I have been away from home for almost ten months. When I think of my old house, I imagine my family carrying on the same as we always did. Going to work, coming home, arguing about the dishes, vacuuming on weekends, walking the dog every day, going out for dinner now and again. A tick-tocking kind of routine, comfortable, familiar. But I forget that we only get so many times round the clock. While things are not changing, they are winding down, grinding away.
My grandmother has reached the venerable age of ninety-one. She has very recently started using a computer for the first time, to send emails and sometimes check this blog. Now she has bowel cancer and, last I checked, is in hospital. She still sounds cheerful and chirpy and it makes me sad, because I don't feel cheerful or chirpy at all. I don't know how I feel.
Readjusting to life standing still has not been simple. I haven't really had anything to do here in Austin, and while I do like it here, I'm not going anywhere. Physically or any other way. When I was backpacking, I was constantly on the move, and while that had its own problems, suddenly stopping is odd. It's like running at full tilt and then jolting to a halt. You need to readjust your balance, to pull in your flailing limbs and set your neck straight.
And so while I was getting onto this, my grandmother was getting sicker. My mother isn't telling me what to do, but I know I need to get home. Besides, it makes it so much worse being so far away. Now I'm just waiting to hear if I'll be leaving this week or next week. It's such an odd feeling, suddenly being cast back from whence you came. It's definitely a feeling of a flight cut short, a jolt of reality. And that's OK. I'm OK, or I'm telling myself I am, and I hope my grandmother's OK, or I'm telling myself she is. I want to be philosophical about this. I know about life and death and change and acceptance and everything. I do. But I don't know about fitting back into Wellington so quickly. I haven't had time to readjust to the idea of returning.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Cuba, the Middle
The days have really been sinking away here in Austin, Texas. I think I'll be leaving in less than two weeks, but I have no idea where to. I've also stopped denying the heat. It's 30 degrees every day and humid. I'm sitting on Ania's bedroom floor in front of the open door to the garden to try and catch any breeze that might be going, and sweating. I might get up at some point to make myself a mojito with the rum I brought back. And I'm going to try and write about Cuba, which has taken me ages because I keep telling people about it instead of writing it down.
One of the things about Cuba is that it doesn't work. That is, the people don't work, and the plumbing isn't on the job either. I think Cuba is much like one of the vintage cars that prowl the streets; just functioning enough to keep going, but not sounding too healthy, seeming like it's going to fall apart any moment but still managing to keep it together. Sometimes you can't get bread, because none has been baked, or because the people in the bread shop don't feel like selling it. Often a store will be closed, and the staff will be inside, but they just don't feel like serving. Restaurant service is dismissive at best, non-existent at worst. It drove my aunt mad. In this way it sounds similar to what I've heard about Russia (which is pretty new to capitalism, after all). In fact, talking it over with Ania (who was in St. Petersburg for three months back in the fall) Cuba is like a hotter, more colourful, more cheerful Russia. And it may sound presumptive from someone who was in a communist country for only two weeks, but this work ethic seems pretty well connected to the political system. If you're not going to get anything for working hard and striving to get ahead, then you're not going to; if there's no benefit in innovation, then you won't invent anything new. Maybe you could jiggle the communist system to solve this issue, maybe not. And I guess it's not really an objection. I mean, as long as the country is ticking over day to day there's not really an immediate problem. But this could explain why each house in Cuba has tanks for water, which are filled up every second day by a truck. Or why there isn't really any street food like you find in Mexico (most Cubans seeming to subsist on pizza and hotdogs and ice cream, a very unvaried diet).
I spent all of my two weeks in Cuba in Havana, it being very pricey to travel as a foreigner in Cuba. The tourist industry there is very much set up to get you into an expensive hotel, to an expensive restaurant, to the beach and back to the airport preferably without seeing more than the sanitised version of Cuban culture. Um, I don't think I was technically legally staying with my aunt; she was renting an apartment, and my name was written down and everything, but the bed I was sleeping in was meant to be occupied by the landlord. He actually lived somewhere else but it meant I had to take all my things out of the room each day in case an inspector came.
Havana is beautiful. I think. I guess it's smelly, yes, and dirty and crowded, all things which bothered my aunt. But to enjoy being in Cuba you have to be a bit of a romantic. You have to smell the cigars, not the rotting rubbish and blocked drains. You have to gasp at the beauty of the colonial buildings and be enchanted by their decaying grandeur, and not worry too much about the lack of building standards or housing codes that would condemn them in your home country. You have to be inspired by the story of the revolution and not think too hard about what fifty years of the same leadership will do to a country. You have to fall in love with Che and not listen to the rumours of how he was dismissed from Cuba and left to his death. You have to glory in the past and not worry about the future of a country that is totally unprepared for the onslaught of capitalism.
I digress. Really Havana is quite enjoyable without totally burying your head in the sand. And discussing and learning about the current state of politics doesn't take too much away from the fairytale streets, lined with tall brightly coloured buildings with intricate metalwork and old-time balconies. Most of the walls are literally falling off, and some of them have collapsed completely. It would be an amazing place to make a film. Old people sit on their doorsteps, children play in the street, men sit around tables of dominoes as the day falls. People queue, for bread, for the bus. There are occasional signs of Santeria, the voodoo religion mixed with Catholic saints, if you know where to look for them: women dressed in white skirts with white scarves tied around their heads, or the figure of Icarus dangling upside down from the window opposite our apartment. Goat skins are left outside to dry in the sun for drums.
The abundance of art and music in Havana astounded me. Perhaps it was in comparison to the other countries I visited, or perhaps because in a communist environment I'd expect it to go the same way as street food; not useful, not necessary, not pursued. But Bellas Artes, the art gallery of Havana, was packed with amazing Cuban artists (I wrote down heaps of names; let's see, Fidelio Ponce de Leon, Tomas Sanchez, Carlos Garaicoa). So I was interested to learn about the laws against criticism of Fidel and communism. My aunt and I went out one night to a youth centre (it was pretty cool) to see a movie, and beforehand they were playing some Cuban music videos. One of them had an obvious anti-government message, even to me with my non-existent Spanish (a hammer and sickle symbol in a rubbish bin next to a swastika needs no translation). My aunt raised her eyebrows. One audience member stood up and starting talking loudly. 'He's saying it's illegal,' my aunt told me. The video was stopped. Apparently there was a rapper arrested recently for being too anti-Fidel; they were going to put him in jail but there was too much of an international outcry.
As well as Bellas Artes, I went to visit the Museo de la Revolucion. It was very oddly laid out and only partially in English, but did have some interesting artifacts, mainly odd clothing belonging to various people (some complete with bloodstains). It was also very angry about the United States, just in general, but somewhat understandably. It referred to them as the 'Yankees' ('yanqui' in Spanish) and I am curious about whether they will tone this down if/when the blockade is lifted. Also, how about all the anti-American billboards? Really, I mean, I've been to Egypt. They're meant to be Muslim and want to kill all Americans, but there was nothing like the anti-US messages that are everywhere in Cuba. I kind of love it. Someone has to do it, after all, and they've kind of being screwing all of Central America over for years. A Cuban guy that I met refused to refer to it as the United States of America, his logic being that he is also American, and also in a State. So he referred to it as Gringolandia.
Um, funny story. So the US doesn't have an embassy in Cuba, obviously. Instead they have a 'Special Interest Section', a grey blockish building down by the Malecon (the wall that runs along the waterfront, quite the party spot at night). Sometime during the Bush years they put up digital signs in the windows of the upper floors of the building, which displayed anti-Cuban messages in bright electric red. Cuba didn't take kindly to this. The response was to put up a large number of flag poles right in front, flying black flags with white stars, reputedly one for every person that died in the revolution. This effectively blocks the messages.
One day my aunt and I went to visit Matanzas on the Hershey Train (named after, yes, Mr Hershey, who built his own train line to the port to get his sugar out easier). In all Central American countries you would expect the train to run late. The difference in Cuba is that it often doesn't run at all. So we turned up at 8.30am (much to my disgust, I was tired) and then had to return at 12.30pm. In the meantime we got to see the Jesus statue that stands on pretty much the only hill in Havana, next to Che's old house. It was erected shortly before the revolution, then a few months after that came into effect, one of Jesus' arms was blasted off by lightning. It was said to be an omen. The train was seriously the most decrepit beast I have ridden on. The seats were barely still there. It passed between houses built so close to the tracks that a child could have reached out and touched them. Then it picked up speed, rattling and shaking and jolting along so hard that literally couldn't sleep. I'm just thankful that it stayed on the tracks, and that it didn't break down for hours.
So. What else? Che! Oh yes, Che! It seems that Fidel doesn't believe in living idols. He doesn't appear on any coins, there are no statues or t-shirts of him (it's illegal to make one, actually). This doesn't mean that Fidel isn't idolised. I mean, the country is pretty much his plaything. He's still alive, retired somewhere near a beach. He writes these reflections, and when a new one comes out they stop all the programs on TV so they can read it out. If he doesn't believe in living idols however, he sure does believe in dead ones. Che is everywhere. I guess he's one of the most marketable things they have. You can buy t-shirts and posters, postcards, keyrings, lots and lots of books, anything you want really emblazoned with the silhouette of the hero. It's all very ironic (as is the Adidas store downtown, and the mall out in Playa). I wonder how Che would feel about all this. Camillo Cienfuegos, the other dead leader of the revolution, is not nearly as visible; I can only assume he wasn't as good looking. I also wonder what would have happened if Che had survived and run a country, grown old and grey-haired instead of being burnt out and immortalised. But there's certainly something about his spirit, divorced as it may be from the actual man: revolution and youth and hope. I'm totally in love with him. I'll chalk him up on my list of useless crushes.
I guess that was Cuba, a country somehow still stopped fifty years back. When it comes, and it will, capitalism will hit it like a ton of bricks. The revolution that was fought half a century ago was fought against a different kind of enemy, and the lack of change in the administration has not been matched by a lack of change in the opposing forces. One of the problems is that you can't tell people what to think, you can't control them and expect them not to desire what they've been denied. The young people in Cuba want capitalism because they want the stuff they see on TV, and they won't listen if you simply tell them that it won't make them happy. They have to learn that for themselves. But it makes me sad, that the revolution will come to nothing in the end. All power corrupts, and Cuba has not been protected against what is coming for it. It's far from a perfect island paradise.
One of the things about Cuba is that it doesn't work. That is, the people don't work, and the plumbing isn't on the job either. I think Cuba is much like one of the vintage cars that prowl the streets; just functioning enough to keep going, but not sounding too healthy, seeming like it's going to fall apart any moment but still managing to keep it together. Sometimes you can't get bread, because none has been baked, or because the people in the bread shop don't feel like selling it. Often a store will be closed, and the staff will be inside, but they just don't feel like serving. Restaurant service is dismissive at best, non-existent at worst. It drove my aunt mad. In this way it sounds similar to what I've heard about Russia (which is pretty new to capitalism, after all). In fact, talking it over with Ania (who was in St. Petersburg for three months back in the fall) Cuba is like a hotter, more colourful, more cheerful Russia. And it may sound presumptive from someone who was in a communist country for only two weeks, but this work ethic seems pretty well connected to the political system. If you're not going to get anything for working hard and striving to get ahead, then you're not going to; if there's no benefit in innovation, then you won't invent anything new. Maybe you could jiggle the communist system to solve this issue, maybe not. And I guess it's not really an objection. I mean, as long as the country is ticking over day to day there's not really an immediate problem. But this could explain why each house in Cuba has tanks for water, which are filled up every second day by a truck. Or why there isn't really any street food like you find in Mexico (most Cubans seeming to subsist on pizza and hotdogs and ice cream, a very unvaried diet).
I spent all of my two weeks in Cuba in Havana, it being very pricey to travel as a foreigner in Cuba. The tourist industry there is very much set up to get you into an expensive hotel, to an expensive restaurant, to the beach and back to the airport preferably without seeing more than the sanitised version of Cuban culture. Um, I don't think I was technically legally staying with my aunt; she was renting an apartment, and my name was written down and everything, but the bed I was sleeping in was meant to be occupied by the landlord. He actually lived somewhere else but it meant I had to take all my things out of the room each day in case an inspector came.
Havana is beautiful. I think. I guess it's smelly, yes, and dirty and crowded, all things which bothered my aunt. But to enjoy being in Cuba you have to be a bit of a romantic. You have to smell the cigars, not the rotting rubbish and blocked drains. You have to gasp at the beauty of the colonial buildings and be enchanted by their decaying grandeur, and not worry too much about the lack of building standards or housing codes that would condemn them in your home country. You have to be inspired by the story of the revolution and not think too hard about what fifty years of the same leadership will do to a country. You have to fall in love with Che and not listen to the rumours of how he was dismissed from Cuba and left to his death. You have to glory in the past and not worry about the future of a country that is totally unprepared for the onslaught of capitalism.
I digress. Really Havana is quite enjoyable without totally burying your head in the sand. And discussing and learning about the current state of politics doesn't take too much away from the fairytale streets, lined with tall brightly coloured buildings with intricate metalwork and old-time balconies. Most of the walls are literally falling off, and some of them have collapsed completely. It would be an amazing place to make a film. Old people sit on their doorsteps, children play in the street, men sit around tables of dominoes as the day falls. People queue, for bread, for the bus. There are occasional signs of Santeria, the voodoo religion mixed with Catholic saints, if you know where to look for them: women dressed in white skirts with white scarves tied around their heads, or the figure of Icarus dangling upside down from the window opposite our apartment. Goat skins are left outside to dry in the sun for drums.
The abundance of art and music in Havana astounded me. Perhaps it was in comparison to the other countries I visited, or perhaps because in a communist environment I'd expect it to go the same way as street food; not useful, not necessary, not pursued. But Bellas Artes, the art gallery of Havana, was packed with amazing Cuban artists (I wrote down heaps of names; let's see, Fidelio Ponce de Leon, Tomas Sanchez, Carlos Garaicoa). So I was interested to learn about the laws against criticism of Fidel and communism. My aunt and I went out one night to a youth centre (it was pretty cool) to see a movie, and beforehand they were playing some Cuban music videos. One of them had an obvious anti-government message, even to me with my non-existent Spanish (a hammer and sickle symbol in a rubbish bin next to a swastika needs no translation). My aunt raised her eyebrows. One audience member stood up and starting talking loudly. 'He's saying it's illegal,' my aunt told me. The video was stopped. Apparently there was a rapper arrested recently for being too anti-Fidel; they were going to put him in jail but there was too much of an international outcry.
As well as Bellas Artes, I went to visit the Museo de la Revolucion. It was very oddly laid out and only partially in English, but did have some interesting artifacts, mainly odd clothing belonging to various people (some complete with bloodstains). It was also very angry about the United States, just in general, but somewhat understandably. It referred to them as the 'Yankees' ('yanqui' in Spanish) and I am curious about whether they will tone this down if/when the blockade is lifted. Also, how about all the anti-American billboards? Really, I mean, I've been to Egypt. They're meant to be Muslim and want to kill all Americans, but there was nothing like the anti-US messages that are everywhere in Cuba. I kind of love it. Someone has to do it, after all, and they've kind of being screwing all of Central America over for years. A Cuban guy that I met refused to refer to it as the United States of America, his logic being that he is also American, and also in a State. So he referred to it as Gringolandia.
Um, funny story. So the US doesn't have an embassy in Cuba, obviously. Instead they have a 'Special Interest Section', a grey blockish building down by the Malecon (the wall that runs along the waterfront, quite the party spot at night). Sometime during the Bush years they put up digital signs in the windows of the upper floors of the building, which displayed anti-Cuban messages in bright electric red. Cuba didn't take kindly to this. The response was to put up a large number of flag poles right in front, flying black flags with white stars, reputedly one for every person that died in the revolution. This effectively blocks the messages.
One day my aunt and I went to visit Matanzas on the Hershey Train (named after, yes, Mr Hershey, who built his own train line to the port to get his sugar out easier). In all Central American countries you would expect the train to run late. The difference in Cuba is that it often doesn't run at all. So we turned up at 8.30am (much to my disgust, I was tired) and then had to return at 12.30pm. In the meantime we got to see the Jesus statue that stands on pretty much the only hill in Havana, next to Che's old house. It was erected shortly before the revolution, then a few months after that came into effect, one of Jesus' arms was blasted off by lightning. It was said to be an omen. The train was seriously the most decrepit beast I have ridden on. The seats were barely still there. It passed between houses built so close to the tracks that a child could have reached out and touched them. Then it picked up speed, rattling and shaking and jolting along so hard that literally couldn't sleep. I'm just thankful that it stayed on the tracks, and that it didn't break down for hours.
So. What else? Che! Oh yes, Che! It seems that Fidel doesn't believe in living idols. He doesn't appear on any coins, there are no statues or t-shirts of him (it's illegal to make one, actually). This doesn't mean that Fidel isn't idolised. I mean, the country is pretty much his plaything. He's still alive, retired somewhere near a beach. He writes these reflections, and when a new one comes out they stop all the programs on TV so they can read it out. If he doesn't believe in living idols however, he sure does believe in dead ones. Che is everywhere. I guess he's one of the most marketable things they have. You can buy t-shirts and posters, postcards, keyrings, lots and lots of books, anything you want really emblazoned with the silhouette of the hero. It's all very ironic (as is the Adidas store downtown, and the mall out in Playa). I wonder how Che would feel about all this. Camillo Cienfuegos, the other dead leader of the revolution, is not nearly as visible; I can only assume he wasn't as good looking. I also wonder what would have happened if Che had survived and run a country, grown old and grey-haired instead of being burnt out and immortalised. But there's certainly something about his spirit, divorced as it may be from the actual man: revolution and youth and hope. I'm totally in love with him. I'll chalk him up on my list of useless crushes.
I guess that was Cuba, a country somehow still stopped fifty years back. When it comes, and it will, capitalism will hit it like a ton of bricks. The revolution that was fought half a century ago was fought against a different kind of enemy, and the lack of change in the administration has not been matched by a lack of change in the opposing forces. One of the problems is that you can't tell people what to think, you can't control them and expect them not to desire what they've been denied. The young people in Cuba want capitalism because they want the stuff they see on TV, and they won't listen if you simply tell them that it won't make them happy. They have to learn that for themselves. But it makes me sad, that the revolution will come to nothing in the end. All power corrupts, and Cuba has not been protected against what is coming for it. It's far from a perfect island paradise.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Cuba, the End
In a totally out of order way, this post will be about leaving Cuba. Eventually I will find the energy to write about the middle of Cuba itself, but I would like the present to be dealt with first.
As I began to mentally prepare to leave Cuba, there was a complication. Swine flu! It’s funny when a news item like that starts to actually affect your life. My first thought was that this was the explanation for my sniffle. As the story developed, it became possible that I wouldn’t be able to get out of Cuba. I liked Cuba a lot, but I wanted my clothes and my computer, and to be able to walk down the street without being harassed. To stop feeling like an outsider. In fact, that last day in Havana was one of those less good ones. I got hassled by men more than normal, and I got rained on. I was looking forward to just getting back, and was playing Spider Solitaire in the apartment when my aunt burst in with the news that I wouldn't be able to leave because they were closing the airports. We walked down to ask Cubana Airlines what was up, and on the way we passed a man leaning over a dog and doing something to its neck with a knife. Just on the pavement. I still don't know if the thing he was doing was beneficial veterinary medicine with rudimentary tools, or some kind of voodoo magic. It could have been either, but I looked at him and decided that I couldn't handle this kind of thing anymore. I wanted out. Luckily, my flight the next day was still going to go! I think the last one to leave Cuba before they closed themselves down.
Cancun airport didn’t seem to realize it was at the epicenter of a news storm. A few people, mainly tourists, were wearing masks and there was a questionairre to fill out on your way through security (if you have all the above symptoms, you should contact a doctor. Oh. Really?). After another night in Cancun airport I was finally on the plane back (it’s those last few agonizing minutes when you’ve landed and everyone is standing waiting for the doors to open… out of the last thirty hours of waiting and delays, they’re the longest). Anyone who has to sleep in Cancun airport should know that there is two seats with three armrests missing, on the entrance side next to the restaurant. This means you can actually lie down on them and go to sleep. I had dreams about lions, where I protested that they didn't have lions in Central America.
So the doors open, and we go down the steps into the little Terminal Two at Austin airport (the one that the other terminals didn’t want to talk to, it’s seriously miles from the rest of the airport and bright green). I’d been through some pre-arrival culture shock in the airport at Cancun, what with the accents and the exuburance and the general Americaness. So I was a little worried about my ability to deal with Texas, but the immigration official was very nice and friendly, the customs man made a joke. The people in reception let me use their phone and chat to me about swine flu. Everybody smiles, and everybody speaks English. How relaxing you are, United States. This is why I like you.
And so now I am happily inhabiting Ania's house in Austin, where there is an astonishing excess of food including chocolate. It still feels weird to drink the water from the tap, and I keep looking for the wastepaper basket for the toilet paper (plumbing not being so great down there). Letters from my friends in New Zealand greeted my arrival, and my computer full of my music, and a thumb piano which I am learning to play. Oh music, I have missed you. And dairy products. And the Daily Show, and all the trappings of life which may be excessive and unnecessary but which belong to me, and my culture, which I can criticise but which still feels so good. And now I can chat to the people that serve me in the supermarket, and laugh with people, and be accepted in the street. I'm happy. Reverse culture shock can come later.
As I began to mentally prepare to leave Cuba, there was a complication. Swine flu! It’s funny when a news item like that starts to actually affect your life. My first thought was that this was the explanation for my sniffle. As the story developed, it became possible that I wouldn’t be able to get out of Cuba. I liked Cuba a lot, but I wanted my clothes and my computer, and to be able to walk down the street without being harassed. To stop feeling like an outsider. In fact, that last day in Havana was one of those less good ones. I got hassled by men more than normal, and I got rained on. I was looking forward to just getting back, and was playing Spider Solitaire in the apartment when my aunt burst in with the news that I wouldn't be able to leave because they were closing the airports. We walked down to ask Cubana Airlines what was up, and on the way we passed a man leaning over a dog and doing something to its neck with a knife. Just on the pavement. I still don't know if the thing he was doing was beneficial veterinary medicine with rudimentary tools, or some kind of voodoo magic. It could have been either, but I looked at him and decided that I couldn't handle this kind of thing anymore. I wanted out. Luckily, my flight the next day was still going to go! I think the last one to leave Cuba before they closed themselves down.
Cancun airport didn’t seem to realize it was at the epicenter of a news storm. A few people, mainly tourists, were wearing masks and there was a questionairre to fill out on your way through security (if you have all the above symptoms, you should contact a doctor. Oh. Really?). After another night in Cancun airport I was finally on the plane back (it’s those last few agonizing minutes when you’ve landed and everyone is standing waiting for the doors to open… out of the last thirty hours of waiting and delays, they’re the longest). Anyone who has to sleep in Cancun airport should know that there is two seats with three armrests missing, on the entrance side next to the restaurant. This means you can actually lie down on them and go to sleep. I had dreams about lions, where I protested that they didn't have lions in Central America.
So the doors open, and we go down the steps into the little Terminal Two at Austin airport (the one that the other terminals didn’t want to talk to, it’s seriously miles from the rest of the airport and bright green). I’d been through some pre-arrival culture shock in the airport at Cancun, what with the accents and the exuburance and the general Americaness. So I was a little worried about my ability to deal with Texas, but the immigration official was very nice and friendly, the customs man made a joke. The people in reception let me use their phone and chat to me about swine flu. Everybody smiles, and everybody speaks English. How relaxing you are, United States. This is why I like you.
And so now I am happily inhabiting Ania's house in Austin, where there is an astonishing excess of food including chocolate. It still feels weird to drink the water from the tap, and I keep looking for the wastepaper basket for the toilet paper (plumbing not being so great down there). Letters from my friends in New Zealand greeted my arrival, and my computer full of my music, and a thumb piano which I am learning to play. Oh music, I have missed you. And dairy products. And the Daily Show, and all the trappings of life which may be excessive and unnecessary but which belong to me, and my culture, which I can criticise but which still feels so good. And now I can chat to the people that serve me in the supermarket, and laugh with people, and be accepted in the street. I'm happy. Reverse culture shock can come later.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Cuba, the Beginning
So my premonition that I might not be able to write from Havana turned out to be correct. Internet there was $9US an hour, and still slow. What can you expect from a country that still uses telegrams? Yes, telegrams. So I have much to catch up on. To make it easier for me and for everyone, I will update in easily digestible nuggets rather than one big novella. Speaking of which, my great-aunt has just released a book! A real one, for sale and everything, about her life. So anyone who has heard the story of my grandmother’s half-sister and the orphanage and the mysterious parcel paper can rest assured that I didn’t make it up.
Well, the journey to actually get to Cuba was kind of, um, eventful. Eventful in a missing-flight and breaking-down-at-ticket-desk kind of way. I did consider whether to write about this part because I would like to maintain my aloof expert traveler persona, but it is better if you know the truth. I arrived at the airport an hour before the plane left, which it turns out is not enough time to check in for an international flight (who knew?). I still maintain that there is no reason I couldn’t have got on the plane apart from stupid bureaucracy. It was sitting there mere metres away from me for a full hour while I cried at the Cubana woman. Eventually it transpired that I was able to go on standby for a flight the following day, and I calmed down, and lay outside under a palm tree. No harm was done, quite the contrary as I met a nice girl from Lake Tahoe who was also sleeping in the airport.
Cuba is like another world. Things just… aren’t the same. The vintage cars really do exist, and people do use them. I took many photos which I will be able to put up when I eventually get my films developed (um, back in New Zealand). In fact, many of the coolest cars operate as collective taxis. Tourists aren’t allowed to take these, though I did with my aunt. Most of them are in various stages of decay, with the insides gutted apart from the seats so it feels as if you are sitting in a skeleton. And the cigars. People really do casually smoke them while walking down the street. Cigar smoke will always be a Cuba smell for me (along with rotting rubbish bins and blocked drains).
I guess that a lot of the things that are unique about Cuba are a result of their political system. But then maybe it’s the culture that has given rise to that system, or helped it survive. It’s so fascinating to be in a country that is organized in such a different way. Has it changed my politics? Yes, I think. I’m not a communist now, not at all, but it has helped me to see that there are other ways of doing things, other methods of organization. In our Western democracies perhaps we can become set in our ways, certain that any change we make has to be done through the existing systems, which we assume to be working and fair. I don’t know. Maybe I left with the spirit of revolution. So much for ‘Take only photos, leave only footprints’…
Now I have an urgent appointment with some cupcakes. Watch this space, and I will write more soon!
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