FINAL OBSERVATIONS ON HAVANA …

 

The city is a disaster, really.  Thick clouds from low-hanging smog hang inches above the street.  American cars left over from Pre-Revolution days (1959) when American Gangsters ran the city, rumble through the streets like light tanks.  They never exceed 20 mph.  Thus there are few accidents.  I don’t have any idea how they get spare parts, but watch any corner and it will appear as if you are stuck in an old Jimmy Cagney movie.  The exhaust belching troglodytes never stop appearing.  Many have been beautifully restored.  Most are used as taxis, at least part time.

 

Piles of garbage proliferate, and go untended for weeks on end.  Locals stand around regularly in small groups, with nothing much else to do.  Potholes and obstacles abound.  Police are everywhere, but they do nothing.  Except talk on their cell phones and surreptitiously sell cigars.  Only Detroit looks worse as far as a city’s infrastructure goes.  And yet, the better parts easily do justice to Seville, Barcelona, Madrid, Paris, and London – and boast more style variations.

 

The citizenry is famously friendly and hospitable.  And generous with what little they have. When in doubt, all answers end in “Yes.”  Or -- “Of course.”  Strangers are neither turned away nor neglected.  Very few hosts take advantage of a visitor’s naivete as to Cuban pricing, customs, dual monetary system, or government edicts.  They all have “businesses on the side” but manage to stay within tolerable limits of what the government will allow.  Mainly, Fidel & Company just want their share.  And they don’t want to be politically challenged.

 

Manuel seems to be a charming exception to the “don’t take advantage” rule.  Not sure what his job is, but he appears capable of being gone for days at a time and nobody really requires a check-in from him.  This seems to be commonplace in Cuba.  Drifting is allowed, even encouraged, when opportunity raises its capitalistic head.  Somehow on the morning of my departure, he has it in HIS head that WE are going to Vinales.

 

So he appoints himself in an assumptive sort of way as my handler.  He earnestly takes over my conversations, stops listening, and begins directing.  Somehow he fancies that he has fathomed my intentions.  For awhile, I am amused by this.  And appreciate the duty of constant interpretation being lifted.  He seems as if he’d be good company for a couple days, but there is no way I am going to pay his way for the weekend or give the impression we are more than friends.

 

We have a world class lunch near the station for the bus carrier Viazul.  This, to continue celebrating the arrival of money and make up for lost meals over the previous three days.  Having missed one bus, there are three hours to kill.  So, a nearby seafood restaurant with air conditioning and a fine internet reputation called La Casa beckons.  Immediately inside, I notice an indoor stream and a waterfall.  They try to put us in the back, where it is warmest, but I balk.  I clarify that “My preference is to be closest to the waterfall.”

 

Manuel orders a mixed seafood appetizer plate, consisting of fish, minced ham nuggets, raw calamari, rabbit in chile relleno sauce, ceviche, and several other delicious sidecars.  Then grilled fish with jamon for himself.  I order my usual paella (whenever it is available, unless the Italian Cioppino version is present, or its French cousin Bouillabaisse).  Halfway into the appetizer, I scoot backward to retrieve my napkin.

 

An unseen vertical drop swallows one of the legs of my chair, and I tilt backward.  Slowly at first, and then inevitably ass over teakettle.  I slam my head against the rear wall beside the waterfall, but avoid full immersion in the cascade or the stream by doing a reverse crab move.  Only my butt takes a dunking.  People nearby are stunned.

 

Momentarily the same is true of me.  “Did they score?” I cry out.  Nobody understands this, of course.  That I had nearly four months previously, knocked myself out in a collision with a soccer goal post by diving to prevent a well struck scoring attempt in an International Friendly match against a Canadian team.  The locals expect me to be dazed, helpless, and bleeding.  I brush myself off, retrieve my watch from the stream, and act as if nothing has happened.  Manuel is not sure how to react.  A bit of careful humor is parlayed.  “You said you wanted to be close to the waterfall,” he chirps.

 

The staff can not do enough afterward to assist.  They move the table away from the stream.  Free drinks on the house are offered.  They are very conscious of my every need.  And I in turn, use the occasion to clarify with Manuel that his company and interpretive powers have been very valuable, but it is time to hit the road on my own.

 

It is difficult to write and think given constant attention and differing needs, if you do not have a very clear prior understanding with a guest, temporary company, travel partner, or lover.  That is one reason I write late into the night.  It is a long-standing habit.  That way you don’t miss the field trips, the parties, the excursions, the conversations, diversions, and other fun as well.  None of that takes place early mornings anyway.  A good time to sleep in.  A good tradeoff.

 

 

BRIEF REASSURANCES TO THOSE AT HOME ...

This will be the shortest, tersest blog yet. Just wanted to reassure those of you following that late last night, A very trusting French "Road Angel" came through for me in Havana. Guaranteed enough money to get out of Havana and pay my hotel bill so they didn't put me in one of Fidel's little underground debtor's grottos here. Then this morning, the extended efforts of my son Sean through Western Union (I think he learned a huge lesson in persistence, which is my hallmark, but for which I am extremely grateful) came through.

I have money to pay ALL my bills now, and travel to Vinales -- the Cuban version of Yosemite. It is my favorite place in the world, that magnificent valley in California. Okay, this is on dial up, and will take half an hour to load for this short little paragraph. I'll put something on word tonight and tomorrow, and try to get it on here without having to compose as I go at a very expensive rate. For now, all is okay.

Money in the pocket, foreign tourists to talk to, cerveza waiting in the wings, and excellent Cuban food to make my belly swell. Should be a great day tomorrow. Vinales is "the beauty spot" of Cuba, with caves, cliffs, climbing, tobacco fields, rivers, hiking, and much beauty all around. More, as I can. Back to Mexico the 30th and hopefully find myself in Belize with a working phone and FULL internet access by the 31st. Ciao !

No photos until I get full internet access and have time to linger and not pay for time by the minute at extortion rates. Perhaps Sunday?

--Larry, FWT

WHEN IN HAVANA … (WITH A TWIST) 

I wake uncharacteristically at 6:30 AM. More sleep than I’ve had in a decade overnight. Start blogging right away, to catch up on the last two busy days in Havana. Largely, I am waiting for a money transfer from home. Without it, my options are very limited. Allowing for the time differences, I check my e-mail past 2 PM and find … it ain’t that easy. This is Cuba. I am an American. The financial firewall is nearly complete.

I run into a young friend, Manny, who has dual American and Mexican citizenship. We have visited at the Central Hotel a number of times while accessing the internet for the past 48 hours, and we have both experienced the same problems. Still no dinero from home. My sons try valiantly to put a transfer through Western Union, but that particular service demands impossible levels of information, including the region and exact district I am in here in Havana. Didn’t know it is Playa (there are 19 in Havana Central alone). So we work it out one question at a time. Which means hours of delays.

As of 5 PM on the day after Christmas, with a three hour time difference between here and Seattle, there is no money yet. So, with nine CUC remaining in my pocket – eight of which is needed for one final hour of internet access – I walk the streets with one lousy CUC effectively to my name. And then walk some more. The reality becomes, this situation provides a gift of insight for my thick Irish/Italian head. My empathy factor is forced – like the heart of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas – to grow three sizes this day. I have been making notes all along about what the locals do for fun. So many of them have nothing.

So they walk, too. They play street futbol. They hang out at the seawall on the Malecon. They browse shops (before being quickly ushered out). They cadge cigarettes. They fish. They make out in cubbies all over the city. And they try to engage foreigners and especially English speakers in conversation. Many thusly engage me while walking in the core of Central Havana and Old Havana. They are awestruck that a Yankee would be here, let alone in their same situation – sans cash, and sans opportunity. I listen to their stories closely. They approach me carefully at first, afraid of being caught talking to a foreigner by police, or afraid of security cameras.

One young man who is hanging out near the seawall with three friends at the Malecon engages me very carefully. All four are black. “Can I ask you one single question? He asks. I generally look to this as a prelude for the usual request for a donation. Or to bum a cigarette. Or directions to a favored restaurant. Or a referral to the Cuban version of a cathouse. “We just want to know what is going on in the world,” Barbaro says. “Our government won’t tell us anything. And what we are told, we know is wrong.”

I warily engage the four in conversation. They soon ask for a photo together. Again, my hackles go up.  I waggle with my backpack and clutch my camera. Care is taken to make sure nobody is circling behind me. Or that arms do not reach near my backpack zippers. Sad, in retrospect. But real life does this to the experienced traveler. They go on to describe life for the poor in Cuba. Especially the black poor. If you should be unlucky enough to be black in Cuba, your economic opportunities are severely limited. That is not the official story line, of course. Not with the trumpeted “Equalidad” of the Revolution. But racism, they assure me, is alive and well here in Cuba. Moreso than the United States.

Everything that is possible, I am told, is done to keep blacks away from tourists and local spenders. If you have lighter skin, and speak anything approximating foreign languages, you can get a job in a restaurant or hotel where one can be proximate to visitors. That way the tourist economy benefits kick in. That means tips. Which are paid in CUC. Allowing access to US and European and Canadian goods, like shampoo and soaps and toothpaste and decent shoes and clothes. And food. All four are hungry. But they believe me, understand my situation, and sympathize with me. The zenith of irony.

They are pouring their hearts out. I start to relax. My heart in turn goes out to them. I may be the first westerner they have ever talked to. They specifically just want to engage. And nothing from me beyond that. We talk for perhaps 45 minutes. Barbaro gives me his shared e-mail address, to send them their photo. I know I would like to see them again, to share a beer and perhaps even a meal if my money arrives tomorrow. I promise to look for them in the same area of the seawall, at the artillery fort where the Malecon faces the lighthouse on the opposite side of the Bahia de La Habana at The Castillo de los Tres Santos Reyes Magnos del Morro.

It remains a special place for me, hours later. I was given a rare gift. Much the same thing takes place further on in my meandering. Primarily women this time, approach. Some want help for their children. Some want to provide sexual services in exchange for payment or a meal. I decline, but with much more empathy than previously. Sometimes they still want to talk. Most of them seem nice. They don’t have the hard shell of regular life on the streets. But they are starving. And they are desperate. That is made very plain.

Most (like me) have not eaten at all this day. I get the impression that this is fairly regular fare for many of them. When I arrive at my Casa Particular, Ody inquires in her rapid Spanish how my day has gone. As usual, we piece it together bit by bit. She too, is empathetic about the money wire situation not happening yet from North America. And very understanding. Because at this point, one would begin to get the impression this story of mine is like old fish or relatives after three days. Time for a change. She offers encouragement. But more importantly, a meal.

I realize I’ve had nothing to drink all day, either, and she fills me up with bottled water and her usual dinner of salad, yucca instead of potatoes, black bean sauce with rice, cucumbers and tomatoes, and chicken (pollo) instead of pork (puerco). The thanks that I offer, is given up with much more earnestness than usual …

CHRISTMAS IN HAVANA


Christmas Day begins bright and sunny. I had been decidedly ditched by the dubious Dane. To my utter delight. Now I could travel freestyle again. It was beautiful out. And wonderfully breezy. I begin with blogging, and explaining in short bursts and hand gestures to Ody (the maid, who is like my Den Mother here) and Alberto my money quandary at the moment. Then out to hit the streets again. Armed with computer, local map, Lonely Planet guide to Cuba, and not much else.

It is t-shirt and shorts weather. A grand day to see what is so. It ends up being a brief but intense day. I am off. Back to Ambos Mundos to enjoy their terrific bar. Then to the nearby exquisite Hotel Santa Isabel, ostensibly to check e-mail. I have another Cristal. Such a satisfying beer! Their internet won’t work for laptops. The young lady who has described their card system to me is crying. I notice she is limping badly, and look down to spot a heavily bandaged foot with blood escaping around the edges of her wraps. I am down to $35 CUC by that time, but give her $5 just to ease her day. “Feliz Navidad,” I offer in parting.

Again, I am mindful that the average salary here is between $8 and $32 monthly. Hopefully, this small gesture will take some of the edge off her pain. She offers me a hug, and some rapid Spanish gratis that I can not fathom. She has no help and her tears take on a different stripe. She still must work alone while injured on this holiday. I wish I could linger. Overall, from hours of wandering the streets, one has to say that the Cuban people are beautiful. The women – who always speak rapidly – are particularly so. The slower, more deliberate speaking men are an odd combination of macho or effeminate, with not much showing in between.

All are fabulously friendly. And generous, despite their obvious financial limitations. You get the occasional exception. Once I heard “Yankee dog” and the whistle of spit emanate from my admirer’s lips. I turn on him suddenly. He is a bit startled, and looks away, as if it is one of the many pelicans overhead that has offered up the insult. “Damn straight on that,” I bark in command English. “And be sure to put your emphasis on the dog part. Perro Americano. No Americano Perro!”

I repair to the nearby Hotel Florida with the same internet access objective in mind but their e-mail is not working. Then back to The Central Hotel for the requisite check of my daily addiction, at a cost of $8 CUC hourly. Only after do I hit the streets in earnest. No map as a guide. I know the general direction to The Malecon, and weave through the streets with the objective of eventually hitting the famous coastal drive and walking boulevard par excellence. Like Las Ramblas in Montevideo or its more famous namesake in Barcelona, The Malecon is the perfect combination of safety, sun, view, water, company, and openness.

It curves for 8.5 kilometers along the waterfront from the piers at Bahia de La Habana to the nightclub district in Vedado. Very few singles are there. Mostly, groups and families linger along the seawall and series of artillery forts that provide photographic backdrops and the occasional seating place. During daylight hours, I am repeatedly stopped. “Where you from, Meester?” they ask. Upon learning I am from the US, to a person they beam. They have no trouble with US. Only our government. “Do you like Cuba? Do you like Cubans?” they ask me. I nod enthusiastically. “Me gusta Cuba mucho. Es el mejor pais en el Caribbean.”

I probably am not stretching things much, to tell them that I like their country very much, and it is the best country in the Caribbean. Often they ask to have their picture taken. Or to take my picture. I know by now that this will result in a request for an “honorarium” for the privilege of taking their photo. Or perhaps a snatch and grab with my camera. So I demure, for the most part. And “waggle” constantly in the vicinity of crowds. Which means my backpack is in a constant state of motion and I will generally feel any attempt to frisk it or open it from behind. I also look at the shadows at my feet and look for rapidly approaching strangers. Only then, does it become possible to relax enough to engage in conversation with locals.

Along the way, I encounter a group of buffed young men playing futbol with an undersized stuffed cloth soccer ball in an enclosed courtyard with a singular, narrow gate. I consider the boundaries and the rough, sculpted, and swarthy build of most of them. Many are bigger than me. Deciding the photo op is too good to pass, I walk in as if they should be buying tickets from me just to be there. I put on a bit of a snarl, just to stay in practice. Sometimes, you have to wear your brass on the outside. Before I can count to tres, they are on me. But with smiles and questions. Not fists.

That is the Cuba I am coming to know and love. “Where is Seattle?” they ask, with genuine interest. “So, you play say you play soccer too. Goalie? Then I am treated to a real gem. I can’t help but burst out in laugher as one of the sweating young men calls out to another: “Amigo, El Viejo is un jugador tambien.” (Buddy, the old one is a player too). He doesn’t know they call me The Larinator on the pitch at home.

The highlight of my ambling along the Malecon is catching a photo of a pelican at the precise moment it hits the water in search of his latest meal. Like vultures, they swing lazily overhead, telltale elongated beaks giving away their make of species. But suddenly one of them spots a blip in the refraction of the water perhaps fifty of feet below. And they head nearly vertically with sudden determination. You think they will pull up, and hit the water as an eagle does, with talons only piercing the waterline. But no. It is full body immersion. This feeding baptism is often rewarded with a wiggling fish, reacting spasmodically and never knowing what has hit them. Or how. Often the meal is enjoyed at a very deliberate pace. Our pelicans appear to be showing off.

Upon completion of my walking tour, I retire for a brief dinner at a nearby diner that is priced in pesos. This is part of a dual money system here, in which the peso currency (which tourists can trade CUC for) generally stretches further for Havana locals. The exchange rate is about 25 pesos to one CUC. But a visitor has to be careful about being grifted by street con artists, offering phony pesos or pesos at much lower exchange rates and giving the impression you are getting a bargain at only two-to-one or perhaps three in the exchange, or maybe four-to-one rates.

My fish dinner is only 170 pesos, or $6 CUC. It is the combination plate, including fish, langostino (or lobster), and camarones (shrimp). It is combined once again with salad, wonderfully soft and sweet potatoes, and brown rice. A Pisces seafood lover’s delight. Complete with two lemonade frappes for $2 CUC to combat the heat and my fatigue from a long walk, this tasty yet economic meal is the perfect ending to my day. I am in bed by 8 PM, for the first time in many, many years.

HAVANA, CUBA


Upon landing, my first stop is the information booth after baggage claim. I know my preference is to stay at a Casa Particular – the string of private homes the Cuban government allows to be rented out to foreigners particularly, in return for half the cash – that are really the best option if one wants a full Cuban experience. The tender there made nearly ten calls for me, largely from a guide section found in Lonely Planet (but also from his own black book of locations). The prices are generally $20 to $40 nightly. This is more than I am used to paying say for South America, but a reasonable fee in these parts.

While negotiating, a confused gay Danish woman comes up to listen in. I seem to know what I am doing, and she gradually latches on. “Ask them while you are calling if they have two rooms available,” she says in decent English. Most places are full. Cuba is popular just now, given its perfect winter weather. After half an hour of patient inquiries, a place is secured with THE host supposedly being one of Havana’s leading actresses. I am careful to specify that passable English must be spoken at this location, and that they have access to the internet or Wi-Fi.

Having secured two rooms for two nights, we retire to the airport bar to celebrate our accomplishment. Anetta and I introduce ourselves and sip two excellent local beers, Cristal. It reminds me of Heinekin. She is from Copenhagen, and returning to Cuba after a 14 year absence. I run upstairs to the cash machine, to find none of them work for me in Cuba, either. A temporary setback, I assume. Surely the National Hotel in Havana or one of the many cambia houses will serve out the necessary CUC or Cuban convertibles that tourists use for currency here. After all, Rene (the airport magician who so cleverly escorted me through all the ticketing steps in Cancun), said this would be so (between furtive looks at his watch and rapid, behind the back gestures to his assistants).

Anetta and I share a cab. The cost is $20 CUC into the city. The first thing you notice going into Havana from Jose Marti International Airport 25 kilometers away is la brisa – the air. At this time of year, it is perfect. The next is the lack of traffic. No jams or congestion. The ride is smooth all the way. The next is how wonderfully decrepit Havana is. It is old and new and busy and quiet all at once, and all things confounding. It is nothing if not a bizarre series of contrasts. I fall in love with the place immediately.

We arrive at the home of Sr. Alberto Ruiz Jiminez. A grizzled fellow who looks like a retired Marine drill instructor. Apparently not the house of a famous actress. How could the phone wires have been switched? There is no internet. He doesn’t speak English. What English is useful, is learned from me as we proceed along slowly in my passable Spanish. Conditions are negotiated one word or short phrase at a time. I chuckle to myself once again. Predictable. Right on target. Par for the course.

I am on the third floor (which the Cubans call the second). My room is colonial style, with large louvered shutter enclosures. The room empties to a central catwalk which in turn looks over a large atrium four stories high. It is mindful of what I have seen of New Orleans, except with much more clutter and disarray. The interior ceilings are about 11 to 12 feet. It is clean and colorful, if a little worn about the edges. And I have my own bathroom. A clean one. Halfway modern. Dinner is taken after a short gander, five blocks down the street. On the corner of Aguila street and Havana’s famous coastal drive and walkway, The Malecon.

I order the grilled fish plate, for ten CUC. The food is remarkable. Tender, flavorful, adorned with a local butter-based sauce, accompanied by salad, and some of the best rice I have ever tasted. Along with the Cuban national drink, The Mojito. Rum, crushed mint, and sugar. Having had dozens of these treats, I note it doesn’t taste any different or better here. Breakfast (desayuno) is not the usual continental affair, but eggs cooked over hard, puerco (pork), rolls with cinnamon flavored marmalade, coffee, grapefruit juice, tomatoes, and fruit. Anetta offers up a treat of her own, a bit of imported Danish aquavit liquor mixed in with honey. It is delightful.

Even this early. An hour later -- Christmas Eve day -- the two of us decide to explore a bit together and hit the streets with no particular objective in mind. At least, I had none. She however is dead set on visiting the writing room of Ernest Hemingway on the 5th floor of the Hotel Ambos Mundos. I agree, but only after getting a sense of the streets. No taxi. We will walk. We start crisscrossing through Havana Central, and encounter a flea market. I have only Yankee dollars and keep to myself. Anetta buys the nearly mandatory Che Guevara revolutionary beret, named after the Argentine doctor who helped Fidel Castro run the military portion of the Cuban revolution nearly 53 years previous.

A woman comes up to me with her small child. She raises him up to kiss me. I stand still momentarily for what seems like a photo op. But there is no camera. Then the broken language pleading begins in earnest. “Please, Senor, I don’t want money. I just want milk for my baby.” I agree. What harm can this cause, or what dent can it possibly put in my wallet? She has me lift the child, and we amble what I thought would be about fifty feet. But no, Mama turns the corner. I nearly lose her. We begin to get separated by crowds. Anetta pauses, gestures at me as if I am a lunatic, and indicates she is going straight to Ambos Mundos. No explanation, just a signoff. I barely catch up to Mama.

She has stopped in at a government run food store, and slapped down four large bags of milk for her child. She strokes my hand and tells me how grateful she is. Her demonstration and gratitude draws a crowd. I am trying to put the child down, but she won’t let me. I ask the clerk what the cost of the goods are? Thirty CUC, I am told. I indicate no, and ask what the cost of one bag or possibly two would be, assuming there might be a quantity discount with volume. It doesn’t matter. I have greenbacks only, which are not accepted here (openly at least), and the store won’t take my credit cards. Neither will the cambio office across the street.

I am forced to take my leave, with the woman wailing and putting on as if I have left her at the altar. There is little I can do. Working my way to Ambos Mundos is a thrilling experience. I take the cross cutting Obispo Calle, which is open to pedestrians only. Many inquiries have to be made along the way for course correction. I am roughly navigating the center of Old Havana, with its remodeled Colonial style hotels anchoring the corners of public squares, seemingly out of place amongst all the decay one sees as the norm here.

I see street hustlers, women offering “companionship,” throngs playfully just walking – the poverty here ensures they have nothing else to do – tourists confused as to their next destination, well-dressed gentlemen ushering the landed gentry into hotel lobbies, and a constant procession of characters speaking with hand cupped over mouth offering me either private taxis or cigars.

Tourists taking a break line numerous shaded sidewalk cafes. The heat is moderate, but sweating continuous. The pulse of the street along Obispo Calle is infectious. Music from numerous sidewalk or café quartets first beckons and then blasts about every 50 yards or so. La Gente (the people) don’t just walk. They glide. They skip. They strut, if well dressed. They pulsate to the music, and some unseen driver moving them in mysterious ways. They bob heads, and chat excitedly. They sing to themselves, and each other.  Always. This is La Vida – “The Life.” It is a force of nature here. You can’t avoid it, and it thankfully never leaves. If you are breathing and can fog a mirror still, this Life Force invests in you very quickly.

The animated local pedestrians playfully veer at you so you have to change course. With a smile, of course. Women particularly, make intense and sustained eye contact from a fair distance away. One never knows if they are offering services, are curious, or just have La Vida in them. One of them gives me a fetching look and then deliberately shoves her girlfriend into me. She laughs at the collision. Free entertainment for them. And no wonder. The average salary here in Cuba is between $8 and $32 CUC per month (even for doctors). A CUC is worth about 96 US cents, currently. I am sport for them. Yet don’t mind at all though.

Once at Ambos Mundos – a beautifully restored rust colored six story hotel with a delightful full-floor bar in the lobby – I proceed straight to Hemingway’s apartment on the 5th floor. No Anetta. No worries. Rudeness should not be immediately rewarded. But once again, my credit and debit cards won’t allow entry. I am advised by the very helpful and agreeable multi-lingual guide/attendant to go to a cambio house and exchange my greenbacks for CUC. Which I do. For about $45 CUC. Giving me a very limited budget. Most of my cash resrves planned for Cuba, went into the plane ticket on Air Cubana.

Back at Papa’s writing loft, Francesca the guide is pleased to see me again. She gladly explains that most of the exhibits here are taken from Hemingway’s Hotel, about 21 kilometers away, and this month’s exhibit has to do largely with the Pulitzer Prize winning author of “The Old Man and The Sea” and his drinking. There are recipes for his favorites in print throughout the one-room stage. Along with copies of his books in different languages. Such as “The Sun Also Rises,” and “For Whom The Bell Tolls,” and “Islands in The Stream” and “To Have and To Have Not.”

The room is Spartan. There is not even a bathroom present. That is down the hall. Just shuttered windows, a small bed, a writing stand, and numerous bookshelves. He utilized the location for its view. Due to injuries received near World War 1, Hemingway had severe back problems, and was forced to write standing up. There is abundant evidence of his hard drinking in photos on all the walls of Papa with celebrities from all over the world. And his four ex wives.

I am directed to two of Hemingway’s favorite bars, the nearby Paris Café, and The Floridita (his favorite). Along the way, I run into Anetta again. She decides to buy me lunch, to make up for her sudden departure near the flea market. We retreat once again to Ambos Mundos, but this time the flawless sixth-floor “Plaza de Armas” Restaurant. The view is the best in the city. Across the Bahia de la Habana entry to the city’s large bay, lie massive twin forts built by the Spanish to keep privateers and foreign navies from invading their shores and capturing treasure ships bound for Spain. Both are included in the Habana Viejo (old Havana) Unesco World Heritage Site.

The Castillo de los Tres Santos Reyes Magnos del Morro was built at the direct harbor mouth between 1589 and 1630. With deep moats, three meter-thick walls, and a polygonal shape, it is a classic example of Military Renaissance construction. For 100 years, the forth withstood many attempts by pirates and foreign navies to take her by force. But the British – as was their hobby – finally took the fort by siege after a 44-day siege with a 14,000man force in 1762. Their subterfuge was to attack from the landward side. The castle’s famous lighthouse was added in 1844.

Immediately after the departure of the British, the neighboring Citadel of Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabana was constructed, and completed in 1774 on the ridge which the British had taken advantage of to subdue The Castillo do los Tres Santos. At over 700 meters in length and covering a whopping 10 hectares, the fort is the largest ever constructed by the Spanish in the New World.

My seafood lunch is, once again, absolutely delicious. Cuban food is remarkable not in its variety – there is little of that – but in the variety of ways the same meal can be cooked. I think the secret is in the sauces. The basic dishes are rich, warm, spicy and yet not too much so, generous in the portions, and always it seems accompanied by a generous portion of side dishes including variations on the proverbial rice and beans and house salad.

After lunch, I chase money once again. And I finally learn the whole picture. I am an American. We are culturally and etc at war with Cuba. At least our governments are. So our credit cards and debit cards don’t work here. At all. Not even traveler’s checks in most places. The guidebooks don’t tell you that. If you are an American, only cash will speak. And best if it is not dollars. Then it gets converted to CUCs at a 13% minimum commission rate. A Canadian or European issued credit card will also work.

Accessing the internet via paid card an hour later at the richly appointed Hotel Central, I find myself in good company. At least half a dozen of us are momentarily stranded, wondering “What The Hell Do We Do Now?” And we can’t go to the US Embassy. That is truly for dire emergencies only. Your passport will get lifted immediately upon visiting that court of last resort. So, for the first time in my life, I had to write (thank God for the internet) my sons back in Seattle and ask them for money. It is an ironic turn. Perhaps it is payback for putting them through a collective eight years of private college and an excellent, Critical Path Jesuit Education at Gonzaga University.

My message is fairly terse: Please get over to Western Union immediately and transfer money to an office in Central Havana. Luckily, they are not like me. They do not hold me hostage and negotiate extortion level daily interest rates. Both Larry & Sean are of the new generation, attuned and wired in at all times. Their response is immediate, and generous. “Now, about that trip you were going to take to Africa, Dad … you think the three of us can make it to that Game Reserve in Kenya? I hear your credit cards have lots of room on them now.”

Christmas Eve Dinner on my first full night in Havana is with Alberto and his family. It was exquisite. I am startled. Was frankly expecting a modest affair, rich with trapping and ceremony but short on calories. Oh no! We start with hors ‘d oeuvres. Then beer. Then potatoes, the usual rice but with a killer black bean and lentil based sauce over the top. Then chicken and pork. The Cubans really have the manual on pork, in the same way the Portugese make the finest chicken and the Spaniards the finest ham (or jamon). White wine, red wine, salad, and more beer punctuate the meal. I am full halfway through. They try to force feed me. I politely decline.

My intention is to wait out the arrival of Christmas writing in my room. But Anetta wants to return to the Hotel Ambos Mundos for a late drink. It is perhaps 10 PM. I am shocked to find how many people are still wandering the streets and squares nearby, on Christmas Eve. Recognizing me/us from earlier in the day, the staff has a special air of friendliness. Have to say, they genuinely appear to love Americans. We are very well treated here. Whether it is because we have more money than the locals, tip well, or are a rarity, I can not give the real reason for this hospitality. But it is genuine.

Which begs the contemplation: 50 years after the Cuban Revolution and the expropriation of American property by Fidel Castro and his henchmen, why do we still not recognize Cuba? This economic embargo we have against them makes absolutely no sense at all. We do business with 1.3 billion Chinese and their particular brand of communism and government is much more restrictive! Nobody can offer a reasonable explanation of why this dinosaur of a policy remains, except for the existence of some rabid right-wing Cuban expatriates in Florida who will not allow normalization come hell or high water. This from a slightly right-leaning but truly independent voter from Seattle. Who is also rabid …

Upon preparing to leave, the security guard – again adorned in a uniform worthy of an Ambassador to the Court of St. James – ushers me aside. “Cigars?” he asks. “I can get you a very good price. Five Cohibas for $15 CUC.” Having been to the bank in the afternoon and converted my last $200 dollars to CUC, I want to preserve what I can. “No thanks,” I respond. “Perhaps manana.”

Anetta wishes to listen to music. I reluctantly agree to join in, only because I want to see what Havana still has to offer at this late hour on a holiday. We are directed to La Casa de La Musica Del Mar, one township to the west in Vedado. It is a slightly taller, more modern quarter of Havana. The taxi ride takes perhaps 20 minutes, and costs about $11 CUC. We arrive early, to find the place not yet open. We are rather forcefully directed around the corner for drinks to await the band. I resist. These Cubans, they love cutting you from the herd when they smell a turista.

A quick look around reveals this to be a mover’s paradise. Well dressed music afficianados and professional lounge lizards proliferate nearby. Local women–of-the-night approach from taxis, and stay on the periphery of the property, just beyond the range of primary lighting. They make their intentions very plain. They are well dressed, but not subtle. Constant approaches are made for cigars, taxis, and female company. Trouble begins when the bill is paid for a couple of mojitos. Anetta pays in Euros. Change is given. Or is it? Or have they kept the surplus to pay the cover charge? We are told we have paid our cover charge, but then at the door denied entry.

I complain to the security man and ask for someone who can speak English – even a little. We return to the bartender to straighten the situation out.  After much tortured discussion lasting 20 minutes, I learn Anetta’s 20 Euro note is not acceptable in payment. The bar doesn’t want the conversion bother. She has already been paid change, and the bar wants both payment for the drinks and her change back. She throws up her hands, and walks away – just like earlier in the day when I encountered Mama and her photo op child trying to wheedle milk money out of me. I am left to solve the problem myself, and pay the 20 CUC back to the bar.

Somehow Anetta has already slipped the 20 Euro note back into her purse. I am thus left without leverage, and a rapidly diminishing supply of already limited cash. Only laughter serves once again. I learned you get what you are supposed to get on these ventures. When I round the corner, the security guard tells me she has already departed via taxi. My own cab ride home taxes me further. No, it is not a wasted night. Just another rich experience by a Stranger in A Strange Land …

HOW NOT TO GET TO CUBA …

With one day remaining, most participants for Synthesis 2012 either ignored remaining events to mingle with each other, or left early.  I was among them.  My bus arrived about 11:30 AM back in Cancun after a four hour drive to the airport.  Once again, I was introduced to the oddity that makes up south-of-the-border flight and travel arrangements.  Quickly learned for example, only Aero-Mexico and Cubana Airlines went to Havana, Cuba.  The first only on Tuesday and Thursday.  The latter daily, but only through a cash payment.

I must have the look” (as in a major bullseye painted on my travel vest).  For I am swooped on almost immediately by an official looking fellow with more badges and ribbons than an army major general.  He speaks English.  He explained his status with the airport, offering assistance to passengers.  He can assist me getting flights “which are not available.”  I compare notes with a couple Aussies and Brits, find out that tickets to Havana for this day (Sunday) really are rare, get some idea of pricing, and decide to accept his assistance.  First trip, to the cash machine.  Only Cubana is flying this day.  They only accept cash, and it has to be Mexican pesos.  No American dollars.  Fifty years after the Cuban revolution, America and Cuba are still culturally and economically at war.

It takes two hours to find that all my careful prior arrangements to have guaranteed access to cash and credit with my banks have apparently gone for naught.  My Pin number password codes are rejected, no matter what entries are attempted –cash, credit, or savings.  Then the cards are rejected, for too many swipe attempts.  The service official stands by patiently, does some minor interpretation for me, and repeatedly checks his watch.

At one point, I even call US Bank in the United States to have them troubleshoot why cash is not working.  The bank employee stays online while I attempt yet again to get pesos out of the cash dispenser.  He tells me a 24 hour rule may be in order, and I would need to try again tomorrow.

Same result with my primary bank, Wells Fargo.  The PIN number I use virtually every day won’t work – for savings, cash, or credit.  From either a debit card, or a savings account number.  It appears I will have to make a major adjustment in both flight and travel plans.  There simply is not time to call all the banks prior to my sole daily flight to Havana leaving at 3:30 PM to get a fix.

Suddenly and inexplicably, the cash machine works.  But only for half the cash I need.  I now have what seems like millions of pesos, and only half my fare.  What to do?  The service official checks his watch.  He has been far too patient.  This is not just service.  He has an investment in me now.  He is on the take, at some level.  He is clearly part of some systematic cabal within the airport. He has been with me over two hourS, and follows me like a lost puppy.  It is then I know I am being fleeced.

And yet, there is a timeline to adhere to.  It is not within my range of choices to sit around Cancun for another day, to cycle through another round of choices.  I make the decision to acquire the balance of my fare from the greenbacks carefully stowed in the deep security pockets of my travel vest.  It goes without saying there are conversion commissions to pay.  Then the “oh, I forgot, you have to pay your airport and emigration tax.”  I heard previously it was $23.

The Air Cubana personnel and the airport official who have secretly huddled discussing my ticket fate demand $50.  In cash.  I pay, but ask for a receipt.  They frown.  Say this is not necessary.  I point out that when I return from Cuba, I will not want to be paying this again.  And need my proof.  I think they went into an unused box of surplus stickers that might have served a Kindergarten art class, slapped ‘em down with studied determination, and put some stamps across.  “Done!” they announce, beaming faces practically dripping with exultation.

I leave with my ticket and boarding pass, knowing for the last hour that I have been officially “wheeled,” yet triumphant that I’d paid $100 less than the Brits and Aussies, who had fallen for the “only first class seats are left now” gambit.  Everybody, it seems, who had been threatened with the warning that “there is only one seat left and there are no more flights today” explanation somehow makes it on the plane.  What are the odds?  I laugh.  They have done it again.

The explanation given is: “Oh, we have had a lot of cancellations today.  You know, it is almost Christmas.”  This is a most crude, but effective means of squeezing every last dollar out of foreigners desperate to get to Cuba.  Especially given the artificial time crunch, and the language differences present.  You are at their mercy.  But on your way to Havana!

 

 

“The End of Time” Takes A Time-Out

5:11 AM on December 21^st arrived with its usual complement of massive sleep shortage.  What was supposed to be a globally coordinated candlelight ceremony largely turned out to be a dud in the event Epi-Center at the Hacienda Hotel in Chichen Itza.  The center grounds were not opened to participants as planned. Wind and rain blew out the candles for those gathering instead in the hotel parking lot, staff leadership to open the ceremony never arrived, and other attempts at leading faltered as rapidly as the candles.

Only when meeting with another body softly chanting en masse at the nearby Pyramide Hotel did anything approaching Unity take place.  An inspiring spiritual gestalt then developed amongst two now combined groups, leading to each participant gliding down a path with fellow candle holders forming a supportive gauntlet to either side.  After finishing their journey through its middle, each Spiritual Warrior peeled off to one of the two sides and became part of the gauntlet themselves. From there, it was a deliberate and contemplative 1.5 mile walk to the Archeological Park.

The crowds were large, the press badgered everybody who looked wildly dressed or sufficiently crazed to make a statement related to “Aren’t you disappointed that we didn’t experience The End of Time?” And the expected gathering of up to 60,000 for the course of the day never materialized.  Once again, the hosts showed a unique Mexican approach to Park entry.  No organized entry lines at 6:30 AM.  Just follow a throng where people appear to be pressing in the hardest.

You buy one ticket – eventually.  There are no signs in English describing what you are getting, or why, or how much it costs.  I swear four different people pay differing amounts, depending on what their assessed net worth and attire rating might be.  I smile to myself.  “The Vertical Scan,” so redolent of life in Venezuela.  You pay, depending on what you appear to be worth and can afford.  Once having obtained a ticket, we head for the Park entry.

We are stopped.  “No, Senor.  Necessita una pequena billete” (you need a little ticket).  Not “you need a little ticket, also.”  Did I buy the wrong one?  I know there will be no refunds here.  Somebody has already pocketed my error.  Baby has milk for next week and Mama has new shoes.  I find out after repeated inquiries that, no, I need an additional small ticket this time.  But where?

I look for another throng.  It is a Darwinian free-for-all.  Those not willing to persist or who lack physical stature are pushed off to the side.  I don’t know if they ever got in.  I return minutes later and some recognizable bodies are no closer than when they had begun, as if spun into a whirpool vortex from which there is no escape.  But eventually one comes to the fore, softly grabs the attendant’s attention, and says “Billete.”  You have no idea if a third ticket will be required still, what this is for, or how much it will cost.  Of course, it is twice as expensive.  Cautiously, I finally proceed to the Entry Gate for the second time.  After being lectured about my candle not being allowed, I am eventually ushered inside.  Ah, Chichen Itza …

I can not describe all that took place once facing the impressive Mayan stone monuments inside Chichen Itza starting about 7:15 AM.  Operating on one hour of sleep in the prior 36 led me to be description deprived.  I can say there were no fights, there was peaceful if not complete harmony, the “come one, come all” dances led by Indigenous Natives were very well attended, and participants repeatedly created their own spontaneous ceremonies over an extended period of time throughout the day.

 And oh, yes, Time Did Not End.  It did not even hiccup.  There were no eclipses nor earthquakes nor giant condors flying overhead nor pole shifting nor Rapture emigrations throughout the vicinity.  None of the other spiritually significant sites chosen for a simultaneous Web Cast of the moment, such as Stonehenge, Ayers Rock, Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, or Easter Island manifested any indication of a Doomsday scenario either.   Whether a new blueprint existed or not, The Mayan Calendar merely moved on to its next phase, quietly and without fanfare, like a phantom retreating into the shadows.

Subsequent celebratory activities consisted of continued dancing, music, workshops, free massage and healing presentations of various sorts at the grounds of the Hacienda Hotel back in town.  Filling in what void was created by the peaceful procession of events were rumors of a LSD trip gone dramatically south with a young woman from the campground ending up in the middle of the road.  Descriptions of interference from police authorities apparently miffed at not getting their assumed  baksheesh (payoff) money followed.  Many of the locals thought the event to be a cash cow, and wanted in on their share of the unlimited lucre supposedly flowing into Synthesis 2012 coffers from the 2500 or so projected participants.

The evening was topped off by a wildly successful dance (back at the campground once again) at a spectacularly designed stage setting reminiscent of a pyramid-shaped funeral pyre.  I will fill in details later about those responsible for such a positive outcome.  For now, let us agree it is difficult to track all of what occurred when venues are so disparate, events are moving so fast, locations are constantly changed, no timetable is adhered to, and some scheduled events don’t take place at all.  What announcements that are made relative to these changes, are typically drowned out by music.

A signature for the event might best be illustrated through an interview I attempted to gain with Synthesis 2012 Founder Michael DeMartino.  DeMartino cultivates a highly praised, fawned over, charismatic persona.  His appearance is very much that of a pious Knight Templar, 1000 years past his prime. My aim was to get an assessment from his point of view what went right and what went wrong with the Festival.

In making the request, I asked for a specific place and time in a mixture that suited his convenience.  He agreed to a sit-down near the pool at the Hacienda Hotel complex, and indicated he would meet me “in about forty minutes and right in this area.  This is where I can always be found.”  He walked past me three times afterward, made eye contact on each occasion, and quickly moved on.  There never was an interview.

Overall, the event lacked similar cohesion and organized follow through.  As summarized by one participant from Los Angeles who regularly participates in The Festival Lifestyle: “We are used to gathering in one central area.  We were all spread out here. The communication was terrible. Things were so disjointed.  As a result, we couldn’t really Do The Work.  We are people who act with a high degree of integrity.  Synthesis 2012 is not the way we do things.”

The dining hall arrangements were a notable exception to most activities at Synthesis 2012.  Meals were served warm, on time, with a full complement of silverware and glassware.  The food was delicious, if somewhat repetitious.  It included Mayan green salad, a full fruit plate, rice, local creamed potatoes, tomatos, beets, chicken, fish, rolls, dessert, black bean sauce, and vegetarian options. A variety of cervezas and soft drinks was offered at a bar adjacent to the food.  Our wait staff was polite and unfailingly efficient.  Their efforts sadly went largely unnoticed.

Similarly successful was the live web streaming event from the command center room at the Hotel.  Whenever I peaked inside, there were beautiful images from around the globe of Solstice and Galactic Alignment type celebrations taking place worldwide.  The process and end product appeared at least to be flawless.  The claims of 20 million viewers tapping in however, were not believed by anybody, given the credibility of the event staff and their other pronouncements to date.

The Festival largely though not officially concluded Saturday the 22^nd of December with a generous daylong offering of workshops, speeches, presentations, music, and dance. Don Miguel Ruiz, the headliner who appeared two hours late and concurrent with long dinner lines, was a major disappointment.  He spoke for only 15 minutes and didn’t visit any new material not already present in his published bestsellers.  Perhaps the heart replacement surgery he had undergone the year prior, had understandably sapped his energy.

The best program was given by Dr. Joe Marshalla.  I will post more on his eye-opening presentation later.  For now, I wish to conclude reports on Synthesis 2012.  Despite the chaos and disorganization present throughout the four days, I believe the Festival to still be a success.  Sure, there were numerous talks about class action lawsuits over failure to deliver on promised (and paid for) services and performances.  Many said they would call their credit card company immediately upon return home to dispute paying $500 for a campground, missing transportation, meals which did not materialize, etc.

Ultimately, however, with changed hearts and minds and the connections made during the event there really appeared to me to be an internal shift within the participants which might support this success.  In the case of Synthesis 2012, the participants finally took over.  They made things happen themselves.  The inmates took over the asylum, and found out they were the keepers of the flame all along.  They made things work.  They connected and bonded without assistance from the organizers.

I witnessed much evidence of changed hearts, stilled minds, answered prayers, and realized intentions leading to potential healing, transformation and personal growth.  It was as a transformative event that Synthesis 2012 can stake whatever claim to success that it might.