End of Baracoa: Mellow day after that crazy hike.
Oh, the hike: too many uphills. I nearly gave up and our guide carried my backpack. The over-dressed Swiss couple with us were bird-watchers and disappointed as such. Peter and I were murdered by the hills up, but it did make the down all the more rewarding. The best of all was jumping into a cool pool in the river. It was one of the most satisfying moments ever. There were little shrimps that hurt when they walked on you.
They have the plants whose leaves close when you touch them, like in the Exploratorium.
The official tour included 40 minutes at Playa Maguana on the way back, where we had been the day before. I cooled my fee in the surf and guzzled some sour glasses of orange juice and a limonada.
Now, Habana. Deciding to fly from Baracoa was a good one. We got to the Casa Particular yesterday evening to discover that it is in an apartment building, and we didn't know which buzzer (many of which were unmarked) to ring. So we rang them all, bringing women to their balconies who tried to direct us, but we couldn't really hear them. Eventually, we found Mario, our host.
Our "room" is an apartment with beautiful high ceilings and old furnishings and decorations. Two large tortoise shells are turned into candelabras.
Our casa only serves breakfast, so we wandered out to get dinner, guided by Lonely Planet. We both had instinctive night-city reactions once on our busy street. There were not many lights or many people out. I reminded myself that Havana is a safe city - pick-pocketing and purse snatching are the main crimes - there are no guns or drugs.
The restaurant was good even by home standards - delicious by Cuban. Wood oven pizza and actually spicy sauce on our Pasta Arrabiata - we do miss the chili pepper, so.
There was a birthday party in one of the apartments below us (we learned today when I asked Mario about it). Falling asleep to the music was not bad.
Breakfast was good. We have returned to an area that has milk. In Baracoa it does not seem to be available and coffee is brewed with sugar. Still, I think we will try to buy some provisions since we have a kitchen. After eggs for breakfast nearly every day (the day we asked J. to give us a break, she fried hot dog slices instead), cereal sure sounds great.
Today, Peter has led the way on one of the walking tours outlined in the guide. After the long detailed Museo de la Revolucion, I proposed we wait until another day for the Art Museum.
The change booth in the hotel would not change CUC to Moneda Nacional - the first time we have been told no about that in a Cadeca.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Baracoa-Havana, 4 Marzo 2010
As the plane is about to land, "Sorry, but blah blah regulation requires that we spray the plane. Cover your eyes." What?!?
We took bicitaxis to the airport!
We took bicitaxis to the airport!
Baracoa, 1 Marzo 2010
Near where we are staying is the home for pregnant women who:
Today:
Waiting in line at the bank - apparently, you have to say, "Quien es el ultimo?" ("Who is last?") to get a place in line. I managed though. Then Peter's broken shoe to the shoe repair shop...where you wait in line to explain the problem so they can charge you. We paid in nationales, so only about 27 cents. While Peter waited again with the crowd waiting for the man with the industrial sewing machine, I went down the street to buy him flip-flops (she wouldn't let me pay in pesos - had to use CUCs, but ok, it was $4 for the shoes and a package of t.p.). Brought the shoes to Peter where we and the women waiting all laughed together about Peter's need for a second pair of pants. It was all a bit like the old anti-commie propaganda films - lots of waiting in line.
Then, the beach, with lovely clear water - chilly, but not cold. Old but serviceable adirondack chairs, and patiently begging children, dogs, chickens, not-so-patiently pigs. The wild feel of a pig nose against your hand.
- are not gaining enough weight/don't have enough healthy food at home.
- are over 30=high risk pregnancy.
- have low weight fetuses
- are depressed and might abort (which is legal)
- live in the country - they come at 8 months to be near the hospital.
Today:
Waiting in line at the bank - apparently, you have to say, "Quien es el ultimo?" ("Who is last?") to get a place in line. I managed though. Then Peter's broken shoe to the shoe repair shop...where you wait in line to explain the problem so they can charge you. We paid in nationales, so only about 27 cents. While Peter waited again with the crowd waiting for the man with the industrial sewing machine, I went down the street to buy him flip-flops (she wouldn't let me pay in pesos - had to use CUCs, but ok, it was $4 for the shoes and a package of t.p.). Brought the shoes to Peter where we and the women waiting all laughed together about Peter's need for a second pair of pants. It was all a bit like the old anti-commie propaganda films - lots of waiting in line.
Then, the beach, with lovely clear water - chilly, but not cold. Old but serviceable adirondack chairs, and patiently begging children, dogs, chickens, not-so-patiently pigs. The wild feel of a pig nose against your hand.
Baracoa, 28 Febrero 2010
Trinidad improved when we went off the beaten path a little - walking around a circumferance of the centro, we saw just the regular town, and it was pretty.
18 hours of transit later, we got to Baracoa: 7 hours in a minivan, just us, then waiting 2-7am at the bus station in Santiago, bus at 7:45 to Baracoa, arrive around 1pm. Initial views of Baracoa were disappointing - some ugly 70's apartment buildings, but in the centro, there are lovely old houses, the wood splitting on the columns of the porches. Closer to Cien Anos de Solitud, but still not really what I pictured. Today, we walked out towards the Playa Blanca, and on the way is a small group of houses, maybe 12-15, and they are more like it: a dirt road runs between them, and the vines grow up the porches, and small crops grow nearby and animal pens behind. Maybe less grass - I always picture grass, but this seemed right.
Last night after fish for dinner, we went to the Trova house, to listen to music. What a strange scene. Wonderful mix of locals and tourists, crazy owner, good music, easy-going dancing. I danced one song with a nice man - I didn't know what I was doing, but he was patient. There were these two older men with young, pretty women. The owner, who announced everyone, said they were from Greece. The women had to be prostitutes, I don't think from here, though I guess could be Cuban still. Nice couple was next to me: she is Colombian, he German, they live in Germany. By Peter, a very nice Baracoan woman.
I had an interesting talk with J., our hostess here. It is the second time someone here has said, "Hay que vivir" (One has to live). The first was the woman selling fruit where the bus stopped, to justify the pricing to the person in front of me. J. and I talked about the economics here. I asked about the Doctor question - in a Socialist country, why are there so many if they all get paid the same? Turns out they don't - they get paid the most. Plus, they have tons of respect, and when people go see them, they bring food: some chicken, or farmers bring some bananas or beans.
We talked about the travel embargo, as Peter and I have with others here. We talked about the jineteros and how annoying they are, but everyone has to live, and the houses need to pay their large taxes, so need the services. J. goes to the bus station herself, though. All this was over coffee that she had just roasted and ground herself.
We bought a guanabana (fruit) today. J. says she will make it into juice for us tomorrow.
Moments:
18 hours of transit later, we got to Baracoa: 7 hours in a minivan, just us, then waiting 2-7am at the bus station in Santiago, bus at 7:45 to Baracoa, arrive around 1pm. Initial views of Baracoa were disappointing - some ugly 70's apartment buildings, but in the centro, there are lovely old houses, the wood splitting on the columns of the porches. Closer to Cien Anos de Solitud, but still not really what I pictured. Today, we walked out towards the Playa Blanca, and on the way is a small group of houses, maybe 12-15, and they are more like it: a dirt road runs between them, and the vines grow up the porches, and small crops grow nearby and animal pens behind. Maybe less grass - I always picture grass, but this seemed right.
Last night after fish for dinner, we went to the Trova house, to listen to music. What a strange scene. Wonderful mix of locals and tourists, crazy owner, good music, easy-going dancing. I danced one song with a nice man - I didn't know what I was doing, but he was patient. There were these two older men with young, pretty women. The owner, who announced everyone, said they were from Greece. The women had to be prostitutes, I don't think from here, though I guess could be Cuban still. Nice couple was next to me: she is Colombian, he German, they live in Germany. By Peter, a very nice Baracoan woman.
I had an interesting talk with J., our hostess here. It is the second time someone here has said, "Hay que vivir" (One has to live). The first was the woman selling fruit where the bus stopped, to justify the pricing to the person in front of me. J. and I talked about the economics here. I asked about the Doctor question - in a Socialist country, why are there so many if they all get paid the same? Turns out they don't - they get paid the most. Plus, they have tons of respect, and when people go see them, they bring food: some chicken, or farmers bring some bananas or beans.
We talked about the travel embargo, as Peter and I have with others here. We talked about the jineteros and how annoying they are, but everyone has to live, and the houses need to pay their large taxes, so need the services. J. goes to the bus station herself, though. All this was over coffee that she had just roasted and ground herself.
We bought a guanabana (fruit) today. J. says she will make it into juice for us tomorrow.
Moments:
- Trying to explain Gilligan's Island to J. and A. - one of the actors was in an old movie they were watching this morning. We think it was the Pied Piper.
- Yesterday, in the tour office, one guy who worked there trying to imagine tacos from the descriptions of Mexican visitors.
Trinidad, 25? Febrero 2010
So many people selling stuff. Food in a house, place to stay, cigars. Whole streets of handicrafts. Trinidad is pretty, but all the pressure taints my experience of it. Yesterday, the ice cream saved me. And Peter, who agreed to go out and find us a room. Shrimp dinner was fine, with yummy squash soup.Peter's work opportunity comes at an ironic time and challenging. Ironic: we are in this poor, socialist country and D. writes with a big-money offer. Peter will likely go to Con
necticut as soon as we get back. Challenging because email is expensive here ($6/hour) and slow. Peter doesn't have cold weather clothes here, nor in Mexico.Peter finally found a hat that fits his head, and has decided to DRAW on it. Oy.
Tonight to Santiago de Cuba and hopefully right from there to Baracoa.
Last night, I went out to reserve the bus tickets, and on the way back I ran into a woman who
asked me for clothes or soap, then a man, my age or so, and his mom (?) who chatted me up (the man) and suggested I come back to Trinidad without my spouse: "Me entiendes, Guapa?"It feels more like waiting here, killing time, than it should.
My digestion has turned a bit mushy. Hopefully that won't persist.
Vinales, 24 Febrero 2010
Yesterday:Jardin de la Caridad -- flowers, fruit. My first starfruit tree! Full of fruit, chickens nibbling the fallen ones. Hanging dolls and heads. Tree of beer cans.
Horses: mine liked being second, would bite the others when they came close. French family. Cave with Italians. We were the only to swim. The water tasted nice, fresh.
Today: Met two women from Portland. Tour bus around the valley. OJ and OJ with rum at a stand by the Cueva del Indio. Man selling woven palm baskets.
The OJ woman jokes with Peter when he calls her "senorita". "Senorita? Gracias!"Camera ran out of batteries.
Looking for the bathroom, we see a sign, "Bufalo" Oh! Look, and there it is: a lovely, huge water buffalo. Peter sits to draw it.
Beautiful wooden hummingbirds.
Bufalo chews his cud.
Later: Mojitos, Chachas, lluvia, South African Brits explain Winnie Mandela. Gotta love their dancing.
Dinner tonight is pork. Pollo, pescado, cerdo. The pollo fue el mejor. La salsa tan rica! Desayunos de huevos fritos, pan, mantequilla (con sal!), jugo, cafe fuerte, fruta (siempre fruta), habia la mas rica mermelada de mango ayer.
Band sings Ob La Di en espanol. Something like, "Otra vez pasara?"
Vinales, 23 Febrero 2010
The most beautiful country in the world.We swam in mineral water in a cave.
There are people who don't take medicine, they drink this water.
Reading Omnivore's Dilemma is surreal here -- we are eating meals that come directly from here. Orlando points out the tree
where our guava grew, the field where the melanga (like yucca) comes from.It hurts to sit -- rode horses today. Poor, small horse with me on top. It was a battle of the wills -- she wanted to snack, I wanted to go. She won most of the time.
Juana and Orlando have dahlias in the garden.
What food we don't eat goes to the pig. Tonight, it was a piece of fish. We said they should eat it, but Orlando says he doesn't like fish and Juana says she is allergic. So, to the pig. We suggested we would eat it tomorrow, but they were very clear: It's not good to keep food. Others do that, but not them; all leftovers to the pig! Lucky pig (for now).
I have now sampled 2 cigars. I don't really relish them, but at least th
ese are without chemicals.Tried to explain TV commercials to Orlando and Juana -- Peter wanted to know if they have them here, but it is hard to describe something that isn't. "They interrupt the program to convince you to buy products." "Foreign?" "No, in general. Like, buy this: it's good." "Oh...no."
Day 1: Blank For Now
The day we arrived, I grabbed a piece of paper (the back of one of the pages of the guidebook that we printed out), and had to scribble down some impressions. That's what started my journaling. I soon moved from that to a moleskine that Peter had with him and kept writing. The tone, at least at the beginning is different than my Mexico blog. Or, I think so. Let me know what you think.
However, for now, I am not sure where my original page is. I hope we didn't throw it away. For now, I'm reserving this first post area for the hope that I will find it again.
Otherwise, I ask that you please not share this blog with people Peter and I don't know without checking with us first.
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