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.