finally find a place that sells (cold!) cola (for mixing with the rum if you are soft). We knock back a two litre bottle between us while we cower under a tree for some shade, we are already sun burnt and feeling a bit sunstruck. On our walk home we stop in at a bar on one of the main intersections – cold beer for 6 cubanos (25c) a pint. We sit down in the shade feeling relieved and bite the end off our first Cuban cigar.

I’m sure smokers who have their first cigar don’t find it a very pleasant experience, so for a non-smoker like me it was akin to eating shoe polish. I did manage to suck down half a cigar while we chatted to a couple of Cuban men over some beers (on of them a vet and the other a young guy who wasn’t really doing anything). When my eye was caught by yet another Cuban girl walking past, the younger man laughs “el sabe, el sabe” (he knows, he knows). The four of us then head off to get some lunch at a place suggested by the older man. The place charged in convertibles, which is always a giveaway that it is for tourists or wealthier Cubans. But we amiably had a Bolognese with them (while I went and threw up in the toilets – the cigar combined with beer having given me such a headspin). Only when they suggested that they accompany us back to our house with the intention of a rendez-vous later in the evening to show us La Casa de la Musica (the music house), did we decide it was time to cut the friendship short. We made our excuses and headed home, for another cold shower and an afternoon nap. That evening we sat on the balcony at sunset with our guitars, finishing our cigars over a rum (and some coconut Lucas had procured) and reflecting to each other and in our diaries our first impressions of Cuba.

Cuba

Oh no!!! He's going to write about Cuba and say something biased beyond belief and outrage everyone who has an anti-Fidel bone in their body.

Well actually I'm not.

Do you ever lie awake at night thinking about what you're going to say to various people, or what you should have said? The funny thing about having a blog is that is becomes another one of those people. I lie awake sometimes writing blogs in my head, I don't even know who I'm writing it for. I mean of course it is for myself to read back on (which I do frequently when I need to have a mental holiday), but I don't even know who reads this - are there random other web surfers that read it once, or every day? I just find it interesting.

I was lying awake the other night thinking about how much I wished I was in Cuba again - lying on a bed with a fan on me, considering going to have an ice cream and a cheese pizza or possibly having a strum on the guitar while singing (term used loosely) the first words that come into my head in order to annoy Lucas who is engrossed in his Che Guevara book, or maybe I'll try and find a mango.... It made me realise that I never really gave an account of what we did in Cuba, there were some summaries and plenty of ideological rant. So for my own daydreaming pleasure I'm going to relive my Cuban experience in a couple of episodes, the memories are still so vivid and powerful to me - as they would be from such a special place as Cuba.

BOGOTA TO HAVANA

We were tired and frustrated, days of embassies/consulates and immigration offices had culminated in a desperate search for the cheapest and soonest flight to Cuba. More trudging around the west side of Bogota that we knew so well now and we finally had two tickets to Havana. Lucas donates his surf board to a delighted young Colombian man at the airport and we board our plane - Havana via Panama.

Panama City was beneath a ferocious tropical storm as we circled above waiting to land. The Colombian girl sitting next to me was becoming increasingly agitated as we descended through the thick, almost black, clouds that were flickering with electricity.

When the plane finally emerges beneath the clouds we were only metres from the runway. The poor girl now had tears streaming down her face and clutched at my wrist as the engines roared in unison with the thunderclaps that surrounded us. Thank goodness for the air-bridge that saved us from a certain drenching.

Fifteen minutes later we board the connecting flight to Havana – only to sit in the plane for an hour and a half waiting, as lightning bolts crash around us, for the worst of the storm to pass over. We finally lift-off and look down at the vast black cloud that seemed to cover most of Panama. We are going to Cuba!

10:30pm: I am being grilled by the immigration official about my employment history and why I left my job working for the Australian Government. To which I reply – because it was boring. We get through the gates and collect our luggage. At this stage we have not seen a map of Havana, know nothing of the currency situation or the cost of living. We have an address for our ‘hostel’ known as Ramiro’s House and a desperate hope that an ATM will be nearby. The taxi driver seems at loss to where our street is, but knows the suburb. He speaks English – which now would set off alarm bells, but at the time was just one of those annoying patronising situations – being treated like a wealthy tourist.

The first non-airport related Cuban we see is a jinitera (I may have forgotten how to spell that). As we drive along the fairly empty highway (as it is now midnight) we pass a big sign of Fidel - ‘Vamos Bien’ (we’re going well) it says. I think to myself that it is probably not the best way to show a new arrival that Fidel doesn’t meddle too much – although at the same time there is nothing threatening or dark about the sign. It is also very obvious the lack of advertising or products from the world we know – it makes the roadsides seem almost empty (or maybe less cluttered) but also more real.

We are now driving through the inner suburbs of Havana – the empty but well lit streets seem wide and the incredible columned colonial Spanish architecture makes me feel like I am in a city of Parthenons (I know little about architecture). The taxi driver finds groups of young (amazingly muscled black) men who are sitting around listening to music in the street. He keeps asking them for directions and they are more than happy to help (my initial apprehension subsides – it feels like Brazil so I had anticipated more aggression and danger). Eventually he locates our ‘hostel’. It turns out to be a man’s house. Ramiro. Hence ‘Ramiro’s House’. Ramiro is not around, but his parents who live downstairs are, so they let us in and we make ourselves comfortable in his beautifully decorated (in comparison to what we are used to) house. We have cold showers and collapse in front of the fan. We are in Cuba and already it feels different, intimidating but inviting.

Possibly the brief that Tony Abbot was given....

WELL, that's fine then. Excuse me while I go and have an abortion … Gulp. There we go - much better. Just sit and forget now that I can get RU486 by the handful. You know what we women are like, brainless, uncaring creatures who get pregnant at the drop of a hat and seek to get rid of it just as quickly so we can go to another party tonight.

We never think about the results of our actions because we can't, being so dim as we are. We love washing machines, running water and frozen food because they make our lives so much easier - therefore it follows that we will all be racing to the doctor the minute we know we are pregnant, and taking a pill to cure the problem.

Hell, why not get pregnant now just so you can try it out? Be the first on your block to have a new, simple abortion before the latest winter fashions. We gals all want to be first because we are flighty and can't think beyond the next pair of shoes, so we will knock people down to get our hands on this easy new whiz-bang miracle.

Better than cheese in a can, better than vegemite snack-packs and better than lip gloss in a tube, lunchtime will never be the same waste of a hospital visit that it used to be.
We used to head off in the mornings to our girly, waiting-to-get-married jobs - as business managers, lawyers, doctors, airline pilots - work out we were pregnant, file our nails until lunch, and then pop into casualty to have an abortion. And we got back to work in time to have a cup of tea and a biscuit before going home.

Now those days are gone with the magic of medicine. There will be no more wasting ours and the boss's time with silly things like babies, which women only have to annoy public service budget makers anyway.

Time-saving should also be a plus with industrial relations negotiations, although we girls don't understand difficult concepts like that either.

You know we women are also so dim that we don't actually mind getting pregnant, which is why we really don't care about abortions. Of course, we don't like sex either. We only do it to oblige our brutish demanding husbands, because we are all "nice girls".

We'll be even nicer now we can have abortions to order because we won't have to worry about the unsavoury side of sex - all that bothersome contraception that we've been carrying on about for years, spoiling the mood and making men wait when they just want to get on with things.

We will immediately give up the irritation of remembering, with our feather-brained heads, to take the pill, and forget forever the slippery nuisance of the diaphragm and the unpleasant latex of condoms.

No more squirting foam, no more frantic washing with lemon juice. No more fearfully counting days off the calendar in that unladylike way we used to. We can just swallow a pill and not even blink as we go off smiling broadly to play tennis or ride bikes and all the other things women do in ads for tampons.

While we are on the subject, a word about men. Men, as we know, are completely innocent here. They never had uncontrolled, unprotected sex unless they are lured into it by scheming, idiotic women who will get pregnant just to disoblige them. Or, indeed, they are just so stupid that they fail to take the proper "precautions" and, through their own negligence, get pregnant.

And of course, a single woman slatternly enough to lure a man into sex deserves to get pregnant, wear a scarlet letter of some sort for nine months and then bring forth the baby in pain.
Men never make mistakes. They are never silly enough to get pregnant, so obviously they are removed enough from the problem to make impartial judgements. They have every right and reason to tell us how to manage our bodies, just as we are allowed to tell them whether they should risk having heart attacks by taking Viagra.

For years we've had politicians saving us from the consequences of our stupidity, but now it's lovely for a change to be free to have an abortion whenever we like, and probably two on Sunday, just to make sure.

(Harriet Veitch, Herald journalist)

Do I dare think it?

Is Winter almost over? Has the weather suddenly taken a turn? Will it be warmer and sunnier for the next five months? If you can use a 12-hour period of one day in early February then 'yes' could be your conclusion. I am tentatively prodding at my hopes, not quite raising them but getting them on standby.

Having a read of Lucas' post and I think to myself - My posts (of late) always seem to deal with what has happened (in a physical sense) and some controversial issue I've been pondering. I haven't really written much about what I'm thinking and how I'm dealing with life in London these days (plenty of references to how rubbish it is, I know). So if that isn't your idea of keeping up to date with my travels then tune out now....

To put it in context I'll quickly run through the last six months. I arrived in the UK after an indescribable journey through Latin America. I found myself between Oxford and Bury for the first month and a half as I enjoyed the summer and a relationship that I hoped would help to further distance myself from whatever it was I was running from. Emma then started University and my idle relaxation turned into fidgety frustration, I was bored with doing nothing and time was drifting by (and my debt was growing). So I moved to London and in a freak coincidence found a job at exactly the same time as Lucas, we moved into a house the following day and started work a day later. Three days had turned the English experience on it's head - for better and for worse. Our buddy George soon departed for Oz and we can't wait for her to get back. For two months we knuckled down and were diligent with our sandwich making, gym going and office sitting. Lucas's relationship with Farah blossomed while mine crumbled and a freezing November took hold - reports of the coldest winter in eons were everywhere.

Then a stroke of luck (and Lucas's previously personable bar tending) offered us a wonderful flat within a beret kick (another story) of Portobello Road and a new and diverse (and convenient) side of London. Christmas and New Years soon followed as did some snow, in England, France and Italy and the recent skiing holidays, which you will have read about.

So now I find myself with just less than two months before I need to find another apartment, another job and literally another lifestyle (such is life dominated by accommodation and employment in London - or everywhere?) for the remaining three months before we embark on the next adventure.

While I've been thinking a lot about this next trip and how we will approach it, there is a gnawing feeling that I'm still trying to ignore. When we start this next trip, it will eventually finish. And when it finishes I'll be in more or less the same situation I was 12 months ago (or 2 and a half years by that stage). What then? To be honest I don't really mind. I was brought up to be a team player, it is something that is driven deep into my soul now. I have limited motivation to achieve individual success. Only when I have a team mate relying on me do I feel truly motivated to strive. For the last 12 months (or longer if you include preparations) I've had Lucas as my team mate. Every mountain, dance floor, bus ride or city that we've 'conquered' has only felt like an achievement because the team did it, not because I did it - that would be pointless.

So while I look forward to this next trip with furious desire, I know that when I arrive back in Australia I won't be part of a team striving for a common goal. And while that is a concern, it is a fact of life and it makes me appreciate all my friends here in London all the more as we all strive together to survive this individually partitioned society and enjoy what it has to offer. Did any of that make sense to anyone?

Meanwhile, I've just written my 300th email today to Tracy discussing something random and trivial - yet amusing. About to leave work a bit early to watch Farah perform in an opera thing (it is like snippets from a full opera so you get the gist of what it's all about). Go Farah!

The Serpentine Swimming Club

Ever since I read An Equal Music I have wanted to swim in the Serpentine in winter.

The Serpentine is a river/lake that runs through Hyde Park and is home to a multitude of swans, ducks and mad people between 6-9am every day. Saturday morning is race day and was the day that Lucas and I chose to initiate ourselves into the world of the Serpentine swimmers.

Up at 7am on an overcast and chilly morning (the overnight low was -4c). Many layers of warm clothing later and we were on the 52 bus and heading towards Hyde Park, trying to avoid thinking about what we were getting ourselves into.

When we arrived at the swimming clubhouse we were immediately taken under the wings of just about every member - it was the warmest display of kindness and genuine interest I can recall. This group of possibly half-mad english, american, canadian and eastern europeans were buzzing with an energy that I haven't seen in many people. It was also the first time in England that people had been delighted to have been joined by some Australians and we were regaled with tales of the last time an Aussie had dared plunging into the Serpentine in winter.

After being kitted out with swimming caps and goggles we stripped down to our speedos in preparation for Race 3 (of 5), with a sizeable time handicap based on our age (average age would be around 65). The body goes numb to the cold air very quickly when you walk around bare foot in a pair of speedos, escpecially when it knows that much colder wetter conditions are to come.

After watching swimmer after swimmer slowly lower themselves into the water and swan around slowly, obviously enjoying themselves, we stood trembling in the icy puddles on the jetty that serves as the blocks. One woman showed me how she was going white meant her blood vessels were shutting down, great.

But this was a race, and my mind had already switched into ultra-competitive mode - I had a 15 second handicap to the slowest swimmer and a one second handicap to Lucas, it was a 40 yard race. As I finally heard my number called I leapt into the water in my best Thorpedo style, only to have my speedos fall to my knees and gulp in a stomach full of green Serpentine water (possibly as I gasped upon submersion). Speedos were quickly reinstated in their appropriate location and I began the desperate thrash towards the finish line in order to get out of the water as quickly as possible. Quite possibly the fastest I have ever moved through a body of water, and that includes after I finished the race and was powering towards the edge and my towel.

The moment I got out of the water my body went into vaso-something overdrive - I don't know if they were dilating or constricting - most likely doing both, but it was like an electric current running through my body - an incredible feeling to which I am sure all Serpentine swimmers are addicted. Our new friends crowded around us congratulating us on finishing alive and walked us into the changing rooms before thrusting tea and biscuits into our hands with advice on tea holding technique for maximum warmth absorption. I am sure that this is the other addictive side of the experience - everyone being delighted to be sharing with each other a Saturday morning of cold and warmth.

We will be back next week......watch out on the Serpentine Swimming Club Website (Feb 11).

The plan....

What has gone before, and what is to come - I have to take a second look to believe what we plan to do - the immense distances of South America pale into short bus rides in comparison to the distances ahead. A rough estimate of 35,000km over land and sea before we reach home soil. I can only hope that you'll all be with us like you were in South America, I'm sure we'll need the support.

I can't wait.

Torino 2006....

...is the name of the 2006 Winter Olympics, and where I have been snowboarding (again) for the past week.

I ventured to these parts with the ex-girlfriend, Emma (those of you following my blog will have encountered her along the way) and her parents. Some people asked me why I was still going on the skiing holiday that we had booked some time ago. Well, why not?

Anyway..... The conditions on the first two days on the slopes wasn't ideal - particularly for snowboarding - very icy! Especially while I was still getting to grips with a snowboard that seemed to be designed for a different sport altogether than the one I was using the previous week. The highlight was probably my near death, where I slid off the edge of the piste and ended up cartwheeling at speed backwards down the hill through the trees - I could see the trees flashing past and I tumbled down trying to use my arms in a futile attempt to be the first point of impact in the certain collision with a tree. Luckily I finally landed on my head in a nice big mound of snow at the bottom the slope and quickly zipped around the corner to join the group - the only evidence of the event being snow in every inch of my body, but I looked like that most of the week anyway.

The 'home' resort in which we were accommodated was called Sauze-D'Oulx and was part of the greater array of resorts known as the Vialattea (milky way).

On day three we caught the bus over to the Clavier resort and I enjoyed a great half a day of boarding (despite losing our group when I came acropper on a J-bar). I went down probably the best run I saw all week about 6 times - each time at increasing speed with heavier and nastier falls, finally resulting in a coccyx too painful to be able to bend at the waist. So I sat out the rest of the afternoon next to a fire with a latte in one hand and a cheesy-olive-tomato-bread italian thing in the other.

Day four (Thursday - and Australia Day) was when the temperature plummeted and the misty light snow set in.... It was -13 at the bottom of the mountain around the hotel - what it was another 1000m higher with the blizzard blowing, I shiver to recall. Day five was another bus ride to a different resort in France known as Serre Chevalier and the highest peak I have encountered since South America. Pique Lyrett was 2800m, almost 1800m higher than the resort. To get to the top I had to traverse across the edge of another mountain (unable to see the edge of the cliff due to the blizzardy conditions). But I finally got to the top, and after my customary arms raised above the head when I find the highest point, I boarded the rest of the way back down the mountain. It was possibly the greatest 40 minutes of snowboarding I've had yet - racing down the mountain at full speed through deep pristine white powder. It may have been an illusion caused by excessive endorphins but I recall the sun shining on the glinting snow as I sped across it.

Only a short session on Saturday as the visibility was close to zero again, and the slopes were packed with italian weekend holiday makers - still managed a couple of good runs and wipeouts though.

Back in London Towne again now - I wasn't to sullen as I arrived back in London this time as I felt a small home-coming sensation. That quickly turned into uncontrollable rage as I was confronted with a seemingly endless parade of incompetent Englanders (actually just two, but I was operating on 3 hours sleep from the night before and wasn't in the mood for it).

In other news, my new life goal is to work for the WHO, have I mentioned this before? Second in line is self-sufficient farmer and third is global government dictator.

28 days left of Winter........