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.