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.
Infidelity and Castration
Day 9
We travel for hours, ending up next to an idylic little island with a light house, some fishing boats, and the ever present guardia. It is very windy, so the guardia decide not to come out. My stomach has started protesting greviously after eating nothing but canned food for quite a few days, so I swim in to the island in search of fruit. I swap a fisherman a can of condensed milk, some jam sachets, and some razors for some bananas of dubious quality. A huge fish lies on the sand, rolling up and down in the waves. I point at it and the fisherman says "intoxico". Some guardia come along and tell me I need to get back on the boat. The guardia sem like assholes, but the locals seem quite genuine. "Where do you from?" one of the fisherman asks me. "Nueva Zelandia" I say, and he nods sagely. The bananas are surprisingly edible, and settle my churning gut.
Day 8
We travel all day to end up behind a reef, where we anchor, in between the reef, and another reef at the shore. Dad decided that it is not particularly secure, so we take turns waiting up and looking at the drift alarm on the GPS. I listen to American talk back, as we can get it now, getting close to Miami. Some hillbilly is talking about the Indians, and how they was jess as violent as the next man. "They had warriors too. What about them Navajos, didn't they go and kill a whole tribe of other injins?". A Native American rings up. "But its the fault of the white man. He converted that other tribe to Christianity, so they didn't put up a fight, and the Navajo killed them all". Flawless.
Day 7
I get up early to go into town to do my washing. I talk to some fishermen, and ask them where I could get it done. A guy leads me to a house nearby, where I trade the lady two bars of scented soap and 150ml of washing liquid for getting my clothes washed. I wander around the town, it looks tired, but the houses have a certain rustic charm. There is a sad looking store, which contains what must be the state manufactured soft drinks, and a few cigars. People wander around, stand on street corners, talk inside dark houses. I see some of the cars people talk about, old American cars, the only thing remaining from the original is probably the body. After walking around for about 15 minutes, I am accosted by a policeman who, after trying in a futile effort to tell me something in Spanish, no doubt "get back on your boat", calls up a local English teacher, and they both escort me back to the boat. Maggie, the teacher, tells me they are worried about people stealing the boat. I tell her my father is on the boat. She tells the man, but he still insists that I go back. He says that it is a commercial area, not a tourist area. Out of his view, Maggie rolls her eyes. She tells me that in this area about 3000 people have taken to a variety of leaky boats, and thinks the whole police thing is a bit much, everyone who wants to go has gone, she says. She herself is afraid of the sea. I collect my washing later, and am escorted back to the boat by a young soldier. He keeps commenting on my two pairs of jeans, and tells me they are expensive, so expensive in Cuba.
I decide I had better give fishing a go. I catch a fish, and stab it several times in the head, to kill it quickly. I end up merely causing it serious brain damage, and I leave it in the bucket to die quietly. The whole process is awful. Fish are quite beautiful close up, the intricacies of the scales, and I think pisco-vegetarians are just being unfair.
Day 6
We get up early, are searched again by a dog, and then leave to travel to a small bay called Manzania. A man in uniform comes out in a leaky fishing boat, and three sailors hold their boat steady, gripping onto our guard rail around the boat, as the man asks for the same information yet again, and dutifully writes it down.
Day 5
After a night of air conditioned comfort, due to the power at the dock enabling our aircon to work, I walked around the marina. It was a rather sad affair, with various old looking buildings, and staff languishing around. We were the only people staying in the marina, yet the bar was open all day.
I am called over by a lady who runs the place. She is very camp, and would make a very good stereotypical gay man. She tells me various things about Cuba, about how the average person earns 10 Cuban Convertable Pesos a month, which is about $12 US dollars, and how now tourism is the most lucrative career in the country.
I go and see the marina doctor, as it is free, and ask him about some back problems I'm having. He seems more interested in showing me his collection of Boney M, Bee Gees and Beatles on his computer. He assesses me quickly, and says if we hang around for a week, he could get me to see a specialist. Then we chat about Cuba, and he tells me that he earns much less than his son who works in tourism, and bemoans the fact that he doesn't have enough money to buy a $20 USB memory stick. He tells me that Cuba has a very low infant mortality rate, no Dengue fever, and very few cases of Aids. He tells me that he likes to be at the marina, where it seems all he has to do is sit in the ofice, 3 days a week, listening to music and relaxing. He tells me on the other days he teaches, and that teaching is hard, and I agree.
The marina is the most languid and pitiful one I have ever seen. I feel a little sorry for the workers here, the buerocracy is enough to put off most travellers, and since George Bush has tightened up the laws, few American boats come here, as if they are caught having been in Cuba their boat will be confiscated.
The marina has a store with 6 shelves, it looks like a boutique store, except it sells cheap rum, cheap soda, and tuna in huge 1kg cans.
We travel for hours, ending up next to an idylic little island with a light house, some fishing boats, and the ever present guardia. It is very windy, so the guardia decide not to come out. My stomach has started protesting greviously after eating nothing but canned food for quite a few days, so I swim in to the island in search of fruit. I swap a fisherman a can of condensed milk, some jam sachets, and some razors for some bananas of dubious quality. A huge fish lies on the sand, rolling up and down in the waves. I point at it and the fisherman says "intoxico". Some guardia come along and tell me I need to get back on the boat. The guardia sem like assholes, but the locals seem quite genuine. "Where do you from?" one of the fisherman asks me. "Nueva Zelandia" I say, and he nods sagely. The bananas are surprisingly edible, and settle my churning gut.
Day 8
We travel all day to end up behind a reef, where we anchor, in between the reef, and another reef at the shore. Dad decided that it is not particularly secure, so we take turns waiting up and looking at the drift alarm on the GPS. I listen to American talk back, as we can get it now, getting close to Miami. Some hillbilly is talking about the Indians, and how they was jess as violent as the next man. "They had warriors too. What about them Navajos, didn't they go and kill a whole tribe of other injins?". A Native American rings up. "But its the fault of the white man. He converted that other tribe to Christianity, so they didn't put up a fight, and the Navajo killed them all". Flawless.
Day 7
I get up early to go into town to do my washing. I talk to some fishermen, and ask them where I could get it done. A guy leads me to a house nearby, where I trade the lady two bars of scented soap and 150ml of washing liquid for getting my clothes washed. I wander around the town, it looks tired, but the houses have a certain rustic charm. There is a sad looking store, which contains what must be the state manufactured soft drinks, and a few cigars. People wander around, stand on street corners, talk inside dark houses. I see some of the cars people talk about, old American cars, the only thing remaining from the original is probably the body. After walking around for about 15 minutes, I am accosted by a policeman who, after trying in a futile effort to tell me something in Spanish, no doubt "get back on your boat", calls up a local English teacher, and they both escort me back to the boat. Maggie, the teacher, tells me they are worried about people stealing the boat. I tell her my father is on the boat. She tells the man, but he still insists that I go back. He says that it is a commercial area, not a tourist area. Out of his view, Maggie rolls her eyes. She tells me that in this area about 3000 people have taken to a variety of leaky boats, and thinks the whole police thing is a bit much, everyone who wants to go has gone, she says. She herself is afraid of the sea. I collect my washing later, and am escorted back to the boat by a young soldier. He keeps commenting on my two pairs of jeans, and tells me they are expensive, so expensive in Cuba.
I decide I had better give fishing a go. I catch a fish, and stab it several times in the head, to kill it quickly. I end up merely causing it serious brain damage, and I leave it in the bucket to die quietly. The whole process is awful. Fish are quite beautiful close up, the intricacies of the scales, and I think pisco-vegetarians are just being unfair.
Day 6
We get up early, are searched again by a dog, and then leave to travel to a small bay called Manzania. A man in uniform comes out in a leaky fishing boat, and three sailors hold their boat steady, gripping onto our guard rail around the boat, as the man asks for the same information yet again, and dutifully writes it down.
Day 5
After a night of air conditioned comfort, due to the power at the dock enabling our aircon to work, I walked around the marina. It was a rather sad affair, with various old looking buildings, and staff languishing around. We were the only people staying in the marina, yet the bar was open all day.
I am called over by a lady who runs the place. She is very camp, and would make a very good stereotypical gay man. She tells me various things about Cuba, about how the average person earns 10 Cuban Convertable Pesos a month, which is about $12 US dollars, and how now tourism is the most lucrative career in the country.
I go and see the marina doctor, as it is free, and ask him about some back problems I'm having. He seems more interested in showing me his collection of Boney M, Bee Gees and Beatles on his computer. He assesses me quickly, and says if we hang around for a week, he could get me to see a specialist. Then we chat about Cuba, and he tells me that he earns much less than his son who works in tourism, and bemoans the fact that he doesn't have enough money to buy a $20 USB memory stick. He tells me that Cuba has a very low infant mortality rate, no Dengue fever, and very few cases of Aids. He tells me that he likes to be at the marina, where it seems all he has to do is sit in the ofice, 3 days a week, listening to music and relaxing. He tells me on the other days he teaches, and that teaching is hard, and I agree.
The marina is the most languid and pitiful one I have ever seen. I feel a little sorry for the workers here, the buerocracy is enough to put off most travellers, and since George Bush has tightened up the laws, few American boats come here, as if they are caught having been in Cuba their boat will be confiscated.
The marina has a store with 6 shelves, it looks like a boutique store, except it sells cheap rum, cheap soda, and tuna in huge 1kg cans.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Livin' la vida Cuba
Day 4
We get up early again, set for another 8 hours on the water. That seems to be about the average, except for the few days when we have jumped from Puerto Rico to the Dominican Republic, and then the Dominican Republic to Cuba. The fisherman arrives at our boat with 2 lobster and a huge fish, from which we cut about 2-3kg of fillet.
We go to his house for a picture with him and his wife. Its funny, you could easily imagine these guys at a Kiwi BBQ, or sitting at a cafe having coffee down town the Mount, but instead they live in this house that looks lucky to be standing - the walls propped up with sticks, and aluminium pot that is pitch black on the outside bubbling away over burning wood.
He waves goodbye to us, and we head onwards, up to a place called Vita, where we can check in.
We get there in the afternoon, and are greeted by 4 army men, 3 dogs, a doctor and a vet. They want us to give them the exact same information we gave the last guys, then they search the boat, though not the engine room. I mention that we have an engine room. One of the men looks surprised, and asks that I show him. The engines are still hot when I open up the trap door that is under the main room, which is the lounge/kitchen. He commands the dog to go in. It whimpers and sits on the floor, so he closes the trapdoor, never mind the ton of cocaine, weapons and contraband pornography that we are hiding under there. The dogs go wild over a cushion that they find in a mouldy old cupboard, so they lay out all our lifejackets and cushions, and find nothing. The whole process takes about 3 hours.
Day 3
We leave early for a place called Tanamo, not Guantanamo, just plain old Tanamo. The Cuba Sailing guidebook says that we may not be able to enter, as the Guardia are fussy.
After about 8 hours sailing we reach the entrance to the bay. Its a very calm and beautiful bay, reminds me of lake Waikaremoana. A few small shacks are dotted around the shore. We look for the guardia, but all we can see is a gutted watch tower, an old rusted concrete wharf and a couple of sunken ships. The book is about 8 years old now, so I guess a lot can happen in 8 years here.
A fisherman and his young son see us, and call us over to the wharf, indicating we can lash ourselves off there. The guy looks like Manuel from Faulty towers on steroids, he has the upper body of a gym junkie and not an ounce of fat on him. He sees our broken wooden/metal band, and indicates he can fix it. He rushes off at full pace, to return with a wooden stake that is flexible, yet hard. He and my father get to fixing the boat, my B.A. degree fitting me only to make the drinks. A small group of locals begin to gather. They marvel at the boat - a 40ft trawler, that would be considered in New Zealand to be a nice old boat that needs a bit of work. The fact that it has 2 bedrooms, lights, a fridge and a stove is amazing to them. It must look like a palace.
Before long the boat is fixed, and with a bit of bog and fibreglass, it won't look much different. We give the guy some beers, some fishooks, soap and $5 US. The fishhooks are prized here, as like most other things they are hard to get.
My father goes to his house for some coffee. He comes back and tells me the place was about as simple as you can get - a shack with dirt floors, hammocks and a small wooden fireplace outside.
We sleep troubled by the mosquitos. That's what you don't see on the brochures, the masses of hungry mosquitos that live in these temperate climes.
Day 2
We are anchored near the "Navy" wharf. The navy seems to be a conglomeration of coast guard, immigration and navy. Cadets play soccer on the wharf, piss off it, get haircuts, go swimming. They don't actually seem to do a hell of a lot.
There is a bit of the swell, so the boat rocks moderately all day.
My father goes into town to get some money for the diesel. As we cannot be cleared by this port, which is the logical place for tired sailors to clear into, he is accompanied by 3 or 4 officals. He said the town was very ramshackle and dilapidated, people travelled by horse and cart and bicycle tuk-tuk.
Later in the day they bring us the diesel - having travelled 20km in a taxi with big drums. We move the boat closer to the wharf, but there is a bit of a swell, and 6 guys look on as the boat crashes into the concrete wharf. It just goes to show that when you are boating you can't rely on anyone else. The boat is OK, as the damage is pretty superficial. It is to the band of wood that goes around the boat, a band that is much like the band you find on car doors, about half way down, in this case its made from wood with metal over the top. It may take a bit of fibreglassing, and bending of wood, which may be expensive.
We get the petrol, and spend the rest of the day sitting on the boat. We manage to buy 3 large fish of a local fisherman for about $4, not bad at all.
We get up early again, set for another 8 hours on the water. That seems to be about the average, except for the few days when we have jumped from Puerto Rico to the Dominican Republic, and then the Dominican Republic to Cuba. The fisherman arrives at our boat with 2 lobster and a huge fish, from which we cut about 2-3kg of fillet.
We go to his house for a picture with him and his wife. Its funny, you could easily imagine these guys at a Kiwi BBQ, or sitting at a cafe having coffee down town the Mount, but instead they live in this house that looks lucky to be standing - the walls propped up with sticks, and aluminium pot that is pitch black on the outside bubbling away over burning wood.
He waves goodbye to us, and we head onwards, up to a place called Vita, where we can check in.
We get there in the afternoon, and are greeted by 4 army men, 3 dogs, a doctor and a vet. They want us to give them the exact same information we gave the last guys, then they search the boat, though not the engine room. I mention that we have an engine room. One of the men looks surprised, and asks that I show him. The engines are still hot when I open up the trap door that is under the main room, which is the lounge/kitchen. He commands the dog to go in. It whimpers and sits on the floor, so he closes the trapdoor, never mind the ton of cocaine, weapons and contraband pornography that we are hiding under there. The dogs go wild over a cushion that they find in a mouldy old cupboard, so they lay out all our lifejackets and cushions, and find nothing. The whole process takes about 3 hours.
Day 3
We leave early for a place called Tanamo, not Guantanamo, just plain old Tanamo. The Cuba Sailing guidebook says that we may not be able to enter, as the Guardia are fussy.
After about 8 hours sailing we reach the entrance to the bay. Its a very calm and beautiful bay, reminds me of lake Waikaremoana. A few small shacks are dotted around the shore. We look for the guardia, but all we can see is a gutted watch tower, an old rusted concrete wharf and a couple of sunken ships. The book is about 8 years old now, so I guess a lot can happen in 8 years here.
A fisherman and his young son see us, and call us over to the wharf, indicating we can lash ourselves off there. The guy looks like Manuel from Faulty towers on steroids, he has the upper body of a gym junkie and not an ounce of fat on him. He sees our broken wooden/metal band, and indicates he can fix it. He rushes off at full pace, to return with a wooden stake that is flexible, yet hard. He and my father get to fixing the boat, my B.A. degree fitting me only to make the drinks. A small group of locals begin to gather. They marvel at the boat - a 40ft trawler, that would be considered in New Zealand to be a nice old boat that needs a bit of work. The fact that it has 2 bedrooms, lights, a fridge and a stove is amazing to them. It must look like a palace.
Before long the boat is fixed, and with a bit of bog and fibreglass, it won't look much different. We give the guy some beers, some fishooks, soap and $5 US. The fishhooks are prized here, as like most other things they are hard to get.
My father goes to his house for some coffee. He comes back and tells me the place was about as simple as you can get - a shack with dirt floors, hammocks and a small wooden fireplace outside.
We sleep troubled by the mosquitos. That's what you don't see on the brochures, the masses of hungry mosquitos that live in these temperate climes.
Day 2
We are anchored near the "Navy" wharf. The navy seems to be a conglomeration of coast guard, immigration and navy. Cadets play soccer on the wharf, piss off it, get haircuts, go swimming. They don't actually seem to do a hell of a lot.
There is a bit of the swell, so the boat rocks moderately all day.
My father goes into town to get some money for the diesel. As we cannot be cleared by this port, which is the logical place for tired sailors to clear into, he is accompanied by 3 or 4 officals. He said the town was very ramshackle and dilapidated, people travelled by horse and cart and bicycle tuk-tuk.
Later in the day they bring us the diesel - having travelled 20km in a taxi with big drums. We move the boat closer to the wharf, but there is a bit of a swell, and 6 guys look on as the boat crashes into the concrete wharf. It just goes to show that when you are boating you can't rely on anyone else. The boat is OK, as the damage is pretty superficial. It is to the band of wood that goes around the boat, a band that is much like the band you find on car doors, about half way down, in this case its made from wood with metal over the top. It may take a bit of fibreglassing, and bending of wood, which may be expensive.
We get the petrol, and spend the rest of the day sitting on the boat. We manage to buy 3 large fish of a local fisherman for about $4, not bad at all.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Hola at your Amigo
Cuba- day one
We arrived in Cuba after a back breaking 32 hour voyage from The Dominican Republic. The night was stormy, and one engine and some of the electronic naviagtion gave out as we wre going past Haiti in the dark. According to everyone we met, you never enter Haiti at night, as being one of the poorest countries around, people will come on board and take everything.
The first possible port in Cuba was a place called Baracoa. From a distance the place seemed to be a bunch of style apartments, with a narrow harbour entry. We made our way in, and parked the boat behind this shipwrecked container ship, which sheltered us somewhat from the swell entering the bay.
We were contacted by the local coastguard, who said we couldnt land, as this was not an international port. Three men - the captain, a doctor and a soldier were ferried out by some local fishemen in a tiny dinghy, and they came aboard to have a brief search and do a lot of paperwork. We gave them some cordial and some salted mixed nuts. The doctor was very impressed by the mixed nuts, and commented that they were very expenisve, and asked if he could have a large bag of them to take home. An odd request from a doctor, but in Cuba the average wage, as given out by the government, is about $12-14 NZ dollars a month.
We sat out on the boat for the rest of the day, as we were very tired, and we were not allowed to go ashore until we had gone to an international port and checked in. The harbour is quite beautiful, the hills are covered with coconut palms, the larger, straighter kind, and the mountains in the background are misty.
We arrived in Cuba after a back breaking 32 hour voyage from The Dominican Republic. The night was stormy, and one engine and some of the electronic naviagtion gave out as we wre going past Haiti in the dark. According to everyone we met, you never enter Haiti at night, as being one of the poorest countries around, people will come on board and take everything.
The first possible port in Cuba was a place called Baracoa. From a distance the place seemed to be a bunch of style apartments, with a narrow harbour entry. We made our way in, and parked the boat behind this shipwrecked container ship, which sheltered us somewhat from the swell entering the bay.
We were contacted by the local coastguard, who said we couldnt land, as this was not an international port. Three men - the captain, a doctor and a soldier were ferried out by some local fishemen in a tiny dinghy, and they came aboard to have a brief search and do a lot of paperwork. We gave them some cordial and some salted mixed nuts. The doctor was very impressed by the mixed nuts, and commented that they were very expenisve, and asked if he could have a large bag of them to take home. An odd request from a doctor, but in Cuba the average wage, as given out by the government, is about $12-14 NZ dollars a month.
We sat out on the boat for the rest of the day, as we were very tired, and we were not allowed to go ashore until we had gone to an international port and checked in. The harbour is quite beautiful, the hills are covered with coconut palms, the larger, straighter kind, and the mountains in the background are misty.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Tainted love
Today I went to provision for our trip to Cuba, as on Cuba, you can't get basic things easily, such as soap, toilet paper, and food. This is mainly due to the embargo the U.S. has put on the filthy communists. This means that anyone who wishes to trade with Cuba cannot trade with the U.S., and most nations kowtow to the mighty dollar, so the Red Menace must languish in poverty. However, it is a relatively peaceful and safe place, said to be the safest place in the Americas, which is unlike Haiti, a country we will be giving a wide berth on our way to Cuba.
The island of Hispaniola is made up of two countries, Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Due to environmental mismanagement, Haiti is said to be a dustbowl, with grinding poverty. We have heard only negative stories from other sailors, who say it is very dangerous, and armed men will board your boat and strip it of everything, which is really no-ones idea of a carribean holiday, I mean, we all want the friendly guy to pour us a Just Juice as the steel drums play, not to pistol whip us into revealing the location of our money.
So to avoid this situation, we are going to head out to sea, and keep a 5 mile gap between us and Haiti, which means that this little town will be our last chance to get provisions. I may also not be able to write so frequently, dear readers, but will do my best.
I went into a small supermarket to buy our goods. A guy wearing an "I sail for Jesus" T-Shirt came to help me with my goods. He then made the universal hand gestures for lovemaking, and suggested that I could obtain this for $10 U.S. (this means he would settle for about $5). I searched my phrasebook in vain for "No, I do not want to sleep with your girlfriend/wife of dubious venereal hygene, thank you very much" but had to settle for "No, gracias".
The island of Hispaniola is made up of two countries, Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Due to environmental mismanagement, Haiti is said to be a dustbowl, with grinding poverty. We have heard only negative stories from other sailors, who say it is very dangerous, and armed men will board your boat and strip it of everything, which is really no-ones idea of a carribean holiday, I mean, we all want the friendly guy to pour us a Just Juice as the steel drums play, not to pistol whip us into revealing the location of our money.
So to avoid this situation, we are going to head out to sea, and keep a 5 mile gap between us and Haiti, which means that this little town will be our last chance to get provisions. I may also not be able to write so frequently, dear readers, but will do my best.
I went into a small supermarket to buy our goods. A guy wearing an "I sail for Jesus" T-Shirt came to help me with my goods. He then made the universal hand gestures for lovemaking, and suggested that I could obtain this for $10 U.S. (this means he would settle for about $5). I searched my phrasebook in vain for "No, I do not want to sleep with your girlfriend/wife of dubious venereal hygene, thank you very much" but had to settle for "No, gracias".
Thursday, November 8, 2007
It's so damn hot
It is, I tell you.
The locals all sit around in groups, talking. Is it because they are too hot to do anything, because they are unemployed, because they like talking, or a mixture of all three. I should ask someone, but I'm not sure how to prhase the question, or whether they would even understand what I am talking about, because most of these people have never and will never go to another country to compare themselves with. However, the people seem happy enough, the children seem well fed, and are give free reighn to wander around. A small boy attacks a chair languidly with a machette, a small girl plays about a foot from the road. I guess she's used to it, and her grandma is probably around somewhere. It must be nice for kids, there are always several friendly adults sitting on the porch talking or playing dominos. Dominos here is quite a popular game, guys slam the tiles down on the table, as they finger chips that I have not quite figured out the use of, save they represent money. A person looks on, like a waiter, who has change, and a piece of paper. I shall play soon, and show them how we do in New Zealand.
I ask the owner of a local ex-pat/sailor bar, and he says people sit around because they are lazy. He also says there is heaps of prostitution about, and that guys pimp their girlfriends. Thats enough hearsay for now.
They have hairless sheep here, immune to the devistating effects of fly blow. I walk with them a way down the mainstreet, then our paths diverge, me to to a shop, and them across a vacant lot. Well, not entirely vacant, it contains a hell of a lot of rubbish. The Dominicans have the attitute to rubbish that it's good, and should therefore be strewn everywhere.
In the main street there are some roadworks going on. About 30 guys stand or sit around talking while one guy digs a hole. I come back later, and the whole town is out to watch. I cant blame them, now a digger and a steamroller have joined the fray. Someone else is helping now too, he throws down cement mix to add to the clay and dirt that is being dumped upon the clay/dirt foundation.
Dogs are seen a little differently here, in that they are not. They seem to exist independantly of humans, like big stupid rats or something, eating scraps, fighting, and attacking the multitude of fleas that surely line their mangy hides.
I purchase some sweets in a shop from a stunning girl, one of the many I have seen, who could quite easily be a profesional model. Here though, if not lured into prostitution she will probably be a shop keeper. Which,. when you think about it, is for the best really, because models are unreachable, have nasty drug habits, and cause many girls to get complexes about themselves, whereas hot shop keepers will always say hi and they make buying the milk and newspaper more pleasant and while it's possible they have a drug habit, they are not role models, so its really their own buisness.
I head back to the boat. A teenager sits at the dock, looking longingly at a boat. I ask him if the boat is his. He responds in a kind of caw, I guess he cant talk. I ask him if he can take me to my boat. He caws again and raises one finger "one peso?" I ask. I figure the boat is not his. He then shakes the empty tank of the boat, takes a funnel, and searches other dinghies, which are undoubtely those of the other cruisers for extra fuel tanks. "No, its OK" I say.
A haggard looking girl in her late twenties calls me over. "No, gracias" I say, not wanting to buy whatever it is she is selling. Nice girls are shy, right?
I got the sweets for the Cuban officials, who we shall be bumping into in a few days. Buerocracy, which is really a euphemism for institutionalised bribery, is rampant, and we are going to be boarded many times by guys who want coca cola and dolores americanos. That means dolores American, for you non native speakers. My theory is if we give them some sachet orange juice, biscuts, and some sweets for their kids, they will find it harder to ask for money. Either that, or they will think we are weak, and they will demand a higher tribute. Anyway, this gringo is going to find out one way or the other.
You get all these people over here who want money off you, for the most ridiculous things. This kind of crap happens all the time, so I have made a few simple rules for gringos:
1. It's best to say "no, gracias" to everyone who wants your attention, because they want to sell you something that a) you dont want or b) you want but they will put a mark up on it which you could save if you walked around the corner to the shop that sells it
2. People who say "my friend" all the time are actually not your friend. Though it may seem charming in a kind of dopey way, and may make you feel kindly to this person who has so quickly taken you into their confidence, in New Zealand the word that would be used in this instance is "mate", or perhaps in America "Buddy" or "Pal"
Now compare:
Juan: Hey, my friend. Come over here! I have something to show you, my friend, just for you, my friend!
to this:
John: Hey, mate, come over here! I have something to show you, mate! Just for you, mate!
You see? The normal distrust that we have for strangers is lost in translation.
3. Always ask for the price first. Repeat it several times, and make sure it is for every thing. "Es precio final? Es precio final?". Act like you are a sincere drunk. Then, give the person a big cheesy smile, say "Mi amigo! Tu es mi verdad amigo!"(you are my true friend") and shake his or her hand. Theres no way they can ask for more money later with a water tight agreement like that.
The locals all sit around in groups, talking. Is it because they are too hot to do anything, because they are unemployed, because they like talking, or a mixture of all three. I should ask someone, but I'm not sure how to prhase the question, or whether they would even understand what I am talking about, because most of these people have never and will never go to another country to compare themselves with. However, the people seem happy enough, the children seem well fed, and are give free reighn to wander around. A small boy attacks a chair languidly with a machette, a small girl plays about a foot from the road. I guess she's used to it, and her grandma is probably around somewhere. It must be nice for kids, there are always several friendly adults sitting on the porch talking or playing dominos. Dominos here is quite a popular game, guys slam the tiles down on the table, as they finger chips that I have not quite figured out the use of, save they represent money. A person looks on, like a waiter, who has change, and a piece of paper. I shall play soon, and show them how we do in New Zealand.
I ask the owner of a local ex-pat/sailor bar, and he says people sit around because they are lazy. He also says there is heaps of prostitution about, and that guys pimp their girlfriends. Thats enough hearsay for now.
They have hairless sheep here, immune to the devistating effects of fly blow. I walk with them a way down the mainstreet, then our paths diverge, me to to a shop, and them across a vacant lot. Well, not entirely vacant, it contains a hell of a lot of rubbish. The Dominicans have the attitute to rubbish that it's good, and should therefore be strewn everywhere.
In the main street there are some roadworks going on. About 30 guys stand or sit around talking while one guy digs a hole. I come back later, and the whole town is out to watch. I cant blame them, now a digger and a steamroller have joined the fray. Someone else is helping now too, he throws down cement mix to add to the clay and dirt that is being dumped upon the clay/dirt foundation.
Dogs are seen a little differently here, in that they are not. They seem to exist independantly of humans, like big stupid rats or something, eating scraps, fighting, and attacking the multitude of fleas that surely line their mangy hides.
I purchase some sweets in a shop from a stunning girl, one of the many I have seen, who could quite easily be a profesional model. Here though, if not lured into prostitution she will probably be a shop keeper. Which,. when you think about it, is for the best really, because models are unreachable, have nasty drug habits, and cause many girls to get complexes about themselves, whereas hot shop keepers will always say hi and they make buying the milk and newspaper more pleasant and while it's possible they have a drug habit, they are not role models, so its really their own buisness.
I head back to the boat. A teenager sits at the dock, looking longingly at a boat. I ask him if the boat is his. He responds in a kind of caw, I guess he cant talk. I ask him if he can take me to my boat. He caws again and raises one finger "one peso?" I ask. I figure the boat is not his. He then shakes the empty tank of the boat, takes a funnel, and searches other dinghies, which are undoubtely those of the other cruisers for extra fuel tanks. "No, its OK" I say.
A haggard looking girl in her late twenties calls me over. "No, gracias" I say, not wanting to buy whatever it is she is selling. Nice girls are shy, right?
I got the sweets for the Cuban officials, who we shall be bumping into in a few days. Buerocracy, which is really a euphemism for institutionalised bribery, is rampant, and we are going to be boarded many times by guys who want coca cola and dolores americanos. That means dolores American, for you non native speakers. My theory is if we give them some sachet orange juice, biscuts, and some sweets for their kids, they will find it harder to ask for money. Either that, or they will think we are weak, and they will demand a higher tribute. Anyway, this gringo is going to find out one way or the other.
You get all these people over here who want money off you, for the most ridiculous things. This kind of crap happens all the time, so I have made a few simple rules for gringos:
1. It's best to say "no, gracias" to everyone who wants your attention, because they want to sell you something that a) you dont want or b) you want but they will put a mark up on it which you could save if you walked around the corner to the shop that sells it
2. People who say "my friend" all the time are actually not your friend. Though it may seem charming in a kind of dopey way, and may make you feel kindly to this person who has so quickly taken you into their confidence, in New Zealand the word that would be used in this instance is "mate", or perhaps in America "Buddy" or "Pal"
Now compare:
Juan: Hey, my friend. Come over here! I have something to show you, my friend, just for you, my friend!
to this:
John: Hey, mate, come over here! I have something to show you, mate! Just for you, mate!
You see? The normal distrust that we have for strangers is lost in translation.
3. Always ask for the price first. Repeat it several times, and make sure it is for every thing. "Es precio final? Es precio final?". Act like you are a sincere drunk. Then, give the person a big cheesy smile, say "Mi amigo! Tu es mi verdad amigo!"(you are my true friend") and shake his or her hand. Theres no way they can ask for more money later with a water tight agreement like that.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
In the Country
Today we hired a motorcycle from our local ¨go to¨guy, who looks like a young Forrest Whitaker, who was one of the guys driving the officials to our boat yesterday. This guy wants to do everything for us, and wants to get paid. he pretty much flagged this bike-taxi dude down and told him to get off his bike so the gringos can have it. While I worried about the niceties of insurance and liability, my father rented it off him for about 15% below the market rate for bike rental. We set off into the coutnryside on a 125cc yamaha, which protested to no avail, roaring past all these simple houses. I always thought dirt poor was a figure of speech, but when your floor is actually made of dirt, well, then you dirt poor. The people are all lean and muscular, with near perfect skin. Now how do you feel? Bad huh? Don´t worry, me too. Seeing 5 year old kids lug water, and every guy with a washboard abdomen is a little disheartening. Yet the odd paradox about his place is that half the people are doing hard manual labour, and the other half are sitting around shooting the breeze.
In this country, if you want a girl, you got to have a motorbike. Then you can drive around with her on the back. If you don´t have a motorbike, you are stuck walking in the head, making ssurly, suspicious faces at foreigners. Why they do that, I don´t know. They are all healthy, have the physiques that office workers pay thousands to TRY to obtain, and the sun was shining. Is it cos I is light brown?
The history of these islands is terrible. Almost without exception the story goes like this - Native people arrive on islands, live together with various degrees of harmony for a thousand or so years, Spanish arrive, enslave, kill and give disease to populace, wither wiping them out entirely, or leaving less than 5000, many many african slaves are imported to work on sugar plantations, slaves win independance, vicious dictators rule, tourists pour in and sit on the beaches. I can understand why they may feel some greviances for such things, but it´s not my fault personally. Anyway, I carry liberal middle class guilt! Can´t they see that?
We got a flat tyre whilst driving, and got our bike fixed by what seemed to be a 13 year old mechanic - the guy was running his own store it seemed. Man, it just makes me think that I´ll be first up against the wall when the revolution comes. We tried to get the money back from the guy who rented us the bike, but he wasn´t having it at first, until we went to a regular genuine rental company with him, and the guy there told us that he, a genuine rental bike shop owner, would have paid. So the moral of the story is, go to geniune rental guys.
The chicken here tastes just great. They live outside you see, and enjoy sunlight, bugs and scraps.
I´ll write more when I know more.
Your friend,
Miguel
In this country, if you want a girl, you got to have a motorbike. Then you can drive around with her on the back. If you don´t have a motorbike, you are stuck walking in the head, making ssurly, suspicious faces at foreigners. Why they do that, I don´t know. They are all healthy, have the physiques that office workers pay thousands to TRY to obtain, and the sun was shining. Is it cos I is light brown?
The history of these islands is terrible. Almost without exception the story goes like this - Native people arrive on islands, live together with various degrees of harmony for a thousand or so years, Spanish arrive, enslave, kill and give disease to populace, wither wiping them out entirely, or leaving less than 5000, many many african slaves are imported to work on sugar plantations, slaves win independance, vicious dictators rule, tourists pour in and sit on the beaches. I can understand why they may feel some greviances for such things, but it´s not my fault personally. Anyway, I carry liberal middle class guilt! Can´t they see that?
We got a flat tyre whilst driving, and got our bike fixed by what seemed to be a 13 year old mechanic - the guy was running his own store it seemed. Man, it just makes me think that I´ll be first up against the wall when the revolution comes. We tried to get the money back from the guy who rented us the bike, but he wasn´t having it at first, until we went to a regular genuine rental company with him, and the guy there told us that he, a genuine rental bike shop owner, would have paid. So the moral of the story is, go to geniune rental guys.
The chicken here tastes just great. They live outside you see, and enjoy sunlight, bugs and scraps.
I´ll write more when I know more.
Your friend,
Miguel
Monday, November 5, 2007
Break on Through
After two days of back breaking slog on the ocean, with a stop on a wee island in between, we have arrived in the Dominican Republic in a place called Samana late at night. In the morning we could see it was a pretty little bay where a bridge led out to a beautiful coconut palmed island, and, had the water not looked like that of a neglected aquarium, it would have been truely lovely. As it is, at night with a few cocktails in you, I doubt most people notice.
A wee while later, 5 dudes boarded our boat, and sat around, asking questions, though if we had been smuggling contraband, it would have been well unloaded by then. After filling out a few forms and giving them some corn chips, they left, satisfied, though one of them did say that he wouldn´t have minded having a cold coca cola from our fridge if we happened to have one, at which point I cursed him for his insolence, attempted to wrest his firearm off him, and was pistol-whipped until bloody. No, really.
This town seems more like the Carribean I remember from my last trip here, with tons of dudes roaring around on motorbikes, and/or trying to sell me stuff. The beer here is cheap, as is the food. The place is swarming with palm trees and heavy rain. The people seem pretty nice so far, relaxed, and yet hustling. It has an interesting history, this small town. A lot of Africans freed from slavery in America landed here on their way to Liberia, where they were being sent or wanted to go, I don´t know, and many of them stayed in Samana, making an English speaking community in this otherwise Spanish speaking country. However, a while later, and angry and paranoid dictator burnt the town down twice, and made them speak Spanish, and by that, I dont mean that he asked in a pleading tone of voice. However, one of the semi officials that boarded our boat said that his parents were from the USA, and spoke English in his home as he was growing up, so he had a reasonably good grasp of it.
Speaking Spanish is fun, and I take to heart the advice of an old sailor who said to gesticulate vigorously and waggle your eyebrows alot. Already I feel a lot more expert than I actually am, which really is the point of speaking a foreign language.
Well, I´ll write more as I see more,
Uncle Traveling Mike
A wee while later, 5 dudes boarded our boat, and sat around, asking questions, though if we had been smuggling contraband, it would have been well unloaded by then. After filling out a few forms and giving them some corn chips, they left, satisfied, though one of them did say that he wouldn´t have minded having a cold coca cola from our fridge if we happened to have one, at which point I cursed him for his insolence, attempted to wrest his firearm off him, and was pistol-whipped until bloody. No, really.
This town seems more like the Carribean I remember from my last trip here, with tons of dudes roaring around on motorbikes, and/or trying to sell me stuff. The beer here is cheap, as is the food. The place is swarming with palm trees and heavy rain. The people seem pretty nice so far, relaxed, and yet hustling. It has an interesting history, this small town. A lot of Africans freed from slavery in America landed here on their way to Liberia, where they were being sent or wanted to go, I don´t know, and many of them stayed in Samana, making an English speaking community in this otherwise Spanish speaking country. However, a while later, and angry and paranoid dictator burnt the town down twice, and made them speak Spanish, and by that, I dont mean that he asked in a pleading tone of voice. However, one of the semi officials that boarded our boat said that his parents were from the USA, and spoke English in his home as he was growing up, so he had a reasonably good grasp of it.
Speaking Spanish is fun, and I take to heart the advice of an old sailor who said to gesticulate vigorously and waggle your eyebrows alot. Already I feel a lot more expert than I actually am, which really is the point of speaking a foreign language.
Well, I´ll write more as I see more,
Uncle Traveling Mike
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Puerto Rico
We've been here for about a week, as it has taken some time to get supplies and get the boat ready to go. It has been sitting in a bay with many other boats, for about four and a half months, so there was a little maintenance to do, getting the engine ready and scraping weed off the bottom of the boat.
The weather ranges from 25-30 degrees, and the water is lovely, though we are waiting to swim until we get a little further away from the sewerage discharged by our fellow sailors.
Puerto Rico is much like Venezuela, except the people are generally richer, as this is an American protectorate. The people live in little colourful box-like houses, with iron bars across the windows. People seem to spend all their money on nice cars and none of it on roads, which have pot holes you could bathe in. The people are a mixture of African, Spanish and Amerindian ethnicity, which makes for some fine looking women, but, if you couple this with the many American fast food outlets, it can make for some generously proportioned rear ends, but hey, theres nothing wrong with a little "junk in the trunk", unless that junk gives you diabetes.
We will head out tomorrow or the next day, to the end of the island, and then a couple of days after that we will be in the Dominican Republic, where things will be a little more interesting.
The weather ranges from 25-30 degrees, and the water is lovely, though we are waiting to swim until we get a little further away from the sewerage discharged by our fellow sailors.
Puerto Rico is much like Venezuela, except the people are generally richer, as this is an American protectorate. The people live in little colourful box-like houses, with iron bars across the windows. People seem to spend all their money on nice cars and none of it on roads, which have pot holes you could bathe in. The people are a mixture of African, Spanish and Amerindian ethnicity, which makes for some fine looking women, but, if you couple this with the many American fast food outlets, it can make for some generously proportioned rear ends, but hey, theres nothing wrong with a little "junk in the trunk", unless that junk gives you diabetes.
We will head out tomorrow or the next day, to the end of the island, and then a couple of days after that we will be in the Dominican Republic, where things will be a little more interesting.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
I'm leaving today
They say if you stay in a place for 3 days, you come home and write a book, you stay there for three months, you come home and write a page, you stay there for 3 years and you come home and write nothing. Too lazy to write a book, I shall condense my ignorance into a few paragraphs and tell you of New York and it's surrounds.
We drove for several days through the country, on highways that boggled my mind. They were huge and repetitive, same scenery, that of trees in autumn colours, with long straight roads that occasionally veered gently left, or right, with pit stops at set intervals, all reminding me of some kind of ancient computer game. Once we got off the main highway, the scenery became reminiscent of a movie, big red barns, tall roved old houses, American flags jutting out proudly from the front porch, big orange pumpkins in time for halloween, rockingchairs. The make-up of car drivers changes here too, white white white. We stop at a crossroads where a willow tree hangs over a river. My father sleeps on the grass. Big gas guzzling S.U.V's roar by, into a nearby mall, one of the many that seem to be even out here in the sticks. I relieve myself in the river. It's a nice little place, a quiet spot surrounded by trafic. Kids probably swam in this stream once, I reflect, and who knows, perhaps they will again, though they should probably wait at least few minutes, I figure.
We carry on to New York City, which is of course, huge. This could possibly be the biggest concentration of grand buildings in the world, many of them crowded together on Manhatan Island. Central park, huge, absolutely massive, itself containing a sizeable lake, 30+ tennis courts, a zoo, a museum, and I do not know what else. I imagine it would be a great place for vagrants to live, if they could get away with it.
The people are multiracial, with whites seeming to be a minority, even in the richest areas. There are many Hispanic people coming to and living in America now, doing the jobs no-one else wants to do, kind of like Pacific Islanders and Indo-Asian people in New Zealand. I get the feeling Al-Quaeda and their ilk have a skewed idea of what America is. Had they detonated a bomb in the more rural setting, I feel they would have struck those they were really after.
I cross Brooklyn bridge, I walk through China Town. Posters advertise a "made in 24hr" play starring Julia Styles. Anything made in 24 hours I figure will be severely distorted by caffeine, hysteria and sleep deprivation, but I do like the accessability of the stars, and had I been there on one of the nights it was playing, i definitely would have gone.
I meet a few Irish guys at the hostel. I ask them what they think
Guy one: It's great, it's been a real blast
Guy two: Funny though, cos we're Irish, everyone keeps telling us about ancestors they have, and how their grandfathers brother's friend is from ireland
Guy one: Yeah, what about that girl who said her ancestor was a O'Andrews or O'Craig or something, you know, I swear she just banged an "O" on a last name, and made the whole thing up I rekkon. White people seem to want to have some kind of identity, loik bein Italian, or Jewish, or whatever
I walk past front steps into brick apartment buildings that remind me of sesame street, and I see city hall, and picture the Marshmellow man against the skyline, the ghostbusters powering up to nail him. I look at the statue of liberty and imagine all the people coming in from European deprivation, desperate for a different kind of life. It's a little like visiting a giant movie set.
We drove for several days through the country, on highways that boggled my mind. They were huge and repetitive, same scenery, that of trees in autumn colours, with long straight roads that occasionally veered gently left, or right, with pit stops at set intervals, all reminding me of some kind of ancient computer game. Once we got off the main highway, the scenery became reminiscent of a movie, big red barns, tall roved old houses, American flags jutting out proudly from the front porch, big orange pumpkins in time for halloween, rockingchairs. The make-up of car drivers changes here too, white white white. We stop at a crossroads where a willow tree hangs over a river. My father sleeps on the grass. Big gas guzzling S.U.V's roar by, into a nearby mall, one of the many that seem to be even out here in the sticks. I relieve myself in the river. It's a nice little place, a quiet spot surrounded by trafic. Kids probably swam in this stream once, I reflect, and who knows, perhaps they will again, though they should probably wait at least few minutes, I figure.
We carry on to New York City, which is of course, huge. This could possibly be the biggest concentration of grand buildings in the world, many of them crowded together on Manhatan Island. Central park, huge, absolutely massive, itself containing a sizeable lake, 30+ tennis courts, a zoo, a museum, and I do not know what else. I imagine it would be a great place for vagrants to live, if they could get away with it.
The people are multiracial, with whites seeming to be a minority, even in the richest areas. There are many Hispanic people coming to and living in America now, doing the jobs no-one else wants to do, kind of like Pacific Islanders and Indo-Asian people in New Zealand. I get the feeling Al-Quaeda and their ilk have a skewed idea of what America is. Had they detonated a bomb in the more rural setting, I feel they would have struck those they were really after.
I cross Brooklyn bridge, I walk through China Town. Posters advertise a "made in 24hr" play starring Julia Styles. Anything made in 24 hours I figure will be severely distorted by caffeine, hysteria and sleep deprivation, but I do like the accessability of the stars, and had I been there on one of the nights it was playing, i definitely would have gone.
I meet a few Irish guys at the hostel. I ask them what they think
Guy one: It's great, it's been a real blast
Guy two: Funny though, cos we're Irish, everyone keeps telling us about ancestors they have, and how their grandfathers brother's friend is from ireland
Guy one: Yeah, what about that girl who said her ancestor was a O'Andrews or O'Craig or something, you know, I swear she just banged an "O" on a last name, and made the whole thing up I rekkon. White people seem to want to have some kind of identity, loik bein Italian, or Jewish, or whatever
I walk past front steps into brick apartment buildings that remind me of sesame street, and I see city hall, and picture the Marshmellow man against the skyline, the ghostbusters powering up to nail him. I look at the statue of liberty and imagine all the people coming in from European deprivation, desperate for a different kind of life. It's a little like visiting a giant movie set.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
This is L.A.
After an uneventful flight we arrived at L.A.X. Theres something about Los Angeles, perhaps its the dryness, the light pastel colours of the buildings, or the effect the smog has on the light, but everything looks washed out and old.
Our next plane was leaving from Longbeach airport, and was due to take us to New York, and the best way to Longbeach was by train. At the train station, I see a bunch of young guys and girls, dressed in kind of homie regalia hanging out under this huge overpass, with massive concrete pillars supporting it. A car pulls up, and then doubles back. A couple of the guys from the group of people hanging out then walked over to the car, and started talking excitedly to the guys in the car, one of the young homies pointed a finger at the car, and as he raised his voice, I realised that he was pointing it as if it was a gun, then one of the girls screamed "he's got a gun!" - suddenly both the young guys ran for the pillars, an Asian dude in the car behind does a quick U-turn, and screeches off. I see this arm lolling out the first cars window with a big silver pistol, kind of aiming casually in their direction, and then the arm hangs limp down by the door, as much to say "ahh, I can't be fucked" and the car drives off. A few people chat excitedly as the trian pulls up and everyone gets on board. "Compton" a voice called out over the intercom, "Next stop, Compton". I studiously avoid making eye contact with anyone.
An old guy gets on the train - "watches, you want some watches, they nice watches..". A couple of youths laugh, one of them humours him "yeah maybe later, you come back and see me". The youths get into a conversation, like they were in a movie
A: I bet that she disses you
B: How much?
A: I bet choo fai dallas
B: but waht do you consider a diss?
A: I don't know man, if she bring you down or sompin
B: So if she say "you aint on my level"
A: Yeah
B: What if she say "you aint on my level", and I bring the shit up, I say "but I wanna be on your level, are you feeling me?"
We get off the train. Another old guy forages through a rubbish bin for recyclable bottles and puts them in a big plastic bag. He's not wearing a uniform, so I figure its a freelance thing.
We talk to this Guatemalan girl, an older guy joins in the conversation. "Cuba? Oh, you goin to Cuba? Well, we can't go there you see. This is a free country, we should be able to go anywhere we want. Anyone should be able to go anywhere they want." He's fervent, and he's local, so I dare not disagree. "People come here to make more money, and I don't blame them." He starts to talk to the Guatemalan girl about what kind of visa she is on. "Well, you could get married" the guy says, "that would get you residency. One day, I'm going to marry a foreign girl, so that she can get residency." He pulls out a bunch of rings to show us. "I sell these, you know, to make a little money. I don't need it, you understand. I'm at a stage where I don't need to work, I worked all my life." He asks the girl which ring she likes. He tells her she can keep it. "Now you're married" he jokes.
The city may look faded to me, but the people don't. When you live in a place where you might get shot, and where you have to hustle a little, that gives you a kind of charge.
Our next plane was leaving from Longbeach airport, and was due to take us to New York, and the best way to Longbeach was by train. At the train station, I see a bunch of young guys and girls, dressed in kind of homie regalia hanging out under this huge overpass, with massive concrete pillars supporting it. A car pulls up, and then doubles back. A couple of the guys from the group of people hanging out then walked over to the car, and started talking excitedly to the guys in the car, one of the young homies pointed a finger at the car, and as he raised his voice, I realised that he was pointing it as if it was a gun, then one of the girls screamed "he's got a gun!" - suddenly both the young guys ran for the pillars, an Asian dude in the car behind does a quick U-turn, and screeches off. I see this arm lolling out the first cars window with a big silver pistol, kind of aiming casually in their direction, and then the arm hangs limp down by the door, as much to say "ahh, I can't be fucked" and the car drives off. A few people chat excitedly as the trian pulls up and everyone gets on board. "Compton" a voice called out over the intercom, "Next stop, Compton". I studiously avoid making eye contact with anyone.
An old guy gets on the train - "watches, you want some watches, they nice watches..". A couple of youths laugh, one of them humours him "yeah maybe later, you come back and see me". The youths get into a conversation, like they were in a movie
A: I bet that she disses you
B: How much?
A: I bet choo fai dallas
B: but waht do you consider a diss?
A: I don't know man, if she bring you down or sompin
B: So if she say "you aint on my level"
A: Yeah
B: What if she say "you aint on my level", and I bring the shit up, I say "but I wanna be on your level, are you feeling me?"
We get off the train. Another old guy forages through a rubbish bin for recyclable bottles and puts them in a big plastic bag. He's not wearing a uniform, so I figure its a freelance thing.
We talk to this Guatemalan girl, an older guy joins in the conversation. "Cuba? Oh, you goin to Cuba? Well, we can't go there you see. This is a free country, we should be able to go anywhere we want. Anyone should be able to go anywhere they want." He's fervent, and he's local, so I dare not disagree. "People come here to make more money, and I don't blame them." He starts to talk to the Guatemalan girl about what kind of visa she is on. "Well, you could get married" the guy says, "that would get you residency. One day, I'm going to marry a foreign girl, so that she can get residency." He pulls out a bunch of rings to show us. "I sell these, you know, to make a little money. I don't need it, you understand. I'm at a stage where I don't need to work, I worked all my life." He asks the girl which ring she likes. He tells her she can keep it. "Now you're married" he jokes.
The city may look faded to me, but the people don't. When you live in a place where you might get shot, and where you have to hustle a little, that gives you a kind of charge.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
What this blog is about
In just over three weeks I am travelling to Cuba via the United states, Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic on a boat. I have created this blog to give people a view of what life is like in these countries, Cuba in particular, where my father and I will spend most of our time.
We fly in to America on the twentieth of October, and then on to Puerto Rico to pick up the boat, and from there we make our way around the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Cuba, ending up back in America, at Fort Lauderdale.
We fly in to America on the twentieth of October, and then on to Puerto Rico to pick up the boat, and from there we make our way around the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Cuba, ending up back in America, at Fort Lauderdale.
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