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.