It's amazing how much spanish you can see in the states now, on signs, on food packaging, tools, at librarys, it is more well used that New Zealands second language Maori is at home. Why is this? Because now the spanish speaking population is worth advertising to in their own language. This is pissing off some Americans, saw a T-shirt yesterday that said
"Welcome to America! NOW SPEAK ENGLISH!!"
Friday, December 14, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Bermuda, Bahama, et al
In Florida now, America, where you can buy decent food, and where they still serve breakfasts that would cause your average NZ dietician to have a coronary. You know what I'm talkin' 'bout, waffles, hash browns, fried patties, eggs, and a cup of warm lard.
I expected the keys to be a sleepy back-water, but boy was I wrong. It's heavily developed and full of trailer parks. We took a ride to Key West on the bus, and it's all bridges, trailer parks and shallow water. There were a couple of slightly rangey looking guys in front of me on the bus. They go past this trailer park, and one of them, a mullet wearing dude with a mo' goes "That's real cheap, twelve hundred a month", and then, as we go over a bridge, this boat speeds past, Miami Vice styles, with two babes on the front with their augmented cleavage held in check by tiny triangles of cloth. The male inhabitants of the bus let out a whoop, and the mullet guy goes "That, that right there!", and you know what, he was right, that right there was the American dream, except that it was the shirtless dudes on the boat, living it and not us. Right then I understood the cruelty of the gap between the haves and have nots, and realised where castro went wrong, and I vowed that when the revolution comes in New Zealand, that there would be boats and barbie dolls for all.
I met a Cuban guy this morning (apparently all Spanish speakers around here are Cuban), his name was Alberto or Umberto or something. He had come to clean the diesel on the boat, which had been giving us a few problems. I asked him how he had come to America, and he told me that he, his wife, and his friend had comandered a small 10 foot fishing boat, some 14 years ago. They had oars as their only form of propulsion, and for supplies they had water, dried fish and caffeine pills. It took them 72 solid hours of rowing, and his wife came close to death.
I asked him how often he went back, and he said about twice a year. I asked him if he would consider going back to live, and he looked at me and snorted and said "Come on, man". His family are here, his wife is here, money is here.
I asked what he missed about Cuba. He said the people, as they were more honest and friendly. When asked about his feelings on Castro, he said "He's gonna die. I hope that [string of expletives] dies, man." He said now in America, he works all the time. When things change, this guy wants to go back to Cuba, with all his earnings and start a marina. I wished him good luck.
I expected the keys to be a sleepy back-water, but boy was I wrong. It's heavily developed and full of trailer parks. We took a ride to Key West on the bus, and it's all bridges, trailer parks and shallow water. There were a couple of slightly rangey looking guys in front of me on the bus. They go past this trailer park, and one of them, a mullet wearing dude with a mo' goes "That's real cheap, twelve hundred a month", and then, as we go over a bridge, this boat speeds past, Miami Vice styles, with two babes on the front with their augmented cleavage held in check by tiny triangles of cloth. The male inhabitants of the bus let out a whoop, and the mullet guy goes "That, that right there!", and you know what, he was right, that right there was the American dream, except that it was the shirtless dudes on the boat, living it and not us. Right then I understood the cruelty of the gap between the haves and have nots, and realised where castro went wrong, and I vowed that when the revolution comes in New Zealand, that there would be boats and barbie dolls for all.
I met a Cuban guy this morning (apparently all Spanish speakers around here are Cuban), his name was Alberto or Umberto or something. He had come to clean the diesel on the boat, which had been giving us a few problems. I asked him how he had come to America, and he told me that he, his wife, and his friend had comandered a small 10 foot fishing boat, some 14 years ago. They had oars as their only form of propulsion, and for supplies they had water, dried fish and caffeine pills. It took them 72 solid hours of rowing, and his wife came close to death.
I asked him how often he went back, and he said about twice a year. I asked him if he would consider going back to live, and he looked at me and snorted and said "Come on, man". His family are here, his wife is here, money is here.
I asked what he missed about Cuba. He said the people, as they were more honest and friendly. When asked about his feelings on Castro, he said "He's gonna die. I hope that [string of expletives] dies, man." He said now in America, he works all the time. When things change, this guy wants to go back to Cuba, with all his earnings and start a marina. I wished him good luck.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Adios, amigos
Day 23
Dad calls America on the satelite phone, and finds out that it is no problem for us, as we are New Zealanders, and with our filthy socialist state we will not be altered irrevocably by communism. After the 2 hour farewell search, we head off in near perfect conditions at 4pm, and after an overnight sail, the waters over the gulf stream pretty calm.
We arrive in America the next day at about 8am, and dodge heaps of crayfish pots, arriving safely in port. Goodbye Cuba, you funny old country, with your friendly folk, hot chicas and overkill searches and buerocracy and hello America, with your decent supermarkets, easily acessable and fast internet, and Legion bars where police go to drink.
Day 22
We have decided to leave tomorrow. A Canadian man asks us about the regestration of our boat. We tell him its registered as an American boat. He tells us that if we go back in it, they will seize the boat. And keep it.
Dad hits on this plan where I will claim that my back pain caused us to go into Cuba, under duress. I fear purgering myself to the U.S. law enforcement agents. I plan to plea bargain, and grass out pops for an easier sentence. I am too pretty to go to jail, and will no doubt be raped in the showers by Mr Big, who is in with the Warden.
The Canadian couple invite us inside for rum and cokes. We talk about our trip, and the adventures we have had. The lady mentions that she would love her husband and son to go on such a trip some time - what a bonding experience it would be for the both of them. I think we have both probably quietly wondered to ourselves if it wouldn't have just been better to stick to going out for coffees and the occasional game of tennis, but she's on a rum and coke buzz, and probably not in the mood for that kind of answer, so I just smile.
Day 21
We muck around Varadero. The weather seems good. We talk to some of the other locals. Alex and Richard are Englishmen in their early thirties who have bought what is called a ferro-cement boat, and spent a long time doing it up. What they thought would take them 3 months ended up taking them 18. The boat is beautiful inside, with dark varnished wood everywhere, and a huge table in the back room, suitable for having a decent dinner around. Apparently ferro-cement was a big craze in the 60's or something, all these people making boats in their back yard with concrete and chicken mesh, but if not done properly, it tends to fall off in great chunks. I hope they got one of the well made ones.
We go the beach, which is the first time we have gone for a swim, gone for a swim with the intention "now we will go for a swim not to get diesel off our body, not to cool down, but to swim for the sake of swimming". The beach is nice, but lacks waves you can body surf. For me, this is at least half the fun of swimming. The water is clear, and that blue colour you see so much of in the brochures.
Dad calls America on the satelite phone, and finds out that it is no problem for us, as we are New Zealanders, and with our filthy socialist state we will not be altered irrevocably by communism. After the 2 hour farewell search, we head off in near perfect conditions at 4pm, and after an overnight sail, the waters over the gulf stream pretty calm.
We arrive in America the next day at about 8am, and dodge heaps of crayfish pots, arriving safely in port. Goodbye Cuba, you funny old country, with your friendly folk, hot chicas and overkill searches and buerocracy and hello America, with your decent supermarkets, easily acessable and fast internet, and Legion bars where police go to drink.
Day 22
We have decided to leave tomorrow. A Canadian man asks us about the regestration of our boat. We tell him its registered as an American boat. He tells us that if we go back in it, they will seize the boat. And keep it.
Dad hits on this plan where I will claim that my back pain caused us to go into Cuba, under duress. I fear purgering myself to the U.S. law enforcement agents. I plan to plea bargain, and grass out pops for an easier sentence. I am too pretty to go to jail, and will no doubt be raped in the showers by Mr Big, who is in with the Warden.
The Canadian couple invite us inside for rum and cokes. We talk about our trip, and the adventures we have had. The lady mentions that she would love her husband and son to go on such a trip some time - what a bonding experience it would be for the both of them. I think we have both probably quietly wondered to ourselves if it wouldn't have just been better to stick to going out for coffees and the occasional game of tennis, but she's on a rum and coke buzz, and probably not in the mood for that kind of answer, so I just smile.
Day 21
We muck around Varadero. The weather seems good. We talk to some of the other locals. Alex and Richard are Englishmen in their early thirties who have bought what is called a ferro-cement boat, and spent a long time doing it up. What they thought would take them 3 months ended up taking them 18. The boat is beautiful inside, with dark varnished wood everywhere, and a huge table in the back room, suitable for having a decent dinner around. Apparently ferro-cement was a big craze in the 60's or something, all these people making boats in their back yard with concrete and chicken mesh, but if not done properly, it tends to fall off in great chunks. I hope they got one of the well made ones.
We go the beach, which is the first time we have gone for a swim, gone for a swim with the intention "now we will go for a swim not to get diesel off our body, not to cool down, but to swim for the sake of swimming". The beach is nice, but lacks waves you can body surf. For me, this is at least half the fun of swimming. The water is clear, and that blue colour you see so much of in the brochures.
Chow, baby
Day 20 - 31st nov
After a rather gentle overnighter of 21 hours or so, we arrived in Varadero to be greeted by the local captain of the coast guard and his entourage of some 10 other people, and of course, two dogs. Varadero is the tourist capital of Cuba, where the government allows foreigners to come and spend their money, to fund the ever turning revoloution. However, yet again the independant traveller was feared, as they may be harbouring drugs, which necessitated yet another search.
This was the most painful search yet, in terms of people asking me to watch them search the same drawers again and again, so that I could testify that they didn't a) steal anything or perhaps b) plant something. The whole process took 2 and a half hours, which seems ridiculous considering that this was the fifth time that we had been searched, and that a total of 10 dogs had now had a sniff around, uncovering nothing more than a pillow that may or may not have been stuffed with hemp.
After this was all over, we pulled up to our final mooring, and met an expat sailor, a real wheeler-dealer cockney type from Blightey. I asked him what there was to do here, and he said "Chicas. Chicas chicas chicas." which in English of course means "Girls, girls, girls". It turns out that he hires 17-21 year old prostitutes, and then stays in what is called a "Casa Particular", a private dwelling in which a room, often air conditioned, is rented out to foreigners, in this case, one owned by a doctor he knows. Imagine that, your local GP renting out his spare bedroom to some greasy foreigner to hump teenagers. The casa in particular usually goes for about $20, upon which was added another $20 for the services of a nubile young local girl for the period of about 12 hours or so. It is seemingly the retirement plan of some men - living out their later years drinking rum and banging teenagers. Probably more fun than bridge club on wednesday and pottering around in the garden I guess.
The marina is strict - no locals can come in, we can't take a computer out, and any bags we take in and out of the marina are searched. We are told that the security, some 8 men with firearms, is for the protection of our boats, as Cubans who wish to escape the dizzying effects of the endless revolution will steal anything that floats, remembering that they are prevented from owning anything longer than about 10 feet, and anything covered. Some die in the effort to cross to the other shore, America, the land of dreams, where unlike all other nationalities, a Cuban who sets one foot on American soil instantly becomes a resident. Its called the wet-foot dry-foot policy, so either you make it, or you are deported back, to some draconian punishment no doubt.
Day 19
One thing I like about this country is the lack of contempt people have for each other. People greet on the street in an open an open, unguarded way, they genuinly seem to enjoy talking with each other, which seems to take up a lot of their time. It's the perfect country for a young man to tour - cheap food, though not gourmet, beautful sensuous women who lean close and touch you on the shoulder speaking passionately to you in Spanish when you ask for directions, men who are friendly and like to help you out, or shoot the breeze, warm sun and warm water. People sit out in parks at night, in the near dark, talking and drinking, and this does not alarm local residents into calling the police! If I sat out on the street with some friends talking and drinking in my suburb of New Zealand, I wouldn't expect to do it for long before someone called the police, because we would no doubt soon become rowdy, and commit Home Invasion, which is the natural extension of New Zealanders sitting on a verge after having had a couple of drinks.
I talk with Vincent again this morning, and he asks me if I used the services of any prostitutes in Havana, and seems genuinely surprised that I didn't, and so too for a moment am I, as though that is what you should do in Havana if you are young and a man. The guards come to check us over one last time, going through cupboards, and drawers, always with me watching, and I ask them if they should like to check the engine room, as it is the most probable place where drugs could be kept. They look a little offended, and decline, as they say there is no need to, as they trust us. We leave at 11am, in good weather and mild seas, deciding that we will travel overnight if the conditions stay good, to arrive at Varadero some time in the next morning.
Day 18
I wake to CNN on the television, and Tony Blair, one of the most sycophantic PM's I have ever seen, simpers on about his latest plan to make some kind of peace agreement, as though all that is needed is for his presence in the middle east, why can't they just shake hands and put all this sillyness behind them? Mr Blair has obviously not grown up under rocket fire, or had any of his family brutally beaten, or killed in front of him, with his silly grin, and Great Plans.
We leave early, after the complimentary breakfast, which is plain and greasy, like most of the food we have had here. We pick up more hitchhikers today, first a doctor, and a soldier, then the faces blur as we drop off and pick up Cubans on their way to work. We pick up more people, some beautiful girls, who conform to the inverse beauty equation, the well known relationship between being beautiful and being interested in the outside world.
A young man bangs on the car window in a small town, insistent for a ride. Though I don't trust him, I let him in, perhaps he needs to go somewhere, perhaps he is late I tell myself. It begins to unfold that he is a professional hitchhiker, riding to and from tourist areas, "guiding" tourists to their destination in exchange for cash "gifts", able to tell tourists from locals as the rental cars have a "T" as the first letter of his licence plate. We didn't ask for his help, so at the end of his ride, we refuse his pleas for money, ignore his face, which looks at this stage like a petulant 5 year old, and lecture him on the evils of bullying foreigners into guiltily parting with their cash in such an underhand way, telling him he could make more money if he was upfront at the start of his rides. He then accepts defeat, smiles, pats us on the shoulder as if to show no hard feelings, and steps out to ply his dishonest trade again.
Day 17
We get up early and walk down to the waterfront, a wall that guards against the sea. Many men stand in a line fishing, from side on it looks like a porcupine, as the lines go up and down, casting and retrieving.
The street in front of the hotel is nice, with a central raised area for pedestrians only, with black marble lions on each corner. I walk one street back, and suddenly I am in real Havana, buildings that may be several hundred years old falling into disrepair, or totally collapsed. It looks like a European city in the 1700's that is in the middle of a war. The doors are huge and grand, and Romanesque pillars are everywhere. This country looks like it was very, very rich several hundred years ago, and then, suddenly, the money ran out. People are wandering everywhere, going to work and school. I ask an old man if he knows where I can get a haircut, and some other young guy overhears me (bad sign), and whistles to his friend, who opens up his shop and tries to charge me $4 U.S. which I refuse to pay, remembering that I could have gotten one for 30 cents in Moron, which as I write that doesn't really look like such a good deal.
I go back to the hotel for the complimentary breakfast, and have the first decent coffee I have had on this whole trip. Funny to think that the coffee in New Zealand, half way around the world is better than here, where people grow the stuff. We meet a young Swiss German lady, who is here to study Spanish and contine her studies in Salsa dancing. She agrees to meet us for tea, as she has only been in Havana for 3 days, and is not keen to go out alone.
I continue my search for a cheap haircut, wandering into old Havana, which ironically is new, as it has all been refurbished for the tourists. It is quite beautiful, and yet the hairdressers try to charge me about $7 U.S., which I Will Not Take.
Finally, having wandered back to the streets behind the hotel, I find a shop which is empty of customers, and go in. The guy asks me for $4, which I refuse, and beat him down to about 80 cents, as I tell him I only want a number 2 anyway. The haircut is pretty sweet, better than one you get in New Zealand, the guy does all the edges with a straight razor. I find out that he is a Cuban pool champion, and though other teams can come to Cuba to play, the Cuban team is not allowed to travel. He tells me that he could play in the U.S. and win quarter of a million dollars per competition, if he was to skip the country. I wish him luck, and give him a 40 cent tip, because I am nothing if not generous, then I go back to the hotel to meet dad for lunch.
After lunch, we head over to the old capital building, which, due to communism isn't necessary, as it is bourgeois with all its marble, and massive Greico-Roman pillars, and big, empty debating chamber because what there isn't the need for in communism is luxury, or debating.
For afternoon tea we go to old Cuba by bicycle taxi, which gets pulled over by a policeman on a skateboard. No, I'm kidding, the policeman just stands there and waves him down, to check his licence. It turns out the guy is only licenced for non-tourists, as the government taxes you more if you run an operation for tourists. The way tax works here for private/entreprenerial business is that the government charges you a flat tax of about $100 US a month for your business, and anything you make over that, you keep.
Dad finds this cheap but very nice cafe, and has a good meal for about $4, and a beer for about $1. The cafe has over 10 relatively mangey cats, which sit under tables, and calmly eat any scraps they are given. A small child exercises his personal power, and chases the cats around, and they politely jog out of his way.
We meet the Swiss girl for tea, and go to a Chinese restaurant in which only one person looks vaguely Chinese. The food is good, and cheap. After dinner we go to the old castle, "El Morro", which, as my friend Johnny Bardine will verify, in fact translates directly as "The Morro". Every night they have a re-enactment of the war between the Spanish and the English, with a cannon going off. We arrive too late, and the Swiss girl finds out from some Germans that it was pretty lame, and that one of them got her purse with all her credit cards stolen, in what is most probably a simple attempt to share the wealth in a very direct way.
We return to the hotel, and I watch CNN. There is the Republican "YouTube" debate, and only one guy seems to make much sense. He says that Americans shouldn't be blowing up and repairing bridges in Iraq, they should be repairing the broken ones in America. He says America is not an empire, but a republic, and should act like one. I wish him well, but it is clear that he is not a front runner for the candidacy of official Republican leader.Over here, it seems that inside their own party, rivalry is pretty high, and people will attack each other building up to an election, as though the other candidates were in the oposition party. The war between Obama and Clinton is getting ugly too.In New Zealand, when heads roll within a party, it is seemingly done behind closed doors, as the party tries to put on a united front, which is perhaps more dishonest, but better for marketing.
I wonder if Americans truely believe that their government is in Iraq for any other reason that but to secure oil, a view held pretty much by the rest of the world. I look out the window at the Cubans on the street, hanging out, shaking hands, kissing cheeks and talking. These must be the least offensive people in the world. I wonder if ignorance is bliss, and decide that if it isn't bliss, it certainly is amiable.
I have seen only one piece of advertising for products in Cuba, all the rest are government slogans, "Patriotism or Death!", "Always until Victory!", "Revolution or Death!", "Patriotism is Life!". Cheerful, and yet grim.
After a rather gentle overnighter of 21 hours or so, we arrived in Varadero to be greeted by the local captain of the coast guard and his entourage of some 10 other people, and of course, two dogs. Varadero is the tourist capital of Cuba, where the government allows foreigners to come and spend their money, to fund the ever turning revoloution. However, yet again the independant traveller was feared, as they may be harbouring drugs, which necessitated yet another search.
This was the most painful search yet, in terms of people asking me to watch them search the same drawers again and again, so that I could testify that they didn't a) steal anything or perhaps b) plant something. The whole process took 2 and a half hours, which seems ridiculous considering that this was the fifth time that we had been searched, and that a total of 10 dogs had now had a sniff around, uncovering nothing more than a pillow that may or may not have been stuffed with hemp.
After this was all over, we pulled up to our final mooring, and met an expat sailor, a real wheeler-dealer cockney type from Blightey. I asked him what there was to do here, and he said "Chicas. Chicas chicas chicas." which in English of course means "Girls, girls, girls". It turns out that he hires 17-21 year old prostitutes, and then stays in what is called a "Casa Particular", a private dwelling in which a room, often air conditioned, is rented out to foreigners, in this case, one owned by a doctor he knows. Imagine that, your local GP renting out his spare bedroom to some greasy foreigner to hump teenagers. The casa in particular usually goes for about $20, upon which was added another $20 for the services of a nubile young local girl for the period of about 12 hours or so. It is seemingly the retirement plan of some men - living out their later years drinking rum and banging teenagers. Probably more fun than bridge club on wednesday and pottering around in the garden I guess.
The marina is strict - no locals can come in, we can't take a computer out, and any bags we take in and out of the marina are searched. We are told that the security, some 8 men with firearms, is for the protection of our boats, as Cubans who wish to escape the dizzying effects of the endless revolution will steal anything that floats, remembering that they are prevented from owning anything longer than about 10 feet, and anything covered. Some die in the effort to cross to the other shore, America, the land of dreams, where unlike all other nationalities, a Cuban who sets one foot on American soil instantly becomes a resident. Its called the wet-foot dry-foot policy, so either you make it, or you are deported back, to some draconian punishment no doubt.
Day 19
One thing I like about this country is the lack of contempt people have for each other. People greet on the street in an open an open, unguarded way, they genuinly seem to enjoy talking with each other, which seems to take up a lot of their time. It's the perfect country for a young man to tour - cheap food, though not gourmet, beautful sensuous women who lean close and touch you on the shoulder speaking passionately to you in Spanish when you ask for directions, men who are friendly and like to help you out, or shoot the breeze, warm sun and warm water. People sit out in parks at night, in the near dark, talking and drinking, and this does not alarm local residents into calling the police! If I sat out on the street with some friends talking and drinking in my suburb of New Zealand, I wouldn't expect to do it for long before someone called the police, because we would no doubt soon become rowdy, and commit Home Invasion, which is the natural extension of New Zealanders sitting on a verge after having had a couple of drinks.
I talk with Vincent again this morning, and he asks me if I used the services of any prostitutes in Havana, and seems genuinely surprised that I didn't, and so too for a moment am I, as though that is what you should do in Havana if you are young and a man. The guards come to check us over one last time, going through cupboards, and drawers, always with me watching, and I ask them if they should like to check the engine room, as it is the most probable place where drugs could be kept. They look a little offended, and decline, as they say there is no need to, as they trust us. We leave at 11am, in good weather and mild seas, deciding that we will travel overnight if the conditions stay good, to arrive at Varadero some time in the next morning.
Day 18
I wake to CNN on the television, and Tony Blair, one of the most sycophantic PM's I have ever seen, simpers on about his latest plan to make some kind of peace agreement, as though all that is needed is for his presence in the middle east, why can't they just shake hands and put all this sillyness behind them? Mr Blair has obviously not grown up under rocket fire, or had any of his family brutally beaten, or killed in front of him, with his silly grin, and Great Plans.
We leave early, after the complimentary breakfast, which is plain and greasy, like most of the food we have had here. We pick up more hitchhikers today, first a doctor, and a soldier, then the faces blur as we drop off and pick up Cubans on their way to work. We pick up more people, some beautiful girls, who conform to the inverse beauty equation, the well known relationship between being beautiful and being interested in the outside world.
A young man bangs on the car window in a small town, insistent for a ride. Though I don't trust him, I let him in, perhaps he needs to go somewhere, perhaps he is late I tell myself. It begins to unfold that he is a professional hitchhiker, riding to and from tourist areas, "guiding" tourists to their destination in exchange for cash "gifts", able to tell tourists from locals as the rental cars have a "T" as the first letter of his licence plate. We didn't ask for his help, so at the end of his ride, we refuse his pleas for money, ignore his face, which looks at this stage like a petulant 5 year old, and lecture him on the evils of bullying foreigners into guiltily parting with their cash in such an underhand way, telling him he could make more money if he was upfront at the start of his rides. He then accepts defeat, smiles, pats us on the shoulder as if to show no hard feelings, and steps out to ply his dishonest trade again.
Day 17
We get up early and walk down to the waterfront, a wall that guards against the sea. Many men stand in a line fishing, from side on it looks like a porcupine, as the lines go up and down, casting and retrieving.
The street in front of the hotel is nice, with a central raised area for pedestrians only, with black marble lions on each corner. I walk one street back, and suddenly I am in real Havana, buildings that may be several hundred years old falling into disrepair, or totally collapsed. It looks like a European city in the 1700's that is in the middle of a war. The doors are huge and grand, and Romanesque pillars are everywhere. This country looks like it was very, very rich several hundred years ago, and then, suddenly, the money ran out. People are wandering everywhere, going to work and school. I ask an old man if he knows where I can get a haircut, and some other young guy overhears me (bad sign), and whistles to his friend, who opens up his shop and tries to charge me $4 U.S. which I refuse to pay, remembering that I could have gotten one for 30 cents in Moron, which as I write that doesn't really look like such a good deal.
I go back to the hotel for the complimentary breakfast, and have the first decent coffee I have had on this whole trip. Funny to think that the coffee in New Zealand, half way around the world is better than here, where people grow the stuff. We meet a young Swiss German lady, who is here to study Spanish and contine her studies in Salsa dancing. She agrees to meet us for tea, as she has only been in Havana for 3 days, and is not keen to go out alone.
I continue my search for a cheap haircut, wandering into old Havana, which ironically is new, as it has all been refurbished for the tourists. It is quite beautiful, and yet the hairdressers try to charge me about $7 U.S., which I Will Not Take.
Finally, having wandered back to the streets behind the hotel, I find a shop which is empty of customers, and go in. The guy asks me for $4, which I refuse, and beat him down to about 80 cents, as I tell him I only want a number 2 anyway. The haircut is pretty sweet, better than one you get in New Zealand, the guy does all the edges with a straight razor. I find out that he is a Cuban pool champion, and though other teams can come to Cuba to play, the Cuban team is not allowed to travel. He tells me that he could play in the U.S. and win quarter of a million dollars per competition, if he was to skip the country. I wish him luck, and give him a 40 cent tip, because I am nothing if not generous, then I go back to the hotel to meet dad for lunch.
After lunch, we head over to the old capital building, which, due to communism isn't necessary, as it is bourgeois with all its marble, and massive Greico-Roman pillars, and big, empty debating chamber because what there isn't the need for in communism is luxury, or debating.
For afternoon tea we go to old Cuba by bicycle taxi, which gets pulled over by a policeman on a skateboard. No, I'm kidding, the policeman just stands there and waves him down, to check his licence. It turns out the guy is only licenced for non-tourists, as the government taxes you more if you run an operation for tourists. The way tax works here for private/entreprenerial business is that the government charges you a flat tax of about $100 US a month for your business, and anything you make over that, you keep.
Dad finds this cheap but very nice cafe, and has a good meal for about $4, and a beer for about $1. The cafe has over 10 relatively mangey cats, which sit under tables, and calmly eat any scraps they are given. A small child exercises his personal power, and chases the cats around, and they politely jog out of his way.
We meet the Swiss girl for tea, and go to a Chinese restaurant in which only one person looks vaguely Chinese. The food is good, and cheap. After dinner we go to the old castle, "El Morro", which, as my friend Johnny Bardine will verify, in fact translates directly as "The Morro". Every night they have a re-enactment of the war between the Spanish and the English, with a cannon going off. We arrive too late, and the Swiss girl finds out from some Germans that it was pretty lame, and that one of them got her purse with all her credit cards stolen, in what is most probably a simple attempt to share the wealth in a very direct way.
We return to the hotel, and I watch CNN. There is the Republican "YouTube" debate, and only one guy seems to make much sense. He says that Americans shouldn't be blowing up and repairing bridges in Iraq, they should be repairing the broken ones in America. He says America is not an empire, but a republic, and should act like one. I wish him well, but it is clear that he is not a front runner for the candidacy of official Republican leader.Over here, it seems that inside their own party, rivalry is pretty high, and people will attack each other building up to an election, as though the other candidates were in the oposition party. The war between Obama and Clinton is getting ugly too.In New Zealand, when heads roll within a party, it is seemingly done behind closed doors, as the party tries to put on a united front, which is perhaps more dishonest, but better for marketing.
I wonder if Americans truely believe that their government is in Iraq for any other reason that but to secure oil, a view held pretty much by the rest of the world. I look out the window at the Cubans on the street, hanging out, shaking hands, kissing cheeks and talking. These must be the least offensive people in the world. I wonder if ignorance is bliss, and decide that if it isn't bliss, it certainly is amiable.
I have seen only one piece of advertising for products in Cuba, all the rest are government slogans, "Patriotism or Death!", "Always until Victory!", "Revolution or Death!", "Patriotism is Life!". Cheerful, and yet grim.
This is how we do it
Day 15
With the cold front on the way, we decide to go to Havana for a few days. We rent a car, and decide to pick up hitchhikers. Because a person would have to work for about four months to fill up a tank, they tend to hitchhike.
We give a lady who works in a hotel a ride to her home in Moron. She tells us her husbands heart stopped for 15 minutes, and he is still unwell. I'm not surprised, I thought brain death happens well before that, perhaps we didn't understand her very well.
The next ride is with some hard looking man, who gives us very detailed instructions on how to find the highway. We don't understand a single word. Then we pick up a doctor, then a policeman and the hottest policewoman I have ever seen, and we take them some 400km to Havana, a trip that they hike twice a week!
The highway is a laugh, 500km of pot holes, masses and masses of Cuban hitchikers and dudes trying to sell cheese. It suddenly terminates into a suburban street, no fanfare or nothing, one minute highway, next minute grotty backstreet. It is hard to tell Havana is coming up, as there is very little light polution.
We pick up a few hitchikers in the city too, on the way to the hotel, a nurse who looks like a prostitute (why else would a pretty lady in a short white skirt be standing on the traffic island on a busy road) and then a prostitute who looks like a prostitute.
The city is dark, with sickly green light coming out of some windows. We find a hotel, and go to get a drink. Some guy trys to hustle me for 5 cents, trying to buy a drink for me and keep the extra, which is pretty small time, when you think about it, compared to the rest of the Carribean. On the other islands, it is pathetic what grown men do and then ask for money - tie up your ships rope, $5, give you a tiddly fish, $30. Grown men, it's a sad sight to see, these guys who have been spoilt by weak-willed tourists.
Day 14
The Cubans are generous people. As my father fixes the boats, the many men who work the big game fishing boats pop in to offer their expertiese and skills free of charge, and we give the coffee and the odd old fishing line and things like that. I practice my Spanish skills on the guards, and manage to communicate on such topics as whether they have any children, and if they like to go fishing. Learning a language is a bloody hard task that us native English speakers are spared from, and thank God for that. Who wants to sit around all day memorising the words for things that we already have names for?
Vincent mentions that a cold front is coming, and that the weather is going to be bad for a few days.
Day 13
I talk for a while with Vincent, a man who trained as a navigator for a merchant marine ship, the kind that lugs various goods back and forward across the world, who is now working as the host of a catamaran which takes big groups of toursits out to get drunk, and snorkel. He loves his job, as the tips mean he makes great money (read US $10 a day) and he gets to meet the laideehz.
He has married foreigners twice, and is considering going to the UK to live with his wife, but is afraid he will lose this job, one of the most highly prised in Cuba no doubt, though he could make a packet more in the UK. Decisions decisions. I leave him with his conundrum, and go to look at some of the local hotels, where ruddy Englishmen and their wives, with their wristbands, and their dago waiters, and their wotneys red barrel. It is as limp and as languid as any resort hotel you would find anywhere in the world, and I, the independant traveler scoff at them, as they lie indolently in the sun. Who the hell wants to lie in the sun all day? Them, thats who, so they can go hime to their chilly northern countrys, and rub their tan in their less fortunate workmate's faces.
With the cold front on the way, we decide to go to Havana for a few days. We rent a car, and decide to pick up hitchhikers. Because a person would have to work for about four months to fill up a tank, they tend to hitchhike.
We give a lady who works in a hotel a ride to her home in Moron. She tells us her husbands heart stopped for 15 minutes, and he is still unwell. I'm not surprised, I thought brain death happens well before that, perhaps we didn't understand her very well.
The next ride is with some hard looking man, who gives us very detailed instructions on how to find the highway. We don't understand a single word. Then we pick up a doctor, then a policeman and the hottest policewoman I have ever seen, and we take them some 400km to Havana, a trip that they hike twice a week!
The highway is a laugh, 500km of pot holes, masses and masses of Cuban hitchikers and dudes trying to sell cheese. It suddenly terminates into a suburban street, no fanfare or nothing, one minute highway, next minute grotty backstreet. It is hard to tell Havana is coming up, as there is very little light polution.
We pick up a few hitchikers in the city too, on the way to the hotel, a nurse who looks like a prostitute (why else would a pretty lady in a short white skirt be standing on the traffic island on a busy road) and then a prostitute who looks like a prostitute.
The city is dark, with sickly green light coming out of some windows. We find a hotel, and go to get a drink. Some guy trys to hustle me for 5 cents, trying to buy a drink for me and keep the extra, which is pretty small time, when you think about it, compared to the rest of the Carribean. On the other islands, it is pathetic what grown men do and then ask for money - tie up your ships rope, $5, give you a tiddly fish, $30. Grown men, it's a sad sight to see, these guys who have been spoilt by weak-willed tourists.
Day 14
The Cubans are generous people. As my father fixes the boats, the many men who work the big game fishing boats pop in to offer their expertiese and skills free of charge, and we give the coffee and the odd old fishing line and things like that. I practice my Spanish skills on the guards, and manage to communicate on such topics as whether they have any children, and if they like to go fishing. Learning a language is a bloody hard task that us native English speakers are spared from, and thank God for that. Who wants to sit around all day memorising the words for things that we already have names for?
Vincent mentions that a cold front is coming, and that the weather is going to be bad for a few days.
Day 13
I talk for a while with Vincent, a man who trained as a navigator for a merchant marine ship, the kind that lugs various goods back and forward across the world, who is now working as the host of a catamaran which takes big groups of toursits out to get drunk, and snorkel. He loves his job, as the tips mean he makes great money (read US $10 a day) and he gets to meet the laideehz.
He has married foreigners twice, and is considering going to the UK to live with his wife, but is afraid he will lose this job, one of the most highly prised in Cuba no doubt, though he could make a packet more in the UK. Decisions decisions. I leave him with his conundrum, and go to look at some of the local hotels, where ruddy Englishmen and their wives, with their wristbands, and their dago waiters, and their wotneys red barrel. It is as limp and as languid as any resort hotel you would find anywhere in the world, and I, the independant traveler scoff at them, as they lie indolently in the sun. Who the hell wants to lie in the sun all day? Them, thats who, so they can go hime to their chilly northern countrys, and rub their tan in their less fortunate workmate's faces.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Badda Bing
We decide to celebrate our new found freedom by renting a car, and going into a small local town called Moron. It has a different meaning in Spanish.
When I say local, I really mean a 2 hour ride, which the workers at the hotel take every day, twice a day, because in Cuba, working in hospitality is where the money is at. A mechanical engineer, with the very same job as my father, tells us, as he fills in our car rental forms, and shuttles us from the marina to the car we are going to rent, that he makes 10 times more money in this pitiful job that in his old job as an engineer.
We are stopped at a check point, and searched by a man and his dog.
We get into Moron, and arrange a Casa Particular. This is a private home in which a room is rented. The guy we are staying with is Carlos, and he looks just like a mafioso - walks around with no shirt in shorts, hairy back, big gold chain round his neck. I talk to him about Castro, and the Economy. Dad walks in. The guy smiles at dad and shrugs his shoulders, as if to say "hey, mr, your kid is busting my balls, but whaddaya gonna do!".
We wander around the town. Movies are 10 NZ cents. An icecream is 10 NZ cents. It's not all bad, this communis jaunt.
We catch a bicycle taxi for a tour round the town. The bicycle and carriage are old, but still have a sweet sound system. The guy sweats profusely. It's always about 30 degrees.
We check out an indigenous art exhibition. It is so sad, all these people, with their ways and lives, their families, all wiped out by some asshole who saw them as animals, as creatures to be subjugated as slaves, much like a cow, or an ox. Read up on Columbus, the guy was a hell of a asshole. His real name is Cristobal Colon. The whole carribean history, no matter what island goes like this:
1. Columbus arrives, and exclaims its the most beautiful place he has ever seen
2. He immediately enslaves the local indigenous people
3. The indigenous people die from disease, murder and overwork
4. Many black slaves are brought in from Africa
5. Heaps of tourists come and drink cocktails.
We go back to the house. Carlos tells me about Cuba. Carlos is well off, but he still likes Castro, and thinks he is a great man.
When I say local, I really mean a 2 hour ride, which the workers at the hotel take every day, twice a day, because in Cuba, working in hospitality is where the money is at. A mechanical engineer, with the very same job as my father, tells us, as he fills in our car rental forms, and shuttles us from the marina to the car we are going to rent, that he makes 10 times more money in this pitiful job that in his old job as an engineer.
We are stopped at a check point, and searched by a man and his dog.
We get into Moron, and arrange a Casa Particular. This is a private home in which a room is rented. The guy we are staying with is Carlos, and he looks just like a mafioso - walks around with no shirt in shorts, hairy back, big gold chain round his neck. I talk to him about Castro, and the Economy. Dad walks in. The guy smiles at dad and shrugs his shoulders, as if to say "hey, mr, your kid is busting my balls, but whaddaya gonna do!".
We wander around the town. Movies are 10 NZ cents. An icecream is 10 NZ cents. It's not all bad, this communis jaunt.
We catch a bicycle taxi for a tour round the town. The bicycle and carriage are old, but still have a sweet sound system. The guy sweats profusely. It's always about 30 degrees.
We check out an indigenous art exhibition. It is so sad, all these people, with their ways and lives, their families, all wiped out by some asshole who saw them as animals, as creatures to be subjugated as slaves, much like a cow, or an ox. Read up on Columbus, the guy was a hell of a asshole. His real name is Cristobal Colon. The whole carribean history, no matter what island goes like this:
1. Columbus arrives, and exclaims its the most beautiful place he has ever seen
2. He immediately enslaves the local indigenous people
3. The indigenous people die from disease, murder and overwork
4. Many black slaves are brought in from Africa
5. Heaps of tourists come and drink cocktails.
We go back to the house. Carlos tells me about Cuba. Carlos is well off, but he still likes Castro, and thinks he is a great man.
Keep on Keeping on
Day 11
We sleep out on the mud bank. At low tide, there is almost no water around us. A couple of guys come out to have a look at the boat, and suggest what we can do to get out of the mud. One of them stands on a lobster in the now 1 foot water that our boat sits in, grabs it and throws it on our boat. Lunch is sorted.
The boat is relatively safe, as it is in very soft mud, which won't damage it.
A boat makes its way out to us. On board are 11 people and 2 dogs. They fail in their first attempt to get to us, as it is so shallow, but makes it on the second attempt. The coastguard will not help us, but will come out to do the paperwork and search our boat for cocaine. What they didnt realise is that we snorted most of it last night in a pique of fury, and gave the rest of it away to passing fishermen.
They ask if they can cut the pillow open. We agree. They cut the pillow open. I think it is made of hemp or something. They collect the small pieces of twig and branch. I laugh, you would be hard pressed to get high, even if it was marijuana, with the small pieces they find after raking through the contents of the entire pillow. They take the pieces off for analysis.
I insist someone search the engine room. The guy is surprised. "I didn't know there was an engine room". The engine room is huge.
At night, dad rigs up some anchors on long ropes, and we pull ourselves free as the tide comes in. We ask them to send someone out to help us in this time, because we are f***ing champions, and will not be denied. An army boat driven by hooting teenagers with rifles guides us in, and we take our rightful place on the dock.
Day 10
We roar up the coast at 12kph. The boat requires a lot of work, as it has a tendency to stop. As it gets dark, we approach a place called Caya Coco. We try to enter the harbour, but the coastguard tells us to keep going. We tell him it's dangerous, but he tells us to go to the marina up the road, 12 miles he says, but it is about 22 on our GPS. He sounds like he doesn't want to be bothered with gringos and their goddamn boats.
We carry on up the coast to the marina. We look for the buoy that signals the entrance of the harbour. We call the lady at the marina. She tells us to come towards the bridge. Our depth guage is reading 5 feet. We ask her again where the buoy is. Its there, she tells us, we should be on it. Come towards the bridge she repeats. We ask her if she can see our boat. No she says, but we are ok, just come towards the bridge. We ask her if she can send a boat out. No, she says, she can't. The depth guage reads 0 feet. The boat stops. We are stuck in mud, the water is about 2 feet deep. We need 3 and a half.
We go ashore. The coastguard will not help us, as we are not in immediate danger. They suggest we hire an expensive tug boat from Havana. The lady at the marina seems to be more interested in talking to her boyfriend on the phone, "Te amo, te amo, mi amore, mi amore." The lady tells us that its our fault, and that we should have just anchored out in the harbour if we were worried. I am so angry, but in retrospect, she is right, when you are sailing, you need to rely upon yourself, and not people who give you advice from a windowless converted shipping container which has buildings and trees between itself and the sea.
We sleep out on the mud bank. At low tide, there is almost no water around us. A couple of guys come out to have a look at the boat, and suggest what we can do to get out of the mud. One of them stands on a lobster in the now 1 foot water that our boat sits in, grabs it and throws it on our boat. Lunch is sorted.
The boat is relatively safe, as it is in very soft mud, which won't damage it.
A boat makes its way out to us. On board are 11 people and 2 dogs. They fail in their first attempt to get to us, as it is so shallow, but makes it on the second attempt. The coastguard will not help us, but will come out to do the paperwork and search our boat for cocaine. What they didnt realise is that we snorted most of it last night in a pique of fury, and gave the rest of it away to passing fishermen.
They ask if they can cut the pillow open. We agree. They cut the pillow open. I think it is made of hemp or something. They collect the small pieces of twig and branch. I laugh, you would be hard pressed to get high, even if it was marijuana, with the small pieces they find after raking through the contents of the entire pillow. They take the pieces off for analysis.
I insist someone search the engine room. The guy is surprised. "I didn't know there was an engine room". The engine room is huge.
At night, dad rigs up some anchors on long ropes, and we pull ourselves free as the tide comes in. We ask them to send someone out to help us in this time, because we are f***ing champions, and will not be denied. An army boat driven by hooting teenagers with rifles guides us in, and we take our rightful place on the dock.
Day 10
We roar up the coast at 12kph. The boat requires a lot of work, as it has a tendency to stop. As it gets dark, we approach a place called Caya Coco. We try to enter the harbour, but the coastguard tells us to keep going. We tell him it's dangerous, but he tells us to go to the marina up the road, 12 miles he says, but it is about 22 on our GPS. He sounds like he doesn't want to be bothered with gringos and their goddamn boats.
We carry on up the coast to the marina. We look for the buoy that signals the entrance of the harbour. We call the lady at the marina. She tells us to come towards the bridge. Our depth guage is reading 5 feet. We ask her again where the buoy is. Its there, she tells us, we should be on it. Come towards the bridge she repeats. We ask her if she can see our boat. No she says, but we are ok, just come towards the bridge. We ask her if she can send a boat out. No, she says, she can't. The depth guage reads 0 feet. The boat stops. We are stuck in mud, the water is about 2 feet deep. We need 3 and a half.
We go ashore. The coastguard will not help us, as we are not in immediate danger. They suggest we hire an expensive tug boat from Havana. The lady at the marina seems to be more interested in talking to her boyfriend on the phone, "Te amo, te amo, mi amore, mi amore." The lady tells us that its our fault, and that we should have just anchored out in the harbour if we were worried. I am so angry, but in retrospect, she is right, when you are sailing, you need to rely upon yourself, and not people who give you advice from a windowless converted shipping container which has buildings and trees between itself and the sea.
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