SAN PEDRO -- AMBERGRIS CAYE

 

 

On a lark, a decision is made to head to San Pedro on neighboring Ambergris Caye the next morning to start the New Year.  Caulker Caye is too perfect and I wanted a contrasting isle by which to measure my newfound BIF (Best Island Forever). This is the most popular tourist spot in all of Belize.  The boat journey (again by Caye Caulker Water Taxi) costs about $25 Belize dollars round-trip, or half that in American dollars.  It takes 30 minutes for the crossing, which is almost due north.

 

The first thing one notices is the businesses are more formal.  They don’t do receipts by hand.  They have swipe card mechanisms.  Waiters wear formal costumes.  The streets are paved.  There are more cars.  There is more formality, and less revelry.  The only thing in common with Caulker is that the locals are once again, incredibly friendly and superbly helpful.

 

There is much noted about activity available on Ambergris Caye.  It is huge compared to Caulker, and extends up to within yards of a Mexican peninsula to the north.  But the reality is, since the ferry schedule for return to Caulker is so restrictive, what what one can really do is eat and drink.  Or combine the two.

 

I retreat to The Blue Water Grill.  The hostess offers to send running bowl game scores from American gridiron contests taking place much further to the north.  They offer great drink specials.  But, they are busy, and food will take an hour.  Isn’t that what bars are for?  I order a Horny Monkey (some type of coconut elixir) and another Caipirinha and wait out the delay.

 

My Cobb salad and small red snapper sandwich arrive ahead of time. The food is outstanding, along with the service.  I am indifferent to scores.  Though happy to see Stanford beating up on Wisconsin.  Big Ten teams bore the living pee-wodden out of me.  You would think one of these years, they might discover modern passing offenses produce three times as much yardage as running offenses do.  “No, we’re going to wait for the single wing to return,” seems to be their coaching attitude and offensive plan, for the largest part.

 

After exploring the streets of San Pedro for nearly three hours, I am secretly relieved when the ferry – last of the day for some strange reason despite the early hour -- returns to Caye Caulker at 3:30 PM.  It appears time for a nap upon arrival.  Largely due to the unaccustomed sun, the alcohol, and the lack of ambition this combo seduces you.  But no, Caulker is good for surprises.  Our waiter from the previous night, Kevin, meets up with me on the street.  He is shocked that I remember him.  He advises me it is his birthday. “I thought you said last night was your birthday?” I challenge. 

“Oh yes, but my birth began at 11:57 and didn’t finish until 12:07.  I am a New Year’s Baby.  Get to have it both ways, Mon” he explains.  He offers to take our small group shopping.  I want a quick-drying, nylon, Guayabara type jersey that will be much like the locals wear.  We can’t find one in anything other than odor absorbing and slow drying cotton.  But the search is fun in any case.  There are many frivolous items to admire prior to leaving empty handed.

 

From there we advance to the Lazy Lizard once again.  This time for a Bailey’s Colada, a Hemingway lemon Daiquiri without sugar, beers, and a Panty Ripper  (correctly referred to hereafter as a Panty Dropper).   Kevin and I become fast if not particularly deep friends.  We appreciate each other immensely.  I am only here for a couple days.  He doesn’t have e-mail.  It doesn’t matter.  It is a moment we are sharing, the only thing available to us really if one is aware of or working at maintaining presence.

 

I exult in his completely positive outlook, his Rastafarian dreadlocks and scruffy beard, his love for everybody on the street – Kevin is very well known by all -- and his complete enthusiasm for virtually everything.  We sway back and forth to his rhythms from the second floor balcony of the Lazy Lizard.  His agreeability to and for all things is contagious.  But suddenly he makes a grave error.  He starts mistaking me for a sage.

 

“What are the most important things you have learned, Mon?” he asks me.  I am a little stumped by this.  I’ve never been mistaken for a sage, clairvoyant, soothsayer, medicine chief, tribal elder, or wise man before.   I take time to ponder.  Should I have a rapid answer?  Immediate answers can be impressive, but a mile wide and an inch deep.  I contemplate for a moment.

 

“Well, Kevin, I am not a wise man.  The smartest play I am aware of is to not be afraid to make mistakes.  And to hop back up quickly from those you do make.  I try to pass this on to my sons all the time.  Of course, they are both more intelligent than me.  Occasionally even smarter.  But if an answer is really necessary I’d say this:

 

“Be in the moment.  Have a measure of gratitude for all things given you – including the experiences that look ugly at first.  And simply allow.  Don’t try to control your life.  Let things happen.  Go with the flow.  See where it leads you.  Your plan is not as grand as you think it is compared to what is being laid out before you, if only you get out of your own way enough to notice.”

 

We saunter south once again.  Kevin encounters his Home Boys, a reggae band, alongside the dirt path some might call a road.  He starts dancing with me.  For the first time in my life, I start dancing unabashedly, not caring if I’m the first one out or the only one.  Who is watching, or who might be snickering.  It is pulled out of me, and then just slides.  And rolls.  And rocks.  Kevin stands back in admiration.  “You got it going on, Mon,” he beams.  Well, yes, probably.  For  a white man, anyway.

 

Then to dinner, at a place he has picked out called Mama’s Little Kitchen.  A four-story hovel you can’t find without a guide.  They have no advertising signs.  The place is nearly surrounded with dilapidated plywood tenements.  This is where the locals eat.  We are not even sure it is occupied this night, at first.

 

We talk more.  Kevin is like the perfect electrical component.  Warm and conductive as hell, but ice cold as a piece of circuitry.  Which is to say, he offers absolutely no resistance.  He doesn’t disagree with anything.  Current courses through him like shit through a goose.  He is delightfully happy to be alive at 34, absorbs life like a sponge, and wants nothing more than to play his music, grow new friends, learn, and experience more and more.

 

We run into a vacationing family from Georgia.  He is intrigued by the way I engage with them and learn about them, by asking a lot of questions.  Those include being both intensely observational, and making fun of them at the same time.  “I see how you do that, Mon” he plays it back to me.  “You personalize the situation and they let you do anything you want.”

 

Soon (and I have no idea how we got here), Dave & Kelly & Brandon & Breanna and I have turned the tables and are making fun of Kevin.  He takes it all in good naturedly and yet carefully.  He is a wide-eyed novice at this stuff.  Then suddenly we notice he is being left behind.  They only get an 8^th grade mandatory education in Belize.  Kevin doesn’t understand time zone differences, the rotation of the earth, and the possibility of it being 8 pm while in Seattle and yet 7 AM in Moscow.

 

We take turns explaining this to him in great detail.  Just when he begins to get it, we torture him with explanations of Daylight Savings Time.  And to really pile on, we insinuate that “when you smoke the really good stuff, Kevin, it all turns around and reverses immediately.”  I am immune.  American tort laws for libel, slander, intentional acts, and personal injury don’t apply here.

 

Soon, however, it is too much temptation once more.  The astrology lesson ends.  The joking returns.  With Kevin as the butt, then Dave, then Kelly, then Brandon, and finally Breanna.  Only I escape being a target.  I feel left out.  And due to the late hour we have run out of time for addressing the imbalance.  Kevin doesn’t have e-mail or a phone.  Knowing this is the last time I will see him, I feel cheated for the second time this evening.  But we part on perfect terms.

 

 

 

BELIZE -- CAYE CAULKER

 

 

There is absolutely no reason to stick around Cancun.  So it is straight from the plane, to the all-night bus headed south along the Yucatan to the Belize border.  Luckily, it is not crowded. Sleeping conditions are still difficult.  I befriend a young man from Belize City returning to open his grandparents home for refurbishment.  Litz requires the use of arm braces to walk, having been nearly crippled in a car accident seven years previously.

 

I trade my strong back and weak mind for his scouting reports, guide services, and stories about home.  So he gets his bags carried, and I get through customs when I would ordinarily get stopped and questioned.  All is well.  Among many others, Litz directs me to Caye Caulkner – an island not far off the coast of Belize City.  “I live in Belize City, man, but you don’t want to stay there.  They have guns.  It has the 5^th highest murder rate per capita in the world.” 

 

The road south is actually very high quality.  The bus is air conditioned and has an airplane style lavatory and is as good as any found in Seattle.  The driver is not overly careful, and despite what seems like thousands of speed bumps, we make excellent progress and excellent time.  By 4 AM, the Belize border awaits.  The crossing is casual.  Guards see me carrying water for Litz, and merely wave me through.  We are however, held up by a Mexican couple coming south for three days without luggage that trips the interest of border authorities on the Belize side.

 

Mexico is of course completely hypocritical about immigration.  They expect their citizens to be able to pass north or south without complication.  But should citizens from points south transit through Mexico (let alone without luggage), let us just say our amigos below the Rio Grande do not extend the welcome of health care, housing assistance, welfare benefits, birthright citizenship, jobs, and so forth to their temporary guests that they expect of us.  Jail or a detention center is more like it.

 

Having said this, I recognize that history wouldn’t be history without mass migrations, trans-Pacific exploration, conquest and envelopment, DNA mixing, and movement of peoples to new locales as a constant in life.  Mountains thrust up from tectonic plates and then degrade into hills.  Streams work their way to rivers and then to the sea.  Herds work in a similar fashion, thinning as they migrate.  Imbalances are evened out.  Life finds a way.

 

The main highway into Belize strikes me as if it is a B road leading to an unheard of resort far out on a lonely peninsula.  Speed bumps sprout like Parrot Heads at a Jimmy Buffet concert.  The landscape is flat, the housing roughly colorful Caribbean, and most of the buildings are on stilts.   Scrub vegetation and mangrove swamps appear as if a flattop marine haircut to either side.  We arrive by 8 AM, and go to breakfast immediately at a diner close to Litz’s home.  I can order bacon and eggs!  It is the first time in nearly two weeks that rice and beans has not been a staple of my meal.

 

Belize – formerly British Honduras -- is highlighted on its Caribbean side by Cayes (prounounced Keys), islands and islets that provide R & R opportunities in the most relaxed of settings.  It is known primarily for its world class diving and tourist industry.  Just outside the north-south arc of Cayes, is the world’s second longest reef.  The breakers cresting over this protective barrier show up as an endless white foamy line and are visible from space. The passage over takes approximately 45 minutes on the Caye Caulkner Water Taxi.  “No worries, Mate” telepathically streams through your head.

 

Overnight space is limited, this being the perfect weather season for tourists tired of northern snowstorms and driving sleet.  So it is difficult to find housing.  I am lucky to land at the Plaza Hotel on Caye Caulkner.  The island itself is about five miles long, up to 1.5 miles wide in spots, and has no name for its primary habitation.  There are also no street signs.  As if in Dublin (Ireland), one navigates by the “corner pub” or “corner store” system.  If you are not visually oriented, there will be many, many course corrections!  Every single one of them is fun.

 

Within thirty minutes of arrival, I am situated at the far north end of the island, happily parked at a favorite local bar  called “The Lazy Lizard” with a rum based elixir called the Green Lizard (makes the tongue green) and then a similarly concocted Panty Ripper.  The bartenders are informed that further north, these coconut and rum delights are known as “Panty Droppers.”  They think that to be a better name.

 

On the way back to the hotel, streets are criss-crossed to gain knowledge of all the best spots to drink, dine, and enjoy music.  Along the way, some transplant name Charles with a Rastafarian hairdo and beard from New York is cooking right out ont he beach chicken curry, lobster bisque, and several other seafood delicacies in large Dutch oven pots.  The price is unbelievably cheap.  Approximately $3 for a full lunch (including rice and beans) -- but sans salad.

 

An election is made instead for ceviche.  Something every beach in the world seems to offer in variation.  Finely diced white fish, mixed in with lobster and conch, then bits of cucumber and tomatoes and celery and marinated in lime juice.  Eaten at a beach chair with the sun overhead, feet nearly tickling the surf, this is one of those zen moments.  Not a cloud mars the sky.  There are few dishes in this world that – no matter the preparation or the locale – are so wonderfully and consistently pleasing as this.

 

Of course, no ceviche is worth its salt without accompaniment from local libations.  Mine consist of a mixed fruit daiquiri, and a Caipirinha.  Some of you may remember the latter as that penultimate-moment Brazilian national drink that earned my hefty accolades as “lending grace to my days.”  Sounds like a lot of alcohol.  But this is, after all, Caye Caulkner.  And the heat makes it pour right through you.  .  My situation purposefully mirrors that of a famous Corona beer commercial, where the liquor is hoisted, glasses clinked, the setting is pure Hollywood, but not a single word need be uttered.

 

Also along the way, a young local obviously recruiting diners lures a group of us in with a pitch to help him celebrate his birthday later in the evening.  He offers up a combination plate of whatever we want to eat – lobster, conch, shrimp, pork, chicken … you name it.  So I point out that this is very generous for the number of people being invited. He ignores me.  So I go on to clarify further.  “Can you make a combination plate?  And what will it cost?”

 

“Of course,” Terry replies, ignoring the full implication of the query.  “I need you here to help me celebrate my birthday.  I’m forty-one years old today.”  I ask again: “Are you sure beer is all I need to bring?”  He indicates once more just to bring beer, or another alcohol of choice.  “This is to help me celebrate my birthday,” he affirms.  “That is all.”  I sense a vague pattern.  My memory is tripped.  This tv screen is wavy.  Seen this play before.  But, what the hell … this is Caye Caulker and it is already clear, THIS is a very special place.

 

There really are no “streets” on Caye Caulker.  There are pathways of varying widths, made up of clay, sand, and dirt.  They roughly intersect at right angles, as if aspiring to streetdom.  Nothing is paved.  Exploring these byways is a pure joy.  Instead of cars, we get golf carts.  Our civilization has evolved, from the majestic horse culture of the American plains to the auto culture of American suburbia to the golf cart culture of the Caribbean Keys.

 

Now, it has long been rumored that Americans – and men particularly – use their vehicle for the same purpose that wolves piss over a wide range of turf.  They do it to establish dominion.  They are marking their territory.  It is widely observed as a corollary then, that the French use their motorized deployment as an aide in their sexuality.   The Italians use their vehicle, as an extension of their penis for the same purpose.  The British, of course, are said to use their vehicle as a complete substitute for their member.

 

Where is all this purely scientific observation going?

 

Quite simply, that  men used to dominate driving.  Controlling the steering wheel was their birthright.  Almost like controlling the remote control switch on the family TV used to be (before kids learned how to counter-program it behind your back).  Being behind the wheel of a 360 horsepower Dodge Charger meant power, privilege, and esteem.  You ruled the roost.  “Roll on, Britannia!”  Or “Damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead!”  Or"Go ahead, catch me copper, if you can!"

 

But on these islands, nobody gives a rip.  There are next to zero cars.  You can’t wave your hose around or rev your engine and pretend to be a man.  Families ride these things like it is the sleep inducing Alice in Wonderland Ride at Disneyland.  Frequently, they let the kids drive.  They seem to be so laid back as if to be soporific.  You have to take their pulse to see if they are truly operating their 1- cylinder gas powered … uh … vehicles. Only the smiles on their faces give them away.     

 

Prior to New Year’s Eve celebrations late, I circumnavigate the island.  In flip flops.  My journey is perhaps ten miles in length.  I take in the charming commercial district, the makeshift cooking pods along the eastern beach areas, the poverty-stricken shanty town close to the island’s power generating station, and the “no fly zone” tony residential area at the southern tip of the island where residents have four-story castles and spend perhaps ten days a year in residence.

 

Along the way I see countless riotously contented musicians, cooks offering every permutation of seafood and pork, a set of pigs being roasted on a spit turned by an auto steering wheel, a large group of domesticated tarpon fish, and tourists from half the western countries in the world.  Only the Chinese it seems are absent.  But they run the local business scene irregardless of this.

 

My cell phone charger has bitten the dust.  My God, how will I replace it here? Verizon can’t even replace it back at home in the US!  “Too out of date,” I am told.  But damned if the Chinese in a store specializing in low-cost food for backpackers, can’t come up with a solution.  It costs me $12 in US currency, about $24 in Belize dollars.  Who would have predicted this?  [ I think about going to the Chinese after this for investment advice, also ].

 

Later on, we stop in again at Terry’s place.  He has forgotten our names already.  But he is still polite as an English butler.  He luckily remembers faces.  That suffices for the moment.  It is New Year’s Eve and there is a high level of anticipation.  We sit and watch old Bob Marley retrospectives on TV.  The food is slow in coming.  We drink the beer he asked us to bring earlier in the evening.  And watch more Bob Marley.  Again.  Occasionally the host appears.  Finally, some food follows.

 

I am doing the “horse trading” thing, where plates are shared.  The jerk chicken is out of this world.  The combination seafood plate is passable, but cold.  The conch is almost tasteless and is rubbery in texture because it has cooled too much.  No more of that.   Despite the numerous shortcomings of the meal, Terry presents us with a bill.  So much for the alleged birthday party.  Suspicions confirmed.  Next time, I will clarify with even more insistence.  Perhaps even in writing.  There is n such thing as a free lunch (or dinner) in Central America.  Also.

 

Pressing on, we all retreat once again to the Lazy Lizard.  It has a full bar, natural dance floor, a shallow water adjacent sit area with drinking slides and teeter totters, and a fractured breakwater that looks like the dance spotlight circle on the old American Bandstand program hosted by Dick Clark in years gone by.  The troubled concrete breakwater is a lawyer’s wet dream.

 

It has exposed rusted rebar in the ultimate stabbing position in about twelve different areas.  It is tilted madly.  There are missing chunks.  Miss your step, and you are in the surf.  Or have twelve broken bones.  But it is a superb platform for riding the razor’s edge while dancing.  You really get to heighten the moment while trying to boogy on such an exposed and perilous stage.  And so I did.  Never had that much fun dancing on New Year’s Eve, ever.

 

2013 is reined in quietly.  I am back at my hotel room before midnight, and watching the local fireworks from the hotel’s 4^th floor roof.  Missing so much sleep from the Mexico crossing from the night previous, I am gone in seconds once my head hits the pillow.  Don’t think I even got to watch the ball drop in New York, even if the TV was on for awhile.  Much the same as when I missed all the American football bowl games the following day, I remain good with it.  Things change.

VIALLE DE VINALES – “THE CUBAN YOSEMITE”

 

 

Probably Cuba’s most scenic tourist area, Vinales is actually more Thailand than Yosemite.  The mounded cliffs are not as vertical, they are broken up with both horizontal and vertical rifts, have  creeping jungle vines emerging from every pore, and have the oddity of palm trees nestled within pine forests.  The contrasting rich red soil is said to be the best place in the world to grow tobacco.  And yet, the name comes from grape vines, the economy which dominated here prior to tobacco becoming king.

 

Huge limestone caves abound everywhere.  One, the Caverna Santo Tomas, is the largest in all of Cuba and second largest in South or Central America at 46 kilometers in length.  The 12 by 6 kilometer valley (nearly enveloped by Parque Nacional Vinales) amidst the Sierra de Los Organos Mountain Range was declared a Unesco World Heritage Site in 1999, for its view and unique tobacco based bucolic architecture.  The Casa Particulars here are smaller, but more colorful and actually higher quality than Havana.  Everybody in town, it seems, has a room for rent the moment your bus arrives.

 

The trip in takes three hours.  We roll through surprisingly good roads on the Carretera Central out of Havana, with one bathroom, trinket, and refreshment stop in the interim.  I am enthralled with this stop, given its water surroundings, air conditioning, variety and quality of refreshments, clean bathrooms, and courteous drivers.  I partake of a particularly delightful mixto drink, a combination of fresh squeezed guallaba (watermelon) and naranja (orange).  It is a rapid pick-me-up.

 

Our scenery is a combination of tilled reddish fields, low-fringe palm trees, scrub foliage, slow-motion farmers attending to their fields with teams of yoked oxen, and horse-drawn carts.  The pastoral illusion is repeatedly broken with the passage of both new and modern cars, and tourist buses headed to Vinales and the island’s finest scuba diving spots just beyond at the edges of Pinar del Rio Province.

 

Vinales is easily spotted 21 kilometers away from the city of Pinar del Rio. The flat skyline of previously rolling hills is broken and becomes crenellated with what appears to be huge moss-covered molars on the horizon. Indented clefts between suggest either bad dentistry or a river cutting its way through mountain passages.  A sweeping turn around the corner of The Hotel Jasmine 5 kilometers outside town shows the full scope of the valley’s rich topographical variations.

 

Ody has directed me to a friend’s Casa Particular.  But upon arrival in town amidst the madhouse crush of vendors trying to rent rooms in their homes pouncing on newly arrived buses, I learn my casa is now full and I am voluntarily switched out to another home.  As usual, it is a fortuitous change.  For 48 hours, I am to reside with Gabriel & Damari Semino.  Gabriel is a taxi driver.

 

First duty is to get me over to the internet (such as it is) at the Hotel Rancho San Vicente, eight kilometers away.  People at home have to know my money has arrived and I am not starving or pimping on the streets of Havana.  At last viewing, I had over 400 inbox and 750 junkmail postings yet to view and then purge, as my only previous focus was the pursuit of dinero.  There is little to do at night here.  So it is a good time for writing.

 

But the daylight hours are spectacular.  My intention is to pack as much turista activity as   possible in one day.  So I take Gabriel out of his regular rounds, and hire him for the day to give me a personal tour of the valley.  First stop: the Caverna Santo Tomas.  Seven levels (we will be on six and seven), and potentially 46 kilometers of grotto to explore.  If only the government allowed it.  We will be occupied nevertheless, for two hours after a steep climb to the entrance on only two of them.  No chance to see the underground river at the base.

 

There is nothing new to describe here, for those who have seen Carlsbad Caverns or Lewis and Clark Caverns or dozens of other similar calcite drip-engineered underground chambers.  In terms of stalagmites and stalagtite formations anyway.  There are the usual caricatures of pogo sticks, jellyfish formations, suggestion of famous faces, animals of every construct, candelabras, strange gravity-defying horizontal branches, tools, and dwarf figures residing close to the ground.  What makes it different is the guide’s poetic descriptions of the formations in Spanish and French, his enthusiasm, and the intense humidity in the cave by 9:30 AM.  I am pleased this is not the middle of summer.

 

Next stop is the Mural de La Prehistorica.  Now this IS unique.  A supremely vertical section of the abundant local cliff faces, 180 meters wide and 120 meters tall, was cleaned on its face and then painted by 18 workers led by Cuban painter Leo Vigildo Glezo into one of the world’s largest murals.  Its purpose is to show the earth’s evolution based on Pleistocene era fossils found in Cuba.  Construction began in 1960, and took four years to complete.  The result is a colorful and dramatic outdoor movie screen type effect on a huge scale, of mollusks, reptiles transitioning from the sea to land, dinosaurs, and man.  Wooden construction seats hanging from hugely distended ropes anchored to the clifftop can still be seen partway up the massive face.

 

Next: The Labor of Botanical Love, the El Jardin (Garden) de Garidad.  Located in the center of town, this private reserve attempts to display all things floral, fruit, and generally edible found in Cuba in one setting.  I only took botany years ago because they had great field trips (like to Yosemite and Death Valley), and can’t remember a plant name to save my life.  To me, it is like trying to remember who this week’s hot band or celebrity de jour is.  So perish the thought of descriptions or names.  Except for the orchids.  They were beautiful in their color and asymmetry, and not nearly numerous enough.  I did however, get to sample raw cocoa pods, lyichees (which are great replacements for olives in martinis), coconuts, breadfruit, passion fruit, and other unprocessed delicacies in their raw form.

 

The Cueva del Indio is not nearly as impressive as Caverna Santo Tomas.  Thus the entry fee is half the price, at $5 CUC.  However, there is an element of fun to it not quite shared in the higher reaches of the larger cave.  After an easy walk without having to stoop or slide along a well-lit inside passage, you come to an underground boat ride mindful of a Disneyland E-ticket.  Almost like The Jungle Ride in Adventureland.  But no jungle.  No plants.  Just sloped limestone roofs, more calcite formations worthy of their own special nicknames, a slightly whiny Japanese motor, a smoothly comforting ride along an underground river, and a guide with a laser pointer showing formations of interest along the way.  It is over in half an hour.

 

The final tourist stop of the day is at La Casa de Veguero (House of Tobacco).  Here I am shown the three-part construct of quality Cuban cigars by a now tired and disinterested Cuban guide who nevertheless plays her role very politely.  I get photos both inside and outside the shed (which appear at first to be Polynesian huts, until you realize the palm fronds allow for perfect air circulation around the drying tobacco leaves from the time they are first harvested until they are marketed a year later).  I buy seven Monte Cristo type # 4 cigars for $8 CUC.  They will have to be smoked locally or in Central America.  They will never make it past customs in the U.S.

 

Thence on to the constant demands of the internet.  And other administrative duties.  Like banking.  Note taking.  Expense journaling. Yes, serious travel has those on a regular basis.  Just like a job.  And then on to the best part of the day.  In the morning, Gabriel had asked me what I wanted for dinner.  Now, I think it part of the polite cunning of the Cuban people to never quite tell you whether you will be there as a guest, or as a payor.

 

This is never clarified.  So you have to make the inquiry yourself.  I decline breakfast.  And tell them I have been directed to a local restaurant by “friends” (Lonely Planet, really) with a very high recommendation level.  They look disappointed.  This reaction lingers with me throughout the day.  I realize it is a chance for them to show off their family, culinary skills, and Cuban hospitality.

 

So mid-day I tell Gabriel I have changed my mind, and if it is okay, I would still like to eat dinner with he and his family.  This move is one of the smartest made on my part so far this trip.  Damari’s $8 CUC dinner is cooked over a three hour period.  We eat at 7 PM at my request (not knowing this is well beyond the family’s normal start time but they had asked me to pick).

 

La Comida consists of two kinds of Cuban puerco in all its glory, tomatoes, cucumbers, black and white rice, black bean sauce, ultra-thin banana chips (so much better than potato chips!), malanga (shaped like a banana, tasting like a potato, but much sweeter and healthier), corn maize tamales, red wine, water, and coffee.  It took me an hour and one-half to consume this meal.  Every bite was to be savored – including the rich crisp fat in the pork.  But like seafood or Chinese food, once downed, I am not full, and feel like windsprints are possible an hour later.

 

The choice is a reminder of what is most important in this go-round.  The old saying “You can’t take it with you” is only partially true.  This accurately references only things. Acqusitions.  Meals.  Accoutrements.  Trophies, spiffs, privileges, casas, cars, titles, jewelry, and other bling.  When we finally cash in our chips, what we DO take with us is our memories, our connections, our relationships, and our lessons.  It is all about learning, growing, course correcting, connecting, and helping others in their journey.  Life … is a people business.

 

A ROAD ANGEL APPEARS, AND THEN ...
I HIT THE DAILY DOUBLE


Internet minutes are more expensive than steak here. You can’t go to an internet café and just surf. No such thing. You go to a hotel, which has Wi-Fi. And sometimes only e-mail access. Thus the Central Hotel has become my unofficial headquarters. Just like on the Polar Star voyage last year, and the Hotel Chichen Itza about a week ago, the locals begin to learn about The Emperor Penguin and generally avoid sitting in a certain chair proximate to the charging outlet.

Virtually all morning is spent checking the internet for signs of Western Union money from home. Both sons seem to be working hard at it. Given the three hour time difference, I have to wait until noon in Havana to let things begin to happen by 9 AM in Seattle. I also go to the International Finance Center, which is rumored to cash American Traveler’s checks, and to a place called Asistur. No luck. Neither can help. Back to the hotel. Checking e-mail every hour on the half hour. Finally, I know I am running out of time for businesses to be open here. Bold moves must be made. The internet minutes spin by like the electric meter on Times Square.

For several hours, I have been getting quiet assistance and encouragement from an unassuming French Graduate student sitting across from me. Salome Roth is studying the alliteration of African slave music and drama into modern theatre performance. She watches me come and go numerous times and by 3:30 PM knows my full story. I ask her if anything can be done through France, for example? I float every idea that can be explained between us (given our language differences) that clearly won’t be dead on arrival. She offers many helpful suggestions.

Just as I am getting ready to leave, she offers to get me enough money to pay my Casa Particular bill, Cuba Exit tax, change fee for an early departing flight, and taxi to the airport from her European credit card. She is allowed a withdrawal of $400 CUC weekly. $320 of it is offered to me. I am stunned, frankly. This gesture is so incredibly trusting, and she has no collateral to ensure repayment. We try to make an immediate transfer using my Wells Fargo bank account online, but because the programming recognizes we are in Cuba, it won’t allow this without special coding being sent to my phone and then entered back into the bank transfer mechanism … and my phone won’t work in Cuba.

I am (beyond being dumbstruck at this piece of luck and extreme trust and generosity) also saddened. I had cut my visitation list down for Cuba mightily, to include just Havana and Vialles de Vinales – The “Cuban Yosemite.” The American version being my favorite place in the whole world since I was an ankle-biting rug rat. I can now afford to get out at least. Fidel won’t be having me as a guest of the Revolucion or working on a chain gang to pay off my hotel bill.

So I accompany Salome to the cash machine, and then to a friend’s house to see about less expensive housing for the night … and to see a different part of the city. Again, in a recurring theme, the greatest of hospitality is extended to me in Havana at all times. Many would dearly love to host me and as is the custom, “practice their English.” But doing so is risky. They are afraid of doing anything that is not official and transparent to the Cuban government.

Being caught with a foreign guest that is not registered is a heady offense leading to stiff penalties, including loss of your Casa Particular license. My four “Wharf Rats” from the previous night have confirmed the same thing for other offenses. They say if you assault a tourist, you can get 25 years in prison. That makes Cuba relatively safe, beyond very petty crimes like pickpocketing.

Salome and I repair to a local sandwich shop for dinner, where large Cuban sandwiches for locals are prepared for minimal pricing. These delectables are both large and delicious, particularly the island specialty – Pork. They are accompanied by chips sliced from a cousin of the potato whose name I did not catch – and a small glass of either orange or grapefruit juice, all for less than $1.50 CUC. That’s pronounced “Kook” locally (and no, no reference intended to the Daffy Dane from my first two nights in Havana).

Salome and I part about 6 PM, after paying my obligations with Ody back at Sr. Alberto’s Casa Particular. This includes the present evening – my fifth. I am left with just enough cash plus $30 CUC to get out of Cuba. We don’t say much. I feel particularly obligated and impelled to make a lengthy speech. She has duties to attend to, and shortens my ministrations. So much trust! Where is something like that nurtured? She has my Wells Fargo check, and promise to transfer money to her e-mail address via Wells Fargo to cover my $320 CUC debt as timelier recompense if it can work as soon as I get to Mexico or Belize.

I can not thank The One God nor the karma gods nor “giving it up to the universe” enough for the presence of this quiet and incredibly generous woman in my life this day. I have a feeling we will meet again, though for what purpose – other than to express gratitude and return a gigantic slice of grace – I can not determine. Salome has been an absolute Godsend. I wish I’d had the opportunity to get to know her better. Things would seem so much more balanced this way.

So, on my last night in Cuba, I begin meandering once again in earnest. First to the nearby Capitol area. The Cuban Capitol building is quite similar in design and appearance to the US Capitol in Washington, D.C. It is in fact, slightly larger I believe, equally attractive, and more ornamental. But more closed in by nearby edifices. Which are stunning in themselves. None of the bombed out, circa Dresden in World War II look that occurs in some Havana neighborhoods.

Among the buildings salivated over in this portion of Central Havana close to the Capitol are the Payret Theatre, The gorgeous Hotel Inglaterra, and the Fabulously Sumptious Baroque Gran Teatro De Habana. I only wish I’d been there during the day to photograph this stunning gem. Ironically, it is only five blocks from my Casa Particular. It has been necessary to travel other directions previously, however. Jose Marti Square, named after the Cuban poet and original Cuban revolutionary, is nearby and very attractive at night with generous lighting, multiple fountains, and numerous clean marble benches for relaxing.

Along my way to finally see Old Havana or Habana Viejo, I remember a modest surplus of cash in my pocket beyond what is necessary to get out of the country in the morning. It becomes an easy decision to stop in at Floridita, Hemingway’s favorite bar, and have the “Hemingway Special” – a tart blended Daiquiri without sugar. It is said that “Papa” had up to 15 of these daily in between bestsellers. A statue of him, in the corner, invites tourists from all over the world to lean in intimately and pretend for a brief moment they are marlin fishing together, or as if they are the inspiration for his terse but colorful, powerful verse. His muse as it were.

I finally round the corner in Plaza Viejo—a brilliant public square very mindful of “The Plaza de Armas” in my favorite place in South America, Cuzco (Peru). What they share in common are flawless cobblestones, no trash, coordinated whitewash and color schemes, excellent lighting (not all lights are on in Cuba at all times), an attractive variety of shops, and friendly locals. One of them hails me as I walk past. It is Manuel, a security guard at the Hotel Central – and now a familiar figure. “Lorenzo!” he beams. It is nice to be remembered. Perhaps even to stand out.

We talk for 15 minutes, he directs me across the square to a local brewery (“La Casa de Cerveza”), but I have miles to go before I sleep. This is my last night here. I still have much ground to cover to say I have done Havana justice. So I continue north toward Ambos Mundos and the well-trod Obispo Calle once again on the Calle Mercaderes. If there is ever a designated “must see street” in Havana, I would say it should be this one. It is lined with Colonial, Baroque, Spanish, Mission, Turkish, Moroccan, and half a dozen other architectural styles in its full six blocks. Not an ugly or disinterested building to be found on its entire length.

Among the classy gems found here are The Hostal Los Frailes, Café del Oriente, Hostal Conde de Villanueva, Macqueta del Central Historico, La Torre de Marfil, The Meson de La Flota, the Simon Bolivar Museum and of course the Ambos Mundos. Most have sumptuous décor, cushioned lounges, ample but soft mood lighting, rich leather, solid oak furniture, and wait staff or attendants dressed in crisp and clean tuxedo uniforms. This is the street I would want to take a lover to dine on in Havana.

Just before I hit Ambos Mundos again, one of my Wharf Rats (a term of endearment, believe me) from the previous night rounds the corner. He recognizes me immediately. “Yanqui!” cries out Hiram. He is slightly better dressed this night, but still easily recognizable by his trimmed sideburn mutton chops. Moments later, another member of the quartet appears, but from a different direction. Angel, this time. I offer to buy them the beer I had promised the night before, should I eventually run into some cash. We return to the square and The Casa de Cerveza. Manuel joins us. And moments later, from a still different direction, Barbaro appears. Only Juanacito is missing from the previous evening.

The lads fill me in more about their life. They are largely students, and cigar rollers. They offer me cigars if I wish at incredible prices, but without the hucksterism one usually finds on the street. I decline. Would have to smoke them here, as they can’t be carried back to the US. I am not in a smoking mood. They inform me that everybody has jobs here – official government approved jobs – but to survive, virtually everybody must have an angle, a separate “job,” their own little economic initiative that gets them access beyond local currency pesos. To CUC.

Manuel offers an example. “If you are a bartender, you cut the liquor, or the size of the drink. You make ten Daiquiris, but you serve twelve. The money from the extra two is pocketed. Or, if you work in a cigar factory, you take home two, sell them on the streets, and it becomes part of your income. Everybody knows this. Everybody looks the other way. You can’t survive without it.” This makes street annoyance when I won’t buy cigars much more understandable. They are not selling for somebody else – for “the man.” They are each extending their own private enterprise, and counting on me and so many others to eat this particular month.

After yet another photo op, beers in hand and promises kept, I continue my rounds. Manuel accompanies me. He is an interesting young man: 29, single, handsome, well-liked, fluent in Spanish of course but nearly so in Italian, French, and his English improves hourly. Friendly with everybody. An aspiring author. I still don’t know what he does though for cash. He has offered me taxi services, I have seen him as a security guard, he does some DJ work, apparently some interpreting, and perhaps even some singing. Sloth is certainly not one of his characteristics. He is a very engaging conversationalist.

He directs me past Ambos Mundos to the spacious and nearly intimidating Plaza de La Catedral. The square is full of late diners, the proverbial Cuban music from a well-dressed live musical ensemble plays on with continued gusto, and the coral brown large-block Mission architecture imposes a very commanding, almost enveloping presence despite the open lid of the surroundings. It is a brilliant place to hang for the evening. If one only had the luxury of such time.

We retreat down the narrow Calle Empedrado to another of Hemingway’s haunts, the Bodigeta de Medeo. Once again a late-night live band is packing the tourists in, with modestly priced drinks, a autograph rich plastered interior from dignitaries all over the world, intimate cubbies for dining and smoking, and a clustered “you are one of us” ambience to the place that makes you feel you belong. But I only belong for half an hour. I really belong at the Central Hotel. There is 15 minutes remaining on my internet card, just enough to see if I have any last minute reversal of fortune about being able to remain in Cuba. Manuel has occasionally spoken of his faith. I ask him to pray to the powers that be at Western Union. “Let there be a confirmation number,” I plead.

Now, I had really planned on being vague about how I got money to get out of Cuba. Or possibly continue with my journey. To leave it to your imagination as to whether I’d helped roll sailors at the docks, strapped a mattress on my back and paraded naked with a chicken feather headdress down Calle Paseo de Marti, stolen tips at a local bar, broken the strong box for candle donations at a local church, smashed a jewelry store window and hawked the goods to gullible tourists, or mystified rich widows down at some of the tonier haute coutier shops in Verdado.

There is still much incoming e-mail I’ve not been able to read, due to volume and rapid minutes usage. It takes time to scroll through it all. I am looking for an affirmation from Larry or Sean. A ten to twelve digit number that means cash, continuity, and credibility. “Give this story some legs,” I think to myself. My internet is down to three minutes. “Come on, Baby,” I chant. “Come up sixes.”

And suddenly there it is. A notice from Sean, that after trying Canada, Florida, four places in Seattle, and spending about four hours on the phone, he has finally reached somebody at Western Union who knows how to deal with Cuba. I have a confirmation number. I copy as quickly as I can. Twenty five seconds later, my internet time runs out.

An online number is not the same as cash. Any damn fool can take your credit card, give you a dummy confirmation number, and then use your private information to make bogus charges. Who knows what dubious creature Sean has reached? So the ultimate test remains for the morning. And yet, tonights’s prayer having been answered, I am now confident enough to breathe deeply, order a regular Daiquiri followed by God’s Gift to Grateful Guzzlers (The Brazilian Caipirinha) and a bowl of Cuban strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla ice cream.

If the number doesn’t actually come through as valid in the morning, whatever money I’d gone over budget tonight will just have to be begged or cadged or stolen from lepers or pinched from nuns and orphans later. Blind men with extended cups and prone maestros with open violin cases full of coin are always subject to a quick getaway. Maybe I’ll have to take up residence with the Wharf Rats for awhile. But tonight, we celebrate.

And in the morning, the number proves valid. The process takes two minutes. I have effectively won The Daily Double. Sean will start getting an allowance again, and his daily ration of sailor’s grog will be doubled. Vinales, here I come !