The Island Nation - Caimito
April 28
At Pearson Airport I meet with our fellow brigadistas. I am traveling with the Ernesto Che Guevara Volunteer Work Brigade, which has been making an annual trip to Cuba for the past 20 years. The purpose is to give Canadian visitors a glimpse of what life is like for average Cubans. We will also be going out to perform some volunteer labor on farms.
Then we board a Westjet flight to Veradero. Cloudy all the way from TO to Florida, then the clouds break to spectacular views of the E coast and Everglades. We arrive in Veradero at 2 PM. As we approach the airport the island looks very dry, with brushfires burning in places. Not what I expected. In the parking lot are ancient classic taxis. These cars would be worth a fortune to collectors in the US.
I trade in $100 Canadian dollars for Cuban Convertible Pesos (CUC). Cuba has 2 currencies – one for residents and the other (CUC) for tourists. CUCs are roughly on par with the Canadian dollar, or worth about $1.15 worth of the collapsing US dollar. The Cuban peso used by the locals is worth about 4 cents Canadian. Foreigners are not allowed to trade in Cuban pesos, or to buy food and goods at state controlled local markets.
Then we board a Westjet flight to Veradero. Cloudy all the way from TO to Florida, then the clouds break to spectacular views of the E coast and Everglades. We arrive in Veradero at 2 PM. As we approach the airport the island looks very dry, with brushfires burning in places. Not what I expected. In the parking lot are ancient classic taxis. These cars would be worth a fortune to collectors in the US.
I trade in $100 Canadian dollars for Cuban Convertible Pesos (CUC). Cuba has 2 currencies – one for residents and the other (CUC) for tourists. CUCs are roughly on par with the Canadian dollar, or worth about $1.15 worth of the collapsing US dollar. The Cuban peso used by the locals is worth about 4 cents Canadian. Foreigners are not allowed to trade in Cuban pesos, or to buy food and goods at state controlled local markets.
We board the bus and head W along the coast for 2 ½ hrs.
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We pass something I did not expect - oil wells.
Dave, leader of our Canadian brigade, and Sandra from ICAP, our Cuban tour leader
We pass something I did not expect - oil wells.
Most are old and rickety,
But some are much bigger and newer, and seem to be flying the Chinese flag along with the Cuban flag.
I learn later by googling that this strip of oil-bearing rock along the N coast contains low grade, high sulfur oil, and it is largely depleted. However, Cuba is about to start drilling in deep water offshore. They are hoping to hit the jackpot, and may do it.
On thru downtown Havana. Excuse me, Habana. The Cubans spell it with a b. Probably 1/3 of the cars on the road are 1959 or older. On an island surrounded by smaller islands, containing over 1,000 bass lakes, there seem to be no boats here. Never saw a single boat as we drove along incredible shoreline from Veradero to Havana. A few people are throwing cast nets off the shore, probably commercial fishermen? We pass no lakes, and cross no big rivers. This is very dry country.
As we pass thru the city of Caimito we are nearing our destination.
We arrive at the Julio Antonio Mella International Camp outside of Caimito, about an hour SW of Habana.
Mella was a Cuban communist assassinated in Mexico City in 1929, still a hero on this island.
We take a pic of the entire Canadian brigade as we enter camp.
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Groups from 25 different countries, and people of all colors from all over the world, are assembled at the camp. All in sympathy with the Cuban resistance to US imperialism.
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I expected to see lots of butterfliles, but there aer almost none. And I expected swarms of mosquitos,but there is ont a single one. Very few bugs of any kind.
After dinner (rice, fried banana – an acquired taste, something between cardboard and linoleum - and salt pork) we all get together for a mass celebration. I split my time between the Canadian table and the TV showing game 4 of the Serie Nacional – the Cuban baseball championship. Ciego de Avilar is ahead of Pinar del Rio 1-0. US baseball takes 3 minute breaks between innings – 2 for commercials and 1 for announcers to blab. In Cuba there are no commercials, so they wait only 30 seconds between innings. Only once do they show anything like a commercial – a public service broadcast showing a quick montage of scenes of US bombers, tanks and other WMDs splattering death all over the world, followed by a cartoon of a Cuban baseball player whacking Uncle Sam on the head with a baseball bat.
Mella was a Cuban communist assassinated in Mexico City in 1929, still a hero on this island.
We take a pic of the entire Canadian brigade as we enter camp.
Groups from 25 different countries, and people of all colors from all over the world, are assembled at the camp. All in sympathy with the Cuban resistance to US imperialism.
Sandra with the guy who heads the Mella camp - whose name I have forgotten
I expected to see lots of butterfliles, but there aer almost none. And I expected swarms of mosquitos,but there is ont a single one. Very few bugs of any kind.
After dinner (rice, fried banana – an acquired taste, something between cardboard and linoleum - and salt pork) we all get together for a mass celebration. I split my time between the Canadian table and the TV showing game 4 of the Serie Nacional – the Cuban baseball championship. Ciego de Avilar is ahead of Pinar del Rio 1-0. US baseball takes 3 minute breaks between innings – 2 for commercials and 1 for announcers to blab. In Cuba there are no commercials, so they wait only 30 seconds between innings. Only once do they show anything like a commercial – a public service broadcast showing a quick montage of scenes of US bombers, tanks and other WMDs splattering death all over the world, followed by a cartoon of a Cuban baseball player whacking Uncle Sam on the head with a baseball bat.
The Canadian table is by far the most popular, cuz we are serving Canadian Crown Royal whiskey, Ontario wine, and my own contribution – Czechvar beer from Ceske Budjovice in the Czech Republic - my grandparents home town.
The TV is in a great place – on the hallway to the bathrooms - with freaking gorgeous young women from countries all over the earth strolling by, with skin colors from the blackest black to the whitest white, almost none of whom speak English. I can only communicate in sign language. PDR makes a big comeback, and wins going away 5-1.
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Back at the Canadian table the booze finally runs out. Intoxicated people speaking Spanish are pouring shots of Canadian maple syrup, not realizing it contains no alcohol. I end up drinking 50/50 shots of maple syrup and Korean hi-test saki, while beautiful women from exotic countries put their arms around me to get their pictures taken, and a stunning 6 ft tall Brazilian brunette is dancing a wild samba on stage. A memorable evening of fun and companionship.
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Before heading off to sleep I type out this section of the blog in my bunkbed (6 guys in s room smaller than the one I rented in Ashland last winter), using my LED flashlite for lite. There are no screens on the windows here, just wooden slats that can be closed if it rains. The sparrows fly in and out of the mess hall, and now that I am the last lite burning, the bugs finally make their appearance and flock to me.
The TV is in a great place – on the hallway to the bathrooms - with freaking gorgeous young women from countries all over the earth strolling by, with skin colors from the blackest black to the whitest white, almost none of whom speak English. I can only communicate in sign language. PDR makes a big comeback, and wins going away 5-1.
Back at the Canadian table the booze finally runs out. Intoxicated people speaking Spanish are pouring shots of Canadian maple syrup, not realizing it contains no alcohol. I end up drinking 50/50 shots of maple syrup and Korean hi-test saki, while beautiful women from exotic countries put their arms around me to get their pictures taken, and a stunning 6 ft tall Brazilian brunette is dancing a wild samba on stage. A memorable evening of fun and companionship.
Before heading off to sleep I type out this section of the blog in my bunkbed (6 guys in s room smaller than the one I rented in Ashland last winter), using my LED flashlite for lite. There are no screens on the windows here, just wooden slats that can be closed if it rains. The sparrows fly in and out of the mess hall, and now that I am the last lite burning, the bugs finally make their appearance and flock to me.
April 29
We are awakened at dawn. It is deliciously cool, maybe 75F. A new world for me, son of suburbia. No hot water or the shower, or anywhere else. No refrigerator, no ice, no air conditioning. Must wash our own clothes in a plastic bucket and dry them on a clothesline. No seats on the toilets. Not allowed to put used toilet peper into the toilet - it goes into a wicker basket next to the toilet.
After breakfast (I have only a shot of strong coffee) all 200+ of us climb into the back of trucks and head off to work on nearby farms.
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Our group goes to a tree plantation, a big field of baby mango trees about 2 ft tall growing out of plastic containers. We spend the morning pulling weeds out of the pots.
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There is a fallow field with flowers beside the mangos, full of butterflies. (All similar to US/Canada species, but slightly different). By 11 AM the heat is stifling. We head back to camp for lunch.
Our group goes to a tree plantation, a big field of baby mango trees about 2 ft tall growing out of plastic containers. We spend the morning pulling weeds out of the pots.
There is a fallow field with flowers beside the mangos, full of butterflies. (All similar to US/Canada species, but slightly different). By 11 AM the heat is stifling. We head back to camp for lunch.
In the afternoon we drive out to visit a cooperative farm. 240 partners share 400 hectares of land, growing beans, potatoes and other tubers, rice and a variety of other stuff. Relatively new (1990s) Russian tractors, irrigation pumped from wells, and even some fields with center-pivot irrigation. The product that is excess to the food needs of the members is sold to the government at state controlled prices.
Afterwards we head back to the camp, then back aboard the bus for an hour trip into Habana, where the government is sponsoring a big dinner party for all the foreign brigadistas at the Casa Amistad (House of Freindship).
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As we enter the ancient courtyard everyone is handed a Cuba libre (rum & Coke – oops, rum & cola. TuKola is the brand they drink in Cuba). In Cuba the common recreational drugs of the N American mainland (cannabis, cocaine, opiates) are strictly verboten, and possession carries massive jail sentences. As a result, the island is fueled by alcohol, mainly rum. At dinner I have a can of Bucanero beer, while a series of singers perform onstage.
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As the performance ends we are all served a cup of ice cream, a delicious treat in the hot Cuban nite, the first frosty item I have tasted since hitting the island. Manna from heaven. Then, just as the shindig seems about ready to break up, waiters bring around to each table a big bottle of tuKola, and another of Mulata rum. Hola! These people know how to party.
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As we enter the ancient courtyard everyone is handed a Cuba libre (rum & Coke – oops, rum & cola. TuKola is the brand they drink in Cuba). In Cuba the common recreational drugs of the N American mainland (cannabis, cocaine, opiates) are strictly verboten, and possession carries massive jail sentences. As a result, the island is fueled by alcohol, mainly rum. At dinner I have a can of Bucanero beer, while a series of singers perform onstage.
As the performance ends we are all served a cup of ice cream, a delicious treat in the hot Cuban nite, the first frosty item I have tasted since hitting the island. Manna from heaven. Then, just as the shindig seems about ready to break up, waiters bring around to each table a big bottle of tuKola, and another of Mulata rum. Hola! These people know how to party.
Mixed nationality brigadistas,, partying
Raucous, inebriated Canadian brigadistas, partying
Dignified Canadian brigadistas, with den mother Sandra, partying
The label on the bottle says Ron Mulata. Is this the name of the guy who makes the rum? Or is this Ron guy a local hero? Did Ron Mulata fight with Che in the Escambray? Is he a 3rd baseman for Pina del Rio?
No. Ron is the latin word for rum, and Mulata is the brand. Before long everybody is totally smashed, and the stage is filled with wild dancers gyrating to piped Latin music. Eventually we stagger back to our buses and head back to the camp. We were each given a big bottle of ron as we left the party.
Sure are lots of cops out tonite. Turns out we are beiung lead down the freeway by an escort of 5 flashing police cars. Our international brigades are important people here, and they don't want us coming to grief in any way. Probably not a good time to be drinking ron on the bus. I have been chased down from behind by cops before in the past, but this is the first time in my life that I have ever been important enough to be lead by a police escort.
Highway traffic is minimal in Cuba after dark. Among other things, there are lots of cows roaming the island, and few fences. I am told that if a tourist in a rental car hits a cow they get a stiff reprimand, but if a local hits a cow at nite they get 25 years in jail. A good incentive to stay home at nite.
We get back late and happy and tired – but not too tired to keep on drinking and partying. The middle of the day is so hot and stifling here, but the nites and early mornings are refreshing. Work in the morn and party at nite, seems to be the basic plan on this island. Not a bad one either.
April 30
Saturday, so we do not have to go work on the farm. After breakfast (just coffee for me) I go behind the dining room and say hi to the camp mascot.
There are dogs around camp. There seems to be only 1 breed of dog in Cuba. They all look the same, only the colors change.
At 10 AM we meet to watch movies. The first is a documentary about the Bay of Pigs invasion, in Spanish with English subtitles. We are only a few days past the 50th anniversary of this historic battle. The first defeat in the history of the US war machine since Crazy Horse at the Little Bighorn. In the movie there are interviews with a number of veterans who fought off the invaders from the north. The first veteran is wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball hat. There is a huge cheer from the audience at the end of the movie. Everybody loves to see the Yankees lose.
The second film is about the history of Guantanamo. Once a Cuban nature paradise, later claimed by the US as a naval base for their empire, now morphed into a neofascist concentration camp and torture center for the Bush/Obama Global War on Terra. Unfortunately there are no subtitles for this one.
In the afternoon a musical trio performs at the camp. I watch for a while. They seem like folk singers. They are old, and good, and obviously very funny – if you know Spanish.
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I don't, and I can't understand a word. I will miss out on a lot here. Need to learn how to understand and speak this language!
This charming reptile lives in a concrete tank behind the mess hall. Eats a diet of capitalist pigs.
There are dogs around camp. There seems to be only 1 breed of dog in Cuba. They all look the same, only the colors change.
Cuba is a socialist country, and all the dogs here are all comrades. They are very wealthy in regard to fleas, and they share them among their fellows with total generosity. They do not seem to belong to any particular humans, or get fed on any particular schedule. They are just around everywhere. As a result, Cuba is a bad place to be a rat. I expected to see lots of rats and mice. But I never saw a single one anywhere, until I happened to see one dead rat on a street in Cienfuegos.
At 10 AM we meet to watch movies. The first is a documentary about the Bay of Pigs invasion, in Spanish with English subtitles. We are only a few days past the 50th anniversary of this historic battle. The first defeat in the history of the US war machine since Crazy Horse at the Little Bighorn. In the movie there are interviews with a number of veterans who fought off the invaders from the north. The first veteran is wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball hat. There is a huge cheer from the audience at the end of the movie. Everybody loves to see the Yankees lose.
The second film is about the history of Guantanamo. Once a Cuban nature paradise, later claimed by the US as a naval base for their empire, now morphed into a neofascist concentration camp and torture center for the Bush/Obama Global War on Terra. Unfortunately there are no subtitles for this one.
In the afternoon a musical trio performs at the camp. I watch for a while. They seem like folk singers. They are old, and good, and obviously very funny – if you know Spanish.
I don't, and I can't understand a word. I will miss out on a lot here. Need to learn how to understand and speak this language!
In the evening I pay the price for a trying to deal with a new camera and new operating system (Windows 7 ). Trying to download the pics from my camera onto my computer, can't understand the directory structure, and I accidentally delete all the pics I took since leaving Victoria. There were some great ones. You will have to take my word for it.
Lucky that fellow brigadista Alberto "Chino" Tang was taking lots of pics, and posted them to the web where we could download them. I have included many of his pics in this blog. (They are noted with the little red "Chino" in the lower left corner.) I also promised Alberto that I would give him the first million dollars I make off this blog. So if you want to contribute a cheque please make it out to him, and save me the paperwork.
Lucky that fellow brigadista Alberto "Chino" Tang was taking lots of pics, and posted them to the web where we could download them. I have included many of his pics in this blog. (They are noted with the little red "Chino" in the lower left corner.) I also promised Alberto that I would give him the first million dollars I make off this blog. So if you want to contribute a cheque please make it out to him, and save me the paperwork.
May 1
Primero de Mayo. International labor solidarity day. Biggest holiday in Cuba. We are awakened at 3 AM, on the bus and heading into Havana by 4. There are thousands of gorbie tourists here in Cuba, but the 250 of us birgadistas are important people here. We get a phalanx of 4 police cars and half a dozen motorcycles. They clear the freeway ahead of us for the hour drive into the city. Still dark in Havana, but already there are hordes of people heading towards Revolution Square.
We get off the bus and join the swarm heading for Jose Marti Monument – highest building in Habana.
A thousand plastic lawn chairs are set up beneath the speakers platform, and we are seated only 150 ft away from where the dignitaries will be speaking. Must have public celebrations early in the AM here, cuz it is too damn hot after 11 AM.
We get off the bus and join the swarm heading for Jose Marti Monument – highest building in Habana.
A thousand plastic lawn chairs are set up beneath the speakers platform, and we are seated only 150 ft away from where the dignitaries will be speaking. Must have public celebrations early in the AM here, cuz it is too damn hot after 11 AM.
As dawn breaks hundreds of white shirted security personnel line the broad Paseo Street, while black uniformed security can be seen watching from the tops of buildings.
The 10 lane wide boulevard is empty now, but not for long.
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Gonna be hot today. The sun rises over the clouds like a blowtorch.
Vultures ride the thermals rising around the towering monument.
The politicos walk out onto the speakers platform above me, in front of a giant statue of Jose Marti.
Down the road a bunch of people are massing for the march. Will Fidel and Raoul show up? No. Finally a searing trumpet cadenza blasts out of the loudspeakers, leading into an upbeat Cuban march. I will get to know this song well - the Cuban National Anthem. Then silence as a speaker takes the microphone, reading off a list of the top Cuban leadership. I can't understand a word, except that Jose Machado Ventura (Jesse's cousin?) is 2nd vice prez. The speech is surprisingly short in comparison to what I expected. Then the march begins.
A flowing swarm of humanity packed shoulder to shoulder.
Amazon river of cheering humanity, filling all 10 lanes of the tarmac.
Not like a US 4th of July parade. No floats or vehicles. Just a creeping swarm of marchers waving Cuban flags and holding up posters.
The 10 lane wide boulevard is empty now, but not for long.
Gonna be hot today. The sun rises over the clouds like a blowtorch.
Vultures ride the thermals rising around the towering monument.
The politicos walk out onto the speakers platform above me, in front of a giant statue of Jose Marti.
Down the road a bunch of people are massing for the march. Will Fidel and Raoul show up? No. Finally a searing trumpet cadenza blasts out of the loudspeakers, leading into an upbeat Cuban march. I will get to know this song well - the Cuban National Anthem. Then silence as a speaker takes the microphone, reading off a list of the top Cuban leadership. I can't understand a word, except that Jose Machado Ventura (Jesse's cousin?) is 2nd vice prez. The speech is surprisingly short in comparison to what I expected. Then the march begins.
A flowing swarm of humanity packed shoulder to shoulder.
Amazon river of cheering humanity, filling all 10 lanes of the tarmac.
Not like a US 4th of July parade. No floats or vehicles. Just a creeping swarm of marchers waving Cuban flags and holding up posters.
Of course, there are posters about the Cuban 5.
They are not crazy about Obama here.
This is impressive. I have never seen so many people so close together. Wildly screaming human molasses. These people take their revolution seriously. A stupendous display of solidarity. As the endless human swarm flows past I start trying to estimate the number of marchers. 5,000? 10,000? 50,000? 100,000? Half a mil? By the time it ends 2 hours later I estimate at least 1 million marchers have passed by me. A stunning and unforgettable experience that I will never forget. No public event I have ever witnessed in my life compares to this. No problemo for Barrack Gobombem to exterminate every human life on this island. But all the cruise missiles in the world rained out of the sky will not be likely to convince these people to accept US/mafia re-occupation of Cuba.
Finally it is over. Pieces of cardboard and paper Cuban flags blow down the emptying street.
We have the rest of the day off to explore Havana.
I walk down Paseo until I come to a side street leading to the gigantic Cemetenterio de Cristobal Colon, by far the biggest I have ever seen.
Wish I could get in to walk around but it is closed for the holiday. This place is huge.
By far the biggest cemeterey I have ever seen. Here is an aerial view from Google Earth.
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Getting hot now, so I stop by a little store and buy a can of Bucanero and an ice cream bar. Outside a huge black guy is wearing one of the coolest shirts I have ever seen. When I finish my ice cream I walk past him and say “Bueno camisa!”, and motion in sign language if I can take a picture with him. Racism just does not seem to be an issue here. Nobody gives a shit.
Wish I could get in to walk around but it is closed for the holiday. This place is huge.
By far the biggest cemeterey I have ever seen. Here is an aerial view from Google Earth.
Getting hot now, so I stop by a little store and buy a can of Bucanero and an ice cream bar. Outside a huge black guy is wearing one of the coolest shirts I have ever seen. When I finish my ice cream I walk past him and say “Bueno camisa!”, and motion in sign language if I can take a picture with him. Racism just does not seem to be an issue here. Nobody gives a shit.
I am an Oregon Ducks football fan, so the letters on my shirt are the same color as the material. My shirt says: “I'M WHITE”.
I head on down Paseo. The sidewalks are broken and cratered, with occasional open manholes you could step into. Not like Ashland, OR, where any bump in the concrete higher than an inch can lead to a lawsuit if someone trips on it. I am not paying attention, step into a hole and sprain my ankle.
There is a huge hi-rise hotel at the end of the street, so I assume there must be an ocean nearby, and I am right. This is the famous Malecon, a big city street that runs 8 km along a breakwall beside the ocean. A place of intrigue and romance. Lovers will be swooning on this breakwall tonite. But right now it is time for more important things - fishing! There are a bunch of locals tossing hair jigs into the Carribbean Right where the "NO FISHING" signs are printed on the breakwall. And they catching fish! Some kind of mullet or jack. There are fish in this country!
There is a huge hi-rise hotel at the end of the street, so I assume there must be an ocean nearby, and I am right. This is the famous Malecon, a big city street that runs 8 km along a breakwall beside the ocean. A place of intrigue and romance. Lovers will be swooning on this breakwall tonite. But right now it is time for more important things - fishing! There are a bunch of locals tossing hair jigs into the Carribbean Right where the "NO FISHING" signs are printed on the breakwall. And they catching fish! Some kind of mullet or jack. There are fish in this country!
In places the waves crash into the breakwall and explode into the air so high they rain down over the wall onto the sidewalk. If you walk 20 feet out into the street the heat is stifling, but right along the wall the screaming E wind blows off the ocean and it is deliciously cool. Well, that is a relative term here. Cooler than the 90+F everywhere else.
In one spot the wall juts out about 20 feet, and the waves hit it head on. A guy in a swimsuit and 2 little kids are standing there. Every minute or so a big wave busts in and a geyser of spray rains over them from 15 ft over their heads. My Canadian blood can't take this heat, so I jump right in with them, spinning and dodging from the biggest waves to try to keep the camera in my pocket dry. Soon I am drenched with saltwater, and the howling wind feels sooooo good. I move down the breakwall until I find the perfect spot, take off my shirt and lay out in the sun. It is burning hot, but every 5 minutes when it gets unbearable a wave splashes a bit of cool spray over me, and the wind dries it and cools me off, over and over for an hour and a half. I have never been this far south. The sun here is directly overhead in the middle of the day. I know I will get sunburned, but every time I try to walk away from the breakwall it is so hot I can't stand it, so I go back and lay in the spray.
A steady stream of '39 Buicks and '54 Chevys roll past. Cool dudes riding around with their chicas. If you punch the word “Cuba” into an internet Spanish > English translator on a computer you will find out that it translates into “island of gorgeous women”. What a change from Georgia, only a couple hundred miles north, where I was touring only a 6 months ago - land of bleach blond silicone skanks.
I finally head back thru town, too scared to buy any food cuz I can't understand the language. How will I know how much something costs, or if I am getting ripped off or not? Scamming tourists is about the only way to get rich here. Taxi drivers make more in tips than doctors or lawyers. I run into another brigade member, who has just been scammed – paid $20 CUC (tourist dollars) and got change back in Cuban pesos (worth 4 cents CUC).
Before going back to meet the bus back to camp I want to wander back to my spot on the breakwall where I can get splashed and cooled off again. While I am waiting for a wave a guy comes on to me like he is my best friend, asks if I like Che, and offers me a Che peso. I trade him 4 CUC quarters, and he keeps bugging me to go across the street to a cantina for a mojito (rum & mint). Only a dollar! He talks me into it. The drink is great, and soon a stacked bleach blond sits down beside me. I think he is asking me if I will buy her a drink. We are having a little communication problem here. Then it becomes more clear. He wants to know if I want to buy HER. Well, I have a bus to catch in half an hour, and besides, this is not on the agenda of the Che brigade. The blond leaves in a huff, and suddenly the price of my drink goes up to $4, and I have to buy his drink too. I manage to bail on the situation with a total investment of $9, and get a really good drink and cigar in exchange, plus a lesson learned about Cuban waterfront hustlers.
Before going back to meet the bus back to camp I want to wander back to my spot on the breakwall where I can get splashed and cooled off again. While I am waiting for a wave a guy comes on to me like he is my best friend, asks if I like Che, and offers me a Che peso. I trade him 4 CUC quarters, and he keeps bugging me to go across the street to a cantina for a mojito (rum & mint). Only a dollar! He talks me into it. The drink is great, and soon a stacked bleach blond sits down beside me. I think he is asking me if I will buy her a drink. We are having a little communication problem here. Then it becomes more clear. He wants to know if I want to buy HER. Well, I have a bus to catch in half an hour, and besides, this is not on the agenda of the Che brigade. The blond leaves in a huff, and suddenly the price of my drink goes up to $4, and I have to buy his drink too. I manage to bail on the situation with a total investment of $9, and get a really good drink and cigar in exchange, plus a lesson learned about Cuban waterfront hustlers.
Looking W along the breakwall there has been a big dark cloud building all day. Cuba has been in a 3 month drought. Every day huge cumulus build up in the afternoon but nothing ever happens. They say the rainy season begins on Primero de Mayo. I see big flashes of lightning to the SW, towards Caimito and our camp. We get back on the bus, and by the time we get back to camp the storm is long gone, but there are huge puddles in the fields. The air is wondrously cool and wet.
My chest and belly are burning like the Fukushima reactor. I was an idiot for laying on the breakwall so long. The middle of my body is on fire, but I start getting the chills. I am sitting out in a lawn chair talking to a fellow brigadista in 75 degree weather, and suddenly I need to get a blanket to stop shivering. My fingers and toes are like ice, but my belly feels like it is emitting nuclear radiation. I have to tuck into bed early and spend a wicked evening shivering from sunburn. The Cuban sun is even hotter than the Cuban cars and women.
May 2
One of the things that surprises me about Cuba is the lack of insects. I brought along some military grade DEET, and I was warned to get anti-malaria shots before leaving Canada. But I have not seen a single mosquito here. And almost no butterflies, although the place is full of flowers. In fact there are very few insects of any kind, anywhere. I went to sleep last nite wondering if this situation might change now that the dry season has ended.
At the camp we are awakened before sunrise by loudspeakers blasting out a recording of a rooster crowing, followed by the eternal Cuban favorite “Guantanamera”. I will learn to despise this beautiful song before I leave the island, simply because I have heard it WAY to often.
There are no screens on the windows in Cuba, and often no glass. Just wooden slate that can be shut to keep out blowing rain. So the bugs and other critters can come in and out as they please. Not nearly the delineation here between Inside and Outside that one finds in N America, where most people live most of their lives in walled boxes that are totally separated from the natural world. Here the English sparrows (one of the most aggressive invasive species ever invented) fly in and out of our dining room, picking scraps off the tables. Frogs crawl up the walls to the ceiling. And this morn – after yesterday's first rain of the spring – is the day of the Black Ant Hatch. This hatch is famous among fishermen on Vancouver Island. Once every year, in spring, the carpenter ants (they live in colonies, chewing wood like termites) produce a few new queens, and countless millions of male suitors who try to mate with them. Over 99 percent of the males are unsuccessful and they die in swarms within a day. Many of these big flying ants fall on lakes and streams. The fish go crazy, while bug eating birds gorge themselves. A massive 24 injection of protein into the world of predators.Well, there are black ants in Cuba too. A different species, a bit shorter and stouter, but still committed to the same basic life pattern as their counterparts in N America. There are hundreds of them on the floor of our bunkroom. Mostly dead, and the rest soon will be. The floors in the shower stalls are covered in ants.
The floor of my room at the Mella camp. Notice the black ants all over the floor.
Most of our crew are just annoyed and freaked out, but I feel a tremendous sadness. Not for the ants. For me. I traveled across the world to go bass fishing. It is a calm and beautiful dawn, and I know there are bass lakes nearby. There is a feeding frenzy going on in the lakes of Cuba this morning. Bass slurping big bugs off the surface. But I cannot go fishing.. But I must go along with the brigade and do political stuff. In Cuba, the world does not stop for the black ant hatch.
We are going back into Habana this morn, to attend a big conference. The International Meeting on Solidarity with Cuba. On the bus we take a different route along the main freeway, and we begin to pass embalses (Spanish for reservoir). Bass lakes shimmering in the early morning sun. What I would give to be out on this lake in my inflatable kayak right now.
Embalse on the hwy to Habana. Must be loaded with bass.
But it is not to be. We drive on pasat the embalses, and soon we arrive at a big new building. A modern convention center. This is where the 5th National Congress was just held recently. In the lobby is a coffee bar.
In Cuba they are a little bit weird about their coffee. Grow lots of it here, and good stuff. But they usually drink it as a mmiature cup of expresso, cafe con leche (a tiny shot of strong coffee poured into a cup of hot milk) or as a teaspoon of black coffee poured into a full cup of sugar – okay, I exaggerate, but they put a LOT of sugar in their coffee here. What I want is just plain coffee. Something we cannot get at the camp. But at this international convention hall they have a bar that sells full cups of real coffee – cafe Americano.
On into the main hall where we are seated as a group.
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There are delegations from countries all over the world. Headphones on the table tops so we can tune in to whatever translation we choose. This is a hi tech place, even if there are no seats on the toilets. Each speaker has been allotted 5 minutes to talk. But like all public speakers, or bloggers, they babble on incessantly, overwhelmed by their own importance. Solidarity is good at times, but I have attended big conferences before. I know that you must be a ruthless dictator and rule with an iron fist if you want to fit this many speakers into a time frame. Soon the conference is way behind schedule.
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There are delegations from countries all over the world. Headphones on the table tops so we can tune in to whatever translation we choose. This is a hi tech place, even if there are no seats on the toilets. Each speaker has been allotted 5 minutes to talk. But like all public speakers, or bloggers, they babble on incessantly, overwhelmed by their own importance. Solidarity is good at times, but I have attended big conferences before. I know that you must be a ruthless dictator and rule with an iron fist if you want to fit this many speakers into a time frame. Soon the conference is way behind schedule.
I know it will be hard to find my kind of coffee again soon, so I step out and head back to the coffee bar. While I am in line another customer says he can tell by my brigade T-shirt that I am from Canada, and asks me where I am from. I say Victoria BC, and so is he. He is with the BCGEU (BC Government Employees Union). And like me, he attended Camosun College in Victoria – me to complete the Environmental Tech Program, and he was head of the student union for 2 years. Who would have guessed we would meet here in Habana?
The moderators of the conference are much too nice, and of course the speakers talk way too long. Even tho the show runs way overtime the last speakers in the line up are shorted. They get only 2 minutes each, instead of the 5 they were promised (which means the 10 minute speech they had prepared has to be cut back to 5).
After the conference ends our group of Canadian brigadistas meets in a separate anteroom with wives, family members and representatives of the Cuban 5.
Not much you can say. They are 5 among millions of people all over the world who have been shafted by the US “justice system”. Does not matter how many Nobel Peace Prize winners have signed petitions to release the 5. (Excluding, of course, Barrack Gobombem, who was awarded the prize before he was ever installed as US prez. For what – unseating the demented and retarded G Bush II? They need to change the title to the Nobel War Prize now.) Does not seem to matter how many people protest. Nothing will persuade the US to release people who actually do something constructive to combat US global terrorism.
After the conference ends we head back to the Mella camp. When we get back to camp another torrential downpour hits just as we are getting out of the bus. When it rains here it doesn't mess around.
Rainstorm at the camp
The bugs are out in force now. There is a huge trarantula crawling up the wall of the bunkhouse. The brigadista ladies are freaking out, especially the contingent from England. There is a scorpion crawling along the walkway. This rain has brought things to life here all right.
This evening there is another bus ride into Habana. The Canadian travel agent Judy Gallant, who was so helpful in getting the whole trip organized, and helping me in particular extend my stay after the brigade is set to return to Canada, is also the leader of a Canadian youth choir who have been touring Cuba. There is a big party for them at the famous Copacabana nite club, and we are all invited. The trip is optional. I would love to meet her, but I am partied out so I leave this event to the younger generation and stay in my bunk to work on this blog.
May 3
In the morn we go out to work on a nearby farm. We are pulling weeds again.
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Working along with members of the Federation of Cuban Women.
Working along with members of the Federation of Cuban Women.
Me with Roberto (rear) and 2 members of the women's federation. Can't remember the other guy.
Today we are pulling weeds from a field of yucca. This plant is not related at all to the yucca plant that grows in the US desert. It has large compound leaves growing from long tubers underground. The tubers are what you eat, and they are not bad. This kind of work would be done by tractors in N America. Or, more likely nowadays, the crop would be genetically modified to be resistant to roundup, and the entire field would be sprayed with that herbicide to kill everything except the harvest crop.
There is a group of cattle walking down the road. There are cattle everywhere in Cuba, but the Cubans seem to eat very little beef in their diet.
After we get done planting we hang around and talk for a while. The leader of the farm group is called Nene. He seems like a cool guy. Funny and laughs a lot.
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Probably even more fun if you could understand his language, which I cannot. He obviously knows his way around here, so I to turn the conversation around to things that are more important than world peace or women's rights – like bass fishing. Turns out that Nene is a bass fishermen. YES! Now I have a local contact.
Probably even more fun if you could understand his language, which I cannot. He obviously knows his way around here, so I to turn the conversation around to things that are more important than world peace or women's rights – like bass fishing. Turns out that Nene is a bass fishermen. YES! Now I have a local contact.
Using sign language and help from fellow brigadista Roberto who is Canadian but originally from Uruguay, and speaks Spanish, I quiz Nene baout the fishing around here. Yes, there are bass in the embalses. On walk back to the camp we pass Nene's house, and by this time we are buddies. “Mi casa es tu casa” he says. (My house is your house.) YES! This means I may have a place to stay, as well as a guide, if I can ever get time to go fishing.
Back in camp Nene and I start to talk about the important things in life – lures, different fishing lakes, etc, - over cans of Bucanero beer. The people here do not have $50K bass boats, or expensive sonar fish finders. More likely a cane pole with a piece of string. I start trying to explain my fishing technique. How do you describe a black rubber yum worm in sign language? Hey – I have a better idea. I run over to my room and grab my rod and a few boxes of lures. Soon we are passing lures back and forth. I show him how the plastic lip makes the rapala wobble and dive when you jerk on the line, and how the spinnerbait blades rotate and flash when pulled thru the water.
Fishermen are the same everywhere. Language is irrelevant. Soon a crowd of camp worker guys are gathered around my gear, and everyone is picking up the lures and passing them around. I try explains that the simple black yum worm is the greatest bass lure ever invented. I give a few worms to Nene, along with a couple other lures I have spares of.
One of my lures is a Bobby's Perfect Frog, a big floating rubber frog lure invented by Bobby Barrack in the Sacramento delta. Nene is excited about the frog. Apparently they have some kind of big catfish around here that love to slurp frogs off the surface. Nene really wants a frog, but I only have 1 with me, and I explain that I do not want to part with it, cuz I want to try it out myself for trucha. (In Cuba bass are called trout – trucha.)
I go back to get more lures to show the crew, and I bring back a rod and reel, the likes of which they have never seen before, and my inflatable kayak, which is like a flying saucer to people here. We all have a great time drinking beer and talking fishing. And I find that I do have a second frog lure, so I give it to Nene. O how I would love to get this kayak out onto that embalse and throw a frog lure around during the black and hatch.
But this is not the time. First we must concentrate on frivolous issues like global poverty and world health. In the afternoon we are bused over to visit the Latin American School of Medicine. This is located in one of Batista's old naval bases W of Habana.
It is situated on a spectacular beach with palm trees, breaking waves, and a river mouth that runs in behind.
There is a diorama inside.
Hell with the doctors, where is my kayak when I need it most? Must be snook or tarpon or who knows what in this estuary, and probably LM bass upstream in the freshwater. I want to fish!
Poor as they are in terms of material goods, the Cuban people have excellent medical coverage. And their government feels a responsibility to improve medical treatment for poor people everywhere. At this school they train doctors from poor parts of the world – on the condition that they return to their native countries and serve in the communities they came from. There are flags in the lobby from all the countries where they trained doctors, including the USA.
Hell with the doctors, where is my kayak when I need it most? Must be snook or tarpon or who knows what in this estuary, and probably LM bass upstream in the freshwater. I want to fish!
Poor as they are in terms of material goods, the Cuban people have excellent medical coverage. And their government feels a responsibility to improve medical treatment for poor people everywhere. At this school they train doctors from poor parts of the world – on the condition that they return to their native countries and serve in the communities they came from. There are flags in the lobby from all the countries where they trained doctors, including the USA.
Cuban lighting bug. The white spots shine a brillaint green when the bug wants to be seen.
I put the bug I caught into an empty plastic bottle of drinking water. It glows dimly, but if you tap the bottle it lites up with a bright green lite. Hey – I am becoming a Cuban. Must be innovative and clever if you want to survive on this island. I have invented the Cuban flashlite. You can walk around in the dark and just tap the bottle when you need lite. The bug lites up and you can see where you are going. Sustainable, green technology. Even the lite is green. I am finally putting my Environmental Technology degree to some practical use.
May 4
We wake before sunup every day, to the sound of the recorded rooster followed by Guantanamera. Today we will tour Habana. First we go to the Jose Marti tower, where we sat 2 days ago attending the giant Primero de Mayo parade. Revolution Square is empty today, and I can walk right onto the speakers platform where the bigheads were assembled for the parade.
This tower was actually built before the Castro revolution. In the base there is a museum. We take a group pic.
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In different wings are displays about Marti, the Bay of Pigs invasion, and an interesting mural showing Habana as it was when the Spanish ruled here.
In different wings are displays about Marti, the Bay of Pigs invasion, and an interesting mural showing Habana as it was when the Spanish ruled here.
Marti was a champion of the downtrodden and dispossed. Always rooted for the underdog. So it should be no surprise that Jose was a lifelong Cubs fan.
Then we ride the elevator to the top. Spectacular view of the city from here. You can look right down Paseo Street to the malecon, where I got sunburned so badly the other day.
Looking down Paseo St.
At the Marti center there is a young girl who sings for us. A Cuban Britany Spears, only immensely more talented.
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These Cuban kids are amazing. Singing, dancing, playing musical instruments. Incredibly talented at such a young age.
These Cuban kids are amazing. Singing, dancing, playing musical instruments. Incredibly talented at such a young age.
Then we are off again, back to the Casa Amistad where we had the big party the other nite. Today they have a huge dinner set out for us. Not like eating fried bananas in the Mello camp. Followed by ron of course – I have a delicious mojito.
After dinner we head into another room where we meet with a representative of the Cuban National Assembly where we learn about the Cuban approach to voting and democracy, followed by a Q/A session. Since I am trying to minimize politics in this section of my blog, I advise people who are interested to read the Retrospective section, where I plan to discuss the cultural differences between Cuba and the US/Canadian model, along with my won brilliant political analysis.
US intersection (background) with Cuban flagpoles in front.
Then the Cubans installed ann electronic billboard of their own nearby, showing images of prisoners getting tortured in Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq.
Now we head over to the historic downtown area. Ancient classic buildings, with ancient classic cars driving around. Tourists everywhere, along with hustlers trying to separate the toursts from a bit of their discretionary income. The guy beside the Edsel tries to charge me a peso to take a pic of his car. Sorry buddy, I learned my lesson along the Malecon the other day. Now I am getting savvy to the tourist hustle, and I have invented a clever antidote. I tell the hustlers that I left my wallet in the bus.
Their National Assembly building is a copy of the US congress, built back in the days when the 2 countries were on better terms.
I climb up the steps here to take a pic of the art institute down the street. There is a government security guard here on the sidewalk. She tries to charge me 2 pesos to take this pic. Sorry, left my wallet in the bus.
Then we are off to the Alba Cultural Center. There is a musical group about to play outside, the American Orchestra. Across the street is an old church. Religion is still important here, although not promoted by the state.
The orchestra tunes up. An orchestra with marimbas and a latin beat.
They have a young flute player who looks a bit like Obama. This guy is hot.
Now this is real music, not the driving pop disco crap that you hear blaring from speakers all over Cuba. I guess pop music is crap anywhere you go. Cuba is no different. But this group is playing a slow traditional number. Elderly couples get up to dance the Fan Dance in the courtyard.
The old people are the only ones who still remember how to perform this dance. Like aboriginal tribal dancers in BC, this is an oportunity to keep their cultural heritage alive. It is always hot here, and in this dance there are repeated refrains during which the ladies separate from their partners and cool themselves with ornate delicate fans.
Thisis a veryelegant and dignified performance. I am glad we got a chance to see it.
Another flute player has replaced the first one now. There was an old guy, looks like Jerry Garcia, who was hanging around while the orchestra was tuning up. Looked very out of place among these young musicians. What the H is this guy doing here? Well, he is here to play the flute, and he is even hotter than the first guy was. Wish we could stay all nite, but we must head back to camp for a late dinner.
On the way back we pass by the embalses again, and I am eating my heart out. Why couldn't Che have been a bass fisherman, so we could explore a little bit of THAT cultural heritage too? He probably would have been a helluva bass fisher.
There is always a lot of drinking going on around camp. There is an outside bar that is open all day and late into the nite. But this is a special nite - our last in the Mella camp -and prodigious amounts of ron are going down tonite. I am doing my part to drink my share.
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This is also a birthday party for anyone whose birthday falls in the month of May, which incudes me. They have baked a birthday cake for us!
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In fact, I happen to have been born on the same day that Jose Marti died. Some of the jokers in the group speculate that I maybe the reincarnation of Marti. Well, I don't know anything about reincarnation, but if this is true the Cubans got ripped off very badly in this exchange.
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I end up sitting with my friend Nene, who is also doing more than his part to ensure that the ron does not get stale before it gets used.
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I learn that Nene is not only head of the local cooperative farm, he is also the head of the local CDR (Committee for the Defense of the Revolution – more about that later.) Of course, we talk about fishing. I draw a crude picture of a bass on a plastic plate, and also of a catfish. Well, OK they might not be great art, but they get the point across, and hey, I was totally wasted when I drew this. Nene adds a caption with the name of the catfish, which I cannot understand, together with the notation “20 lbs”.
Must get back here sometime to find out more about these giant frog eating catfish. Nene also gives me his address and phone number, so I can get in touch with him in the future. He has no email address, not surprising since I saw the house he lives in when we walked back from the yucca field the other day. It barely has electricity, much less internet. Only later while we are in Cienfuegos do I learn that Nene had another job before he quit and came to work on the farm, cuz he wanted to do something more useful and work with his hands. He was professor of philosophy at a university in Habana.
The party goes on into the nite.
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Me, Tyler, Jamie, Mike (who would be my future roomate in Cienfuegos)
This is also a birthday party for anyone whose birthday falls in the month of May, which incudes me. They have baked a birthday cake for us!
In fact, I happen to have been born on the same day that Jose Marti died. Some of the jokers in the group speculate that I maybe the reincarnation of Marti. Well, I don't know anything about reincarnation, but if this is true the Cubans got ripped off very badly in this exchange.
I end up sitting with my friend Nene, who is also doing more than his part to ensure that the ron does not get stale before it gets used.
Mike, me, Nene, Roberto
I learn that Nene is not only head of the local cooperative farm, he is also the head of the local CDR (Committee for the Defense of the Revolution – more about that later.) Of course, we talk about fishing. I draw a crude picture of a bass on a plastic plate, and also of a catfish. Well, OK they might not be great art, but they get the point across, and hey, I was totally wasted when I drew this. Nene adds a caption with the name of the catfish, which I cannot understand, together with the notation “20 lbs”.
Must get back here sometime to find out more about these giant frog eating catfish. Nene also gives me his address and phone number, so I can get in touch with him in the future. He has no email address, not surprising since I saw the house he lives in when we walked back from the yucca field the other day. It barely has electricity, much less internet. Only later while we are in Cienfuegos do I learn that Nene had another job before he quit and came to work on the farm, cuz he wanted to do something more useful and work with his hands. He was professor of philosophy at a university in Habana.
The party goes on into the nite.
Alberto, with our bus driver, whose name I have forgotten
It is late now. Must get some sleep, cuz we leave early tomorrow morn. I will miss this place, and the people I met here. It all happened so fast. There is no way to take it all in, digest it, and try to gain some meaning out of it. A life changing experience for me, that is for sure.
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