A Revolution in Cuba

« Return to Cuba

From my Notebook:

A group of foreign travel journalists have just arrived in Havana, 1am in the morning after a long flight. Our bus driver storms off because he does not have the proper paperwork, leaving us stranded in the parking for half an hour. An auspicious welcome to the week ahead.

Cubans eat a lot of beans, rice and chicken, and chicken, and chicken. Fish is expensive, even on an island in the Caribbean. Owning a boat is not that easy, especially with people wanting to escape.

Rum Museum: guy tries to sell me black market cigars. When I decline, he desperately begs for one tourist peso. Begs. First time that’s happened inside a museum gift shop.

Mojitos go down too well. A real Cuba Libre has a dash of lemon. You don’t get Coca Cola or Pepsi in Cuba. The local cola is better anyway.

Bar Taberna on the Plaza Vieja deserves its reputation. As the only microbrewery in town, it serves up delicious $2 pints of goodness.

Camera Obscura on Plaza Vieja is way more entertaining after visiting to the microbrewery for a couple hours.

Old parliament building. Capitolio. No room for grand buildings in Communism. Told a staff worker I liked her ring. She walked with us a few minutes, and then demanded a tip. Must be careful with the compliments from now on.

Cubans call gringos yumas. I hope I’m a yummy yuma.

Do not, under any circumstances, inhale a Cuban *cough* cigar.

Coppelia is the Temple of Ice Cream, and the people of Havana worship at her creamy feet.

I don’t practice Santeria, I don’t got no crystal ball.

Heard Guantanamero and Chan Chan eight times each today. Will never be able to listen to Buena Vista Social Club soundtrack again.

Dave Dormer is telling us, with infectious excitement, about the double murder that took place in a low rent house outside Calgary. “So this guy dumps his pregnant girlfriend, and her brothers decide they’re going to teach this scumbag a lesson, so they show up at this guy’s house, and the next thing you know the brothers have 86 stab wounds and one guy is just bleeding out all over the floor. I go there the next day, look inside the room, and Jesus it’s like a horror movie! I love my job.”
Dave broke the story of the guy who killed his model girlfriend and dumped her inside a suitcase, making headlines across North America. If they had caught the bastard a few hours later, Dave would have been on the national news. His boss calls him Dormer, because there are too many Dave’s in the newsroom. Dave spends a lot of time listening to the police radio, waiting for something exciting to happen. Ken Hegan is a funny guy, and a funnier writer, winner of numerous magazine awards, and the guy who wrote the “This is Canada” essay for the Vancouver Olympics. When life mugged him with a job sacking and divorce, he decided to look for help in all the right and all the wrong places, and writes about his healing process for the National Post. Surrounding us were young women from around the world, a surreal political and economic landscape, and plenty fodder for late night boozathons. Ken’s hip flask ensured that rum was never too far away to soften the edges. Trust me, you’re never at a lost for a good story when travelling with journalists.

After the launch of FITCUBA 2010, involving hundreds of media and dignitaries standing around waiting for…something to happen, the canon exploded, fireworks released, and more importantly, the drinks table finally opened up. Early the next morning, we all got on our respective buses for a three day visit into “Authentic Cuba” which can best be described as a very long, very tedious bus ride. 10 hours the first day, 6 hours the next, and a doozy 12 hours returning to Havana. Think about rolling hills of farmland, the lush green fields divided up into ordered plots and charming low fences. I saw none of that. Just barren wasteland, crumbling Soviet-style factories, dry shrubs and occasional subsistence farming. The only signs we passed celebrated the Revolution, with iconic slogans (Everything for Revolution! Onwards to March to Victory!). Lest anyone forget an event that took place half a century ago. You must understand: Che is immensely popular. Fidel is a god. As isolated as Cuba is, its people love their leaders, and so believe them when they hear things like “this is an interim measure” or “we act in your best interests.”

Our bus would stop and instantly we would be inside a hokey tourist video. Colourful dancers on the streets, musicians singing Cuban folk songs, large feasts in open colonial courtyards. Sometimes we had a police escort, for what I’m not exactly sure. In Camaguey I spoke to a young guy who studied on an exchange program in Nova Scotia. He made lots of friends, but could not keep in touch with them because he had no access to email, and letters often didn’t arrive. I saw an old man play guitar with haunting blue eyes, a face covered in deep lines, the paragraphs on his cheeks folding out a tragedy. But when Cubans play music, for themselves or for yuma tourists, there hearts open up and their eyes sparkle. You can feel it. This is a nation, after all, that proudly dances to its own rhythm, and in its own time.

The all-inclusive resort if full of young Canadians, drunk on all inclusive liquor. “This place is amazing,” one tells me, “the people are so nice!” They survive on your tips, my dear, although feel free to call me a cynic. I’ve been on the sauce for three days solid and the cheery wide smile of Canadian prairie folks rattles me. I wear a bracelet that allows me order any drink at the bar, diluted of course. On our never-ending bus excursion we are always late, and poor Cubans must hang around for hours until we pull in for the show – a dance, a song, a night time rodeo – take our photos and move on. We leave a trail of dust and empty mojito glasses. The next person who tells me travel writers are always on holiday should do a Fitcuba. It’s like purgatory: So close to the divine truth of the journey, only to see it flash by from the windows of a speeding bus.

The Pirate Party is a bust because it only gets going at 1am. I lose an arm wrestle against a guy from Uruguay. Wake up, grab a clean shirt, back on the bus, pass out, welcome to Holguin, the third largest city in the country. We pile onto a red double decker bus tour, which barely makes it through the streets without power lines decapitating those standing on the upper deck. Another grand meal, lobster tail, overcooked by chefs who must sustain themselves on rice and beans. I’m feverish, crossing the Rubicon, unsure how to think or act or dream. I’m posing with David Blanco, a genuine Cuban Rock Star, with large sunglasses and big, highlighted hair. There’s a donkey drinking beer. Skinny girls are modelling bed sheets. I fear I will awake amongst blood and sweat and tears, and when I stand over my body, it will resemble the shape of Cuba. Good Pirate Party.

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