The Island Nation - Cienfuegos

May 5

We are on the bus and out of the Mella camp at 7 AM. Will not forget this place. Heading right across the whole island today, from the N coast to the S coast. But first we go thru Habana and stop to attend an event honoring the Cuban 5. Over 5,000 school kids are assembled in a big open playing field in front of a stage.

They are extremely clean, orderly, and well behaved. One thing that continues to surprise me everywhere I go, in the city or the country, is how clean the Cuban's clothes are. These people have few washing machines, must wash everything by hand.



There is singing and poetry reading, and again I am amazed by the talent and skills of these young kids.

Then we are back on the bus. Youo are either on the bus or you are off the bus.

Our faithful bus drivers, who took us evereywhere

Off again, heading along the freeway out of Habana, heading SE along National Highway towards Cienfuegos.

Where I went in Cuba: Veradero>Havana>Caimito>Cienfuegos>Santa Clara>Veradero

The National Highway, which runs the length of the island. We pass another embalse. In the distance I can see a local fisherman walking along the shore with a string of fish – largemouth bass. Stop the bus - I want to get off!

This is mostly empty land. No towns here. Lots of untilled, empty bush, with a few cows here and there. One of the brigadistas has brought a pretty good map of Cuba that she got in Toronto. You can see from the map that most of the population is to the N of the freeway. All to the S of us is the enormous Zapata swamp, but the land we are driving along is dry. Much of it looks arable, although some is quite rocky.

The upgrade of the National Highway was supposed to run from one end of the island to the other, but construction came to a halt – probably with the fall of the Soviet Union. There are apparently sections that are still not upgraded to freeway standards, but not on the part we traveled which is all 6 lane divided. I begin to notice many large odd looking steel roller shaped objects lying at intervals along the road. At first I think they must be related to agriculture, but what are they? Do they drag these things behind tractors to plow up weeds?

Later I learn their purpose. They are lying beside the straighter sections of Nationial Highway at intervals of maybe a kilometer or so. Cuba has few airports, and few highways smooth enough and straight enough to land a plane on. But the National Highway is different. This would be the perfect place for an invader – lets say some large aggressive country to the north for instance – to land planes on. But a handful of husky Cubans could roll these big obstacles out onto the highway, and make landing here a nasty experience for an F-35 or C-130 cargo plane. Seems quicker and faster to me if they were to just drive a bunch of cars out onto the highway. And of course they are all obsolete now, because if and when that invasion ever comes the neighbor to the north will bomb the country to smithereens with cruise missiles and unmanned serial drones before landing any troops on the ground - a trick they are practicing with endless repetition in the Middle East.



We turn off onto a 2 lane hwy that heads S towards CF. According to the map we will pass a big embalse where the hwy turns E, and sure enough there is some bassy looking water out there, although this lake is low at the end of the dry season.

Lots of sugar cane growing around here. The fields are of different heights, as if they were planted at different times.

The cattle egret is a common bird here. Once almost wiped out by hunters killing the birds to get the long white plumes for lady’s hats. The like to hunt in plowed fields. Or, as their name suggests, they will often hang around cattle in pastures. They eat the bugs that the cows scare up.

Nearing CF we pass another embalse. This one is full, and looks very fishy.

We cross a couple of the inlet arms, and in one there is actually a rowboat on the water – first boat I have seen on any embalse in Cuba. This is almost certainly a Cuban guiding a gringo for bass.



In early afternoon arrive in Cienfuegos (100 Fires), aka The Pearl of the Caribbean. This is a big city, located on the Bahia de Jagua, one of the great natural harbors of the world. A narrow entrance only 300 meters wide leads to a sheltered inland basin 20 km long by 5 km wide.

The downtown square is ancient.



There is a delegation there to meet us.

Osmany, our interpreter from ICAP

We help lay a wreath dedicated to Jose Marti in the downtown square.

It is stifling hot. Then we hop back on the bus and head down to the old waterfront hotels, where some brigadistas need to do some currency exchanging.

After the banking is done we hop back on the bus. Off to our next base camp, a waterfront resort on the SE side of Cienfuegos harbor, Punta Cueva Hotel.

Punta Cueva (Cave Point) Hotel

To me this is hi class. Not like the digs I am used to - logging camps or Motel 6.

They have a big pool, and a classy restaurant where we will eat.

This place has solar hot water heaters, which the Mella camp did not.

And a beach fronting on the harbor, where people could go play in their kayaks!

With a nice pier where you can sip on a drink and watch the sunset.

I start inflating the kayak, but first we must eat lunch. This is not peasant food. Bread & butter, soup, bowl of fruit, meat & rice, and a bowl of ice cream. This is how the tourists live.

After lunch I finally get to launch the kayak for the first time in Cuban waters - in the waters of the swimming pool. I paddle full speed into the concrete at the end of the pool, and bounce off. Hey, this boat is fun!

I immediately come under attack by Roberto, the Uruguayan pirate.

Later we drive into CF to meet with a group of Cuban military veterans. One of them fought at the Bay of Pigs.

Again there are kids dancing singing & reciting poetry. These kids are really good.

The war vets take us back into a room that is a war memorial and museum. They are very emotional, and often won't stop talking long enough for Osmany to finish interpreting.

In one of the anterooms at the museum is an exhibit dedicated to General Ochoa, who fought with Fidel in the Sierra Maestra and rose to become the 3^rd most prominent military leader in the country, after the Castro brothers. No mention is made of the fact the Ochoa was tried for corruption, including drug smuggling, and executed by firing squad in 1989, in one of the most controversial events in recent Cuban history.

On the way back to the resort we stop by the historic and imposing Hotel Jagua, where some brigadistas need to go to convert Canadian money into CUCs.

After the meeting we go back to hotel, and I launch the kayak into the pool again. Rumor has it that all lakes in Cuba are full of bass, so why not this little lake right in the resort. I try to fishing, but I get no bites.

Even the black yum worm fails to interest the wily bass.

Then I launch the kayak into the Caribbean Sea for the first time. Feels great to paddle around in this huge & historic harbor. And the kayak continues to impress. This is a heckuva boat. I get bolder and paddle out until the chop is starting to splash into the cockpit. Well, it does have its limitations, but it is way more seaworthy than I ever gave it credit for. These boats could revolutionize life here in Cuba.

I like this place. There are weird lizards running around. Must have crazy glue on their feet, cuz they can climb up anything.

Some of them are day-glo blue and green.

They have slugs here too – diffferent than the ones on Vancouver Island.

That nite there is a frog in room, climbing up the wall.

And when I come back to the door at later that nite something scrabbles at my feet. Must be a rat so I jump back. But it is not a rat, it is a crab.

It proceeds to calmly climb up the wall next to the door.

Around sunset I go out for another paddle in the kayak.

May 6

I get up at first lite. Want to go for a swim in the pool but it is drained. So I wade out into the bay instead. Go for a lazy swim on my back, then wade around in deep water. Mostly soft mud and eelgrass here, occaisionally a hard lump that feels like a broken bottle. I scoop one out with my toes and dive under to pick it up. It is a big snail, looks like a conch to me. Even this smaller one seems to have a lot of meat inside the shell.

There are fishermen out in little boats, and down the shore another guy is wading chest deep.

Not a tourist like me. He has driven a stake into the bottom, and has a number of 20 ft pieces of monofilament hung on it. One by one he pulls in on the lines.

At the other end is a piece of bait – dead fish or chicken or something – and maybe a crab that was attracted to the bait.

They are small blue-grey crabs, not nearly as big as the one at my door last nite.

He throws the crabs he wants to keep into a pail, and periodically takes his keepers into shore where he has a big pot boiling over a driftwood fire.

Another guy is dragging a net along behind him in shallow water. Periodically he stops and looks thru his catch. There are little snails, tiny fish, seaweed. I see a small shrimp and pick it out to look at it. Then with sign language I ask the guy what he is after, and I see that he is keeping the shrimp and throwing everything else away. Uses them for bait when he fishes with a boat out in the bay. He has only caught 2 shrimp in this tow, and the one I am holding jumps out of my fingers and gets away. I have fumbled away 50% of the profit from his last 20 minutes of work. I can hear his thoughts: “Gringo moron.” He says nothing, and patiently goes back to dragging his net.

After breakfast we are driven over to visit a nearby farm. Our task this morning is to fill plastic bags from a big pile of manure.

They will plant papayas in the bags. My analytical Norte Americano mind immediately begins to figure out ways to speed up the process – screen the pile first to remove the rocks & big chunks, feed it thru a funnel with a gate valve, one person could easily do the work of 5 or 10 of us. But Cuba is geared to full employment, not to find clever ways to reduce the amount of human labor. And besides, where would they get mesh to make a screen, or a gate valve?

It is hot, so I take a break and walk into the newly planted field nearby, then stand under the rotating sprinkler head. Feels so good, but now the dust from the manure pile sticks all over me. This job is a pile of shit.

After a few hours of filling bags we wash up and head into the mess halls. Ever the innovators, the farmers have created a novel water faucet by sealing a plastic pop bottle onto the outlet of a water tank with strips of inner tube. You control the flow by unscrewing the lid.

(Reminds me of the communal farm I used to live on on Texada Island, where our kitchen was fed by pressurized water coming from a quarter mile long hose of chunks of black plastic pipe sealed together by – you guessed it – strips of inner tube. Necessity is the uncle of invention. Worked perfectly on Texada until the flow stopped mysteriously one day. A little trout made the mistake of swimming into the intake, got sucked ¼ mile down the pipe, and jammed into the kitchen faucet.)

The lunchroom is in an open building where they have plates of fresh fruit laid out for us. I do not like the flavor and texture of many tropical fruits – papaya, mango, guava – too sweet and mushy for my taste. But I love the pineapples which are served everywhere, and today they have tiny bananas, about 6” long. Delicious!

The squalor here is unimaginable by US/Canadian standards. Everybody is walking around in puddles of chicken & goat shit. Flies going back & forth from the shit puddles to the plates of freshly cut fruit. I finally get a chance to chew on some raw sugar cane. It is a bit too sweet for my taste, but the flies sure like it.

The flies love the sugar cane, which is very sweet. Hardly bother with anything else if the cane is there.

It is a tribute to the Cuban medical system, and the stamina of the farm workers themselves, that killer disease is not rampant here as it often is among the poverty stricken underclass in many US colonies. Take the ongoing cholera epidemic in nearby Haiti for example.

After shower and lunch at the resort we are off again to visit a hospital in CF. The Cuban social model is not built to maximize conspicuous consumption of the upper classes. It is designed to create and maintain a basic level of medical, educational and retirement coverage for everyone. All Cubans receive medical care that covers basic needs, unlike the US. And according to the doctor who is speaking, treatment is also prompt in Cuba, unlike Canada. He says they usually aim for a wait limit of one week or less for treatment, often only 72 hours. Diagnosis & treatment are free, but the patient must pay for a part of the drug costs, which are subsidized. Drugs for cancer and HIV patients are free.

I ask a question, prefaced by a statement: “A large proportion of surgeries in the US and Canada are what is called cosmetic surgery. Removing fat from the bellies of overweight people like me to make their bellies look smaller, or inserting plastic breasts into women to make their boobs look bigger. How does the Cuban system deal with cosmetic surgery?”

The doctor replies with what I think is a great answer. “We have the capacity and skills to perform these kinds of surgeries, but Cubans focus on medical health, and cosmetic surgery is not a priority. "First”, he says. “Cuba is a poor country. Cubans cannot afford a lot of junk food, and cannot afford to drive cars everywhere. People must ride bicycles or walk. So Cubans are usually not as fat to begin with. And all Cuban women are beautiful, so breast enhancement is, not needed.”

A lot of the questions are annoyingly technical, which makes it tough on our interpreter Osmany. He frequently needs to stop and consult with the doctors to see if he got the message correct.

The doctor says that Cuba suffered badly from tropical diseases in the past, but that these were largely wiped out within 10 years of the revolution. Not much of a problem any more. I ask if they can perform laser eye surgery (which was so successful for me). He says there is a room where they do this only 20 meters away from where I am sitting. But it is very expensive.

Cuba trains doctors that they send all over the world to help deal with natural disasters. They offered to send doctors to help with the Hurricane Katrina disaster in New Orleans, even flew them up to the US. But they were not allowed to get off the planes.

After the talk there are some brigadistas up on stage talking with the doctors when one of the young ladies in our brigade faints. What better place to have a medical emergency than in a big hospital, and in the arms of a handsome young doctor? She is taken off for diagnosis while the rest of us head back to the resort. After a number of tests, a bit of rest and some fluids, she is released later in good health and spirits, and with an intimate hands-on encounter with the Cuban hospital system.

Back at the resort I try launching the kayak in the pool again, but they have drained the water out to clean it. Tough paddling when there is no water. No point in trying to fish here.

I need another plan, so I head to the bar and order a mojito. This is the essential Cuban pool drink: You put 2 spoons of sugar in the bottom of a glass, then mash up a bunch of mint leaves into it. Add an ice cube, lemon/lime soda, and ron. Manna from heaven on a hot day. I go sit under the palm umbrella by the beach, the ultimate place to enjoy a mojito.

After the mojito I am inspired, so I head out to sea again. Getting bolder and bolder. Way offshore now, visiting with the fishing fleet.

Their boats are constructed out of chunks of styrofoam they find washed up on the beach, glued together with tar, piece of tin fitted in across the bow to hold everything together.

Oarlocks made of pieces of rag twisted around to hold the oar in place.

Unsinkable. They are using shrimp for bait (I think this is the same guy whose shrimp I fumbled away earlier), on monofiliment handlines. And they are catching fish too.

These guys must make their living fishing in these boats.

I paddle further down the shore. Getting bolder now, as I develop a rapport with this new boat. I end up in a mangrove swamp – an ecosystem I have often read about but never seen before.

There are schools of tiny fish that look like neon tetras, and occaisionally I see minnows jumping while a silver flash slashes by underneath. Predators feeding. The big fish eat the little fish.

I paddle quickly back to the hotel, have another mojito, grab a rod loaded with a spinnerbait, and then head back to the spot where I saw the fish action. Nothing going on any more, but I get a chance to try casting out of the kayak. Not too bad, and not dangerous. Much better than trying to cast out of the previous kayak I once had. You can fish out of this boat!

This cheap little boat, which seemed so flimsy and unstable the first time I got in it, continues to amaze me. The Cubans could mass produce these things, and it would change their lives. They would find all sorts of clever uses for them, and have fun at the same time. I begin to see a new consciousness evolving. A new lifestyle. The Inflatable Kayak Nation. IKN.

Genesis of the IKN

This could be a revolution that will sweep over the world. To me, both neo-fascism and communism seem to have built-in flaws, hardwired contradictions that guarantee they will self destruct. If you take the worst of both of these ideologies it would be hell on earth. But the IKN will take the best of both worlds and merge them into and earthly paradise.

I begin to see a new paradigm. The Inflatable Kayak Manifesto. Not the turgid abstract analytics of Marx, that old fuddyduddy, nor the ridiculous faith based gibbering of the “free” market. The IKN Manifesto will be simple, to the point, based it the real world, not theoretical principles.

The IK Manifesto is based on simple postulates:

#1: The big fish eat the little fish.

#2: Liars will not be tolerated, no matter what their ideology or station in life.

Hey, this is getting interesting.

At present the IKN memberhip is rather small, consisting of 1 (me). Therefore I guess I must accept the role of leader. But Fidel and Che started with a small cadre too, and look what they accomplished. They had the vision and drive to make it happen, so why can't I?  The IKN is destined to rule the world. Not by force, but by fun.

Wal Marts and McDonalds stands will of course be banned. There will be huge areas devoid of human development, where people can just paddle around and have a good time, without messing everything up. Everyone will have a job – a good, fun job. There will be medical care for all to maintain good health, but you will have to pay for liposuction and plastic boobs by yourself. Rush Limbaugh will be required to get off hard drugs and get some exercise, or he will be banned from the mass media. Politicians will be required to tell the truth, and at least try to keep their promises, or they will be turfed out and replaced.  The future is inevitable, and the future is the IKN. Learn to accept it.

*******

A big oil tanker has entered the bay. If I had a little help we could take this tanker, and then sail on to sack Jamaica. Pay them and Henry Morgan back for sacking Santiago. I see my brigadista counterpart Jamie sitting on the pier sipping a drink, and I make my proposition. I will paddle over the fishermen's boat, make like I am a dumb tourist, and then tip it over. They wil never expect it. While they are flopping in the water I can tow their boat back to the pier. Then we will have 2 boats, and Jamie and I can paddle across and take the tanker. Then we will have 3 boats, and a captive pirate crew.Onward with the IKN revolution! But Jamie is not interested in pursuing the revolution at this point. More interested in sipping on his drink. A great opportunity for the Inflatable Kayak Nation is squandered.

Back in our room, our lovely maid Yamirka has brought new towels for us. And folded them beautifully into swans. They didn’t do this for us when I worked in logging camp.

In the evening we bus back into town for a meeting with the young communists. I sit way in the back and can't hear a thing. Not a tragedy for me. I am not a person who has a lot of interest in politics in general, and after more that a week of continuous political meetings, political events, and drinking ron while shouting “Viva la revolution!” I am approaching my limit. I guess that many people here are committed ideologues, about as intellectually flexible as young republicans in the US. It is Friday nite in downtown Cienfuegos. Suddenly the power goes out – the only time this happened during my stay in Cuba. But the party goes on in the town square.

After the meeting with the young communists the rest of the brigade locates a club with a loud music and a floor show. But I am burned out from too much ron and partying. Can't handle any more ron, and my head will split open if I listen to any more blasting Cuban disco jive. I opt to stay on the bus and sleep instead.

Another similarity I share with Che. I tend to hang back and melt into the underbrush when I am part of big noisy groups of people. According to his first wife Hilda, “I knew very well that when Ernesto felt at ease he was talkative; he loved discussions. But when there were many people around he would remain withdrawn.”

As his biographer Anderson says: “In a country where people love to dance, and sensual Afro-Caribbean rhythmic music is the heart blood of the culture, Che liked to listen to tangos, but was tone deaf and didn’t dance…In a country where rum is the time-honored way of relaxing with friends, Che didn’t drink.”

Besides, I have a secret plan for the coming morn, involving a rendezvous with the wily bass.

May 7

I get up before dawn, take one rod and a couple surface lures and head out in the dark. There were a couple ponds near the road to the hotel. May be loaded with big bass? Must find out.

I hop over the barbed wire fence to avoid using the main entrance where nobody is awake yet. Then start hiking down the road. People pass me going the other way on bicycles. What is the crazy gringo doing, walking down the road with a fishing rod in the dark? Just at first lite I get to the ponds, hop the fence and toss a jitterbug out onto the water. It imitates a noisy frog. Should get crushed by a hungry bass - if there are any in here. But there are no bites. I am sweaty from the long walk, and there are some no see-ums around. Then a few mosquitos. I expected to see swarms of bugs in Cuba, but there have been very few - until now. I walk down the shore of the pond and throw the jitterbug out again. No bites, but more bugs have located me. The mosquitos are beginning to bite. Must keep moving.

This pond smells, like shit. The bugs are locked in on me now. Another cast, no bites. I begin to clue in to the sad reality. This is not bass water, it is a sewage treatment pond. After about 5 casts I start thinking about the bugs. What kind of diseases are these mosquitos injecting into my blood, after hatching directly out of the sewer water? The bugs are swarming me now. I want outahere, fast. I dash out to the fence, trying to outrun the mosquitos, hop out onto the pavement and run down the tarmac until I am clear of the bugs. A humbling expedition in quest of the wily bass. I have caught no more fish here than I caught in the swimming pool at the hotel.

Today we are going to bus from CF to Santa Clara. My mother's name was Clara. This is the town where the decisive battle in the Revolution was fought. The place where Che the Comandante led his army down out of the Escambray to do battle with Batista's army.

On the way we pass the ubiquitous hitchhikers standing beside the road.

Vehicles are scarce in this country, so hitchhiking is encouraged, whether by car, truck, bus, or horse drawn carriage. When I first moved to Canada it was a right of passage for all Canadian teenagers to hitchhike across the huge country from coast to coast. But hitching is rare in N America nowadays. It is a major means of transportation in Cuba. Comrades are expected to pick up comrades. In fact, tan-shirted Cuban “transportation officers” are often seen at the side of the road checking to make sure that drivers do not pass by in empty cars without giving hitchers a ride. Our brigade bus does not pick up hitchers, but they do not know that. All across the island desperate hitchers hold wave out handfuls of (Cuban) cash, hoping to interest the driver in stopping to pick them up.

We cross a big canal flowing with clear running water, heavily weeded on the bottom, heading from the Escambray in the E towards the lowlands around Cienfuegos. First big irrigation canal I have seen in Cuba Now this looks like clean healthy water. Would love to drop the kayak in here and see where I end up. Might this water be coming from the huge embalse (and world famous bass lake) Lake Hanabanilla, high in the Escambray?

We pass gigantic and ancient sugar mills. Some are still operational (not running this time of year) and others are derelict skeletons.

We arrive in Santa Clara. The town is in the interior of the island, surrounded by gently sloping agricultural lowlands. In the E part of the city a few hills rear up above the plains – foothills of the Escambray Mountains that cut directly across the middle of the big island, dividing it into E & W halves. This is the same mountain chain that is visible from Cienfuegos. We go directly to the Che monument.

He is a great hero here, and we arrive at a large park dominated by a towering statue.

Cubans like to bring their kids here to be photographed beneath their idol.

Che was killed by assassins in Peru. Long after the US funded hit squad completed its mission the Cubans went to Peru to exhume Che's remains. Beneath the statue is a mausoleum, containing Che's ashes, along with the ashes of his fellow revolutionaries who were killed alongside him.

It was an essential element of Basstravaganza2010 to photograph and document interesting graveyards across the US. It stems from the interest in cemeteries I gained while creating a GIS for the 3 cemeteries in Ashland, OR. The Che mausoleum is a sacred spot in Cuba. No cameras allowed. Must leave all handbags at a booth outside. No hats allowed. No speaking allowed. In respect for the sanctity of the shrine, I will not attempt to describe it in detail here other than to say that it is primarily stone and wood, and a very tasteful work of art in its own right, regardless of your political convictions. There are a number of empty containers, waiting for the ashes of Che's comrades in battle whose remains have not yet been located. I bow my head in silence briefly in front of Che's ashes as I pass by.

After exiting the mausoleum you enter a small museum containing mementos of Che's struggle – rifles, canteens, letters, photographs. One thing that Che and I obviously share in common: a sense of humor. I often seem to annoy people because I tend to crack jokes when the people around me are consumed by stress and crisis. In old photos of Che he is often surrounded by stern-faced comrades – Fidel, Raoul, and others in military fatigues who never seem to crack a smile. But Che is grinning, grinning, the wrinkles around his eyes crumpled as if he had just dropped a hidden punchline. This guy could have a good time even while bullets were flying by, aimed at him.

According to his commander who supervised the training of Fidel's rebels in Mexico, before they headed to Cuba, Che had “Excellent discipline, excellent leadership abilities, physical endurance excellent. Some disciplinary press-ups for small errors interpreting orders and faint smiles.” Che's attitude changed after the revolution, as Che changed from being a armed revolutionary to being a bureaucrat. Anderson quotes Che as saying “I’m no longer interested in witticisms. I have a different sense of humor now.”

Afterwards we head over to the ICAP building in Santa Clara. ICAP stands Cuban Institute of Friendship with the Peoples (in this case meaning peoples of the world). Founded in 1960 just after the revolution, it is an organization dedicated to what N Americans would call outreach and public relations. Here we are treated to another posh lunch. The proles do not eat like this. Nor did Che when he was leading troops thru the mountains.

A valuable contact for me here, cuz I will be flying back to Canada from Santa Clara, and will need a place to sleep if I am coming from Moron and Laguna de la Leche. The ICAP crew will put me up for a bargain nite of bed & breakfast. Bueno!

Across from the ICAP building is an open ditch, gently flowing along the street. I can smell sewer from the middle of the road, and by the time I get 10 ft away from the ditch I want to vomit. This is raw human sewage running down a main street in a big city. I am suddenly overcome by sadness for the kid that hits a baseball that rolls into this ditch. The Cubans have funding to send doctors to help refugees from Katrina, but there is not a prayer that this struggling economy can fund the massive infrastructure overhaul needed to retrofit the aging sewer, water and electrical systems in these ancient crumbling cities. Again, it is a credit to the Cuban medical system that there are epidemics raging here.

After lunch at the ICAP building we head over to the famous Railway Museum, a holy shrine for Cubans. On the way we drive along a small river. A pretty looking stream, the kind I would love to fish. Except that I have had a bit of experience with water quality issues, including fecal coliform contamination in Ashland Creek which runs past my old office. The river we are driving along is polluted. I can SEE the E.coli in this river. We arrive at the park, and everybody gets off the bus and runs over to the boxcars. Except me. Of course I must check out the river first. Surprisingly, it is full of fish. Little ones, medium size, and some big swirls from rising lunkers. I go over to talk to the park tour guide and ask the name of the stream. She says “Rio Belico. But don't go near it! Very contaminated.” I was right. This beautiful watershed is also an urban sewer. No such thing as a TMDL here. The ditch across from the ICAP building is tributary to this river.

According to another blog I stumbled upon (http://cuba.atheart.dk/santa_clara_city.htm), “From the park I walked along the west-going Marta Abreu road, and half a kilometer down the road there was a small bridge crossing the Rio Bélico. To the north I could see the housing going all the way down to the overgrown stream. It was evident that the riverbanks, even so close to the city centre, were used as a waste dumping ground. While I was there, a man rolled up with his wheelbarrow. It was filled with leftover building materials, bricks, buckets of paint etc. Everything was dumped over the edge of the bridge and onto the banks below.”

The river is plugged full of fish – odd in a country hard-up for protein. They are probably so toxic that no one will eat them. So poison that they never get fished, so they are plentiful and bold? She says the small ones are talapia, and tells me the name of the big ones, which I do not understand. They look like some kind of catfish, rising to suck air. I feel a sadness whenever I see pretty streams poisoned, like I do when I see pretty young women hooked on crystal meth. This just is not right.

There is a kind of large black wasp with bright red wings that I often see here. Very bold always hunting for something on the ground. Probably a parasite looking for some kind of subterranean larva to lay its eggs in? I tried to google for it but could not find it. I tried a number of times but could never get a clear picture of it.

The Cuban 5 were affiliated with the Red Wasp cell of Cuban Intelligence. Could they have been named after this wasp?

Batista's army was fading in the face of the revolution that began in the Sierra Madre mountains at the SE end of Cuba. When Che marched his army from the Sierra Madre into the Escambray he threatened to cut the whole island in half. In a desperate attempt to cling to power Batista sent an armored train full of troops and armaments to do battle with Che's army. The gondola cars carried artillery and ak-ak guns. The boxcars are made of double steel walls, with a 2 inch layer of sand in between, to defend against shells and bullets. You can see gun slots high in the sides of the boxcars for soldiers to shoot out of.

Che estimated it would take a month to capture Santa Clara. The first thing he did was get the lay of the land. They did not have GIS in those days – something Che probably would have been good at. According to Anderson, “On Dec 27, he was joined in newly liberated Placetas by Antonio Nunez Jimenez, a young geography professor from Santa Clara University who brought maps and diagrams to help plan Che’s approach to the city.” After learning the local geography they snuck along irrigation canals to get to the train tracks.

Batista's train was repulsed when it headed towards the mountains, and Che was waiting when it tried to return to town. There was a bulldozer at the university, but the driver was afraid to take it out. So Che had one of his men drive it over and bulldoze the track. The dozer is still here in the museum.

Racing back to Santa Clara, the engine derailed at the sabotaged site. Isolated, the soldiers retreated to the safety of the train. Stymied now, the troops started shooting out of the “invincible” boxcars. But there was a fatal flaw in Batista's plan. The gun slots were high up in the boxcars, so his soldiers could not shoot straight down. Che's men dashed up close to the cars where they could not be shot, and tossed molotov cocktails under them. In a clever strategy that prefaces future Cuban/Canadian solidarity, they made the cocktails out of Canada Dry ginger ale bottles, filled with grease. Things began to get really hot for Batista's men, and they surrendered.

When Batista heard about the surrender of his train and army he knew it was game over, and he responded Lesson 1 from his Dictatorship 101 course at Ft Benning, GA: Loot the national treasury, hop on a plane, and flee to a country friendly with the US.

We roam around the train cars, and I wonder what it would be like to find a Cuban river like this one, perfect for a kayak, full of fish, and not polluted?

On the way back to Cienfuegos we pass over the big canal again. This time it is full of kids swimming in the hot afternoon sun.

In the evening I head out into Cienfuegos harbor for another paddle in the kayak. This boat is becoming like a part of my body now. No more fear of heading way offshore. This boat loves waves, I paddle back in closer and head out along the shore. Wonder what is around this point? I am paddling along when there is a big splash near me. Some kind of tropical fruit has just hit the water, and I can see it sinking. I look in to shore. There is a guy standing there laughing. Nobody could not throw a fruit that far. But yes, this guy can throw a fruit like Nolan Ryan can throw a baseball. We are laughing, and they motion me to come in.

They have never seen anything like my kayak. Aha – first converts for the IKN! These 2 guys have come down to the beach in a horse drawn cart along with 2 young women. I paddle in and they wade out and we talk, such as we can with limited understanding of the other's language. I am from Canada. Vancouver Island. They motion over to the cart, and wave for the girls to come down to the beach. One is good looking and the other is gorgeous. The really hot one hops out and starts wading out to my kayak. They are pointing at her, laughing. “Bella chica! Bella Chica!” I look at her, and back at them. “Yeah, bella chica!. You got that right buddy!” She wades out and gives me a big kiss. Viva Cuba! Viva la revolution!

I paddle out past the point.

There are some big boulders underwater here. This is where I should be fishing. 18'” chop out here now. Would have been terrifying for me when I first got this boat, but now it is fun. I let the wind push me back into the middle of the bay. There is another styrofoam boat fishing about ¼ mile away. Every few seconds I see a big splash near their boat. Must paddle over to see what is going on. At first I think they have hooked a giant fish, and it is jumping. But as I get closer I see that they are slapping the water with something long. When I get over to them I see they have a 15 ft long tree branch in their boat, and they are pulling in a gillnet.

Aha – they slap the water with the branch, which scares the fish into the net.

This is low-tech commercial fishing. Must give these guys credit for innovation, not to mention determination. They are catching fish too. Not big ones, but big enough to eat.

Back in my motel room our maid Yamirka has done our laundry, and left it nice and tidy on my bed along with another elegantly folded towel.

May 8

Get up before dawn. The other brigadistas are hung over and sleeping from last nite's partying. I pick out a few lures and climb over the barbed wire fence that surrounds the hotel grounds, then start hiking down the road in the dark. I will arrive at the ponds I saw along the road to camp at the witching hour. Today I will finally outsmart my first Cuban bass. I walk a mile down the road in the dark. 2 bicycles pass me going the other way. Camp staff on their way to work. What is this crazy gringo doing, hiking towards town in the dark. I walk a mile and finally reach the ponds, hop another barbed wire fence, and I am there. In the dim lite I see another person at the other end of the pond. Another bass fisherman? I had expected to be alone. Am I trespassing? Will I get 25 years in a Cuban jail for poaching, and fishing without a license? Before I can set up my rod to cast he is gone, vanished, probably just as freaked out about my presence as I am about his. I throw a Jitterbug along the bank, waiting for a big LM to crush this noisy surface target, but nothing happens. I am sweating from the walk, and there are bugs here. No seeums, and a few mosquitos. Smells like shit here. I make a couple more casts. It is lite enough to see that the visibility is only about 1 inch. The mosquitos are getting fierce, and the smell is getting worse. This is not a bass lake, more likely a sewage treatment pond. What kind of parasites are these bugs injecting into my blood? One more blank cast and I am outahere. Another Cuban bass fantasy down the drain.

I walk back to camp and get out my mask & snorkel. Not much to see in front of the hotel, but it feels great to be in the water before sunrise. Under the pier there are thousands of little fish, and I swim back in between the pilings. Then hop in the pool to wash the salt off, change clothes and go in for breakfast. Time to head to the beach.

We go to Rancho Luna beach, on the open ocean just E of the mouth of Cienfuegos harbor. On the way we pass a 57 De Soto, like the one my dad had when he was an advertising executive in Chicago.

The beach is spectacular. A party waiting to happen.

I see gentle surf breaking at certain points in the bay. Wonder what the kayak will be like in the surf? While everybody else is getting their beach towels arranged I run down the sand and plunge into the ocean.

I'm off!

First time the kayak has been in the Caribbean Sea.

It is choppy, but the boat handles the chop amazingly well. I am getting better at driving this boat.

The bottom is sand and concrete-hard coral. There are coral shallows offshore, where the swells are breaking onto the shallows.

I paddle out to a reef break. Can I get up and ride on of these waves? No – they are not big enough to catch a ride. Instead I try plunging head on into the biggest waves I can find. Hey, thtis is great fun! It works for a few waves, until I crash a wave that breaks over my head. Game over. This is not a surf kayak. No splash skirt, so the wave pours water into the seat compartment. Now the kayak is half filled with water, and becomes a real slug. No way to bail it out. Cannot get back in if I jump out to tip the water out. So I must paddle this half filled bathtub all the way back in to the beach, get out, and pour the water out. Then I paddle right back out to the break and do it again, and again.

When I first tested it in Oregon I was very sceptical. But every minute I spend in it inspires me with new respect. This is a great boat! Helluva bargain for $200. Amazingly stable in rough water, tracks well. Few people in this country have ever seen anything like it.

I loan the kayak out to fellow brigadistas who paddle around near shore.

Then I go out to play in the reef breaks again. As I come back and get out on the beach a little Cuban kid looks really curiously at me & my boat. So I pick him up and put him in. With help from a cohort we can push him back and forth about 50 feet between us. At first the kid seems terrified, mostly of me and the other gringo likely. But gradually he gets into it. By the time we leave to go to lunch he is beaming, and I give him a hi-5 as we go.

This is a breakthru, leading edge of an new lifestyle and a new philosophy of life. The Inflatable Kayak Nation. IKN. We will rule the world, soon enough.

We head over to the Rancho Luna resort on next beach for lunch.

Ginormous ritzy tourista resort here, smorgasboard dinner and – of course – lots of booze, all paid for by the Che brigade organizers. I am not used to having people open doors for me, and hand me spoons for my soup. Wasn't like this in the logging camps on Van Isle.

Life here is full of hard choices – swim in the giant pool, or in to ocean? I laze around in the pool first, then head to the beach.

I leave the kayak in the bus, but take my mask & snorkel. Water is very clear here, and at the far end of the beach there is an abundance of marine life – shells, sponges and weird tropical fish. I even see a little butterfly fish, diagonally colored in purple and orange. Back on shore I sip on cold Crystal cerveza under the shade of the palm thatch roof.

A picture of a radical bomb-throwing revolutionary brigadista, inserted here for Montreal Canadians fans. Be sure to focus your attention on the towel.

Sure wish I could be back in my cubicle at work somewhere, entering sewer manhole data into a spreadsheet. But I guess I will have to put up with this for now. I find a strange little crab scurrying around on the sand. Way too fast for me to catch it on land, but when it bolts into the water it slows down. I catch it and bring it back to show the team. Some if the girls have built a little sand castle, so we place it there, and it does not run away.

Why would it? Imperial ruler of its own domain. Crab King of the Sand Castle.

Life is a beach. I feel luxuriant, but also partly guilty. The proles here are poor as dirt. Never get a glimmer of this decadent world that Canadian tourists take for granted.

Back to our hotel now. Yamirka has brought fresh towels.

We stoped for gas on the way back, where I bought a big of bottle of ron and a pint of ice cream. I go out into the bay for a paddle, then loan out the kayak for other brigadistas to play in while I sit by the pool, drinking ron and watch the pool volleyball game. The Cubans seem to be world class at this sport.

The guy at the table next to us says he spends 3 months in Cuba and then one in Miami. Works for Interpol, shows us his badges and the cartridge of mace he always carries on his belt. Not a guy you want to mess with. Makes $3,800 / month – a fortune here, 10 times the average wage of the proles, deposited direct into a bank account in Florida. No wonder he can afford to stay at this resort.

When dinner is served just before dark I am still too stuffed with ice cream and ron to eat anything else, so I carry the kayak back to my room and toss it out on the grass. Should put it inside the room but I am too lazy to go find the key. Besides, it would be cool to go out for a moonlite paddle. A wild party is brewing by the pool. No one to blame but myself, cuz I started it with the bottle of Havana Club ron I bought this afternoon.

This incessant blasting latin beat music is driving me insane. I am usually a pretty solitary individual, and I am not a party person by nature. And alcohol is not usually my drug of choice. I have drunk more ron in the past 2 weeks I have in the past 10 years. Can't handle another wild nite of loud music, socialist political theorizing and wild drunken partying. Instead I walk out on the pier.

I sip my ron, and watch the fishermen heading home in the growing dark, the ancient city glimmering across the bay on the horizon, booming Cuban jive music from the CF malecon miles away drifting across the water. A magical place. I must return.

When I get back to my room the kayak is gone from the grass. Perhaps the hotel staff put it into storage again for me?

May 9

After a morning swim I learn that we can bug the restaurant staff to make us a cup of coffee BEFORE breakfast, something Cubans do not seem to favor. But I am a hopeless addict, and it feels great to get my morning fix just after coming out from a swim in the ocean. My normal routine in my normal life: 1) Get out of bed; 2) Put water on the stove for coffee; 3) Go to the toilet and take a huge crap; 4) Pour a cup of coffee and get on with my day. But I eat so little here that it is a waste of time to go to the toilet. Most days all I can manage is a good fart. Sometimes I take 2 craps in one morning when I live in the US/Canada, but here I only produce one hard turd every 2 or 3 days. If you live by the Vitamin BCK diet (beer-coffee-kola) like I do here you produce very little solid waste. In “rich” countries they need enormous capital investment in sanitary sewer systems, cuz most people eat way more than their bodies can handle. They eat for taste, and out of boredom. So people get really fat and generate enormous amounts of shit. I have already lost a lot of weight since I came here. Needed to make a new hole for my belt to fit. And I feel better than I have in years. Viva Cuba!

We head back out to the farm again, to fill more bags with cowshit.

We are getting good at this.

But it is not likely a job skill that will be in very great demand in Canada. It still amazes me how unsanitary the living conditions are here compared to what I am used to. And my own living conditions are very unsanitary compared to most other people in the US or Canada. But the Cubans seem very healthy, and I almost never get sick. But Norte Americano people living “sanitary” lives who use lots of vitamins and drugs always seem to be getting sick. Why is this?

There is a mango tree in the yard. There are immense forests of mangos around here, ready to harvest.

I see a pile of sawn lumber under a shed. Cut with a bandsaw. Someone on this island has a bandsaw. First saw cut lumber I have seen anywhere in Cuba. Even tho we are in the shadow of the Escambray, which appears to be covered in forest, there does not appear to be a forest industry here.

Everything is made of cement. There is a pile of cement roof tiles next to the shed. each about a meter square.

Even the pool tables at the resort are made out of cement.

I learn that there are prisoners working here on this farm. One of them was convicted of murder. There is no visible security.

Back in camp I ask the staff again about my kayak. It was not put into storage. No one has seen a sign of it. Apparently it is vanished without a trace.

May have been stolen. Perhaps some drunken reveler took it out for a paddle last nite, as I was planning to do. (That’s why I left it on the lawn.) Then left it on the beach, and the tide came in and it floated away. I prefer a more romantic explanation.

According to C Colon, when the Spaniards first arrived in Cuba the Arrawaks who lived here had no concept of the concept of theft. Life here was bountiful, and private ownership was not an issue. If a tribe went to another village and no one was around, they took whatever they needed or wanted, and there were no hard feelings afterwards. People did not own stuff, they used stuff. Now our culture is determined by stuff. US residents are obsessed by “owning” stuff. Mine, mine mine!

I choose not to interpret this incident as a case of theft. Rather, it is a case of someone needing a kayak more than me. I was not using I, so they will. Perhaps the Arrawaks were not really completely exterminated by the Spaniards. Perhaps a few of them survived, high up in the Escambray. And they happened to wander by the hotel, saw the kayak, and said “Hey – way cool! We could use that!”

Well, the loss of the kayak simplifies things for me immensely. No need to pack a huge bag of stuff around with me in a country where I cannot speak the language. No need to rent a car to take me to a lake, and then worry about somebody stealing the tires while I am out fishing. I was hoping to find a way to leave the kayak behind anyway, with the caveat that I could use it if I ever got back here to fish. Wish I could have chosen who got it tho….

In the afternoon we go out to see a flour mill. We drive thru an industrial section of CF. This is a much bigger and more productive city than I had imagined. Much more to it than just a tourist trap set up to harvest Canadian dollars.

The mill is about 6 floors high, with a bunch of whirring machinery way too complicated for me to understand.

A huge conveyor leads from the harbor, where they unload ocean freighters (too hot to grow wheat here, so it has to be imported) and send the wheat up to the mill on giant conveyors.

Where there are conveyors there are bound to be huge rubber belts. And the Cubans, in their endlessly innovative and adaptive manner, have built an elevator out of an endlessly revolving rubber belt, with foot and handholds inserted into it. Take me to the 5^th floor please!

As a prior union member (ex-member of the Longshoreman, Industrial Woodworkers of America – now a purely Canadian union - , and International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers) I am chosen to present the Che Brigade T-shirt to the rep from the plant. They seem to appreciate it when I tell them that I too live on a big island, named Vancouver, and that I always said it was the prettiest place in the world. But now I am not so sure. It might be tied with their island.

Back to camp, where I ponder my fate. This was a fool's errand from the start. Gringo who does not speak Spanish bringing a bunch of rich mans toys to Cuba to explore the wilderness for bass. It is fortunate that my kayak is gone. I am now faced with a simple choice in terms of bass fishing here: Spend a ton of money on hotels, rental cars and guided fishing trips, or bail on the rest of my trip, head back to the airport with the rest of the brigade, and book a flight back home. I decide to fly back.

This nite – our last in CF – we head back into town to a waterfront district near the posh Jagua Hotel for a party with the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR). The CDR was organized shortly after the revolution. In order to combat "counter-revolutionary activities" local neighborhood cells were organized all over the island. This one in CF isone of the first.

The only comparison I could draw to N America is that the CDR is somewhat like the Neighborhood Watch groups in the US - on steroids. In addition to keeping track of neighbors and reporting suspicious activities to the authorities, we are told that the CDR also performs community recycling and accepts donations from the local community for local projects.

They are setting out chairs in the street when we arrive at dark, the equivalent of a block party in a US city. A table is set up, and it is immediately obvious to me that this CDR is also going to involve us in another essential element of Cuban culture: drinking prodigious amounts of ron, partying like hell, and celebrating the wonderfulness of the revolution.

And here I am, staring into the teeth of the CDR, about to commit the ultimate counter-revolutionary act: In another hour I will have completed an entire 24 hrs without drinking a single drop of ron.

After introductions a trio begins to play and sing.

They are great. I love live Cuban music as much as I have learned to hate the pounding latin beat jive that blares incessantly from loudspeakers everywhere I go. This group is a string bass, guitar, and bongos. They are singing revolutionary songs about Cuba, and the famous, moving ballad about Che.

How I wish I could understand their language. The bass has busted a string, and you can see his fingers stumbling over the gap.

While the bass player is replacing his string a young girl and then a boy get up and recite poems. Another even younger boy is crying, and being consoled the guy who did the introductions. I assume he is afraid of the weird gringos in the crowd, but no. His father says he is crying because he did not get a chance recite his poem in front of us, like his comrades. Finally his dad stands him up on a chair, and after a few awkward moments of intense stage fright he begins reciting his poem beautifully.

A truly moving moment I will never forget. The kids here are astoundingly talented, honest, and pure. Like so much of the natural environment here, they are uncorrupted by the emerging planetary mass culture. These kids do not spend their formative years playing war games on computers, or listening to trash pop music on their Ipods. They are real.

After the kids perform it is Viva la Revolution! Out come the ron bottles. Time to party, again, again, again... The music switches from the wonderful live Cuban tunes to the incessant canned Latin disco jive. Godawful blasting repetitive inanity, enough to turn Albert Einstein into a gibbering moron in a month if you locked him into a room with it. The brigadistas and CDR crowd cannot get enough of it, or of the ron. But my head is splitting open. Must bail on this scene fast, before I lose the few remaining brain cells left alive in my head.

I walk down the block to the malecon, where it is peaceful. Fish are flipping in the shallows under the streelites, and lovers are snuggled up together at intervals along the concrete wall. After an hour I return to the party. The live band is playing again – cool! I sit down to listen, but they end seconds after I sit down. Then a teenage girl turns on the blasting jive again. I am sitting only a couple feet from the goddam speaker – yikes! Drunken socialistas jabbering about the wonderfulness of the revolution. Viva Fidel, Viva Che, Viva Cuba. I walk down to the other end of the street. We are on a point, and there is a malecon on both sides. I wait another hour, then sense that the vibe is cooling down. Timed it just right. I arrive at the party just as the final thank yous are being delivered. Then hop on the bus and we are back to the hotel. Unbelievable success! I have made it thru an entire day without drinking a single glass of ron.

May 10

Get up before sunrise, head down to the beach for a swim. But what is this – north wind. A cold front has passed thru. Must be below 70F this morning! Feels great to walk around, but a bit chilly for swimming. I left my camera in my room – fool. Never do this in Cuba. Always something new and exciting to capture. The fleet is fishing in the bay.

"He was an old man, who fished alone in a skiff..."

And my friend the crab fisherman is patiently pulling in his lines,

 while his crab put boils over a campfire on shore, and his faithful dog watches.

Near the pier a few net fishermen are pulling in their seine.

I joke with them, and take pics of their catch, asking the names of the fish.

Chopa (small perch), sardine (which they throw away), a few crabs, and some cool looking needlefish whose name I forget.

A meager catch. But are these fishermen less happy, and less healthy, than the owners and operators of global factory trawlers? I am not sure.

I ask a fellow brigadista to take a pic of me goofing in their boat. “Will they mind?”, he asks. “Of course not.” I say. "They are fishermen, and we are all one." We all laugh.

I cannot think of the words for good luck, so I just say “Bueno!” and leave. Poor guys, they are likely to get blamed for stealing my kayak, and grilled by the cops and maybe targeted by the CDR. All the result of my carelessness. I feel bad, but what can I do about it? I am an ignorant gringo tourist, and they are prole fishermen. Such is life.

Sun is up now, so I have one last swim in the delightful waters of Bahia de Jagua, then a splash in the pool to wash the salt off, and then a final shower. Hot water runs out just as I am trying to rinse the shampoo out of my hair, but there is enough cold water left to finish the job.

Back into CF now, for one final brigadista political meeting, this one with the FMC. In my previous life as a logger, FMC meant a mean-ass tracked skidder that could haul giant logs across a swamp without disturbing the substrate. But here in Cuba it means the Cuban national league of women, or something to that effect. Latinos are notorious macho chauvanist pigs. The conquistadors, hidalgos, and priests were all men when the Spaniards were kicking ass in the Caribbean, and this mindset still persists across much of Latin America. But not in Cuba. It is a credit to Fidel and the revolution that Women are conceived of as real human beings here. Glad I am not wearing an Al Bundy NO'MAAM T-shirt today.

Just as they are getting going I get a tap on the shoulder. I am out of Cuban money, and I need to convert some Canadian cash into CUCs in order to leave a tip for the ICAP staff, who have been so wonderful in arranging all this tour. We head over to a bank. Here is a typical street scene from CF.

I inserted this pic for Dave Tygerson and my old compadres at City of Ashland Electric Dept. There might be a violation of US electrical standards somewhere on this pole.

I have never been near a Cuban bank before. There are about 50 people waiting patiently in the hot sun outside the door, and a long lineup inside. The ICAP lady politely politics her way thru the crowd, into the bank, and into a talk with a manager lady, taking me in tow. I am hustled to the front of the line, feeling ashamed of being the gringo asshole that I am. Why didn't I do this yesterday at the beach resort, like I was supposed to? What would happen if 50 people were waiting at a US bank, and someone tried to hustle a scruffy long haired Cuban to the front of the line? There would likely be bloodshed. But the Cubans are so amazingly patient and forgiving. I must show my passport, and the bank teller carefully holds each Canadian $50 bill up to the lite, and writes down the serial number of each bill. Then we head back to the ICAP office, where the rest of the brigade will meet us after the finish of the presentation by the women's group.

I have a long and very interesting chat with Osmany (not Osama!), an ICAP member who works here, and has often been our inerpreter. Very intelligent and well spoken. He lives up towards Lake Hanabanilla, and I find out the the canal we crossed the other day on the way to Santa Clara is indeed the feeder out of this big embalse, which is connected to another big reservoir by a channel. We talk about the difficulty of being an interpreter, dealing with words that have double meanings. I educate him on the topic of the word trucha. This word refers to the fish known as trout in Spain, or Canada. But in Cuba, where the water is to warm to support salmonids, they call bass trout. Maybe this has to do with the Linnean nomenclature. Micropterus salmoides. Small finned salmonlike. Perfect scientific description for a fish with big fins that looks nothing like a salmon.

The rest of the brigade arrives at the ICAP office and we say warm and heartfelt goodbyes and thanks to the people who have worked so hard to make our trip a success. Then back to the resort to pack. A last swim in the ocean, rinse in the pool, and shower for me. I will miss CF. Then onto the bus for a trip back across the island to Veradero. Notice that I am leaninig against the door in order to support the weight of the enormous world record bass I am almost holding - that I would have caught if I had been able to get out onto a good lake with my kayak.

 

We are off. We pass by the hot looking bass lake N of CF, then stop by a roadside stand. Some people get off the bus and get fruit and a delilcious candy - like vanilla taffy with nuts. There are some great treats to be found at these little stands if you stop to check them out.

We leave the freeway and take smaller highways to the N, thru vast agricultural areas. These appear to be lands that have only recently been converted to cultivation. No cities, as if no one used to live here until recently. Every few miles there are big rectangular apartment blocks separated by ag fields, built according to the stark Soviet model.

Yucca, citrus and cane, with some massive chicken farms here and there. For the first half hour we cross young citrus groves.

No stores or other buildings anywhere. Later we cross older farming communities, with typical houses and small towns.

We enter the large city of Cardenas.

One thing that is uniform across Cuba: Although I saw a large landfill near Habana, I also saw garbage dumped beside the road outside of cities everywhere. This is a low-tech problem with a low-tech solution. Cuba should do something about the garbage beside the road.

On the way thru Cardenas we pass the house of Elian Gonzales, world famous icon in the endless battle between competing ideologies. I snap off a quick pic as we drive by.

Suddenly we arrive at the coast, and into another century. Veradero is a long natural peninsula, about 20 km long and 500 meters wids. One of the great resort locations on the planet. Converted now into a stupendous conglomeration of huge tourist beachfront hotels. Miami South.

The political idealogues on the brigade love to celebrate the labor of the Cuban workers (as long as they don't have to spend their lives doing it), but it is obvious that it is not the work of grunts in the fields and ancient factories that is keeping this island revolution afloat. It is the massive injections of cash from the decadent bourgeois capitalist pigs lounging on the beaches and partying in the pools and nite clubs that drive this economy, not the sweat of the grubbing proles. One out of every 30 Canadians now comes down to visit this island paradise every year, and their numbers are growing, fast.

We head down the strip and are dumped out at one of the many identical mega-hotels. The brigadistas are soon standing in the pool, drinking Cuba libres (all the free booze you can drink here), and talking revolution. How weird it would seem to see Che himself standing in the pool in swim trunks, iced drink in his hands,

Latin disco beat blasting over the speakers. Dinner is a giant smorgasboard, with elegant waiters opening the doors and collecting dirty dishes. Huge trays of sugar pastries. How fat these tourists are compared to the proles in the fields, who eat rice, plantain and yucca and ride on bicycles instead of tour buses. By nitefall most of the brigade is smashed again. Free drinks! There is little in the way of entertainment in Cuba compared to US/Canada. No IPODS, Tivos, computer games, internet, cyberporn, recreational drugs. So recreation consists drinking enormous amounts of cheap ron and getting wasted to the driving beat of blaring speakers powering out truly horrid music.

There is a TV in my room, with a wide variety of channels including US and Chinese. I fall asleep watching ESPN.