Throughout life a person will wake up in the morning to many different types of alarms, often annoying ones. I once had an alarm in which a cold robotic female voice would say "it's seven hours and zero". Another time, as a joke, I used Prodigy's "Smack my bitch up" as morning alarm. My girlfriend at the time was not pleased.
After a 13 hour over-night drive across Cuba in an overly chilled coach the last thing you need is to be abruptly awaken... by reggaeton. Call it a Pavlovian reflex but from that moment on every time I hear reggaeton my brain synapses fire in anger like its the first day of the Gulf War.
In the Santiago Viazul terminal, the passengers left the coach through one door while an employee moved all the luggage to a glassed room. Then, we queued outside the room and waited to collect our belongings in a very orderly and bureaucratic fashion. The last piece of luggage to be handed was our good old friend, the three-person tent. As usual, outside the coach terminal was a mob of loud taxi drivers and jineteros waiting to prey on fair-skinned tourists. Like recently-arrived pop stars we dug through the crowd turning down all offers and made our way to meet a man holding a sheet of paper saying "Casa Margarita". The man had his yank tank rattling nearby and drove us to the house for the reasonable price of 5 CUC. Margarita was a quiet lady of European looks that didn't interact much with us except to ask if we were staying one or two nights. After a shower and a power nap that felt like 20 seconds instead of 20 minutes we walked out of the flat to explore Santiago. It was 8 in the morning.
Two minutes away from Margarita's house was Parque Cespedes, named after Carlos Manuel Cespedes, the plantation owner who freed his slaves and gave rise to the first war of independence against Spain back in the XIX century. After a few days in Cuba one begins to understand it's revolutionary tradition. It was also in Parque Cespedes that Fidel gave his first speech as Cuban leader back in 1959. We looked for a place to sit in the leafy park while we consulted our Lonely Planet guru guide to plan the day. As we crossed the park an old man with some sort of mental problem came to us asking for money. This was a rather uncomfortable situation as everyone else in the park seemed to be looking at us to see how we were going to behave. We tried to ignore the man politely but the he kept walking slowly next to us, asking for money. Faced with our silence and avoiding eyes, the man eventually walked away. Probably out of embarrassment none of us commented or made future remarks about this episode.
Sitting in Parque Cespedes
Santiago had, unlike Havana, the looks of a well kept small town. The roads were narrow, the buildings were never higher than two or three levels and the people seemed more laid back. It even looked more colourful, like those small towns and villages in Alentejo. Nevertheless, the town is filled with those small noisy motorbikes that seem to produce more decibels than kilometers per hour.
After a while we decided to visit Siboney, a beach to the west of Santiago recommended by the guide. To reach it we were told to get a local bus so we sat in the square waiting for it. At this point I should introduce the Cuban method of queuing. Standing in a queue is, as all of us have figured out except for the British, a very boring thing to do. The Cubans solve this problem by sitting around and when a newcomer arrives asks "el ultimo?" ("who's the last one?"). A hand comes up somewhere amongst the sitting crowd, "soy yo!", the newcomer acknowledges him and sits down. Then another person comes along and does the same. This seems silly but works rather well unless someone forgets who they are standing behind of. I vaguely recall someone telling me that Cubans go ballistic if someone jumps a queue. We respected the system as much as we could. When in Rome be Romanian.
While we were waiting, a man in his thirties came over to talk to us. He started by asking if we were Dutch (?), then told us he had lived in Holland for a few years where he had many jobs, such as being an actor. When we told him we were heading to Siboney he dismissed it saying it was full of tourists. Instead he advised we should go to the Juan Gonzalez beach, East of Santiago, a much less visited site. Also, we could visit the nearby waterfalls which he, in his good Cuban style, described as magnificas.
We walked downhill under the blazing sun towards the train station where the buses to the beach departed from. The next one was leaving at 10:45 am. Inside the bus terminal we sat in the chairs behind an old lady, the last in the queue, and waited for a long time. The terminal was an old, badly illuminated building with wooden chairs, a bar selling almost nothing and the ticket stands where a huge TV showed some South American soap opera in large volume. At one point Joana went to the ticket stand to confirm which bus we had to take and had to yell louder than the TV to make herself understood. Nobody seemed to care about anything. We played cards in the floor to entertain ourselves and sparked great curiosity amongst the younger Cubans. We were the only foreigners in the room. After a while a man from the bus company came over and distributed little bits of paper with hand-written numbers on it, so we had a registration that we where in the queue (?). By the time the bus arrived, some hour or so later, a large queue had formed behind us, including some teenagers that also seemed to be headed to the beach. A few minutes after the bus arrived we saw smoke coming out of it, first only in the front, then progressively filling up the passenger space. Nobody seemed to care about it but we were worried that the engine had given its final breath. Eventually we boarded the bus.
The waiting payed off as we were able to sit down while most of the people stood up. Rocha, trying to be a European gentleman, gave his seat away to a woman. Rui and I went on to do the same but the people around told us not to, that we had earned the right to sit there. I always thought chivalry was an outdated form of sexism and apparently the Cubans, at least the ones travelling on buses, think the same. The bus made its way to the Cuban countryside that Joana jokingly compared to "Portugal in the 1960's". Public transportation seemed to be a rare sight around Santiago and people moved about in the back of lorries, on top of tractors, on bicycles and on foot. The packed bus dragged itself slowly, even more so when going uphill (we could hear the engine screaming in pain!). At each parada (stop) more people crammed in yelling "permisso! permisso!" and, slowly, the faces standing next to you were replaced by others in an almost organic flow. At one point we heard a high pitched squeal coming from the back of the bus but couldn't really see what was going on. Turned out to be a man carrying a pig in a bag. The trip continued with the odd squeals.
When we left the bus, the man with the pig came out as well and we had our first glimpse of the creature. The poor beast had its legs coming out of one side of the bag and the nose coming out of the other side and was, understandably, in panic. The man carried it around his neck. As the bus drove off I looked around and saw the blue Caribbean sea on the other side of the road. Less than a month earlier I had dipped my feet in the Pacific in a beach just south of San Francisco. Not bad for a small town boy, I thought. Together with the teenagers we walked inland, towards the promised waterfalls. The youngsters, two boys and three girls, helped us to find the way, occasionally giving us a hand to climb a higher rock. Like most Cubans we had seen so far, these teenagers looked healthy and used to physical effort. In comparison we, the develop world folks, looked like a band of slobs.
Since it hadn't rained for six months the waterfalls were nothing but a shy stream of water and the swimming pools were no more than puddles. Still, we managed to swim for a while in one of the ponds that some other time may have been part of a river stream and enjoyed the surrounding wilderness. Our pale skin probably frightened the Cuban teenagers.
We sat on a large boulder while we dried and planned to head back to the coast and find the beach. Suddenly, coming from the inland woods, a man in shirt and shorts appeared and stood on top of a high boulder above the pool. He looked at us, said hello and dived bravely into the water despite its shallowness. For a moment I feared he had broken his neck or something. He swam for a minute or two, then came out of the water and started talking to us, something that by now was becoming extremely normal. The man was not more than thirty years old, wore old clothes and walked bare-footed with such easiness that suggested he was used to it. A country-side guy, for sure, and a very easy-going one too. He promptly offered to get us some lunch that he could negotiate with the people living nearby. Fried chicken with rice and fried banana and he would bring it over to the beach, for 4 CUC each. We were starving and immediately agreed to that. On our way back to the beach we walked past the first waterfall (there were three in total) and our newly acquired friend, which we later named Mowgli for not remembering his real name, decided to show us his diving skills and asked us to film it. From an even higher boulder he jumped head-first into another pool making an amazing splash and possibly bursting his spleen. We tried to keep up with his fast pace as we walked through the jungle, him talking about other tourists he had met and how his dives were world-famous. He also spoke of some rat-like creatures he hunted in the woods and being a good diving fisherman in the sea, while at the same time picked up white mangoes from the trees to feed us.
How to burst a spleen.
The beach took the shape of a small bay, had pebbles rather than sand and was pretty much deserted except for a young couple walking and flirting on the other side of the bay. We laid in the shadow while the jungle man went back to ask his neighbour to kill four chicken, who we had saw running around near the houses just before the beach. The sea was of a stunning blue colour, the kind you see in cheesy Caribbean computer wallpapers and screen-savers, but real. Sequentially we all went into the sea to swim for a few minutes. Afterwards Joana, Rui and Rocha took a nap while I picked up dead sea-urchins from the beach. It's these moments of silence and near solitude that I remember more vividly from Cuba, the Caribbean sea crushing against the pebbles, the warm wind shaking the mango trees and the dark figurines of the young couple courting each other at a distance.
Mowgli returned some time later with the promised food. Four fried chickens (free range and organic for those who care about these things), rice, friend banana, salad and drinks. We offered to share the food but the man refused. He sat nearby flipping through the pictures of the Lonely Planet book, recognising the Cuban cities and places. A genuine man, he was, with his warm and simple manners, sometimes child-like, telling us about fishing with a harpoon and working in the tobacco industry in Pinar del Rio. We agreed on 16 CUC for the whole meal, said our farewells and he went back to the woods.
After lunch we walked back to the road to wait for a bus. A few minutes later a bus did drive past but completely ignored us. Luckily, a lorry appeared soon after carrying people in the back. I approached the driver and, mistaking the names as usual, asked if he was going to Santa Clara. "Santa Clara??" he replied in shock. I ment Santiago, Santa Clara is 500 km away! For 10 Cuban pesos, something like 0.5 €, he agreed to take the four of us back to Santiago. The back of the lorry was covered and had improvised seats. It was packed with people travelling from the country-side, including the flirting couple from the beach. It was a strangely pleasing sensation to travel in such a genuine Cuban way even if during the first five minutes people did wonder what where those weird looking foreigners doing there. We felt like border-jumpers. Back in Santiago we went back to the house for a rest. It was 4 pm.
Rui and I felt asleep for far too long and Rocha and Joana had to come over to our room to wake us up. I was in such deep sleep that it took more than half an hour after being awake to gain full consciousness and ability to speak. It was the second abrupt awakening of the day.
We had some cheap street food and drinks and sat in a park eating. Rocha, in all his bravery, tried a street cocktail. I had some and it tasted like left-over sauce from a fish stew with lots of chillies. The following day we both got diarrhoea but at the time we felt like proper Cubans. We sat in wood benches in another park and watched the people around as the night set in. A middle aged man with a striking smile came over and started talking to us. He was a jolly man, probably fuelled by some rum, who showed a big interest in us, asked where we came from, our names and started a friendly conversation all of it interspaced with energetic hand-shakes. He spoke fluent French and good English, was learning German and hated the Russian language. In fact he hated it so much that, upon mentioning the Slavic language, he staged emotive spitting gestures to the floor. Licensed in Economics, was divorced and had a son, now living with his wife in Camaguey, he spoke of the beauty of Cuba and its people. The conversation went on, about women (complimenting Joana's beauty and Rocha's luck), taking photographs with us and sharing his rum. His friend came over, a long-legged thin man, who, according to them, had been a widely acclaimed dancer and visited Europe on tour. At one point a man sat nearby, close enough to listen to us but distant enough to not be a part of the conversation. Later, a policeman came over and stood at an equal distance, taking notes. After a while the policeman's eyes crossed those of our friend and we noticed some tension building up. He stood up from the bench, walked around the park and was quickly followed by the policeman. The long-legged friend tried to distract us while this happened and when asked if something was wrong he dismissed it. The policeman and the man spoke for some ten minutes with growing distress in his body language. I followed their actions from a distance while the others continued chatting. Suddenly, the policeman grabbed the man, took him inside a police car and drove off. We didn't see the man again.
Still now we don't know why he was taken away. Was it because he was drunk? Was it because he was talking to us? Was it because he was loud? We stayed in the park and waited to see if he would come back but he didn't. As everything in Cuba, we never got a straight answer for what happened. This man befriended us, offered us his rum, spoke to us for a long time, shook hands with us and suddenly was taken by the police. Is this what a police state is? Is this the fear of being too open that our parents and grandparents tell us about from the days of fascism? Did we see the tip of the authoritarian iceberg?
We walked back home emerged in deep thoughts.
Since it hadn't rained for six months the waterfalls were nothing but a shy stream of water and the swimming pools were no more than puddles. Still, we managed to swim for a while in one of the ponds that some other time may have been part of a river stream and enjoyed the surrounding wilderness. Our pale skin probably frightened the Cuban teenagers.
We sat on a large boulder while we dried and planned to head back to the coast and find the beach. Suddenly, coming from the inland woods, a man in shirt and shorts appeared and stood on top of a high boulder above the pool. He looked at us, said hello and dived bravely into the water despite its shallowness. For a moment I feared he had broken his neck or something. He swam for a minute or two, then came out of the water and started talking to us, something that by now was becoming extremely normal. The man was not more than thirty years old, wore old clothes and walked bare-footed with such easiness that suggested he was used to it. A country-side guy, for sure, and a very easy-going one too. He promptly offered to get us some lunch that he could negotiate with the people living nearby. Fried chicken with rice and fried banana and he would bring it over to the beach, for 4 CUC each. We were starving and immediately agreed to that. On our way back to the beach we walked past the first waterfall (there were three in total) and our newly acquired friend, which we later named Mowgli for not remembering his real name, decided to show us his diving skills and asked us to film it. From an even higher boulder he jumped head-first into another pool making an amazing splash and possibly bursting his spleen. We tried to keep up with his fast pace as we walked through the jungle, him talking about other tourists he had met and how his dives were world-famous. He also spoke of some rat-like creatures he hunted in the woods and being a good diving fisherman in the sea, while at the same time picked up white mangoes from the trees to feed us.
Pale-skinned Portuguese, a hideous sight
How to burst a spleen.
The beach took the shape of a small bay, had pebbles rather than sand and was pretty much deserted except for a young couple walking and flirting on the other side of the bay. We laid in the shadow while the jungle man went back to ask his neighbour to kill four chicken, who we had saw running around near the houses just before the beach. The sea was of a stunning blue colour, the kind you see in cheesy Caribbean computer wallpapers and screen-savers, but real. Sequentially we all went into the sea to swim for a few minutes. Afterwards Joana, Rui and Rocha took a nap while I picked up dead sea-urchins from the beach. It's these moments of silence and near solitude that I remember more vividly from Cuba, the Caribbean sea crushing against the pebbles, the warm wind shaking the mango trees and the dark figurines of the young couple courting each other at a distance.
Mowgli returned some time later with the promised food. Four fried chickens (free range and organic for those who care about these things), rice, friend banana, salad and drinks. We offered to share the food but the man refused. He sat nearby flipping through the pictures of the Lonely Planet book, recognising the Cuban cities and places. A genuine man, he was, with his warm and simple manners, sometimes child-like, telling us about fishing with a harpoon and working in the tobacco industry in Pinar del Rio. We agreed on 16 CUC for the whole meal, said our farewells and he went back to the woods.
Rui swimming in the Juan Gonzalez beach
Lunching at Juan Gonzalez beach
After lunch we walked back to the road to wait for a bus. A few minutes later a bus did drive past but completely ignored us. Luckily, a lorry appeared soon after carrying people in the back. I approached the driver and, mistaking the names as usual, asked if he was going to Santa Clara. "Santa Clara??" he replied in shock. I ment Santiago, Santa Clara is 500 km away! For 10 Cuban pesos, something like 0.5 €, he agreed to take the four of us back to Santiago. The back of the lorry was covered and had improvised seats. It was packed with people travelling from the country-side, including the flirting couple from the beach. It was a strangely pleasing sensation to travel in such a genuine Cuban way even if during the first five minutes people did wonder what where those weird looking foreigners doing there. We felt like border-jumpers. Back in Santiago we went back to the house for a rest. It was 4 pm.
Rui and I felt asleep for far too long and Rocha and Joana had to come over to our room to wake us up. I was in such deep sleep that it took more than half an hour after being awake to gain full consciousness and ability to speak. It was the second abrupt awakening of the day.
We had some cheap street food and drinks and sat in a park eating. Rocha, in all his bravery, tried a street cocktail. I had some and it tasted like left-over sauce from a fish stew with lots of chillies. The following day we both got diarrhoea but at the time we felt like proper Cubans. We sat in wood benches in another park and watched the people around as the night set in. A middle aged man with a striking smile came over and started talking to us. He was a jolly man, probably fuelled by some rum, who showed a big interest in us, asked where we came from, our names and started a friendly conversation all of it interspaced with energetic hand-shakes. He spoke fluent French and good English, was learning German and hated the Russian language. In fact he hated it so much that, upon mentioning the Slavic language, he staged emotive spitting gestures to the floor. Licensed in Economics, was divorced and had a son, now living with his wife in Camaguey, he spoke of the beauty of Cuba and its people. The conversation went on, about women (complimenting Joana's beauty and Rocha's luck), taking photographs with us and sharing his rum. His friend came over, a long-legged thin man, who, according to them, had been a widely acclaimed dancer and visited Europe on tour. At one point a man sat nearby, close enough to listen to us but distant enough to not be a part of the conversation. Later, a policeman came over and stood at an equal distance, taking notes. After a while the policeman's eyes crossed those of our friend and we noticed some tension building up. He stood up from the bench, walked around the park and was quickly followed by the policeman. The long-legged friend tried to distract us while this happened and when asked if something was wrong he dismissed it. The policeman and the man spoke for some ten minutes with growing distress in his body language. I followed their actions from a distance while the others continued chatting. Suddenly, the policeman grabbed the man, took him inside a police car and drove off. We didn't see the man again.
Still now we don't know why he was taken away. Was it because he was drunk? Was it because he was talking to us? Was it because he was loud? We stayed in the park and waited to see if he would come back but he didn't. As everything in Cuba, we never got a straight answer for what happened. This man befriended us, offered us his rum, spoke to us for a long time, shook hands with us and suddenly was taken by the police. Is this what a police state is? Is this the fear of being too open that our parents and grandparents tell us about from the days of fascism? Did we see the tip of the authoritarian iceberg?
We walked back home emerged in deep thoughts.
E o resto da viagem pah?? Isto assim é como se a J.K. Rowling nunca tivesse acabado de escrever os livros do Harry Potter!!
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