I have a very strange dream. I am sitting in the living room of a house which is a large, stunning open-plan property in the country and I am minding my own business, reading the paper and facing the view. I hear the sound of a hunt bugle and then, looking up I see what (in my dream) I know is the Pytchley and they are almost upon me, horses, hooves, whips, hounds, noise, confusion and I cover my face to protect myself. Then they are gone, having left me intact but a sea of debris and devastation around me. I wake up, not sure, for a moment, where I am.
The sun is filtering through the curtains which just about cover the patio doors to the balcony. Through the gap I catch a glimpse of the clothes I wore yesterday which I have washed and laid out over the balcony chair to dry. I look at my phone, it is just before 6am. I drag myself out of bed and slightly part the curtain to survey the day. Nothing is happening. It is too early to get up but even though I go back and lay on the bed I cannot drift back into sleep. I doze for a bit and then get up again, restless. A swim before breakfast beckons. The hotel does not have a ‘proper’ pool in that it is a strange shape which means you cannot swim lengths. It is what I call a ‘dipping’ pool - for people that don’t really swim but just want to get wet. But it’s water and I am drawn to it and so I take off my wrap and sit on the edge and ease myself in. I allow myself to sink to the bottom which is not very deep, only about 4 feet. I have my eyes closed, and just feel the comfort of the warmth of the water around me and I wish I could hold my breath longer but in the end I have to surface. I swim a few widths which is not very far, then hoist myself up on to the side and look out, beyond the low wall to the sea which is grey and choppy. I think about the day ahead, then put on my wrap and go up to my room to change. We are here for two nights to I don’t have to concern myself with packing but I find places to hide my valuables and get changed and go down to breakfast.
The breakfast buffet is diverse and notionally in three parts – coffee and bread, open range cooking for omelettes and other such things, and then pastries at the end. There is fresh fruit and berries part way down which I head for first. The size of the papayas and mango astounds me, the specimens we get at home are poor cousins by comparison. Being the first of our group down I select a table near the window and sit down, unfolding my tissue-thin serviette and flicking the flies away from my plate. There are a few people here already and after a few minutes one of my own group arrives and then another. We chat about the day, still finding our way with each other, exploring backgrounds and experiences, I am always astounded how well travelled people are. I hide away in what I hope is a nonchalant fashion some cheese and ham for the cat. Probably not the ideal diet but I figure she won’t be that discerning.
Our briefing for the day and the remainder of the week takes place at a table in the reception and our group is now complete, there are seven of us in total. Just right for doing stuff together but large enough a group to split into two or three where the mood takes us. The itinerary is laid out – two days to get to know Havana old and new, then heading SE to Cienfuegos and the Bay of Pigs, then up to Trinidad, Santa Clara and back to Havana. With lots of music, Mojitos and fun in between. We leave at about 10am boarding the mini bus, finding the seats that, more or less, we will occupy for the whole of the week. We humans are creatures of habit. Ernesto our mini bus driver is introduced but we are told he is not the REAL Ernesto. He is not Che we are told. A polite ripple of laughter goes around the bus.
We are heading into central Havana for the day and this takes only about 15 or 20 minutes though after about five minutes I have already lost my bearing. There is so much to photograph that I almost can’t put the camera down. Being in Havana is almost like a real-time movie set. Miramar, the district where our hotel is based was as I said earlier a very fashionable area in the 1900s to the 1950s and many of the houses are large and have sizeable gardens around them which I expected at one point would have needed full-time help. But now most have been reclaimed by nature at least to some point but even this wildness has its own charm and beauty. One of the houses, on the corner and painted a pale coral pink has been converted into a school and as we pause at the lights we see through open glass doors into a a class of young girls, maybe 7 or 8 years old, beautifully turned out in their maroon and pale blue uniforms. They are sitting cross-legged on the floor listening intently to their teacher. I wonder if British school children of that age are quite so rapt. We are running parallel to the coast but getting closer to town and we begin to see restaurants and kiosks and other private enterprises which are now legal in Cuba. We pass a small marina with work-a-day boats and I make a note to come back to photograph it. In common with what I saw on the way from the airport, there are groups of old and young men sitting under trees, chatting, smoking and generally just passing time. I think about the fact that the US is only 90 miles away with all the delights and dangers that capitalism and consumerism can offer and marvel at the fact that two such different cultures exist only a stone’s-throw-away in modern transport terms. It can’t be said that they exist in any form of harmony though. That said, we learn that the US now gives 20,000 visas a year to Cubans to visit their relations in the US and that there are several flights a day into and out of Miami from Havana. But Cubans cannot I believe travel with their families and if that isn’t as type of hostage taking then I don’t know what is. I wonder about a regime that so restricts the freedoms of its people. And then I contemplate what freedom brings and think about the global economic crisis which has come about as a consequence of greed and avarice and so don’t allow myself to judge, not until I know more.
There are many, many motorbikes and sidecars in Cuba. Fifteen years ago (I seem to recollect) fuel was still rationed but now it isn’t but personal transport is still beyond the means of most Cubans in terms of having cars and travelling distances. Hitch-hiking is a way of life that we see often particularly later in the week when we head out of town. But today we are still in Havana and heading down town via Passeo Avenue passing what are now semi-derelict or neglected properties but which must have been at one time impressive and beautiful houses owned by wealthy and powerful individuals. We are told that they are still inhabited despite how rundown they look but in most of them there are now multiple families. Almost all have areas held up with builder’s props or wooden trusses and elaborate braces. I feel myself shiver as I contemplate what it must be like to live there and go to bed not entirely confident that the walls or the floors will hold up. Laying down and closing your eyes every night must become an act of faith. Or maybe you just get used to it. Coming into Vedado district the houses are much smarter and better looked after and it is clear that there is still some money here. These wide streets were orientated towards the ocean breezes for the individuals who once had them lavishly designed and built mostly on the back of money coming in from rocketing sugar prices. We pass the British Ambassador’s House which our guide tells us has many bedrooms, maybe ten or fifteen. In the past, back in the 30s and 40s poor people were actually banned from coming to this district. You can begin to understand how the early seeds of revolutionary thought may have begun to fester.
The road system suddenly opens out at Revolution Square and the scale catches me by surprise. I dip into the guidebook and find it is 12km² and can hold more than half a million people, which it did quite regularly when Castro when still in speech-making shape. He was not renowned for his brevity and in 1986 he gave a speech which lasted eight hours. I muse on the fact that he probably has a bit of an ego. The square is dominated by the José Marti Memorial which stands 109m high and behind it are, we are told, are the closely guarded offices of former President Castro. I don’t expect they like you just wandering around over there so I stick to the Plaza and take photos with a zoom lens instead. Behind us is the iconic Che Guevara image set into the stone face of a multi-story building below which is his famous slogan “Hasta la Victoria Siempre” – Until the Everlasting Victory, Always. Wherever you go in Cuba you see this image and for a moment I think about him and wonder what it would take for me to fight for and give us my life for the freedom of others. I also wonder what would have happened if, like Castro, he had survived and if Cuba would have been different. Around the top of the memorial several dozen Turkey Vultures are circling and it brings to mind the Adams Family House from the 1960s cartoon. I decide not to mention that to the guide as it is a bit early in the holiday to get deported.
Our next stop is a tobacco store - cigars along with Rum being Cuba’s most famous exports. The shop is quite small and the counter is packed three or four deep with customers (tourists that is) straining to see what is on offer. There are single cigars, packs of cigars, mixed packs of cigars. They cost more than I imagined given they are made just down the road. Cigar humidors sit proudly to one side and their cedarwood cases have an expensive sheen. I avoid the throng and head over to the humidors to get an idea of price, they too are expensive. Beautiful but expensive. I am not sure I am bothered enough by cigars to take the chance of having my toes stood on or an elbow in my ribs so I wander over to the small stand-up coffee counter and chat, in pigeon-Spanish, with the two guys serving coffee. At first they think they have a customer but I have to disappoint them, all I want is a ‘still life’ photo which gives an essence of the place and between us know enough English/Spanish words for me to get across that I would like an empty coffee cup, a Mojito type glass and a couple of packs of Cuban cigarettes which I arrange in which I hope is a fairly artistic manner. The shots actually look quite good when I check them on the back of the camera. I get the guys in a shot too so they don’t feel left out but like most Cubans they seem easy going and smile a lot. The sea of people at the cigar counter briefly parts as one coach leaves and just before another arrives I deftly slip into the gap and make my purchase. Then seeing that one of our party is in protracted negotiations over some multi-pack or other I decide to wait outside instead and watch the world go by. The old black guy standing on the door has a large cigar in his mouth. The door creaks as he opens it and before I pass through he gives me a revolutionary salute. I smile and he winks at me. He is so old he could even have been there in ’59 but I know my Spanish doesn’t stretch far enough to ask him. Outside in the bright sunshine I catch sight of a couple of interesting characters having their hair cut in a barber shop so with camera in hand I go over the road and say ‘hola’.
See the Cuba photographs on the gallery.