I have moved to: www.duluxdreams.wordpress.com: October 2006

The rover lands

Through tinted, frosted glass and soft muslin clouds you spy the islets from 36,000 feet. The sun bounces off them sending dazzling shards of light ricocheting in all directions. From atop, they look like giant flying saucers; amoebae like, with finger like projections hovering on the surface. The water, dark blue and vertiginous before, now takes on a light green disposition.
Then in the distance you catch your first glimpse of the Cuban mainland, stretching for miles along the horizon. It’s lush, mangrove swamps hugging the coastline, protecting its inner charms from prying and covetous eyes. You imagine what it would have been like for Columbus when he first set his eyes on this island, after emerging from his arduous Atlantic voyage, dazed and scurvious; with a crew on the brink of mutiny and about to lynch and quarter him; to claim this land for Spain and her Queen. We can forgive him for thinking it was the Indies and that a new route to the lucrative spice trade had been forged.
From atop, Cuba appears like a fancy chequerboard of green fields and freshly tilled land; fields of crops, bananas, plantains and citruses, the sure sign of human settlement. There is nothing more that betrays human industry and endeavour, then these visually arresting and dramatic signs of man’s continual struggle to subjugate the environment for his own wants.

The plane banks sharply to the right as it makes its final descent into Havana International airport. There is a round of applause when we are reunited safely with mother earth and we are shunted into one of the many alighting bays. From outside, the terminal building looks like one of those grey and dreary concrete edifices that we’re considered ‘modern’ in the 70’s, like a lost outpost of the Reichstag – you can just picture the opening ceremony with Castro cutting the ribbon and proudly proclaiming the opening of this national showpiece. Those days are gone, but the building still remains. There is a bleakness to it and a certain sadness too, as if the past never happened, but more worryingly as if the future no longer matters. There is nothing more indicative of a nation’s psyche, nothing more revealing of a nation’s doubts and uncertainties then the faces of its people and its buildings. Buildings will tell you how a nation sees itself and also ‘where’ it sees itself in the future. To understand a country I say look at its buildings.

Immigration cobwebs
By and far, the worst part of going to Cuba, is rather strangely, actually getting into Cuba! You see getting out of Havana’s Jose Marti International Airport, with it’s 60’s décor a la concrete and ‘once upon a time’ modern façade that alludes to a time when bright red metal frames were rather fetching, is a major challenge requiring unlimited reserves of patience and a perverse sense of humour. Otherwise you’ll go mad. You’d think that they would try and make it an easy process. But no. Firstly you have to queue for hours at one of the painfully slow and shuffling immigration lines, where poker faced, rather stern officials examine every minutiae of your passport. Then there’s the drama of the inspection of your belongings by customs officials, designed to catch people bringing in anything on the list of forbidden items. Try telling them you’re only a tourist. No. they want to check your rack-sack thoroughly. My camera got a few raised eyebrows when I took it out of the bag:

“Ahh! You journalist?” the official exclaims as if she’s just won the lottery.

“No. I’m an accountant”

“Purpose of visit?”

“Tourist”

There are a few more raised eyebrows and further glances at my camera.
For a country that generates huge revenues from tourism, you’d think they would not hassle tourists with cameras.

“How much camera?”

What that has got to do with anything I’m not sure. I think the lady was being a tad nosey. I tell her how much it cost. Further raised eyebrows.
The problem is, anybody bringing a piece of heavy duty camera hardware into a country that has a communist regime, where public opinion is suppressed, and where political dissidents or anybody that opposes the regime are incarcerated, is looking for trouble. So I admit I was looking for trouble.

“Which country you born?”

“Pakistan”

The raised eyebrow levels had now exceeded the threshold. This was attack of the eyebrows. F**k. This is it. They’re going to lock me up in Guantanamo Bay and eyebrow me to death.
I think if I hadn’t intervened at that point they wouldn’t have let me in till they had gotten written permission from Castro himself.

“Yes, but if you’ll just take a look at my passport you’ll see that I’m British.” I said in the most upper crust Thames Estuary accent I could muster.

“British?” the lady says confused

“Yes, look. English. United Kingdom. Great Britannia. Anglitere. You know Lady Diana, Blackpool. Coronation Street. Fish and Chips”

There’s a slight pause when the officials chat amongst themselves in Spanish. I faintly recall hearing them say Blackpool.

“It’s OK. No problem, you can go, enjoy Cuba”

And that was it. That was my little run in with the authorities. I was finally given leave to enter the country. I was pleased that I had made my own little mark and spoken out for oppressed peoples everywhere. Just for the record let me make it absolutely clear that I, not through lack of trying of course, failed to get into any further troubling situations in Cuba. I would point my camera at policemen, and they would just smile. I would take pictures of ‘sensitive’ sights and they would just let me. Anything to get into trouble and have something interesting to write about. But no. For all the bluster and rhetoric, Cuba is too bloody soft.

Finally you make it into the arrivals lobby and are confronted with a beaming mob of highly charged and excitable people standing behind the barriers. Family members waiting for loved one’s; hotel representatives with grossly miss spelt placards (a Mr Gonson anybody?) and of course the regular touts. They all look edgy as if desperate for a pee. You feel as if you’re going to be rushed at by this raging mob of Duracell dummies. I indignantly stroll pass knowing too well that I am not expected. It’s a weird feeling arriving at an airport on your own, in a strange country, with a strange language, knowing no-one. Next to you are passengers who are hugged and kissed by relatives and friends. But you walk straight on. Not looking out for anybody. Not expecting anyone to greet you or hug you. I’m sure there was at least one person in the mob thinking “loner freak”.

Taxi to hell
Outside, I get hold of a taxi to Havana and begin another taxi journey to add to my burgeoning list of taxi journeys from hell. You see, what makes this experience so memorable is the sheer number of odd contraptions that ply the roads. There’s classic cars from the 30’s that you thought only existed in museums and those motorcycles with the passenger seat glued to the side straight out of German war movies. There’s beat up Skodas, horse driven carts, and farm trucks that make deep guttural sounds and belch out black smog as if run on coal powered steam engines. It’s almost as if there’s been a mass breakout at the national transport museum.
The driving is erratic to say the least. Once again my life is in the hands of a psychopathic, taxi driver with a death wish who drives as if the fare is directly proportional to the number of near death misses he can clog up on the meter.

I think this is a pertinent time to mention, that in Cuba, a car is never obsolete. Even if it’s a hapless jumble of contorted metal that looks more like a contemporary art exhibit in the Tate Modern, it is still not a write-off. The thing is Cubans are by nature very resourceful people and great cannibals. They have an uncanny knack for fashioning spare parts from the unlikeliest of sources. Give a Cuban a cork screw and within seconds it’s been miraculously transformed into a major engine component. A bottle opener metamorphosis’s before your very eyes into a widget for a nuclear power station; well not quite but you get my jist.
Cubans have no choice but to be resourceful as nobody makes the parts anymore; the factories that made them closed a long time ago. And even if they were still open, the US sanctions that have been crippling Cuba since the 60’s for being such a feisty upstart, would make it extremely difficult to get the parts anyway. The vehicles have been kept running with a combination of cannibalism, ingenuity, imagination, dear I say love, and a humour bypass!

The taxi sped along the 18km road linking the airport to the city of Havana. Normally, in most countries, the airport road is a state-of-the-art highway designed by some conceited and expensive architect, to charm and wow visitors into wide eyed wonderment and submission; sporting many lanes, fancy lighting and glossy neon billboards that hang from the sky like spiders and read ‘welcome to our country’ and ‘please spend your money on this’.
Not in Cuba though. The designers, if there were any, obviously had no aesthetic inclinations. The airport road has been designed, if design is the correct word, with one express purpose: to take you from A to B and scare you to death whilst doing so. The road is pot marked with a random assortment of potholes as if the army has been using it for target practice. You never know what size pothole your going to get next which adds to the frisson of excitement I suppose. There seems to be no conscious desire to make Cuba seem like something it is not. This lack of conceit and honesty is quite refreshing at first. But the novelty soon wears off when you look around and spy what the billboards have been replaced with; huge posters reminding people of the revolution. There’s Che and Castro looking down on the tourists with smiles that say: ‘Welcome to Cuba comrades. The home of the revolution’

In the gutter
Eventually I was rather unceremoniously dumped in the urban sprawl and gutter that is old Havana. The streets were abustle and teeming with end of day activity. Touts on duty. Restaurateurs enticing people to sample the delightful menu, and bands playing samba tunes in the Mojito bars. Trishaws scurried through the dark, capillary streets and people scuttled in the shadows, along the sidewalks like little crabs. My senses were on full alert, as they are when one is suddenly plonked in unfamiliar surrounds; and in this cloak of paranoia every face appears threatening, every shadow about to lurch on you. This anxiety is not ameliorated by the stares of people, prolonged stares that remind you that you are a stranger…but Alas! How wrong I would be proven.

I had booked a room at a Casa Particular; a Private home with a Jorge and Mercedez, whom I had contacted via email. I figured this was the best way to see the city, away from the tourist haunts. The taxi driver did give vague instructions to walk ‘that way for a bit’ – wisely I sought directions and was told to go in the opposite direction. Typical!

Casa Particular
I finally made my way to the correct street. Now where is this place? Suddenly, I hear the most un-likeliest of sounds. My name! Some bodies calling my name. What? Here? In Havana of all places?! I look up and on the balcony above is the lovely Mrs Mercedes, owner of the Casa Particular, waving her arms around. Apparently she’d been waiting for me for hours and spotted my bemused frame from the balcony. I’m glad that somehow I’ve managed to stumble and wriggle my way to her front door.

She opens the door from upstairs, by means of a nifty contraption involving a piece of rope attached to the inside handle. I make my way up the steep stairs to be greeted in traditional Cuban style “Hola Wasim” followed by a tender motherly peck on both cheeks. I begin to like her straight away. Then there’s a quick tour of my room. It’s a simple affair. Basic, but perfect. Sparsely furnished with a large mirror, wall AC, a radio clock, a shower, and bathroom that I will be sharing with a European couple next door. The house is charming, airy and spacious with huge ceilings and dates from colonial times.
“Make sure you throw the toilet paper in the basket and not in the bowl as the pipe will get blocked” she tells me…Mmm… and ‘and what time would you like breakfast, 8:30 fine?” – I tell her it’s perfect.

Mercedez shows me the balcony which looks onto the busy street below. Here you can while way the hours smoking a cigar and watching the colourful Havana street life for free. From the balcony, you can peer into the living room opposite where an old lady sits quietly absorbed in knitting. On the balcony next door, a woman is sweeping, and then peers over the railing before depositing the contents over the side onto the street. Below, groups of young men loiter against the wall, dancing to the Cuban music playing somewhere in the distance, flirting with girls that walk by, and trying to sell single cigarettes to passers by. When a tourist approaches they switch to tout mode and attempt to sell anything they can think of. It’s all very friendly of course, totally harmless and in good spirits. Groceries are dispatched to residents by filling a little bag attached to a rope that is then hoisted up to the upper floors. Residents on the balconies bark orders to people down on the streets and vice versa. Cycle trishaws pass along the narrow street below, ringing their bells and children run around excitedly waving pesos that have been given to them by some generous benefactor.

I’m smack bang in the hustle and bustle of Old Havana (Havana Vieja). No flaffin’ around in hotel lobbies or luxury rooms. This is going to be brilliant! – Suddenly I become aware of a strange feeling in my stomach. Hunger. Time to get out and poke about the seething bumble bee bush that is Old Havana and get a bite to eat.

Dinner with Jorge
Me and Jorge, the husband of Mrs Mercedes; an amiable and easy going man in his late 50’s go out for a meal at a Pasadena; a private home just round the block. We approach what looks like some bodies front door. It is. We walk into a living room that has been converted into a restaurant – only in Cuba! The food is nice and the service very er…homely.

George has lived his whole life in Havana and has never ventured out of the country. It’s very difficult for Cubans to travel abroad; the visas are a problem and so is the astronomical cost, understandable when the average salary of a Cuban is 14 USD per month. George and Mercedez have a married daughter in Barcelona whom they hope to visit soon. That is why they prefer their guests to pay in Euros, so they can save up for their trip. I ask him about the Casa Particular business. Apparently they’ve only been in business for a few years. Before, the Cuban government had a requirement that you stay at a government owned hotel; proof of which you had to provide at the airport; otherwise they wouldn’t let you in the country. The rules have become a little lax now; you still need to tell the authorities where you’re staying; and all Casa Particulars have to be properly registered with the authorities. The casa particulars are taxed by the government, about 60 dollars per month per room, there’s also a separate tax for having a balcony and for providing food for guests. It’s a tough business but its better then nothing. Whilst in Cuba I’d also heard about a woman employed by a British Company who was paid 23 USD per hour (a huge sum in Cuba), however, she only received 2 USD per hour as the government took the remaining 21 USD; and there’s nothing she could do about it.

I proceeded to inflict my Spanish on the locals seated in the front room/restaurant call it what you will; at the dismay and chagrin of my host who hides his head and pretends not to know me. A bit odd if you ask me, as his been sitting with me throughout the meal! Needless to say my Spanish is pretty awesome. Awesome in the sense of being awesomely crap!

Street life
The first thing you become receptive to are the colours. Of all shades; screaming at you ‘Look at me! Look at me!” – And you can’t help but oblige. There are Turmeric coloured walls, Pepsi coloured blue signs that say “no cyclo”, brightly coloured Trishaws and their similarly attired drivers that whiz by and bright green rubbish bins. Even the Cuban art you see hanging outside art shops on canvases is as if somebody has turned up the colour saturation. Havana is pregnant with colour, and dazzles the eye senseless with volley after volley of paint guns.
But amidst this riot of colour is the poverty. At first you don’t notice it, as the colours play tricks and hide it, the sun shines brightly and hides it, and the smiles of the people are deceiving and they too hide it. But once the colours have faded, the smiles have worn down, and your eyes have become accustomed to the sun; old Havana stands naked before you, bearing all; like a corpse with its entrails hanging out; smiling.

The streets of Havana Vieja are straight out of a Dicken’s novel; a festering pool of raucous street life and scumbuggary. The narrow streets are surrounded by crumbling colonial dwellings built in the 1930’s that rise 3 storeys on either side. These are in the classic Victorian style and have huge ceilings, doors and windows. The buildings haven’t been touched since they were built except for perhaps some paint work, so are in need of serious renovation. The front doors are made of wood with the paint peeling and the windows have wooden shutters or rusty metal girders to prevent entry. I hardly saw any glass windows. The sunlight splits the street in half. One half in cool shadow and the other in glaring sunlight. People walk nimbly along the shadowy side. The streets are littered with activity; grubby but happy looking kids play semi-naked with wheeled wooden crates pulling them with rope; a pipe jutting empties the contents of some bodies drain onto the street and a lady mops the inside of a doorway, pouring a bucket of dank water and then sweeping the contents on to the street outside. Boisterous sounds can be heard from inside homes and older members of the community sit outside soaking up the sun. Everybody is very friendly and greets you in Spanish. Then there’s the regular stream of people coming up and asking whether they can get you anything. And they have everything for sale; from cigars to rum, to Cuban art to women, from city tours to drugs. It’s all friendly of course and you just wave them off with a thank you and that you’re fine. The trick is not to stop for lengthy overly friendly conversations and to keep moving.

Reflections
The strangest thing for me was the fact that the main touristy area around ‘Obispo’, with its cobbled streets, fancy restaurants and trinket shops are located within the local residential area – so it’s easy to stray off the tourist path into the local area. Infact I recommend it. There are police officers stationed on every street corner, but this is more to provide a visual reassurance to tourists rather then because of any major crime problem. The local areas may look unsafe, with their dimly lit back alleyways but they aren't. A lot of this has to do with the common misconception that poor, squalid areas are a breeding ground for crime and vice. This could not be further from the truth in Havana. I met some of the warmest and kindest people in all my travels in Old Havana.

And this is what bugs me; you’re walking past peoples homes. Ogling at the scruffy children and the squalid dwellings, peering into their doors and windows, sticking your nose into their living rooms, listening into their conversations and generally observing people going about their daily lives. The whole experience feels surreal. The homes, living rooms and the street life, albeit genuine and real, all feels like a theme park, to be goggled at by tourists with their fancy cameras. “Come and see the real Havana” they say. “Come and see the poverty” – the sad truth is that their poverty and wretched lives have become a huge stage to be goggled at and to be immortalised in digital pixels. And then to be shown to the folks back home. “look mum, I’m standing next to this poor family” – but it’s all in the safe knowledge that after they’re done, they can retire to the comfort of their luxury hotel rooms where they can dine sumptuously in splendour discussing the scenes of the day and the abject poverty they have been witness too. And I wonder; is that what it’s about? A form of voyeurism. Is that what they come here for, a feel good pill; as in “thank god I don’t live like that, we’re so fortunate”

There is a positive side to the tourism of course. As it brings in revenues for the privilege of witnessing this poverty. Tourism is the money maker in old Havana and the mainstay of people’s livelihood. The shops and restaurants depend on it. The hotels depend on it. The police officers lining the streets depend on it. The Casa Particulars, the trishaw drivers, the galleries, the book shops and the touts on the street depend on it. But is it a force for good in the long term I wonder? Is this addiction to tourism not creating a generation of tourism junkies? Stifling the people from learning other skills and preventing the economy into producing anything of worth except the trinkets and goods that are flogged to the tourists? And what will happen if the world’s love affair with Cuba ends? When Castro has departed and the floodgates open up and when Cuba has lost its uniqueness and innocence, what will happen then? Will the tourists still flock to this last bastion of communist ideals?

The other thing that’s worth a mention is the ration system; that entitles every Cuban to a certain quantity of provisions from the State. I saw long queues of Cubans outside the stores clutching ration cards, waiting for their daily allowances of bread and milk. Without these the majority of the population, not lucky enough to have relatives in foreign countries or decent paid jobs, would starve. Is this not an indication of the failure of the revolution; for how best to judge the outcome of something then to see what it has achieved? This has created a dependence on the state not seen in other countries. Maybe it helps to keep the people in power in power, and perhaps it also provides a motivation for them to retain that power; via imprisonment of political dissidents, with stifling of dissent and with force if necessary. For there is nothing worse for the power men; nothing more they fear; then the ration queue.

Hopes and dreams
When roaming the streets and watching the youngsters you wouldn’t think they we’re living in squalor. For many are clad in the latest fashion attire. Trendy jeans worn in the latest style, puma trainers and cool sunglasses. You wonder where they get the money from. Undoubtedly, from friends, families and cousins in America and other parts of the world. The outside world. A world they can only glimpse on the small screen but never touch. A world they can visualise and get a taste of from the tourists. I saw hundreds of Cubans at the airport; just watching the planes taking off; dreaming of what lay above and beyond. Imagining what it would be like to leave this island. What it would be like to be one of those lucky passengers staring out of the windows; and whether they will ever get their chance. It feels almost like the movie “No Escape’ starring Ray Liotta, where the inhabitants of a futuristic society dream of what lies beyond. Many Cubans will risk life and limb to get to America for a better life. Many make it; many are turned back. Many just want a way out of their wretched lives.

So when you see the trendy clothes and the lingo and the internet cafe’s; sure signs of the modern world; existing side-by side with the slummy, decrepit dwellings; it does make you think. With the advance of technology and communication what will the poor of the world live like in the future? You expect technological progress to bring prosperity to everybody. That somehow the internet and mobile phones will miraculously cure the world of poverty. This could not be further from the truth. For if you want to see the future. This is it. This is the future. A future of technology, of gadgets made affordable because they’re made in China, existing shoulder to shoulder with poverty that should be reminiscent of a bygone age.

Then there’s the confusing government sponsored double economy that coexists side by side. The locals have their own currency and the tourist use their own (the CUC – pegged to the dollar) – so what does this mean in practice? Well tourists have to buy items in CUC and the locals pay with pesos. 1 CUC = 27 pesos. So, tourists pay much more for things then locals. This double currency system has been set up precisely so that the revenues generated from tourism are increased. This is why Cuba isn’t the cheapest holiday destination when compared to Nepal or Vietnam say, where locals and tourists all pay with the same currency and prices are the same.

Revolucion forever?
Havana is wall papered with the national flag, revolutionary banners reminding the people of the revolution; towering brightly coloured murals adorning the sides of buildings. Huge posters of Che adorn the city and Che memorabilia litters souvenir shops; from T-shirts to canvasses, from coffee mugs to pencils. In-fact if Che can be printed on anything you can bet your bottom dollar he has been printed on it. How ironic that such a symbol of socialist ideals would become a tourist money earner. The classic example of the image cheapened for profit. It reminded me of 1984, but without all the gloom. It would be unfair to compare Cuba to the world of Big Brother portrayed in George Orwell’s frighteningly haunting vision of the future. One guy I spoke to said “Che is my hero” – I wonder what Che would have to say about the state of Cuba today. Would he denounce the revolution as a heartfelt but misguided dream of romantics?

Some people may argue that it’s the American sanctions that have undone Cuba. I say look at the former USSR and the ailing North Korea. The bottom line is that socialist ideals clash with human nature; when everything and everybody is treated equally and wealth distributed and nobody owns anything; there is no incentive to work any harder; the entrepreneurial spirit, that is so central to human progress, is sapped and crushed. Business acumen is stifled and so is productivity. The truth is, whether you like it or not, we need the wealthy capitalists to build factories for the working classes to work in. The capitalists become rich yes; but at least the common man has work to feed his family and does not have to rely on government handouts. The truth is that, greed is what stimulates people to go into business in the first place; to become millionaires and drive lavish cars and enjoy lavish lifestyles. It pains me to say it but this is the way the world works. A future of of equality will not materialise until the day the resources problem is solved.

Curious as ever i popped into a ‘supermarket’ to see what was on offer. The shelves were barely stocked; they had a pathetic and stingy array of goods, mostly brands I couldn’t recognise; home grown or imported from the former Russian empire. Cuba does manufacture its own cigarettes and Cola and other staple foods. But other more specific items, like industrial chemicals, paint strippers, DIY equipment, electronic goods, all have to be imported. And due to the strict rules on what can and cannot be imported into the country, smuggled goods on the black market are hard to get hold of; and even then at mafia prices.

Cuba calling
But there must be something good about Cuba? There is! Cuba is a feast for the senses. It is amazingly safe and the people friendly. The crime rate is low. Where it is safe to wander the streets alone in the dark; unlike the council estates in Britain that are plagued with crime and infested with anti social behaviour. There is also a pervading respect for life. The people are educated. Cuba can boast a 100% literacy rate for women. The state provides people with accommodation. The arts and cultural scene is particularly vibrant, which the government has long been subsidising. Everywhere you go you see street festivals and carnivals. You sit in a bar/restaurant and 9 out of 10 times they’ll be a band playing; who will then try and peddle the CD afterwards. I ended up purchasing about 3 CD’s this way. I just felt sorry for the guys and couldn’t refuse! Cinemas are extremely cheap, tickets cost about 6 cents and there are plenty of Cuban artists. Cubans are by nature social creatures; this is expected for a society where the majority of the day is spent outside, chatting to neighbours, touting to tourists and peddling goods. This is in stark contrast to the lonely and cooped up lives people generally live in Britain.

The future
All in all Cuba is a unique place, which has remained largely untouched by the global forces that have taken root in other countries. It’s political and economic isolation however, will not last. When the flood gates open up and the world starts pouring in, the Cuba of yesteryear will disappear for a Cuba of uncertain tomorrow. The Cuban’s are an adaptable and resilient people who I’m sure, like the years of sanctions and isolation, will survive with ingenuity, imagination and a smile. But it will be a different Cuba. So book your tickets, pack your bags, and check out the unique flavour of this wonderful Caribbean island, before its landscape is changed forever.