Cienfuegos, Cuba

After the continuous movement of Havana, the throngs of people, beaten out cars, and salsa music blaring from every corner, the empty streets of Cienfuegos with their colourful buildings that looked like they were made out of candy were a welcome and peaceful relief. Cobbled streets lined with cheerfully painted houses were picture-perfect and fairytale clean after the crumbling apartment blocks of the city.

The searing midday heat pounded me like a sledgehammer and I had to concentrate hard just to keep my eyes open as the fury in my head pressed against my temples. The lack of people in the streets was a telling sign that the best way to deal with a punishingly hot climate was to stay indoors and fan yourself. But I didn’t come to Cuba to stay inside my hotel room, I wanted to explore.... Although it has to be noted, “hotel room” is a generous term for the bed I am renting behind the net curtain in the back of the casa of the señora with the permanent curlers in her hair and thin lips permanently set into a stern line.

Renting rooms in casas particulares here is a mixed bag of experiences. There are few hotels outside of the main tourist zones and the ones that were available blew my budget to pieces. The only option was to rent a room in a house where you could play with the children, eat dinner with the family and learn more about their culture. Well that was when it was good; when it was bad you were renting from your wicked old Aunt that imposed a curfew and made you eat all of your greens. If you’re not careful they will drill you into spilling all of the details of your itinerary and then phone their cousins (every Cuban has a thousand of these whether by blood or not) and get you to stay with them in different places across Cuba, delivering messages and even packages as you go, and keeping the business in the family. I understand the need to look out for their own but I detest being moved around like a chess piece, especially by a woman as domineering and cold as the señora of this casa.

I had not even the most minimal desire to go back to the casa but something was wrong as I never suffered from the heat, relishing in its every last ray, soaking up its goodness like a sponge. I had to hang back in the shade for a moment, as my dizziness caused the streets to move.

Loud speakers cranked up in the distance and the atmosphere outside began to change a little as a small rabble of people dribbled over to the plaza, eventually joined by a few more until a sizable gathering was formed. A powerful song played loud across the town plaza and neighbouring streets, commemorating the lost compadres who had died in the revolution, while freeing Cuba from the Imperialists. I thought it must have been an anniversary or some kind of commemorative occasion, but the lady beside me with the ill-fitting leopard print lycra top confirmed that this was a daily ritual.

Suddenly the voice of Fidel resounded loud and bold throughout the parks as he began his daily discourse, encouraging Cubans to stand firm against the evil and cunning capitalists, shoulder to shoulder in defence of communism and the Cuban way of life. The enemy to the North may try to bring Cuba down but they would stand and fight to the death, until they had nothing left, not the shirt on their back or the food on their tables, “patria o muerte” (motherland or death!), he belted out with a tremendous force that rattled the speakers.

The citizens of Cienfuegos looked about as moved by these stirring words as an adolescent in a bible studies class when his friends are out at a disco, unable to disguise the fact that they hear the same speech, or some variation of it, every day at the same time blasting out from the scratchy speakers, and Fidel has a tendency to waffle a little. As emotive as his words may have been, we were contending with a relentless heat that must have been approaching 40 in the shade. The mothers fanned themselves while chewing on gum and the children shuffled uncomfortably from side to side on their feet.

What a riddle this country really is. With a spirited people that you would have thought would have risen up at any moment and said “enough”, in the same way they find his speeches dull, and his doctrine wearing thin, Fidel is like that grumpy old grandfather who you complain about bitterly but tolerate and love because he’s part of your family. Actually it’s like one big family in Cuba; this is the overwhelming sensation here. Living with so little has fostered the need to ask for help from your neighbour and to give it back regularly.

The taxi driver who took me to the beach yesterday said that in his opinion there were lots of good things about Cuba, about the system, about Fidel, of whom he spoke with the same sense of love and frustration as one would a close relative; dismissive and respectful, rebellious and obedient all at once. They may not agree with many of his ways and bit by bit they are gradually more exposed to the realities of life under different regimes elsewhere, but they love him all the same. “Es lo que hay” is a popular expression in this little Caribbean island... “this is what we have” they say while shrugging their shoulders and continuing their conversations.

He showed me several of Havana’s 4 and 5 star hotels in which Cubans are allowed no further than the lobby. If I had wanted to get romantically involved with a Cuban during my stay I would have had to have gone to the police station and registered my consent, picking up a document to present to the police every time we were asked what we were doing and if it was allowed. The reason is simple; to keep Cubans away from the influence of foreigners and as in the dark as much as possible. Later on I would see the same thing happening in Venezuela, as Chavez removed English from the school curriculum and prevented the villages from having Internet.

This is shocking apartheid, especially within the white sandy paradise areas of Varadero, where the all inclusive species of tourists, wrist bands firmly in place, remain separated in their little patch of Cuban sand, eating imported food and drinks with no involvement in the country whatsoever, but for the fat Cuban cigar they smoke form the safe distance of their balconies. I shudder at the thought. Although there are easier countries to travel round and I have had to become extremely cautious being alone, I wouldn’t trade the real experience for any amount of paid-for cocktails or aqua aerobics in the pool.

Life is so difficult here. With a capped salary everyone earns the same; the equivalent of 15 dollars a month*, whether you are a doctor, a maid, or a technician. This money is paid in Cuban pesos, which clearly goes much further than 15 dollars would and is technically enough to subside on, but little wonder that the majority are continually scraping to make ends meet and that they see a foreigner as a chance to make a quick buck.

After my second day of non-stop intensity, where I was swept up by more than one Cuban, grabbed by the waist, invited out to dance salsa, proposed to and asked for money by more than fifty different people, I finally reached breaking point, screaming at the last man who had been so bold as to ask me for change that I was a backpacker and not a walking dollar sign, a woman alone and all I wanted was to walk the streets in peace. He was devastated by my reaction and profusely apologised afterwards, sensing I was on the point of tears. It turned out that he was a doctor. But why work his life away in service when he could ask 15 tourists for a dollar and make his monthly salary in an hour or so? You can understand the people’s frustration.

The taxi driver also told me how difficult it was to get hold of cars in Cuba, that usually they were handed down through the family or sometimes it was possible to buy one second hand, but never new, hence the antique Cadillacs and burned out Russian ladas, an echo back to the days of cooperation with the Soviet bloc. Nothing is thrown away in Cuba and even light bulbs, alarm clocks and things you would normally toss out are repaired hundreds of times.

There’s such a fading glory to Havana, the city frozen in time, the dull expression in so many people’s eyes reflecting the fading facades of the crumbling buildings. The stores are ill-stocked and most of the shelves are bare. In one restaurant I ordered a salad of vegetables “in season” and was presented with a saucer of 4 slices of cucumber. A portion of fries brought exactly nine and when I asked for ketchup it was rationed out, drop by drop, as the waitress returned with the bottle to the bar. There is a national shortage of absolutely everything and this is not the reality you see when you spend your vacation in a hotel.

Electricity is scarce and you have to use it while you can. There is only a supply some of the time and, apart from the 5-star resorts; they turn it off completely during the day. I had been trying to buy a writing pad for a while now, jotting down my notes on the back of a calendar. I went to seven different stores here and in the capital and with no success, having to line up for more than an hour, being bustled about, stared down, ignored, to at last be told “no mi amor no hay” (sorry love, we don’t have any). It’s frustrating and I have experienced three days; living with this reality must work away at the people like a drip, drip effect as they slowly descend into acceptance.

The floor starts to swirl and there’s a pain in my stomach so intense that I began to wretch and vomit. I feel my head hitting the pavement hard and everything goes black. A few hours later I awake and the son of the sergeant major señora is standing over me. “You’re going to be alright” he said soothingly, “take this” as he handed me a pill and pressed a wet towel on my forehead. It turns out that the skinny guy who hangs out on the porch of the house all day rocking in an armchair is a doctor too. This is a curious country. I need to find out more.

*I was in Cuba in 2005, when the dollar was still widely used and these details were correct.