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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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