Havana really good time

I finally did it. After weeks of planning, years of dreaming, and 14 hours of travelling, I made it to Cuba. I always attempt not to imagine what a place will be like before going there, as you’re only running the risk of drawing comparisons between your imaginary creation and the physical reality. So I was neither shocked, disappointed nor proven right. Instead I got to grips with the dismal reality for the majority of Cubans; just by walking the streets and seeing the tiny little rooms which a whole family share, and from which they run the family business (half of these being souvenir shops), and watch the world go by, waiting for Socialism to really deliver Jose Martí’s dream of Cuban independence.

The uniqueness of Cuba lies in the cultural mix: the cohabitation of dark dark-skinned and light light features, drawing respectively from its slave origins and the more recent arrival of immigrants from Spain and Europe. I didn’t quite get the chance to get to grips with the differentiation in treatment of these differing populations, but I saw some evidence of racial prejudice and an American photographer I made acquaintances with made comments to suggest that it ran deeper than could be gleaned from a superficial observation (or Half-Baked observation, you might say). The fact that I was in Varadero for the first three days, where you don’t get to see any of the real Cuba from within the confines of your all-inclusive, minimum four-star hotel, means that my learning on the situation in Cuba was slightly stunted. The political situation in Cuba obviously shapes the nation more than mojitos and cigars, and there is evidence everywhere, from murals, to the currency (the national money is used only by residents, tourists use the convertible peso, and can be many more ‘luxury’ products than the locals...luxury products like powdered milk and nice underwear). When we asked someone where the ‘comandante jefe’ (Castro) lives, we were treated to a decent amount of speculation- that he has 27 houses, including one in the richest neighbourhood of the city. But no one actually knows where the bearded Commy lives. I would imagine that he has more than a 1-bedroom pied-a-terre.

One important thing which I wish I’d known before going was just how much money you feel obliged to give out as tips. From the guy who serves you your coffee in the morning, to the chambermaid, to the kindly stranger who gives you directions. There is very little crime in Cuba, as we were constantly reminded and then told how dangerous it was in Mexico (yeah, thanks, we live there), but tips are daylight robbery. No, but seriously, they wouldn’t ask if they didn’t truly madly need it. The advantage of the system is that everyone has a salary (thus you may find a tiny state-run shop with 6 employees, and two doormen on one door) and a decent education (for example the best doctor’s education in the world), but once you spread all the resources over a population of several million, the pesos don’t weigh so much in each individual pocket.

I was there for 8 days, with Mabel (from the family, sister-like figure, you know her) and Cata, a 50-something friend of the family who at first sight appears an affectionate pensioner with a late-blooming taste for travelling, but she’s as open-minded as the youngsters of today and as filthy as a dishcloth. So I had no complaints about the company. Nor, funnily enough, about the fact that our flight was delayed almost a whole day. That could have something to do with the fact that the airline put us up in a 5 star hotel whilst we waited, and gave us three delicious buffet meals.

I’m still trying to get to grips with what sort of effect Cuba had on me, and I think this suggests I need another trip. Almost definitely so, as the cigars I bought won’t last longer than a couple of months.

Home run

Thus I have christened these last few weeks. However much I don’t want to have to think about the fact that I have to up sticks and leave the place that I’ve fallen in love with, the point is that it is unavoidable. It is the first topic of conversation which people jump to, it is the first thing I have to consider when I make plans, decide what to do with my day, and is also at the forefront of my mind for the mere fact that I have to get things organised for my departure, and of course my (what I hope will be) legendary leaving party. Flights are now booked, leaving from Cancun the 21^st July. This leaves me with 5 weeks, one of which will be spent in Cuba (leaving next Sunday), and so only 4 weeks here, only 3 of which will be filled with classes, trying to cram as much English into the kids’ brains, and as much extra pocket money into my purse as I physically can. So, now with that thought out of the way, I can go back to talking about what is more interesting (well, marginally so): what I have been filling all of this precious time with.

I’ve had a few friends’ birthday parties to keep me on my toes, one in a ranch in the ‘sierra’, which meant as much loud, out-of-tune karaoke singing and prancing about like fools and eating beef head tacos as we wanted without anyone bothering us. The day after I stuck around and went to a cold water spring to cool off and recover, enjoying some precious time away from all the worries of the day-to-day and the choking noise and pollution of the town, made even better by the lack of signal out in the wilds of rural Veracruz, at its best in resplendent greens, a hundred different shades all catching the sun in their own unique way. Yesterday I had another birthday, this time in a proper venue in Minatitlan, again karaoke, again everything in excess, and the entire LGBTA community of the area strutting their stuff on the dance floor.

You can’t say I’m one to avoid work either. I’ve been kept very busy with the nursery school three days a week, an extra class in my second primary school on Mondays, a new contract with some teachers who are going to England and want a crash course in the lingo, so Guy and I between us giving them four hours weekly. With all this, and my usual faffing about, eating lots, running a bit, reading about the art of fandango (in Spanish, so it’s a slow and laborious process), the weeks really do flash by before I can capture the essence of the days, or even think what day it is. I’ve always had the habit of planning things, but in order to try and do everything and not forget classes or turn down invitation, my diary really rules my life (though I’m sure you could say that writing down exactly what I have for dinner every night doesn’t help to organise my time. I still do it though). As well as my own work, I even try to interfere with other people’s, this time in Pajaritos, the world’s 5^th biggest maritime terminal, and home to 1500 Pemex (Mexican national petrol company) employers, amongst whom I count some good friends. So, with my (completely fraudulent) access pass obtained, my orange overalls donned, and some borrowed boots pulled on, I strove about the place like a crazed tourist, taking photos in boats, sitting in the boss’ chair, and generally distracting everyone from the work they’re paid to do. I got there far too late to get a good amount of time in there, due to a pointless trip to immigration, but I at least got to visit a boat, machinery and all, and meet people who knew more about me than I could have hoped to inform them in an entire week, due to the thoroughness of my friends’ background-providing.

I also took a very big step, one which took a lot of guts but was long-overdue. I chopped off the dead mop-like substance I claim is hair. Well, about 7cm of it anyway. It doesn’t look drastically different to be honest, as the dead hair was so thin and ugly that it didn’t add length only dead weight, and so the good stuff which is left behind is now curlier than Goldilocks’ nose hair. But at least it’s a bit less unsightly. And I treated myself to a pedicure at the same time, just because I was in a salon and it would have been rude not to.

Recently I also enjoyed a couple of town fairs, the first in Zaragoza, where I teach, and the second in Jaltipan, where I rarely go even though it’s only ten minutes away. The result of my four successive nights at the fair in Zaragoza, dancing and eating and watching the concerts with my (predominantly) male friends, was a week-long ambush from 800 gossipy school children: ‘Teacher, I saw you at the fair!’ ‘Claire, you went to the fair didn’t you?’ ‘I saw you drinking....ummmm’, and my favourite: ‘I saw you with your four boyfriends’ (came as a surprise to me that I had so much success with the opposite sex).

Now the worst of the annual heat-wave has passed, and I’m back to having moments of non-sweatiness, and not getting burnt by my shower water, for which I thank global warming. 45 degrees isn’t as exotic as it sounds when you have to go to work and your house doesn’t have air conditioning.

Right, so, I’d, err, better get back to that enjoying my last few weeks malarkey. I’ve got a whole list of things to get through before I’m ready to leave this place.