The Long Way Home

Standing in every other field, the secaderos are full of drying leaves at the moment. We have been invited in to a few different secaderos so far for explanations and demonstrations of rolling a cigar, before being offered bundles for purchase.

Tobacco is planted in October, harvested three months later, and dried for three months before being rolled into cigars and cigarettes. A few fields still have some plants growing; these I understand to be for seed. The tobacco that goes inside the cigar is called ‘La Troba’ and the outside ‘sheath’ is called ‘Kapote’ or ‘kapa’ (strikingly like the Greek slang «καπότα»). Once the leaves are dry, 90% of the harvest (!) goes to the state, is made into Cubanos and Monte Cristos, and sold in state-run stores and abroad. The farmer is then ‘free’ to do as they please with the remaining 10%. (Hardly an American concept of ‘freedom’.) So probably as much as they can sell to tourists they will, and smoke what’s left.

Inside Maria’s secadero, she rolls us a fresh cigar:

A farmer in a tobacco field in front of her secadero:

Another demostration of the rolling technique:

Martina’s new ‘gangster-on-holiday’ look.

- Buses are known as ‘aspirin’ beause you only get one every four hours.

- Steak is called ‘Jesus Christ’ because everyone talks about it but no one has ever seen it.

- A refrigerator is called a ‘coconut’ because the only thing in it is water.

Fidel’s car hits a pig:

Fidel was out with his driver on a spin through the countryside when suddenly -BAM- they ran over a pig.
“Ay, Dios!” the driver exclaimed, knowing just how much poor farmers treasure their livestock. “What should we do?”
“Look for the owner, explain what happened, and pay him for the loss” instructed Fidel.
Six hours later, the driver, disheveled and flushed, returned to Fidel.
“What took you so long?” Fidel enquired.
“You’ll never believe it, Commandante,” the driver said. “The pig’s owner invited me to a delicious meal, his wife made me drink some excellent wine, and I made love – twice! – with their beautiful daughter.”
“Cojones!” exclaimed Fidel. “What on earth did you tell them?”
“Nothing,” the driver replied. “All I said was ‘I am the driver of Fidel Castro and I ran over your pig.’ ”

Of course the polytonic system is not supported on iphone 3.1.2, but this is ancient Greek for ‘Dicaeopolis is a farmer’. It is the first thing I remember from ancient Greek classes in Rhodes in 2004. It came to mind today when we stopped to watch a young farmer (we’ll call him Dicaeopolis) ploughing a rich red field. These types of plough you see half buried and rusting all over Greece, but I don’t think the Greeks have used them since the early 70′s. It’s been all gasoline there for some time, but here in Viñales they are the tools of the trade. Dicaeopolis had a way with the bulls, speaking to them, telling them to stop, back up, turn left, no you can eat that bush when you’re done.

The food at our Casa in Viñales has been (relatively) good. It does however go through you like a freight train. Casa food in Viñales is supposed to be the best in Cuba. After dinner, it’s nice to take a stroll in the (relative) coolness and exchange holas with everyone else on their porches, rocking chairs and on the street. It’s a lovely atmosphere of safety and friendliness. This is in stark contrast to our arrival here when we were literally swamped trying to get off the bus. We were two of 6 people on the bus, and there were about 25 people jostling to get our custom for their Casas. There’s obviously good money to be made by having a permit to rent two rooms of one’s house, and it seems everone is doing this. We literally had to force our way off the bus, and could not move amongst the throng. Escaping to the safety of the tour office, we called Junior to let him know we had arrived and needed rescuing.

Did I mention I’m now having regular and strong cravings for Greek food? Fresh salads, gyro pita, tzatziki, slow-cooked goat, pomegranates, sardines… The sore throat I have is not just from the cigar we smoked today, but from a lack of vitamins I’m sure. At least we’re now having some good fresh fruit at our Casa Particular every morning.

The temperature is very high during the day and you cannot carry enough water to walk for more than a couple of hours at the most. High humidity and lots of sweating. This was one reason for a visit to the local barber, where the reception was relatively cool and the shearing was quite good. It’s mayday today and techno is thumping from the main square, but apart from a few young kids salsa-ing to it mostly people are just standing around. Later tonight is when there’s supposed to be more action which I think we’ll miss since we’re aiming for a dawn rise, and are pooped from a long walk in the sun today.

(Lots of) relatively good food:

Hand-painted street signs:

A secadero, or tobacco-drying shed:

Walking in the Viñales valley:

Resting at a hut with a refreshment served by a local – fresh grapefruit cup with rum and honey…. mmm:

A pinapple plant in flower.

Have you ever seen a pig in mud? That’s what I’ve been travelling with for a few days now. Now that we’re more familiar with Havana and can track down the cheap eats, things are going smoothly. Hopefully this continues in Viñales, out in the countryside, where the bus we are on is taking us.

In the meantime, here’s a series of vehicles visible out the bus window and on the street. These are in addition to the coco-cab, the tuk-tuk, and other vehicles common in Havana.

Selected clunkers. No cash for these ones!

Nothing beats a Soviet side-car attached to a smokey Korean motorcycle:

Chariots were good for the Romans, and thanks to the Michelin Man they are great for Cubans:

Public transport, i.e. a passenger bus pulled along by a truck:

A Cuban green machine.

Strong rains didn’t deter us from venturing over to central Havana today. We’ve done a lot of walking around and it was nice to head into new territory, even as the rain increased and the streets became less navigable.

By the time we arrived we were the only tourists for miles. Copellia is like some sort of ’2001: A Space Odyssey’ retro-futuristic circular discus. There are multiple entry points, each with its own long line and unique menu. Guards attempted twice to redirect us outside to the streetfront icecream van for tourists (paying top CUC for the same product) but we insisted that we were armed with local pesos and managed to enter the compound. It was a 20 minute wait; given that the rain was now monsoonal, I’d hate to come here on a summer’s day!

We were admitted to some stools at the bar that ran the perimeter. Watching our teenage neighbors carefully, we wondered how to order everything off the menu! Alas, of the five different items advertised, we were offered just two icecream flavours; the second one we understood as ‘coco’.

When our four-scoop bowl each of coconut icream, small cookies and caramelesque syrup arrived, we managed to order another bowl each of the second flavour (‘habana’??).

With a glass of water to wash it down, it was perfect. Although the bowls and spoons looked to be of the revolution (quite possibly Che and Fidel had used them in the jungle), the ice cream was a revolution unto itself! The flavors were so clean, fresh and natural, subtle and complex (the second flavour could have been hazelnut, or chocolate, or was it tiramisu – no it must have been
custard coffee) that we each ate our 8 scoops without a thought. It did seem to be what everyone else was doing too. At 5 pesos a serving (just 5 cents per scoop!!) you can understand why we wanted to order everything.

The verdict: it will be a sad day when I have to choose between Copellia icecream and Caliche’s frozen custard (see post ‘Oh my goodness’, April 19).

Admiring the architecture on the way out, I noticed a quote and photo of Fidel on the central column of the structure, supporting the building and the entire concept of Copellia. If this is the revolution then I’m buying a Che Guevara teeshirt from Obispo St tomorrow!

Photos: Looking towards Florida from the seafront ‘Malecon’:

Copellia’s line to get an icecream:.

Coco and habana flavours:

Seated at the bar:

A word from the sponsors on the central column:

Today we didn’t expect the rain to start and left our window at the Casa Particular (private residence with a permit to rent rooms) open. Fortunately Emilio closed it in our absence, but that didn’t stop the water that’s coming through the roof.

Poor light this morning, so our early walk ended early and we returned for breakfast and a nap. Then a tour of the National Theatre where there is a ballet performance on over the weekend. So many people out to squeeze you for money; even the theatre’s security guard offered to sell us tickets 5 CUC (Cuban Convertible Peso, 1USD = 0.89 CUC) cheaper than the 25 that non-cubans must pay. He of course would buy a local’s ticket in Cuban National Pesos (1CUC = 24 pesos) and make a killing.

There seems to be no faster way to duplicate, perhaps overtake, western democracy’s gap between rich and poor than to have dual currencies running the economy. Perhaps it was Fidel’s wish to have a monetary unit stronger than the USD (on top of the exchange rate, USD is taxed another 10% upon exchange), or maybe it was simply the best way to keep the maximum amount of tourist dollars and Euros in the country, since the poor little peso is like an ant to an elephant.

Had a similar thing occurred in Greece, i.e. the drachma was maintained in parrallel to the Euro, there would be complete anarchy.

For 10CUC (~12USD), you can get a poor meal at a (tourist) restaurant. (better food at Versailles in LA, although shrimp here was good). Or, for 3 pesos (12 cents!!), you can get a pizza from a state-run eatery (also from street doorways where women sell from their home) and a glass of Jugo Naranja. Granted, it would be hard to replicate the degree of lack of flavour in the pizza (tomato sauce and ketchup both seem to be watered down here), and the Jugo is actually orange cordial, but the quality is on par with that of the restaurants. A 1000% difference!!! Give a beggar 1CUC and they can buy 12 pizzas…

The Gran teatro de la Habana:

Monumento a Julio Antonio Mella:

On the bus from Baton Rouge to New Orleans there was a large group of Mexican men who looked like they were headed for work. Their tickets had a long list of stops – they would be riding those buses for a couple of days I reckon. Since I was standing in middle of them all I was surrounded by their conversations, and had a longing to be able to converse with them. It was a touch of regret at having not learnt a bit more Spanish while in Los Angeles.

It was shortly after landing in Havana that I realised that even had I been able to converse in Spanish, I would still be unable to communicate with the majority of Cubans. Their speech is so fast, their consonants so distorted, their syllables so often discarded, that the language sounds just about as foreign to me as Dutch. In fact, they speak Spanish much the way many Athenians speak Modern Greek. Since the streets and drivers of Havana also remind one of Athens, I suppose I feel relatively at home – perhaps about as at home as I felt when I visited Athens alone for the first time, with a level of Greek that may have nearly been acceptable in Melbourne, but in the Hellenic Capital was negligible.

My minimal Italian skills have never been more useful than they are here. I do what I did when I first conversed with Mexicans in LA – respond as best I can in Italian. Then I usually tell them I’m from Perugia, and any problem with not being fluent in Spanish don’t matter. Of course, I then miss most of what their saying but seems to put us both in a class slightly above dumb tourist.

Wielding cameras around is generally ok but frequently one gets the feeling of exploiting the people, of coming in as a wealthy tourist and capturing the plight of the country. That’s of course not our aim, but it’s hard to make people feel the contrary – that you consider their doorways, their lives, their history, to be beautiful and photogenic.

Photos: The obligatory Cuban automobile shot:

A creative, effective and aesthetic (re-)use of rebar:

We have not yet been tempted to go for a ride in a giant helmet, or ‘coco cab’:

Beautiful old signs and graphics abound:

All that’s left of the missile crisis?

Politics and propaganda galore:

We awoke in New Orleans at 4:30 am and arrived at our Casa Particular at 11:30 pm, flying to Washington, DC, Cancun, then Havana. There will be much of the same plane-hopping for Nicaragua and our return to Minneapolis – a combined result of squeezing the most out of United miles. and flying between Central American capitals.

Having film hand-inspected at airports is like jamming a crowbar in the spokes of the post 9/11 security wheel. Passengers behind you get frustrated, you get treated with double the usual suspicion, and you even inconvenience yourself. But I refuse to have the emulsion of my near-extinct Agfa Scala violated by x-rays, even if it is only destined for my holga.

This was very much a problem arriving in Cancun, despite the fact we were only in transit…

Our accomodation is very central in Old Havana. If you could cross Rhodes’ old town with the more decrepid parts of Athens, this is roughly what you’d get.

My iphone played a song by Αρλέτα (Arleta) aloud in our room today. The music sounded very much at home floating out a 3rd floor window over Havana rooftops. And I wondered: why is it that Cuban music is always upbeat, joyous, infectious, after all they’ve been through? Why is there no similar genre to Greek rebetika, expressing sorrow and loss? Are we not to sympathise with Cuba for her difficulties? I can only surmise that either Cuba’s experience was not nearly as devastating as four centuries of Ottoman rule (an issue which is largely forgotten by the world when considering Greece); Greeks are just as great at feeling sorry for themselves as they are at rejoicing with shotguns, smashing plates and feasting; or perhaps as a tourist my ears are subjected only to the Buena Vista scene, while somewhere in a basement in the outskirts of Havana quite possibly there are some down-and-outers singing the blues and smoking a hookah…

Flying to Havana via Cancun today. Off the radar for a bit.