Friday, April 18, 2003

28 - There's Something About Money (Trinidad, Cienfuegos)

La Habana to Trinidad, CUBA - 11 april 2003

As our bus pulled into Trinidad’s bus station, I was surprised to spot someone holding a sign with ‘TRISHA’. I told Yves I had not made any reservations with any casa. Strange.

When we disembarked, the lady lunged at me, the only chinita, calling out and waving at me frantically, inviting me to her house. Yves had another recommendation in mind and was quite determined to check that one out first. I asked this lady, how in the world she got my name. She said she had obtained it from her friend in Viñales. Even stranger. I mentioned to my hostess in Viñales I was heading to Cienfuegos and Trinidad. But I certainly did not tell her when I would get to Trinidad. The intricate casa particulars network.

The one that Yves wanted was full. By the time we arrived at the house of the lady with my name, hers was full too. We were brought to the house of her friend and got ourselves settled in. It is never any problem to find accommodations in small towns of Cuba.

While this country is a socialist system, where everyone is supposed to be equal, I could feel very obviously that some Cubans were just more ‘equal’ than others. Take those who wanted to start the casa particular business and dig into the tourism pie, for example. They could not just pack their relatives into one room and release the other one for tourists just like that. They had to fix it up beautifully, install an air-conditioner and perhaps, build a tiny attached toilet. All these need DOLLARS in the first place. If they did not have relatives overseas to send dollars over, I seriously doubted they could get this infrastructure up first before their first guest. So, the richer, earning US dollars, will become ‘richer’ (by their standards) and the poor will still remain poor.

The house I stayed in Trinidad was enormous, with a backyard and some very fine furniture. Our hostess had at least four gold chains around her neck and two fistfuls of chunky rings. The hi-fi system was no ordinary hi-fi set. Yves estimated it cost at least US$1000 for all those gizmos. I could not afford a hi-fi system at half that price. So, how did they do it?

We also noticed that in this country where material goods were lacking and supposed to be ‘evil’ anyway, the Cubans appeared to be more materialistic than normal. They were always asking Yves what car he owned, what kind of house he lived in. OK, this could just be pure curiosity of what lie elsewhere outside the island but this was the tiny little feeling we shared.

The streets of Trinidad were tranquil, with hardly any traffic. There were some horse carts and bicycles milling around. A world of difference from busy La Habana. One could walk in the middle of the streets. The houses were colourful and charming. This town is one of the UNESCO-protected Heritage sites, if I may add.

When we neared the touristy area of Trinidad, we were hollered at all the time. Many were touts, wanting to offer us paladares for dinner. Others asked if we had soap for them. Soap? Gosh… we nearly always take soap for granted and here, in Cuba, they are asking for soap. I felt very regretful of those little soaps provided in hotels that were thrown away after one use. What a waste.

‘China!!’, ‘Chinita!!’, ‘Mira, china!’ [Look, Chinese girl!]… Yes, mostly, I was the celebrity. Yves was practically ignored.

In the residential area, the old folks sitting on the doorways or standing around, chatting, would look up, delighted at the sight of me. Some called out from inside their house and waved away. Yves, now my publicity agent, had to tell me, “Hey, there’s another in there, sitting at the door, who just called you.” I had to turn here and there and give my royal waves.

I was taught how to smoke my first cigar tonight. Suck in, roll the smoke in my mouth and let it out. Never take it into the lungs, it burns. Hey, piece of cake.



Trinidad, CUBA - 12 april 2003

Some shops sold only US$-priced items. At one, I browsed through the goods and noted the prices. Jeans cost US$19. A pair of shorts, US$8. Some fake jewellery was priced at US$10. A hi-fi radio set cost US$450. Refrigerators, someone told me, cost US$850. A million questions swam in my head. The prices of hi-fi sets and refrigerators in my country certainly did not cost so much. If a doctor earned US$20 a month, how could anyone afford such things? Yet, people were checking them out intently. There must be some very illegal things going on around here.

I spent the day, curled up on a rocking chair and read my book. I had a long time to study the decorations around the living room and I knew that I had finally found the most kitsch country in my entire trip. Cuba is a legend in this area. The search is over.

Every house I had peeked in or stayed in had blue-and-white porcelain statues placed evenly on their tables… porcelain statues such as Chinese fisherman, European ladies in 18th-century dresses with parasols, Smiling Buddha or cute children holding little pets.

Then, there were the plastic flowers. It was not a case of plastic flowers with artistic arrangements set prettily on the dining room tables to adorn the house. The house-owner simply bought vases and dumped the plastic flowers in them. Way too many vases all over the house and way too many plastic flowers.

The one that takes the cake must be the black-and-white portraits that were coloured faintly for the blush, lipstick and the background.

I loved it here. A bug could fly into my open jaws if I was not careful enough.

Well, I had decided to regulate my metabolic rate to one full US$5 or US$6 meal every two days now, and to fill my stomach with Cuban-Peso-priced food and biscuits the rest of the time. Since I had stuffed myself last night, tonight it would be Cuban-Peso night.

Cuban-Peso food meant ham clasped between very stale small pieces of bread and home-made pizzas (it actually barely resembled a real pizza, the thing in common was probably the round shape and the cheese on top) cooked in converted oil-drums. These usually tasted, I will be kind here, awful. Once I ordered the ‘hamburguesa’ [hamburger]. When served, the question I had in my head was not “Gee… I wonder WHAT MEAT is this between the bread.” It was “Gee… I wonder WHAT is this between the bread.” But to me, in this condition, food was food. I reported to my stomach and not my taste-buds now. I queued for them, hung around the streets and gobbled them up just like any other good ol’ Cubans. In a way, I really admired the Cubans. I figured the awful food might be due to lack of ingredients or lack of expertise. Yet, the Cubans ate them up uncomplainingly. This was normal for them.



Trinidad, CUBA - 13 april 2003

My guide-book had interested us in a train-ride to the Valle de los Ingenios [Valley of the Mills]. This was the agricultural region of sugar-cane plantations and there were many sugar mills in this valley, hence, the name. The guide-book wrote the ride cost 50 cents. Yves and I decided to take the trip.

It turned out to cost US$10. Yet another money-making enterprise for the state (remember the sneer). The train was a replica steam train with two wagons and soon, hordes of elderly tourists were unloaded from tour buses for this scenic journey. I had imagined a local train but this was obviously just catering to tourists now. This was surely one of my most embarrassing super touristy moment.

When the Disneyland train pulled out of the station, the locals waved at us. I felt very sheepish. I did not know where to hide my face. But later, I realised the locals seemed really sincere and delighted to wave at us, especially from the plantations further out. Even guys playing baseball stopped to wave to us merrily. I found it interesting. I would never understand this country.

We stopped at Manaca-Iznaga and we tourists alighted to visit the craft market and climb the 45-metre concrete tower (US$1, of course) to view the entire plantation. This was obviously where the masters stood to watch their slaves at work during the colonial times. Yves said one could really see everything. I would not know. I did not pay.

Instead, I walked around the houses nearby and got to chatting with an 85-year-old elderly man and some of his neighbours’ kids. He was delighted I spoke some ‘Cubano’ and later, kept praising that I spoke ‘casi igual’ [almost the same]. He was very sweet. His name was Calendario. He had ten children, 30 over grandchildren and even great-grand children. He claimed he had heart problems but it was unoperable. He had the jovial yet resigned-to-fate attitude. I had an amazing time just sitting with him and learning.

I realise visiting Cuba is, to me, not really to take in the sights. There were not so many impressive sights. It was more to observe the people, talk to them, learn how life is like for them. They will surprise you, shock you, touch you, humble you and delight you.

Yet, many package-grouped tourists, unloaded from the plane, are driven straight to fancy hotels by the beach. They vegetate there for days, drink beer, attend cabaret shows, complain about whatever, and take the occasional day-trips to nearby towns. They get off the bus and are told they have 30 minutes. So, they wander to the nearby souvenir stalls, sit on the plaza and wait for the time. The segregation between locals and these tourists was even greater. I wonder if they see the side of Cuban life we independent travellers glimpse a little of. I wonder if they ask the same questions like what we have in our heads.



Trinidad, CUBA - 14 april 2003

Yves would head to Playa del Este, the beach east of La Habana tomorrow for a couple of days. After he booked his hotel with a travel agency here, we decided to go lie on the beach near Trinidad, in Península Ancon. But before that, I had to use the internet to check on something urgent. Using internet here is like burning dollars, only faster.

Ooooh, expensive day today for both of us. Yves had just plonked down US$130 for two-nights on the beach in Playa del Este. I had just spent US$2.50 for 23 minutes of excruciatingly slow internet usage. Ka-ching.

The Carribean sea had just that perfect turqoise colour in the water. The colours shown in postcards and resort magazines are REAL! I had an awesome, incredible feeling, standing there and looking out to the sea.



Trinidad to Cienfuegos, CUBA - 15 april 2003

By now, I had found out from Yves that the other bus company, Astro, which catered for locals, actually reserved up to four places for foreigners. The tourists naturally did not need to queue and would pay in dollars. While the price was perhaps 20 to 30 times more than what the Cubans pay, it was still cheaper than Viazul.

I took the Astro bus to Cienfuegos. It felt normal again, sitting with the locals, catching the breeze from the open window, instead of sitting among tourists, listening to the guy behind me whining that the toilets at the snack break had no paper and the tap did not work.

The number of mostachioed women in Cuba was beginning to really worry me. I hope it was not anything from the water.

Passing a cinema along the main road of Cienfuegos, I spotted a movie for ‘Tropicana’ at 1:30pm. It was made in Cuba. I had to watch it. I waited patiently for the ticket-office to open.

At 1:10pm, a sour-faced woman was fussing behind the counter. I asked the shabby auntie in front of me how much the price was. 1 Cuban Peso. What??? This was F-R-E-E.

Sour-face stuck a notice on the window. Shabby Auntie read the notice and frowned, indicating my haversack. Sour-face wagged her finger at my haversack sternly too and indicated a ‘No’.

I read the notice and realised that JUST NOW, they had decided they did not allow any form of backpacks, packages, whatever, into the cinema. Why?? Were they afraid I would bootleg the movie? Well, this is the Cuban version of the Russian ‘Nyet’. You stop asking ‘why’ after a while.

Movie would start in 20 minutes. My casa was 10 minutes away. No biggie. Nothing stands between me and my 1-Cuban-Peso movie.

I returned, duly unloaded, and this time, Sour-face had no excuse not to let me in. ‘Tropicana’ was set in the famous, oldest and most trashy cabaret show in the world. This was the sequinned side of Cuban tourism. The movie was ridiculous but quite funny and entertaining. Way better than the Mongolian-made ‘Nyet Porno’ I watched nearly nine months ago in Ulaan Baator.

While there were some shops that sold US$-priced items, there were the few which were true-blue Cuban shopping centres. One third of the glass displays were perhaps broken. Some of the remaining ones were held together by duct tapes. These were lined with some clothes, the odd underwear, casettes, glorious glorious plastic flowers and the most horrible-looking mass-produced porcelain ceramic statues with misprinted eyes and lips, no less, in the world. A section had ancient, tattered, revolution-themed, multiple-hand books. One salesman tried to interest me in the last few pages of a book, showing several photos of Che Guevara, their Cuban Revolution hero, drawing my attention to those without beard. Ooo, spooky when without beard.



Cienfuegos, CUBA - 16 april 2003

I boarded the catamaran to the Castillo de Jagua, a Spanish fort on the other side of the Bay of Jagua from Cienfuegos. The price written on the wall had been 0.50. As this was a catamaran for local passengers, I was sure 0.50 meant 0.50 Cuban Peso. But everyone else submitted the 1 Cuban-Peso coin and so I did likewise.

There was only one other foreigner on the catamaran. He was an elderly German gentleman. When we arrived at the other side, we walked together to visit the fort. He then started to fret that he had only US$0.30 left, not ‘enough’ for the ride back. I realised that just now, he had paid US$0.50 for the boat ride. That was 13 Cuban Pesos. It was too much. I told him, for our return, I would pay for his ride (for he was one of those tourists who did not change any money into Cuban Pesos).

We took the same catamaran back but because German Elderly Man got on at a later dock, he was standing away from me. When the sweaty conductor came round, I gave him a fiver and said, “Para dos personas [For two persons]”. He returned the change of three pesos to me.

When he reached German Elderly Man, I waved to Sweaty Conductor to indicate that this was the other person I had paid for earlier. Instead, Sweaty Conductor strode over and wordlessly shove 1 peso into my palm. He demanded US$0.50 from German Elderly Man. No, this is the 1 peso for him, I insisted. He simply refused to take my money. I argued with him but he ignored me totally. He continued to bug German Elderly Man for US$0.50 and made quite a scene. A Cuban woman joined in and wanted to pay 1 peso for German Elderly Man as well. Sweaty Conductor simply asked her not to butt in. Finally, German Elderly Man had no choice but to remove a US$1 note. Sweaty Conductor then returned US$0.50 change and was finally appeased.

I was thoroughly surprised. Obviously, German Elderly Man made the mistake earlier and was now taken advantage upon to be charged the ‘foreigner’s price’. Why then did he not ask US$0.50 from me? By my association with German Elderly Man, I was obviously a foreigner as well. Did he really think I was a Cuban Chinese? Maybe, but I doubted it. One really just stop questioning ‘why’ in Cuba after a while.



Cienfuegos to La Habana, CUBA - 17 april 2003

I was the only foreigner on the Astro bus to La Habana and because I went to the special office and wrote my name down on the special book and paid the special price, they forgot I existed and booked two person for the same seat 21.

I was driven from my seat by the lady. I let her take it while we inquired with the bus guys about the errors. They tried to morph the 21 into a 12 but seat 12 was taken too. So, they harrassed the guy at seat 12. They also knew that as a tourist, I paid 20 to 30 times the price of the Cubans, so they quickly and apologetically asked me to take my seat. I felt bad for the lady but they were later able to place her somewhere. All’s well ends well.

Unlike the Viazul snack stops which stopped at US$-priced cafés, the snack stops now were all Cuban eateries and street-side stalls. It was mighty affordable for me. I slurped up ice-cream just because. I ate a sandwich even when I was not hungry.

A dog looked at me with those doggy eyes as I munched away. I dropped a piece of the stale bread on the ground for it. It sniffed the bread but refused to take it. I told you the food was bad.

I had no idea where the Astro bus station was in La Habana but when the bus finally stopped, I looked up and saw José Marti and the pointy monument and I knew I was near Plaza de la Revolución. I knew how to walk back to my casa from here. No need for taxis, ha.

Just the other day, Yves, being the Physicist that he is, did some reverse engineering analysis and concluded that perhaps the Viazul bus station was located quite an inconvenient distance away to give tourists no choice but to take taxis. Oh, I see… gosh, Fidel is G-O-O-D.

If the brainy Yves ever wins the Nobel Prize for Physics in the future, I will be proud to say I had known this guy before, albeit briefly.



La Habana, CUBA - 18 april 2003

How to finish spending the rest of my Cuban Pesos? There were not many things priced in Cuban Pesos available to be bought. For those food items available, it was so cheap, it was nearly free. I busied myself stopping by every other ‘Refresco’ stalls and drinking away cups of questionable syrups just to spend the pesos. I finally located a restaurant at Barrio Chino [Chinatown] which had prices both in US$ and Cuban Pesos and splurged on a big lunch there and paid in pesos.

I meandered to Parque Central opposite the White House lookalike, the Capitolio Nacional in Old Havana and rested under the shade. There, scores of locals, mostly men, regardless of day and time, were standing around and discussing various topics with fervor. Politics? Baseball?

I observed a policeman checking the identity card of a guy just sitting on the bench. I had noticed how suspicious the police were of everyone and how, to a certain extent, state-fearing the locals were.

When I went to Viñales, I had only brought along a small haversack and had left my passport in my casa in La Habana, thinking I did not need it anywhere else. My hostess wanted my passport to register me. When I said I only had a photocopy with me, she literally stopped dead in her tracks and grew worried. She said if the officials found out she registered me with a photocopy and not the original, they would be fined. She had turned rather pale. I apologized to her, cursing myself why I did not just bring my passport along. I explained I did not know of this rule and if she did not want me, I would look for another casa. This was met with feverish protests. I guess, while they were state-fearing, they took risks because of the money.

I compared this to that old crone in the cheap hostel in St. Petersburg, Russia where two tourists and I were trying to check in. She found faults with all of our visas and simply refused to accept us. One of the guys had said to her, “If you are smart, you will take our money and let us in.” I guess, for her, she rather not take risks with foreigners and accept only Russian tourists.

Then, I also compared the difference the police treated the tourists here in Cuba and Russia. Here in Cuba, tourists could do no wrong. You really must do something very bad, like really, really bad… perhaps, make an attempt on the life of The Bearded One (one could only attempt for this guy seemed to have ninety lives), then, you just might receive a slap on the wrist.

In Moscow, Russia, the police were hunting down tourists. You just have to molecularly exist in approximately the same space-time spectrum as a Russian police officer to be ‘in trouble’. He would claim something is wrong with your visa and you will then be hauled to the police station, if you refuse to pay the on-the-spot fine.

As I walked around La Habana, I really marvelled at the patience of the locals waiting for buses. When a bus arrived, the queue could be as long as thirty-five to forty people. They had obviously been waiting for a long time. The buses were also nearly always full already. In China or Mongolia, I could imagine all forty people rushing to the bus-door upon arrival of the bus, fighting and shoving to get in.

Another scary public transport is the camello (camel). It is a very long truck. The container-part of the truck was slightly elevated at the two ends, like two humps of a camel. The container is so long that up to two hundred people can squeeze into it. Nearly every time I saw a camello, it was jam-packed to the brim with sweaty bodies. I only dared hop onto one later that evening when it was surprisingly not so crowded.

By night, I still had 20 Cuban Pesos and decided to spend it on one final dinner. It was fried rice. It was gross. I kept washing it down with my bottle of water. When my water ran out, I tried to dry-swallow the rice. But my throat kept contracting to prevent the food-intake. I tilted my head at an angle to try and roll down the rice using gravity, much like what seals do to swallow their fish. For the life of me, I just could not swallow.

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