I got to my Casa at about quarter to 7 in the morning and sat in the front foyer waiting for my room to be vacated. My host said it would be about an hour, so I had a seat, grabbed my travel journal, my Cuban cigarettes, and wrote a little update of arrival in Santiago. The sun had come up and the streets were no longer silent, they were now alive and teeming with people, dogs, cars, and an incredible number of motorcycles. The Casa was right on the main thoroughfare of town just a couple of blocks up from the centre. I watched all the activity through the bars of the front window until two hours had passed. The sweet coffee I had been offered was long gone and I was starting to smoke too many cigarettes trying to stay awake. I watched a man take the little engine of his motorcycle apart, wipe everything down, and put it all back together. It was an unsuccessful operation, as he was unable to get the machine started. Two mornings later, I watched him do it all over again. It still wouldn't run. I wished I had already taken the motorcycle mechanics course at BCIT, then I could have joined him in trying to fix it.
Three and a half hours after my arrival, I was finally admitted to my room. After a shower and a nap, I headed out on my first exploration of Santiago. I ended up going straight to the centre square (Parques Cespedes) and hired a taxi to drive me out of town to a fortress called Castillo del Morro that is on a bluff over the Caribbean Sea. When I got back to town I checked out a bunch of sights: Ayuntamiento, where Castro stood on the balcony overlooking the Parque Cespedes and delivered his triumphant speech on New Year's Day 1959; Plaza Marte, a very busy square which has a monument to the veterans of the Wars of Independence and a constant gathering of locals jamming on a variety of instruments; Parque Abel Santamaria, where there is a large monument to Abel featuring the epigram
"Morir por la patria es vivir" (To die for your country is to live) next to a field where myself and two kids watched a big group of boys playing baseball; and The Cuartel Moncada, the building that Castro and his revolutionaries unsuccessfully stormed on July 26, 1953. The Cuartel still features bullet holes from the battle, and one of Castro's guns from his time in the Sierra Maestra is there which has carved in it the national flag and the inscription
"Vale mas morir de pies a vivir de rodillas" (It's better to die on your feet than to live on your knees), and while this initial attack was a failure, it lead to Castro's historic "history will absolve me" speech, won him widespread support, and set him on road to victory. These were really all the 'sights' I wanted to see in town, and I reconfirmed my theory that I tour too quickly. I guess I'm too used to only being able to afford quick trips (like the two day weekend I spent seeing everything in D.C. and taking a bus to Charlottesville, VA and back before catching a plane home to go to work), which isn't so bad I guess, because then I have lots of time left over to not be all touristy and just absorb the locale instead. That night I had one of the longest, most intricate, interesting, craziest dreams I've ever had.
Over breakfast the next morning, I was furiously writing the story of my dream before it was lost in my brain forever when one of the other guests, a young woman from Guantanamo who did not speak English, struck up a 'conversation' with me. We ended up exchanging addresses, and I absolutely must remember to send her a postcard. The next day I decided to try and find the Cemerterio Santa Ifigenia where Jose Marti's mausoleum is. It's not on my map, but I knew it was 3km northwest of Parques Cespedes, so I grabbed my compass and just started walking out of town. I found the train station along the way, and ended up walking through the mud hut slums on the outer edge of town before I finally found the cemetery. As I was leaving I got to watch the changing of the guards at the mausoleum. They do it every half hour to the sound of blasting revolutionary marching music. After that, on my way to the Plaza de Revolucion on a bicitaxi, some guy sitting in a doorway yelled "Hey lady! I saw you in Havana!", he looked familiar, so maybe I talked to him, so I just shouted, "Oh yeah! Hello!" and waved as we passed each other. My ride was through more of the same poor neighbourhoods, places that are not at all like the poor city dwelling areas. Nobody treated me with contempt or scorn for my obvious wealth in comparison, though somehow I felt like I should have been. It's remarkable how these places seem so untouched by the kind of anger, greed and resentment that I'm used to in the western world. I felt perfectly safe everywhere I went, even late a night, in places that I would likely absolute avoid by day in North America. The Plaza de Revolucion has an enormous monument to Antonio Maceo in it. It's a 16 metre steel effigy of Maceo on a rearing horse atop a jade marble staircase that is backed by dozens of even higher steel machetes that represent his rebellion and courage. I walked the few kilometres back into town from there and ate dinner at this fabulous Paladares. I took a seat on the narrow little balcony and ate the standard pollo frito with the usual beans and rice accompaniment. After dinner I had a seat in a doorway across the street from the famous Casa de la Trova and listened to the wonderful music being performed. The club is on the second floor, and I could see the musicians and people dancing through the open doors that let out onto a long balcony. After two sets, I walked the two blocks back to my Casa and called it a night.
I spent the next day wandering about Santiago and even walked way east out of town to where the rich people used to live. It's now just crumbling mansions, but the roads are wide and leafy. It was very peaceful and beautiful. That was it, just walked around looking at stuff, listening to musicians, keeping my eyes and ears open. I gathered my pack in the evening and walked out of town to the bus station to wait for my ride back to Havana. I watched two hours of Cuban television, which was fucking fantastic! Saw the end of some kind of cowboy movie/show, a little public service announcement/cartoon about how programming directed/suitable for children was now over, the news, and lastly, a show dedicated to the upcoming New Year and Liberation Day celebrations that featured different bands, singers, and dancers. The bus was not at all full so I got two seats to myself, but it was so cold that I could barely sleep a wink. This bus stopped in many places, which was cool to see, but proved that I was not on an express line but the 16 hour route. A very sleepy, tired, hungry, thirsty Spage arrived in Havana at about 2 p.m. the next day. I didn't even care that I was being hosed for the cost of my ride back into town from the station. When I got back to my Casa, I didn't stop, just turned around and left again because I knew I'd just pass out. It was December 31st and I was back in Havana. I wasn't about to miss a thing.
I got to my Casa at about quarter to 7 in the morning and sat in the front foyer waiting for my room to be vacated. My host said it would be about an hour, so I had a seat, grabbed my travel journal, my Cuban cigarettes, and wrote a little update of arrival in Santiago. The sun had come up and the streets were no longer silent, they were now alive and teeming with people, dogs, cars, and an incredible number of motorcycles. The Casa was right on the main thoroughfare of town just a couple of blocks up from the centre. I watched all the activity through the bars of the front window until two hours had passed. The sweet coffee I had been offered was long gone and I was starting to smoke too many cigarettes trying to stay awake. I watched a man take the little engine of his motorcycle apart, wipe everything down, and put it all back together. It was an unsuccessful operation, as he was unable to get the machine started. Two mornings later, I watched him do it all over again. It still wouldn't run. I wished I had already taken the motorcycle mechanics course at BCIT, then I could have joined him in trying to fix it.
Three and a half hours after my arrival, I was finally admitted to my room. After a shower and a nap, I headed out on my first exploration of Santiago. I ended up going straight to the centre square (Parques Cespedes) and hired a taxi to drive me out of town to a fortress called Castillo del Morro that is on a bluff over the Caribbean Sea. When I got back to town I checked out a bunch of sights: Ayuntamiento, where Castro stood on the balcony overlooking the Parque Cespedes and delivered his triumphant speech on New Year's Day 1959; Plaza Marte, a very busy square which has a monument to the veterans of the Wars of Independence and a constant gathering of locals jamming on a variety of instruments; Parque Abel Santamaria, where there is a large monument to Abel featuring the epigram "Morir por la patria es vivir" (To die for your country is to live) next to a field where myself and two kids watched a big group of boys playing baseball; and The Cuartel Moncada, the building that Castro and his revolutionaries unsuccessfully stormed on July 26, 1953. The Cuartel still features bullet holes from the battle, and one of Castro's guns from his time in the Sierra Maestra is there which has carved in it the national flag and the inscription "Vale mas morir de pies a vivir de rodillas" (It's better to die on your feet than to live on your knees), and while this initial attack was a failure, it lead to Castro's historic "history will absolve me" speech, won him widespread support, and set him on road to victory. These were really all the 'sights' I wanted to see in town, and I reconfirmed my theory that I tour too quickly. I guess I'm too used to only being able to afford quick trips (like the two day weekend I spent seeing everything in D.C. and taking a bus to Charlottesville, VA and back before catching a plane home to go to work), which isn't so bad I guess, because then I have lots of time left over to not be all touristy and just absorb the locale instead. That night I had one of the longest, most intricate, interesting, craziest dreams I've ever had.
Over breakfast the next morning, I was furiously writing the story of my dream before it was lost in my brain forever when one of the other guests, a young woman from Guantanamo who did not speak English, struck up a 'conversation' with me. We ended up exchanging addresses, and I absolutely must remember to send her a postcard. The next day I decided to try and find the Cemerterio Santa Ifigenia where Jose Marti's mausoleum is. It's not on my map, but I knew it was 3km northwest of Parques Cespedes, so I grabbed my compass and just started walking out of town. I found the train station along the way, and ended up walking through the mud hut slums on the outer edge of town before I finally found the cemetery. As I was leaving I got to watch the changing of the guards at the mausoleum. They do it every half hour to the sound of blasting revolutionary marching music. After that, on my way to the Plaza de Revolucion on a bicitaxi, some guy sitting in a doorway yelled "Hey lady! I saw you in Havana!", he looked familiar, so maybe I talked to him, so I just shouted, "Oh yeah! Hello!" and waved as we passed each other. My ride was through more of the same poor neighbourhoods, places that are not at all like the poor city dwelling areas. Nobody treated me with contempt or scorn for my obvious wealth in comparison, though somehow I felt like I should have been. It's remarkable how these places seem so untouched by the kind of anger, greed and resentment that I'm used to in the western world. I felt perfectly safe everywhere I went, even late a night, in places that I would likely absolute avoid by day in North America. The Plaza de Revolucion has an enormous monument to Antonio Maceo in it. It's a 16 metre steel effigy of Maceo on a rearing horse atop a jade marble staircase that is backed by dozens of even higher steel machetes that represent his rebellion and courage. I walked the few kilometres back into town from there and ate dinner at this fabulous Paladares. I took a seat on the narrow little balcony and ate the standard pollo frito with the usual beans and rice accompaniment. After dinner I had a seat in a doorway across the street from the famous Casa de la Trova and listened to the wonderful music being performed. The club is on the second floor, and I could see the musicians and people dancing through the open doors that let out onto a long balcony. After two sets, I walked the two blocks back to my Casa and called it a night.
I spent the next day wandering about Santiago and even walked way east out of town to where the rich people used to live. It's now just crumbling mansions, but the roads are wide and leafy. It was very peaceful and beautiful. That was it, just walked around looking at stuff, listening to musicians, keeping my eyes and ears open. I gathered my pack in the evening and walked out of town to the bus station to wait for my ride back to Havana. I watched two hours of Cuban television, which was fucking fantastic! Saw the end of some kind of cowboy movie/show, a little public service announcement/cartoon about how programming directed/suitable for children was now over, the news, and lastly, a show dedicated to the upcoming New Year and Liberation Day celebrations that featured different bands, singers, and dancers. The bus was not at all full so I got two seats to myself, but it was so cold that I could barely sleep a wink. This bus stopped in many places, which was cool to see, but proved that I was not on an express line but the 16 hour route. A very sleepy, tired, hungry, thirsty Spage arrived in Havana at about 2 p.m. the next day. I didn't even care that I was being hosed for the cost of my ride back into town from the station. When I got back to my Casa, I didn't stop, just turned around and left again because I knew I'd just pass out. It was December 31st and I was back in Havana. I wasn't about to miss a thing.
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