Gallivants around the Gorgeous Cuban countryside

View of the Capitol. Havana

(Part 2): Cuba left me somewhat perplexed. There I am hailing from a democratic environment looking slightly disapprovingly at the blatant incongruities of a totalitarian state-controlled country. The idealistic ideology of communism just doesn't hack it; we all know that. It sooner or later devolves into that famous parody: George Orwell's Animal Farm. All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. And yet, how exactly are democratic "civilised" societies any better? At first glance certainly we enjoy a lifestyle that is the envy of every Cuban. 

This became apparent to me within minutes of landing in Havana. A member of the airport security staff stopped me as I had my hand luggage screened .She pulled out some magazines I had bought at Gatwick airport, one in particular-a rather highbrow graphic designer's publication caught her attention and she started flicking through it. I thought she was checking for pornographic material and subtly smirked. Stupid woman. Then the guy manning the scanning machine said something abrupt to her and she promptly dropped the magazine back into my bag and I realized she had simply been sneaking a moment to enjoy a glossy magazine which she had no chance of every buying and taking home to flick through during a relaxing moment on her sofa at the end of her hard working day. I felt awful when I realized what was going on and wanted to give her the magazine but hesitated, knowing I would probably not find any other English reading material there. I never got a chance to read the magazine during my holiday. On my departure, the magazine didn't tip the scales at the check-in counter but it weighed heavily on my heart.

Not that Cuba opened my eyes to the pseudoness of democratic societies. I've known that. It just reinforced my cynicism. We too are subjects of the same perversion of an idealistic ideology.

But I digress. Current election campaign fever in Malta is responsible for these heavy-hearted ruminations. It always leaves me wondering if the human condition is eternally cursed to submit itself to wholesale self-delusion in the quest of mortal utopia. If religions have historically failed to remedy global deprivations and injustices, what hope of having politicians keep their promises? But I digress again. Sorry.

Vinjales Valley

Back to  more upbeat reminiscences. Three days of pavement pounding in Havana, our first trip out of the congestion of the capital  was to the south-west town of Vinjales, (set in what my companion Heather aptly referred to as Jurassic Park and which otherwise was comically called the Cow Shit Mountains valley because of the bizarre shape of the mountain range). As it happened, during the days we were there, the climate was unpredictable and  there were banks of clouds scudding across the sky intermittently casting black shadows over the hills making them truly look like enormous mounds of cow poo. But it only enhanced the dramatic beauty of this area. We walked through the fields and passed long-horned cows sitting statuesque on the warm red soil ruminating, as they seemed, on the sweetness of the natural life. We passed tobacco barns and roughshod farmers gladly explained to us the process by which the multiple rows of hanging bundles of green leaves drying in the deep shadow of the cool high roofed houses would ultimately be turned into the most exquisite tasting experience of any cigar aficionado. We bought some cigars off the farmer  and later, on a balmy night under the pitch black sparkling sky, accompanied by a bottle of fine wine, we oozed satisfaction with each long slow draw on these iconic symbols of the good life. I'd often chuckle whenever I'd see a weather-beaten villager, taxi driver, stall vendor, barman or otherwise lowly Cuban nonchalantly puffing on these jewels. He or she probably didn't have a cent to their name yet they were enjoying a treat that was the enviable desire of any high-flying socialite in the West. Irony at its best.

home delivery by horse - Vinjales

Vinjales is a classic Hollywood-generated example of a one-horse town.  One main road was lined with colourfully painted bungalows where barbers, jewellers, tailors, bakers etc vended their trade in the shade of their house's veranda. And of course the ubiquitous cafes, bars and restaurants. The ubiquitous banged-up American classic car would share roadspace with horses ridden by laidback cowboys , their eyes shielded under wide-brimmed stetson hats or steered by sunburnt farmers pulling carts laden with bulbous vegetables. The town could easily pass for a film set. Yet it wasn't. It was real life. And no doubt a hard life. But the humble unassuming joie-de-vivre that I came to associate with all Cubans I met was evident everywhere.

local bus!!

Next we hopped on a coach to the south-east town of Cienfuegos, via Havana (not the one in the photo..that's the standard bus service for locals!!). That cost an extra 4 hours to an otherwise brisk trip. If there had been a direct road. But there isn't. So it took us about nine hours coach riding to get to our penultimate destination. When we got there we fell out of the coach and swiftly set our internal GPS systems for the nearest joint serving mojitos, the almighty medicine to cure any known ailment known to humankind. We were aching and stiff but otherwise totally ebullient. Every step of the way was alternately laughable, exciting, eye-opening and altogether colourful. A night-over in Cienfuegos, a quiet town resplendent with exotic French colonial architecture, and we set off for our eastern-most destination: Trinidad. What a fun-filled time lay in wait for us. 

street musicians in Trinidad

We had a horse and cart waiting for us at the coach terminus which took us on a short but seriously unstable ride along the rough cobbled streets to our little private house set in a slightly out-of-centre street. We disembarked, plonked our luggage in our spartan rooms which looked out onto a lovely courtyard at the back of the house and headed into the town centre. Five minutes' walk and we were in the midst of a beautiful quintessential Caribbean town, resplendent with classically Caribbean colours: pinks yellows sky blues. Periodically we'd pass by musicians assembled along a wall beating on their flame red congo drums singing their hearts out to passing pedestrians; a charismatic toothless old man entertaining the assembled crowds and possessing a liquid gold voice that any London jazz nightclub worth its salt would run miles barefoot to recruit. He was a regular street performer. He was commonplace. We heard variations of that beautiful voice everywhere, solo or accompanied by backing musicians in perfect harmony, in every bar and restaurant. It was intoxicating even before we got around to wetting our lips with the first round of Cuban rum.

 On one of the three nights stay-over, we stopped at a  music venue. It was an ethereal experience. A six-piece band of Cuban musicians playing to a packed house, many of those present taking to the small dance floor space and dancing their hearts away; dancing with such vivacious sexual energy, one could not resist following their every swaying suggestive move. And how fluid their figures mirrored the beat of the music. 

music hall in Tinidad

 I kept having flashbacks of discos back home and involuntarily associating it with gyrating headless chickens. Maybe by that time I was so enamoured by Cuban culture that I was unfairly dissing our European shortcomings when it came to understanding and interpreting sexual expression through music. But I had never in my life till my experience of Cuba  seen so much commonplace demonstrations of irrepressible physical  joy through dance. It's like they simply can't listen to their music without dancing to it. At the end of day, they'd probably go back home to leaking faucets and flickering bare light bulbs and bedrooms bulging with mattresses. We'd  sleep in our internet-booked double rooms in Casa Particulares which no doubt enjoyed many subtle luxuries of state-sponsored privileges. And yet in response to the raw beauty of their music, we, members of the great "civilized" 1st world, would hesitate, riddled with social awkwardness, to get up off our chairs to dance. Daft, is it.

We sorely regretted not staying longer in Trinidad. The colours, the music, the provincial tempo of life...it was hard to leave but leave we must for our last 5 days in Havana.

 

 

 

CUBA: An Artist's Paradise in a Poverty Striken Country

quick sketch I did of street musicians

I have just spent 16 days in Cuba. The odour of Havana's streets is still on the soles of my shoes, the aromatic scent of its coffee and cigars still in my throat and the blaze of Caribbean colours still fueling my imagination. And needless to say., the music underscores my collective memories of this amazing country. My overall impression of Cuba is that it will purge from even the most diehard communist any sympathies for that particular brand of social order; it will also leave you humbled in awe at the indomitable  resilience and fortitude of the human spirit in the face of dire circumstances. The only thing you will find in plentiful supply and consistently available is the charming temperament of the Cuban people. Everything else is subject to shortages, delays, inconsistencies, and contradiction. Lengthy queuing is part and parcel of the most ordinary tasks: collecting their rations, accessing a bank,obtaining a sim card. Supermarkets and pharmacies share a common feature: their shelves are invariably half empty. Plumbing is archaic which accounts for rivulets of water running down virtually every street. Everything leaks. Every so often the pungent odour of sewerage assaults your senses,and yet in the midst of all this shocking poverty, you cannot walk far without hearing music. Music wafting out of hallways where families sit talking or watching TV while children mull around entertaining themselves with a piece of string and a ball. Music blaring from tinny speakers inside the ubiquitous souped up Chevy. 

usual scene in a bar/restaurant..
you just cannot NOT respond to their music!

Virtually every restaurant and cafe has a live band of musicians playing periodically throughout the day. Couples suddenly downing their coffee cups and dancing around the tables is a common sight. Street musicians play to the pedestrians on street corners and in the beautifully restored paizzas of old Havana. The quarter of Havana Vieja where i stayed for half my vacation is remarkable. Its streets are lined with the most beautiful old mansions, many of which have been exquisitely restored, many of which stand like disembowled skeletons, their grimy hollow interiors exposed to the sky. A capsized roof does not exempt a building from being inhabitable. Lower floors will have an inner ribcage of huge wooden beams. Often where a building has collapsed, the adjoining buildings will be kept upright by supporting beams spanning the void between them. Even in that hollow it is common for shanty rooms to be erected from sheets of corrugated iron and detritus rescued from other ruins.

street art

Art is everywhere. The creative soul of the Cubans is vibrant and irrepressible and manifests itself in a myriad of ways. You'll see it on walls livening up the dingiest street, on roadside shacks selling fruits and veggies, and in the plentiful galleries. Clearly the exercise of artistic expression is supported and encouraged by the State, thank ye Gods..There is a huge indoor market heaving with art stalls located alongside the harbour and I was impressed. I'd swiftly pass by the many stalls selling commercial stuff but every now and then I'd be stopped in my tracks by some exquisite art that was selling for peanuts. I rarely buy art when i travel but there's always a first time, and this trip was it. In so many ways.

Bought a painting from this excellent artist

Drive out to the suburbs of Havana and you will see another story. Row upon row of villas shielded from the leafy avenue by well maintained lawns. Everywhere is green. Thick dense rich green made up of trees and plants bursting from the soil. A common household plant which may feature in a European house or a Mediterranean courtyard is at first unrecognizable in Cuba simply because it is absolutely huge. The contrast between the apparent affluence of these suburbs and inner Havana is disturbing.

More on our adventures around the Cuban countryside in my next post...including hikes through the valley of the Cow Shit Mountains, swimming in BOTH the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic, a trek down to Trinidad, the town heaving with music and the Magical Mystery Tour bus that took us off route for no rhyme or reason on a milkrun through the Bay of Pigs!

(you can view a selection of photos of this trip in my FB album: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10151503835779924.552968.717059923&type=3