May 12
This is the last day we will be doing volunteer labor at the building site. There is a survey crew setting levels on the foundation we cleared out the other day.
They put little pads of cement on top of the foundation to mark the level.
Another guy is cutting up pieces of polished stone with a rock saw.
As everyone knows, brigadista women moonlight on the side as witches. Mostly they were sweeping today, but they couldn’t resist going for a ride around Holguin on their brooms.
The building is coming along, but suddenly there is hardly anybody around. It is Mother's Day tomorrow. A huge holiday in Cuba. Many of the workers are from out of town, so they get off at 10 AM today in order to have time to get home for the holiday. And today we get to leave early, along with the entire crew.
As we are leaving we are thanked by the jefes. Dave Thomas, our jefe, asks about the prison labor on this worksite. We are told that the proportion of prison labor varies day to day. Today about 35 out of 90 workers are prisoners. Of course, the prison labor does mainly gruntwork. See the separate blog section comparing the US vs Cuban prison system.
Back at the hotel. Ever notice that the elevators are made by some firm called Thyssen/Keupp?
Krupp is of course the giant German armament corporation that made zillions in profits off WWI. Fritz Thyssen was an international financial wheeler dealer, who partnered with the US investment firm Brown Brothers Harriman, working thru their stellar employee Prescott Bush (whose son and grandson were named George) to funnel US wall street millions to the Krupp empire. They needed a frontman to sell their scheme to the German masses, so they hired some schlep named Adolf. The rest, as they say, is history.
In the afternoon we visit the Association of Cuban Combatants in downtown Holguin. This is similar to the Verterans of Foreign Wars organization in the US, or perhaps the Canadian Legion in Canada. One difference is that - unlike US or Canadian soldiers - these guys were often heavily outnumbered and outgunned, and suffered much higher casualty rates. Last year we met with a similar group in Cienfuegos, composed mainly of veterans of the Playa Giron (Bay of Pigs) invasion by the US. This year we meet a group of six men. Alejandro, our interpreter, is the younger man in the middle.
Like last year, they all saw combat, and they are all old men. One is a verteran of Playa Giron, and another fought beside Che in the Escambray. The man with the dark black skin, second from the left, fought beside Che in the Congo. Another is a veteran from the Angola conflict, where Cuban troops fought S African mercenaries and were instrumental in ending aparthied in Angola and S Africa. Some of them are still carrying lead in their bodies from that was paid for by the US or its allies.
All of then speak with great dignity, but not vanity. And once they get started they love to go on and on. They crawled thru the mud, and slept beside Che in the mountains, and took chances no one has the right to expect to survive. Simple questions take many minutes to answer, as the combatants memories bounce from one recollection to another. It is tough for Alejadro, our interpreter, to keep up.
I have been asked to present the Che Brigade T shirt today - a ceremony we perform at each event. I am half listening to the spreakers, and half trying to think of something rational and respectful to say. Finally the Q/A session is over, and it it time for me to present the T shirt. I am embarrassed to even be on the same stage with these old men, who were the target of so many bullets. But I cannot hand the T shirt up from the floor so I step up onto the stage. I explain that 2 days ago I made a personal visit to Loma San Juan, where my grandfather may or may not have fought in the battle that delivered Cuba from the Spanish empire into the US empire. A couple of the old vets heads sag. Who is this guy and why is he telling us this? Then I talk about my father, who landed a tank in Normandy on D-Day, and fought nazis all across Europe. The old men's eyes light up. Then I tell them that after I graduated from college I was drafted and ordered to go to Vietnam, but I moved to Canada instead. I was planning to mention this just in passing, and get on to thanking them for their sacrifice and dedication, etc. I have no idea how they - who took so much lead - will respond to this comment from me, who took none.
But a fraction of an instant after I say that I moved to Canada all the old men are clapping, loud and hard. Had not expected this. Don't know what to do. This is supposed to be their moment, not mine. Before I can think they are all standing, and clapping, and holding out their hands. They all want to shake hands with me.
My life is always full of ironies, but this is one of the most unlikely moments I can imagine. A group of battle hardened Cuban vets cheering for me. One by one I go down the table and shake the hands of these six old men who saw so much combat, hid in the mud and swamps next to El Commandante, and survived against the slimmest of odds. A truly humbling moment. I don't feel worthy but I cannot refuse.
I am stunned now, and can’t even remember what else I said in terms of thanks for their sacrifice, but I finally got the shirt handed over, and it all went well. Afterward there is a group pic with vets and brigadistas.
May 13
One last jaunt out of Holguin. We are heading back N to the Guardalavaca area again today. In the aft we will be allowed to play on the beach again, but in the morn we drive about 15 km past the big strip of tourist hotels to the tiny fishing village of Boca de Sama (the mouth of the Sama River). We pass a number of fresh produce stands beside the hwy. Hard to get a decent shot out of a speeding bus window. But I would love to have more time to check them out.
Again, there are some strange looking rock formations, hard to capture from a speeding bus.
Some nice and tidy rural living here. Looks idyllic – unless there is a hurricane, in which case this house would be gone.
Boca de Sama is a pretty spot with a big quiet bay protected from the waves and swells of the open Atlantic. The Rio Sama enters the top end of the bay, so the water inside the boca is muddy.
There is a boat out fishing at the mouth of the boca, where the muddy water of the bay meets the clear blue water of the Atlantic.
But scenic beauty is not why we are here. We assemble under a metal roof, near a dock.
The United States of America has long been the world's leading terrorist nation, routinely blowing away large countries that are causing difficulties for their empire and slaughtering millions of people in the process. And also conducting continuous campaigns of assassination, torture, sabotage and intimidation against smaller nations.
One of which is Cuba. In 1997 the US based interational terrorist Luis Posada Carriles set off a bomb in Havana's posh Hotel Copacabana, with the intention of scaring tourists away from Cuba's growing tourist industry. The bomb killed Italian tourist Fabio Di Selmo. Fabio's father Giustino, now 91, later moved to Cuba and has devoted the rest of his life to combating US terrorism against Cuba. Carriles is also the man who plotted the planting of a bomb on the Air Cubana plane (leased from Air Canada) on Oct 6, 1976. The attack killed all 79 people aboard, including the entire Olympic gold medal winning Cuban fencing team. Carriles still walks the streets of the US as a free man, and valuable CIA asset. The word "terrorism" has been processed by US mainstream media to mean anything detrimental to the empire, while the empire itself – of course – can never be accused of this crime.
The speaker is a man named Carlos. (Seated on the right in this pic. The man on the left is another local who was present on the nite of the attack. In the middle is Alejandro our interpreter, and behind is the ICAP rep from Holguin whose name I have forgotten.)
I am always a skeptic at heart, and I try to question everything. We are about to hear a story about a US terrorist attack on Cuba. But in a country as intensely politicized as Cuba, where propaganda is everywhere, is it not possible that the Cuban regime faked a terror attack in order to generate popular support? After all, if the US faked the Sept 11 terror attacks to generate support for the Afghan and Iraq invasions, is it not possible that Cuba might fake an attack to prop up their regime?
But I find Carlos’ story a bit more convincing than the US media jive about 9-11. On Oct 12; 1971 - the year I moved to BC - a big heavily armed US coast guard cruiser appeared off the boca. That nite it dropped off two speedboats filled with 15-20 Alpha 66 terrorists from Miami, who entered the boca to gather data for possible future US invasion plans. They went house to house hoping to find sympathetic anti-Castro residents. But they found none, and nobody would talk to them. Then the lit the town warehouse on fire and started shooting the place up.
The local militia consisted of only 12 men armed with old WWII rifles. These men broke up into 3 squads of 4 men each. Carlo was in a group that tried to defend the warehouse. Two of his comrades were shot dead, and he says he took 8 bullets himself. All of which are still in his body. He fired back with his few remaining bullets and yelled "Surrender!", after which the terroristas fled back to their speedboats. They then motored out about a 1/4 mile and spent the next 2 hrs raking the houses along the waterfront with 50 cal machine gun and 20 mm cannon fire. No one was killed during this barrage, but a little girl had her foot shot off. Many people moved away from Boca de Sama after this event, fearing the the US would attack again.
While he is talking, the boat motors in from the boca heading up into the bay.
There is a memorial to the attack.
And a tasteful memorial to El Commandante
There is also a little museum in town which contains a library, some artifacts of the US attack, and some interesting info about the history of the area all the way back to aboriginal times. Christopher Colon made his first landfall in Cuba very near here.
There is a memorial on the wall of the museum to the 2 men killed in the US terrorist attack, and to the wounded.
Then we walk out to the shore, looking out at the boca.
There is no beach here, so no resort hotels for rich tourists. The shore is jagged limestone - millions of years of compressed coral reefs, same thing that all of Cuba is made off. Fishermen are trying their luck along the outside edge of the boca, where the muddy brown water of the bay meets the crystal blue water of the ocean. A crab is hiding in a crevice near a blowhole.
Tough little sucker, but I manage to pry him out and convince him to pose for a pic without getting bitten.
The entire shoreline is one giant bed of fossils.
Nearby I find a fascinating archeological artifact which appears to have eroded out of the bedrock.
For thousands of years this part of the coast was populated by an aboriginal culture called the Beisbols. They invented a game that later spread all around the world. (although the Colossus of the North claims it was invented in their country, of course.) The chipped stone carvings that served to record their tribal history show that at the time of Columbus' arrival their local team, the Cubs, had gone 8,249 years without winning a championship. And yet their dimwitted fans still packed the stadium for every game, still believed that this year would be THE YEAR when their miserable team would win it all. A primitive and foolish people who believed in ridiculous fantasies, they were eradicated by the ruthless Spaniards in a few decade.
There is a little cafeteria farther down, where I get to chat with Carlos. He is talking to a bunch of brigadistas.
He has a pet bird in a cage made of wood and string.
I learn that Carlos is a pescador. And he knows everything about the fish, shrimp, lobster, tides, currents and a lot of other things in this part of the world that I will never be aware of. He is a fountain of environmental knowledge. I could talk to this guy all day. Would love to go out fishing with him. He is older than I am (67) but he is not a retired fun fisherman like me. Every morning this old man, who still carries 8 US slugs in his body, goes out alone in a little bota into the Gulf Stream and fishes for giant marlin. Just like Santiago - Hemingway's ill-fated hero from The Old Man and the Sea. How many ironies on this brigade! Thru our ICAP interpreter I tell him that I am also a pescador, and he smiles and says that we are brothers, because we are both fishermen.
The brigadistas are joking with him about my little blow-up bota which is stored in the bus. I ask him if there are any sharks around the boca. "Si!" "And big ones?" "Si!" "Will they eat me if I go out in my kayak?" "Si!" "What about at Guardalavaca?" "No, they will not come into the shallow water there." I tell him that I paddled out a quarter mile to the outside edge of the reef and the inside edge of the blue water. "Will they eat me if I paddle out farther?"
"Si!"
This guy seems to know what he is talking about, and I am glad now that I turned around at Guardalavaca and came back in to the beach.
There is a beautiful little road heading down to the point.
Sadly for my fantasies, it ends in a garbage dump.
I get to have my picture taken with Carlos, a man who I am learning to admire, and maybe worship.
Our jefe Dave and the ICAP staff have a long conversation with Carlo while we hang around waiting.
This is a cool little town of real Cuban people, not a tourist trap to harvest excess cash from wealthy foreigners. They have great big agave-looking plants.
And bananas.
And healthy, intelligent socialist pigs.
And one house has a cage full of some kind of local rodents I have never seen before. Later I learn that these are called jutia - an endangered species in Cuba. These folks are not supposed to have them in cages.
Kids are playing on a teeter totter, as kids do everywhere.
And they do cater to tourists in their own unique way with a little train that brings tourist fishermen down to the dock.
Back to Guardalavaca now, and lunch at another tourist restaurant that has the standard stunning view of the beach, ocean, and inshore reefs.
We sit down for dinner.
Here we learn the reason for the long conferee between Dave/ICAP and Carlos. Seems that Carlos has taken the Castro brothers up on their offer to allow limited private enterprise in Cuba. Carlos’ place sells fresh caught local seafood. The brigade always has a final dinner and review meeting. It has been suggested that we change our schedule and hold the meeting at Carlos’. Since this is not part of the agenda it will not be covered by our prepaid booking. We will have to pay out of pocket, and the cost will be enormous. $5 apiece for a dinner of fresh caught fish, shrimp, prawns and - yikes! - maybe even lobster. They ask everyone who is in favor to raise their hand.
I raise both my hands trying hard to rig the vote. The vote is overwhelmingly in support, except for a few rigid ideologues who feel that we should not support Carlos because he is an evil capitalist who is undermining The Revolution.
Time out for political rant. (I generally try to avoid political theory within the flow of the blog, but occasionally it is unavoidable and necessary.) Like Carlos, I am a firm believer in private enterprise. I see it as the only avenue that will relieve Cuba from its material poverty, petrified evolution, and global isolation. I see no conflict between private enterprise and socialism. For me, the purpose of the state is not to mandate every element of people's thought and behavior. It is to step in where private enterprise fails - as it always will - to fulfill the requirements of the population and encompassing environment. Private enterprise is far different from "free" enterprise, which is just another name for crime, which soon evolves into organized crime, which - in our modern era - inevitably evolves into global organized crime in the form of the mafia, the US government, the International Monetary Fund, and NATO thugs looting and pillaging the planet.
The purpose of the state is to regulate private enterprise and prevent it from turning into free enterprise which is free for the rich and sleazy, and very costly for the poor and honest and decent. The positive things I see in Cuba - common human decency, a guarantee of basic living standards for food, medicine, and education, racial and gender equality, sexual freedom, separation of corrupt and sociopathic religion from the state - are in no way diminished by the concept of private enterprise. The negative aspects of the current US regime - massive unemployment and poverty, a sick, diseased, ignorant and violent population, collapsed political structure, global environmental exploitation and degradation, merger of corrupt and phony religion with fake democracy - are in no way caused by it.
Unlike me, most brigade members are selected because of their adherence to ideology – i.e "leftist" ideology. I do not see the world in terms of right and left, only in terms of common sense and honesty, versus lies and hypocrisy. There are many brigadistas who adore the rigid state controlled social models like Stalinist Russia, 1980s Cuba, and modern day N Korea. As long as they don't have to live in them. Similarly, Canada is a wonderful place for the anarchists on the brigade. They can spend their lives comfortably debating political theory - because they live in a society that has roads, water systems, electrical systems, sewer systems, and police to keep people from robbing them at nite while they sleep. But I have never met a happy anarchist from an anarchist society, because there is no such thing. To me anarchist society is a contradiction of terms and an oxymoron.
End political rant.
At any rate, it is decided later that we need consensus and unanimity to change the brigade schedule. And we do not have that in regard to meeting again at Carlos’s restaurant, so I miss out on my chance to test out some local seafood. Bummer. I have been dreaming about eating Cuban lobster all winter. Not this year.
Back to the beach again now. We go across to the big tourist beach in front of the hotels, claim aboriginal title and reclaim the shady spot under the same big tree we occupied last time.
Too windy to bother taking the kayak out. After a swim I bring out my rod & reel and make a few casts off the beach, a give a fishing tutorial to Sandra and Damon. No bites. Then a bit of snorkeling, small tub of ice cream, and continue reading Islands in the Stream. And then back to Holguin. We are following behind a big thunderstorm. Soon the road is wet and it is raining a bit. Haha! I bet that Willie, our impeccable and supercool motorcycle cop and lead dog, does not have any raingear! What is he going to do now? Can’t be getting any mud on those silver spurs. I head up to the front of the bus to look out the windshield. Cannot believe my eyes.
Incredibly, while he is swerving down the centerline chasing oncoming traffic away in front of our bus, Willie takes one hand off the bike, lifts one leg off the footpad, removes his boot with the other hand, and stuffs it into the handlebar. And then does the same thing with the other boot! Never slows down. And drives the remaining half hour into town in his socks – just to keep his boots from getting muddy. The chicas dig the longball, and they also dig guys in black boots with spurs. But not muddy spurs! Willie and I are buddies by now, Fellow pescadors. So I don’t have to ask to take his pic any more. Notice that he is wearing only black socks on his feet, and his boots are tucked into the handlebar. This guy is too cool for school.
May 14
Another volunteer work day. No more shoveling dirt around the construction site. The brigadistas have complained about the dust. And rightly so, especially when you have 50 disorganized people milling around in circles shoveling and sweeping, and getting in each other's way. The jefes on the construction site have been very patient, and tried hard to find something to keep us busy. But imagine what it would be like on a worksite in Canada if you had 50 people show up who spoke only Spanish, most of whom had little or no experience in their lives performing manual labor for money, and who would be a danger to themselves, the real work crews and the equipment if they tried to do the real construction work.So today we are moved to a new job. We will pull weeds at the organic produce farm between the hotel and my amigo Alex's beer stall. Way cool! I have been wanting to learn more about this place, and the beautiful veggies they grow, and this is my chance. We meet under a verandah.
We learn that this is a cooperative form. The government owns the land, and the workers get a base salary plus a share of the sales. The produce is such high quality that it brings a premium price in the increasingly market based Cuban market.
A lot of the crop is sold at government subsidized prices to day care centers and schools. And because this is the finest organic garden in the province they get a premium price for their produce. Well, they certainly produce a premium product. Here is a bit of lettuce (foreground) and rows and rows of cucumbers. Yum!
A lot of the crops are grown out in the open air.
There is black plastic screen installed in some areas, just to cut down on the amount of sunlight and heat.
The bugs can still get in and out. This is good in the case of bees, and bad in the case of pests. Most of the crops look really good. But the cabbages are ravaged.
This is the work of the European cabbage butterfly, one of the most voracious invasive species and most expensive pests in the world. Now spread to every continent except Antarctica, the caterpillars do billions of dollars damage to leaf crops everywhere. You need to screen the cabbages off completely from the butterflies, or this is what you get.
This is one of the things I love about Cuba. Locally grown organic produce raised in an urban setting and shipped fresh to market. So different from GMO pesticide sprayed Canadian supermarket produce shipped in from distant lands. It takes a huge carbon footprint to stock a Canadian supermarket – oil-based chemical fertilizers and pesticides, fuel for the tractors on the farms and semi trucks that do the shipping and haul in the fertilizer. And of course there is a social cost in the form or Arabs that have to be slaughtered to secure the oil, and added taxes for the bombs and remote controlled drones needed to kill the Arabs. The Cubans avoid all this, and have better produce to boot.
The workers are given production bonuses if the crops are bountiful, which they certainly are. So they are averaging around 1,300 pesos per month - about 2 1/2 times that average worker salary here. (By contrast, the managers of the factory we will visit later today make less than 700 pesos.) I have seen a lot of urban gardens in Cuba, most of them light years better than anything I have seen in the US or Canada. But this one is by far the best I have seen. It is a pleasure to pull their weeds.
After lunch we are taken for a tour of a Cuban industry. This is part of the Che tour format. Last year we visited the wheat factory in Cienfuegos, where they process most of the wheat for the entire country. How ironic is the industry they pick to display for us this year. After a showcase morn on an organic farm, we are taken on a tour of a coffin nail factory. And not just any old factory. This plant produces 48% of all the nails for all the coffins in Cuba.
We start with a talk by the jefes. Among the things this plant offers its workers is free transportation (this would be the ubiquitous flatdeck trucks you see hauling people everywhere), free day care, extended maternity leave.
Now the talking is over and we get to go inside the big roaring plant. I have been in a number of big factories, and this reminds me of the big printing press I once worked on, where we printed the color spread pages for the Time-Life books. Lots of stuff moving around, and if something ever goes wrong there is hell to pay. t would be easy to lose a finger or an arm here, but they tell us that there have never been any serious injuries.
Here go zillions of coffin nails down the line to be placed into happy little packages. Reminds me of the machine gun feed for the B-17 bombers in the old WWII movies. But these cartridges take a lot longer to do their work.
Here go full packs – 20 nails per pack – shooshing down the assembly line.
In the glass case near the entrance is an image of Che.
There is a quality control section.
In a discard bin I find a real treasure. If this were a bass it would be stuffed and mounted on the wall. This isn’t a coffin nail, it is an iron spear that would go right thru your heart and out your backbone.
I am Mr Cool with my giant cigarette. I walk all around the tour with the big butt dangling from my lips, Clint Eastwood style. Everyone is envious. But it turns out I do NOT have the honor of having the Hugest Cigarette. That distinction goes to Willie, our illustrious cycle cop. Sometimes it is an honor just to be second.
And in any case, Willie also has a much bigger gun than me, so I am not going to argue.
After another Q?A meeting in the lunchroom we present the ceremonial T shirt.
We are each given a free pack of nails. These are not the kind of nails you would buy in Canada, or in a tourist shop in Cuba. They are made exclusively for the local market, and they are SUPER strong.
In front of the plant is a statue, which we are told is the Cuban god of cigars.
A short distance away is another statue that is not identified. I think this is the great deity Tumor, Cuban god of lung cancer.
May 15
I have set this up the nite before. With the help of Alejandro to interpreter have booked a taxi to take me to the 2 embalses on the S side of town. Presa Mayabe, the one I saw and photographed from the place where we had lunch, is one of them. The other is Embalse Guirabo, further away, near the airport. And Alex tells me that Guirabo has trucha! I have a rod rigged with a buzzbait, and some black yum worms and hula poppers for backup. And I have my little computer with google earth pics of the lakes, so I can follow along as we go.
The taxi picks me up at 6 AM sharp in front of the hotel, and we are off. The driver does not speak English. Let’s go to Guirabo first. Maybe I can make a few casts. Soon we are crawling down a potholed blacktop road, stopping for chickens and ducks and goats, and I can see the big lake in the distance. But the road never gets near the lake. There appears to be no public access. Finally we get to the dam that forms the embalse.
There is a guardhouse and a chain link fence.
The lake is drawn down – not maintained at full pool like Protesta de Baragua – and there is a big zone of exposed lake floor all around the water. But there is still a lot of water in here, miles of it. It would be a classic morn to walk the shore and throw a buzzbait out for the aggressive lunker bass that often will only bite before sunrise, and never again the rest of the day. Looking thru the fence I can see fish rising in the shallows
I am getting excited now. Only one small problem that confronts me:
In case you do not read Spanish, a rough translation is:
No Fishing
No Shitting
No Fun
The taxi driver has meanwhile gone thru the gate, and is engaging the guard in a conversation, trying to see if he can wangle permission for me to go down and fish. No way. So once again I have brought a boat all the way from Van Isle to Cuba, and not only have I not caught a single bass – I have not been able to get near enough to a bass lake to even make a cast.
Disheartened now, I have the driver stop by Presa Mayabe. Now I know the way. Maybe I can come here with Alex and try for biajaca?
Then it is back to the hotel. I have already decided to give one of my collapsible rods to Sandra, our faithful ICAP guide and mother hen. Now I decide to give the other rod to Alex. But at breakfast when I give the rod and reel to Sandra I see that it is broken. Probably got crunched during all the baggage handling. Useless to her now. She has never had a rod and reel before, and will not know how to fix a broken rod. So I switch, and give here the intact rod along with the reel I brought to Cuba. And I take the broken rod, write a note indicating the problem, and drop it off in Alex’s beer stall along with a full spool of 10 lb test line. Alex already asked me if I could score him a rod the next time I come to Cuba. He will be ecstatic about getting a rod and 600 ft of line too. And he will find a way to splice the broken part, and he will catch fish with this rod.
So I drop off the broken rod and line in Alex’s jail, and join the brigadistas pulling weeds at the organic farm next door. There are big rabbits:
And little rabbits:
And teeny rabbits:
We pull lots of weeds, and after a while I can hear Alex’s voice over by the creek. He is all excited. By the time I wander over that way he is gone, and so is the rod and line I left in his beer jail.
In the afternoon we visit Holguin University, the center of higher education in the entire province, with over 10,000 students.
Over 10% of all Cubans now have a university degree, and many of these degrees are obtained here.
I am told that this school does not accept students over the age of 25. When I returned to school in 1997 to complete the Environmental Tech Program I was an older student, more than twice the age of most of my fellow students. So I am fortunate that I attended Camosun College in Victoria BC instead.
A slide is presented showing the different faculties.
As I would expect in Cuba, there is great emphasis on cultural and human centered disciplines. The question I ask is that I see no mention of a faculty for natural sciences. Does Holguin U teach courses in biology, or geology, or oceanography, or hydrology? The answer is simple.
NO
There is great emphasis in Cuba on the arts, medicine, (Cuban) history and other human-related subjects. The Cubans are to be commended for great advances in gender and racial equality, for providing government subsidized health and education benefits, and for providing basic subsistence to all of its citizens. But as always I find that there is little interest in any subject that does not involve that past, present or future of the human regime. I have far different priorities.
For me, understanding human culture begins with a basic respect and curiosity for the "natural" or non-human environment. It is the surrounding ecosystem that supports all life on earth, including human. All human culture, including the great and glorious Cuban Revolution, is based upon a complex and healthy relationship of minerals, winds and currents, bacteria, plankton, plants, bugs, fish, life and death, that goes humming along far outside the human sphere. To me, the Cuban social model seems to attempt to ignore this natural foundation, much like an anarchist who tries to ignore the electric and water systems, police and legal structure, food production and distribution networks, etc., that are essential to providing the sustenance and security they require to fantasize about anarchy.
The Cuban lack of academic interest in the natural world is also manifested in many other areas besides this university's curriculum. In the obscene trash that smothers the common areas in and around the cities, the horrific pollution of their urban waterways, and the choking air pollution on city streets. If you ask Cuban politicos about this they will blame the US embargo, which is partly correct. But another larger reason is that the ruling class here is obsessed with social issues, and they just don't give a shit about the physical environment.
Unlike in Canada and the US, where sending a kid to college is very expensive, all tuition and books are free in Cuba. Paid for by the government. This includes the many foreign students attending Holguin U. Also showcased at this meeting are students from all over the world, including many from black African countries. Many are studying to be engineers. This generosity is above and beyond the free medical training Cuba donates to thousands of future doctors from around the world.
Outside the classrooms while we are waiting for the bus I notice a cycle with a hot babe on the seat.
I take a pic, and later show it to Willie, our cycle cop. He doesn't know many words in English, but he knows one. "Sexy!" he says. We are buddies now, and he calls me Trucha. Then the student who owns the bike comes along, and we all laugh at his seat. His bike is a 1972 Russian model whose name I cannot spell on and English keyboard.
May 16
This is our last day of volunteer work. Maybe the greenhouse staff have run out of weeds for us to pull, or maybe they are tired of us accidentally pulling out their market crops? In any case, we are transferred to a new task. Filling little bags with shit.
I am skilled at this task, cuz we did a lot of it on last year's brigade in Caimito. And besides, many people tell me I am full of it myself, so I should be an expert. I truly deserve an executive position. But nobody listens to me, and I am stuck with filling the little bags with manure just like everybody else. This is a task we brigadistas are good at. Hard to do it wrong, and we are working in a place where we will not get in the way of their more skilled and permanent laborers. But it takes time and needs to be done.
At the end of the morn we have produced many bags ready to be planted. And there is a definite feeling of accomplishment among the crew.
Soon these little bags will become happy homes for seedlings.
I am waiting by the elevator when some guy elbows me in the ribs as he is walking past. Some jackass in flip flops, shorts and a Hawaiian flowered shirt, typical tourist moron. I look at him and turn away. Never seen this guy before in my life. He looks back at me and says "Policia!". No, no, I say, me no policia. But then he points at his own chest. "Policia!" Holy crappers! This is not some tourist jerk, it is Willie, our cycle cop! Off duty now and dressed almost a skuzzy as me.
We have gained an amigo in Willie, and he is certainly lightening up after his time spent with the Che Brigade. And I am definitely the worst of all possible influences on him. But I fear that we may have taken him too far too fast. Next time I come to Cuba I hope I don’t see Willie wearing dreadlocks and smoking ganja in the park, his fabled cycle 676 chopped and louvered, wearing a death’s head skull and crossbones on his black leather jacket that says Hells Angels, Holguin Chapter on the back. Well, if all this does come to pass, I know in my heart that Willie’s silver spurs will still be shiny and clean.
In the afternoon we attend a seminar about the Cuban penal system, a subject that interests me. The speakers (left to right in the pic) include a judge, a prosecuting attorney, and a professor of law. They combine to provide an overview of the Cuban system, and then ask for questions.
During the frequent Q/A sessions in the course of the brigade many of the politically committed brigadistas like to ask insanely complicated theoretical questions prefaced by long manifestos of preamble. This puts an enormous load on Alejandro, our dogged and faithful translator. How to convert this garbled theory into a question in Spanish that the speaker can understand? And of course the response is equally long and convoluted, and often not really related to the original question at all, which was unintelligible to begin with. The result is mass confusion, which is not a problem for the people who ask the questions, because they do not care - all they ever wanted to do in the first place was to hear themselves talk.
Not me. I like to ask simple, direct questions like "Where does this pipe go? To a treatment plant or into a creek?" and "Do you sell any of your produce to the hotel down the street where we are staying?" Easy to translate, and easy to answer if the response comes from an honest person. Or very difficult - resulting in a lot of squirming devious rhetoric - if somebody does not want to give a straight answer.
The legal experts have already stated that Cuba has the lowest rate of incarceration of any country in the Caribbean, except possibly Aruba. But he has no numbers about the rate. Later I pose my question: "Do you have any statistics about the total number of prisoners in Cuba, and the numbers of people in jail for the most common crimes?" What follows is a classic moment in beating around the bush. The reply, after much circuitous dodging of the question, is simple.
NO.
One of my favorite joys in life is watching devious people lie in public. Hold it baba! Who you jivin with that cosmic debris? You can't run a prison system without knowing how many meals to cook and how many beds you need. What you are really saying is that you know damn well how many prisoners there are, but you are not going to tell us. More precisely what you are saying is that if you tell us how many prisoners there are and what they are in jail for, your political ass is toast. And this answer smells worse than a dead fish that has been lying on the beach in the hot Cuban sun for 4 days.
Similarly, one of the later questions refers to US complaints about political prisoners in Cuba. Specifically about Cubans who receive money from friends and relatives in the US and then try to promote opposition to the regime The response is that there are no political prisoners in Cuba. The US is confused, because people are sent to prison in Cuba for counter revolutionary activities, so they are not political prisoners because they have violated Cuban law. How strange a response from a politico from a country where there is a gigantic propaganda industry centered around the Cuban 5. The 5 gusanos were clearly in violation of US law, but that is clearly not why they are still in jail, nor why they received such outrageous and horrendous sentences. They are persecuted because they dared to challenge the US' self-declared right to engage in international terrorism, and they are paying a heavy price for jabbing a thorn into the elephant foot of the Great Colossus of the North.
Here at this presentation there is no mention of people who's crime was to oppose the direction of the Cuban regime. The speaker says (without any numbers to back it up) that the most common reasons for incarceration are for theft and cattle rustling. Chatter around the construction site we worked at was that many of the prisoners laboring there were guilty of the crime of private enterprise - making a little money on the side and not reporting it to the government. How many of this kind of prisoners are there in Cuba? Without any data to back it up it is hard to know.
Among the things we learn from the speakers, which can be discussed without numerical data, is the fact that all investigation must be completed within 60 days. Prisoners cannot be held in jail more than 180 days without completion of the trial. All defendants are entitled to a lawyer. There are over 200 defense lawyers in Holguin Province alone. The most expensive cost $16. The death penalty is still in effect for the most serious of offences, like murder and terrorism against Cuba. Cuba placed a moratorium on executions in 2001, but lifted it in 2003 in the case of an armed ferry hijacking. There have been no executions since. There are separate prisons for men and women, and for "young" people under age 35. First time offenders are allowed parole after completing 1/2 their sentence, and 2nd time offenders after completing 2/3 of their sentence. We are told that there are no stats for percentage of repeat offenders, nor for percentage of women vs men in prison.
All prisoners are allowed to work in jail (correctional internal work), and they receive wages identical to people doing the same work on the outside. Many prisoners receive college degrees, or certification as craftsmen, while incarcerated. Many low risk offenders approaching the end of their sentence are allowed to work outside of prison on farms and construction sites (correctional external work). These are the kind of prisoners we brigadistas worked alongside at the construction site in Holguin this year, and at the farm in Cienfuegos last year. For more detail, see the separate blog post comparing the Cuban vs US prison systems.
After the penal seminar we remain in the meeting room for our final brigade review meeting. In attendance is XXX, head of ICAP for all of Norte Americana. This is a very constructive and productive discussion. Our jefe Dave Thomas is super for this task. He fields all questions and suggestions from our diverse and kooky bunch of wingnuts with patience and respect, and receives 2 standing O's for his superb and herculean performance again this year. Sadly for the future of the Che Brigade, his wick is burned out from 2 years of constant flame, lighting the path for the rest of us. The Ernesto Che Guevara Brigada de Trabajo Voluntario will have to come up with a new jefe for 2013, and it is hard to imagine there will be another who is so hard working and effective. Viva Dave!
After dinner we are all rounded up and bused into downtown Holguin for one final celebration.
There is a giant Axe of Holguin against the wall.
Brigadista James reads a long and thoughtful invocation borrowed from the Iroquois Nation in Canada, and this is followed by a short dance performed by a couple of brigade ladies, and a song about the Cuban 5 written and performed by a group of brigadistas.
Then a recitation by jefe Dave of a beautiful poem written in 1825 about Niagara Falls by Cuban poet Jose Marla Heredia (exiled to Canada for anti-imperialist actions - and Dave is a resident of Niagara). Then comes the final presentation of the Che Brigade banner, that has been on the front of the bus for almost three weeks.
Now it is time to party.
The band tonite is the Back to the Sixties American Band. They are referring to all of America, not just the USA. They play R&R, loud and well.
After an opening number sung in Espanol they swing into a famous song written by John Lennon - Eeeemageeene. Our regional ICAP host XXX, who up to now has not displayed any sign of knowing any trace of English, is singing along. Knows every word of this song. "Eeeemageeene all the people, living life in peace...."
Like his grand uncle Vladimir, John Lennon is a great hero in Cuba. There is a famous statue of John in downtown Havana. So famous that people keep stealing the glasses off the statue, to the point that the Cuban government had to post a full time guard to stop the thieves. One day they guard got sick and had to stay home. And somebody stole the glasses.
The spirit of the 60's never died. Only in the USA. It is still alive and well here in Cuba, frozen in time like the old cars and crumbling historical buildings.
There are thousands of Che T shirts for sale all around Cuba. But I can never find one that I like. The lead singer has the coolest Che T shirt I have ever seen.
Hasta la Victoria Siempre!
I would love to have one like it myself. Maybe I could buy his, or find out where I can get one like it? After the show I pull the singer aside and talk to him. Turns out he got the shirt in Venezuela. No chance of finding one like this in Holguin. And I don't even broach the subject of offering to buy his.
He asks me where I am from, and redirects the conversation to the topic of the Cuban 5. How many people on Vancouver Island are aware of their plight? Maybe 10, I answer. I promise to try to do something to raise public awareness about the 5 in BC, and I hope I can live up to my word.
May 17
Today the rest of the brigade has gone off to Camaguey, but I am staying here in Holguin. Most of them will fly back to Canada from there, although about 6 will return to Holguin to fly out with me tomorrow. So it is time to say an emotional goodbye to a strange mix of people I have learned to know and care about during the past two and half weeks. I would likely never cross paths with most of these people in anything more than casual encounters – were it not for the Che Brigade. Nor would they cross paths with me. But whatever intellectual and ideological differences we might have, we still all have two arms and two legs, and we all must face the same challenges of getting thru another day here on this third rock from the sun. Happy trails and fare the well, fellow brigadistas!
I sleep in late. No schedule to meet today. No slavedriver jefe Dave ordering us to assemble for brigade duty at the bus. Weird to have a lazy late breakfast at the dining room without comrades talking about the upcoming days activities. Back in my room I have an incredible revelation. There is no headbanger music at the pool. We are usually on the bus and outahere by this time. I jump into my swim trunks and race down to the pool and - praise to god in her glory highest! - the speakers are not even turned on. This is the time to swim, in the morn when everybody else is at breakfast.
I slip into the water do lazy backstoke circles in the morning sun. I am fantasizing now. This must be what it is like to be a loggerhead turtle drifting around the middle of the Caribbean. Not a headbanger speaker within hundreds of miles. I decide to swim the length of the pool and back, taking long lazy strokes, no hurry. Halfway to the volleyball net now, when the entire pool shakes from concussion. Boom! Bam! Boom!
Bummer. Just my luck to be in Holguin when the first US tomahawk missiles hit town. I pop my head above water and scan the skies for incoming predator drones. But there are none. I am mistaken. This is something far worse than a US missile attack. A bleach blond Cuban babe has turned on the headblaster speakers full bore. Boom Ba Ba Boom Ba! No more lazy turtle strokes now. This life and death. Must get outahere fast, before I go as insane as her. I spin around and sprint like an Olympic swimmer towards the pool ladder, climb out, and run back to my room on the 5th floor like Che fleeing the wreckage of the Granma, and heading for the safety of the high sierra. I make it just in time, and flop on the bed. It is so peaceful here, in the relative quiet of the jackhammer smashing the concrete wall to bits in the next room. I spend the rest of the day sitting near the air conditioner, working on this blog.
May 18
Cloudy today. I can actually step outside without rivers of sweat pouring down my face. After blogging all morn, it is a great day for exploring Holguin. But I am off my game. Making too many rookie mistakes. As I start hiking into town I remember that I forgot to recharge my camera battery last nite. I have been using it for days, and it is surely near dead. My target is a museum of natural history, that one of the other brigadistas told me about downtown. I have no idea where I am going other than a scribbled map I drew from the aerial photo.
I am wearing my brigadista T shirt. Only person in town that is flying this flag any more, since the rest of the troop left town. And it saves my butt right away. A Cuban on a bicycle stops and asks me where I am from. He speaks pretty good English, and has a friend in Nova Scotia. It is noon, right near the Tropic of Cancer here, so the sun is almost directly overhead. Can't use the sun to tell N from S like you can in Canada. I ask about the museo, and he tells me I am walking in the wrong direction. Just a friendly Cuban helping out a wandering tourista, and I am lucky I ran into him.
I know I am low on camera time, and I have sworn not to take any pics until I get into the Museo, where there are supposed to be butterflies mounted. But I can't pass up a couple shots of an urban Cuban watershed. The old adage that "The solution to pollution is distribution." is still in vogue here. Put it into a pipe or ditch and dump it into the nearest stream. Then it is no longer your problem, but the problem of whoever lives downstream. The limits to the ideology are simple however. Unless you are a monk living at the very top of a mountain, EVERYBODY lives downstream of somebody else.
When the next hurricane comes around there will be a huge flood, and all the garbage that is dumped beside this creek will be washed away, and deposited in somebody else’s back yard.
Cuba's urban streams are a horrid mess. Not high on the priority list for Fidel, or Raoul, or the lcal CDR. After the triumph of the IKN we will tackle the biggest problems first, in order, according to their importance. This is similar to what Che had to do in 1961. First he was the judge who applied revolutionary justice and ordered executions for torturers, mafioso, and hardcore capitalist pigs. Then he directed the massive literacy campaign that basically eliminated illiteracy in Cuba. Then he was Minister of the Economy.
Of course, my first role after the IKN Revolution will have to be International Commissioner of Music. For a period of 1 year after the IKN takes power all swimming pools will be required to play only Flying Burrito Brothers tunes, although special temporary exemptions may be granted to play some Lynyrd Skynyrd when people are really drunk and partying.
After the music scene is cleaned up I will appoint myself El Commandante de la Basura. As Garbage Commander I will require all CDRs to convert from spying and snitching on their neighbors to something more constructive: cleaning up the garbage in their neighborhood. This is not rocket science, and does not require any large capital investment. No way to blame the US embargo for the appalling garbage situation in Cuba. It just takes a little hard work and people who care.
Step 3 will be to convert all CDRs to CDWs - watershed councils, similar to what they have in Oregon USA. The Committee for the Defense of the Watershed will devote itself to improving water quality, planting riparian vegetation, stopping bank erosion, etc. Those CDR members who are obsessed with ratting on their neighbors will be critical for the success of the CDW. They can search the neighborhood and document the source of illegal toxic discharges, broken sewer mains, and people who dump trash beside the creek. The world will be better place after the IKN takes over.
I finally make it into the downtown square. The museo is supposed to be a block or 2 from here. I am standing on a corner looking around when a guy starts talking to me. In Inglis. Turns out he is a Professor of English. He just wants to know if I need any help. He points out lots of cool things around the square, but I tell him I am low on camera battery, and I need to find the museo and take pics of the butterflies before I can target anything else. He points me towards the museo, and off I go. Would love to stay and talk to this guy, who is very friendly and helpful. But this is my last and only chance to get lepidoptera pics in Cuba, so I must be off.
I find the museo. It is open to the street, about the size of a movie theater, with a number of glass cases containing a sparse collection of mounted bugs, birds and mammals.
As you might expect in this busy city of 300,000 people, one block from the dead center of downtown, there is not single Cuban that has the curiosity plus the peso that it costs gain admission. In fact, there is no one inside at all except the lady at the entrance booth. The cost of admission is $1. Now I have a problem. My smallest CUC bill is $5, and they may not have had a paying customer here since Columbus landed on the island, so they have no change for a 5. And the lady speaks not a word of Inglis. So I decide to go back out on the street. I will find one of the little stalls where they sell a cup of crushed ice and sugar cane juice, spend a quarter or 2, get some ice (which I desperately need), and come back to the museo with change. I find a little stand right on the corner, but the guy wants $2 for a little cup of ice. A rip off to be sure, but, whatever, I just want to get into the museo and I agree. I give him my $5 bill, take my change, and head back to the museo.
Suddenly it hits me. I have been to Cuba twice now, and I should know better. Rookie! Anybody as stupid as me deserves to be ripped off. Stupid! I feel like banging my head against a wall, or listening to headbanger music by the pool. Asshole! I paid 5 CUC pesos, and the scammer gave me back 3 nearly worthless Cuban pesos in change.
Now I am worse off than before. The vendor has made a week’s profit in an instant, and I have a tiny cup of ice and sugar, and not even enough change to get into the museo. And my smallest remaining CUC bill is a 20. There is a different lady at the booth now. She opens up a drawer, and has a 10 and 5 in change, but still no change for the remaining 5. I show them the Cuban pesos I got from the ice vendor, and their reply - roughly translated from pantomime - is "Too bad sucker!" And rightly so.
Finally one of the ladies takes my 20, gives me a 10 in change, and motions that I can go into the museo. She will go out onto the street and look for change. I take a quick tour around the place, which is quite tacky, as could be expected here since it does not deal with music or art or the glory of The Revolution. When I get back to the ticket booth the new lady motions me to come over. She counts out $9 in CUC coins and gives them to me. But the original $10 that was taken from my 20 has somehow gone missing. Pocketed by the first lady? Or lost in translation? So I have to give up my other 10 to get $9 in change before they will let me out of the place. In the end it costs me $16 for a tiny cup of sugar ice and a quick tour of the museum.
Turns out they have three cases of mounted butterflies.
No moths. And I have seen a number of butterflies around town that are not mounted here. Like the red admiral I saw one day, or the strange yellow-green critter I photographed in Siboney. There is one whole case of sulfurs and whites. There were native species from this family here all the time, as there are almost everywhere in the world. What is it about the European cabbage butterfly that makes it such an aggressive colonizer of new lands? Why does it always take over habitat from indigenous species? Why is it such a successful immigrant that its caterpillars chew their way through millions and millions of dollars worth of cash crops every year? Why is it such a successful invasive species that the giant multinational ag companies are developing genetically modified versions of crops to include bacteria genes, so that the plants themselves will produce the sharp BTK crystals that pierce the guts of the caterpillars and kill them?
As I expected, my camera battery warning light starts flashing as soon as I take a pic. The camera is on life support now, so I only take a few. In spite of the limited displays here in the museo, I learn more about Cuban biodiversity here than I did in two entire trips with the Che Brigade. Yes - they do have deer in Cuba, little tiny ones the size of fawns in Canada. (or did - not sure whether all the critters displayed here are still alive and well in Cuba, or may be extinct) And they have spotted leopards. And about four kinds of jutia, or Cuban tree rat, genus Capromys. The largest is the Cuban jutia, or jutia conga that we saw in cages in Boca de Sama. They are all endangered, not in the least because in a country that has limited access to protein in their diet, they are supposed to be really good tasting meat. I wonder if the jutia we saw in cages in Boca de Sama were pets, or future items on the menu?
I love the Cuban word for woodpecker: carpintero. The carpenter bird. The one I photographed in Granjito S is the West Indian Woodpecker, Melanerpes superciliaris.
And they have a really cool kingfisher here, they call Martin Pescador. At least, that is what the display says.
But I later learn by googling that the only kingfisher species listed by Wiki in Cuba is the familiar belted kingfisher, common across N America, and shown on all the old Canadian $5 bills. The bird mounted here is identified, in error, as Alcedo quadrybrachys. But this is the scientific name for the Shining Blue Kingfisher, found only in Africa. And the bird in the case is not the same bird as A. quadrybrachys. In fact, from my casual knowledge obtained by a quick surf across the WWW, the bird in the case appears to be the Great Billed Kingfisher, Pelargopsis melanorhyncha. Native to Indonesia, but its preferred habitat is listed as "subtropical and tropical mangrove forests". Well, there is lots of that here. Maybe this bird has gained a foothold in Cuba as an invasive species?
Wherever it lives, it is one mean fishing machine. Would love to see one of these in action some time. This bird has a beak that is probably heavier than the rest of its entire body. Looks like a high velocity impact from this critter could do some serious damage to a fish. Might even be able to take out an inflatable kayak, and of course this has been duly noted by IKN intelligence.
There are fresh and salt water crocodiles.
And sea turtles
And some kind of constrictor snake.
And big iguanas that apparently live on the seashore.
Near the entrance is the mounted head of a giant sawfish.
Time to go now. I am always in a bad mood after getting scammed by Cubans. Even if it is only for $15, it makes me scared to make eye contact with the rest of the people I encounter, who are overwhelmingly friendly and outgoing. It is my inability to speak the language that makes me intimidated.
I am getting low on cash now, and my debit card will not work in Cuba. I can hike around, but I must not part with any more pesos. I head over towards Loma de la Cruz. The sun is starting to come out again, and ain't no way I am climbing up this hill today. I will be lucky to hike the 3 or 4 km back to my hotel without collapsing from heat.
I am walking thru dirty broken streets now. This is the part of Cuba we do not see on the carefully plotted Che Brigade tour. Work on Cuba's urban utility infrastructure - always archaic and in disrepair - came to a screeching halt with the collapse of the Soviet Union. It is amazing that they can keep delivering electric power to the people considering the age of the poles, transformers, fuses, etc. During one nite of intense electrical storms we had about 20 power outages, but none for more than a few seconds. There must be a backup generator at the hotel, and in a few minutes the lights were always back on thruout the city. (The repair crews were probably frantic to get the power back up, cuz they wanted to get back and watch the Serie Nacional beisbol playoff game that was in progress.)
But the ancient street, water, sewer and storm drain systems are crumbling into ruin everywhere. The $60 mill they are pouring into the water system in Santiago is a drop in the bucket. They need hundreds of billions to upgrade to even the most primitive of Canadian or US standards. Looks like no pavement has been laid or repaired since Gorbachev came to power in Russia, and the streets are crumbling minefields. Broken underground water pipes bubble up as small rivers that run down curbs into toxic catchbasins. Flooded storm drains rank with the smell of sewage and E.coli dribble slowly down the curb. I would have loved to spend a couple hours documenting the appalling decay of the streets I walked down. But I could not, cuz my camera was near death. With the last bit of battery I photograph an enormous pit of bubbling sewage and garbage in the middle of a street.
Fidel was a basketball player in his youth. I come upon a large open air basketball court. Must have been built by the Russians in better times. But the hoops are long gone, and the steel backboards are rusted thru now. Empty and derelict now, nobody has played ball here for many years. (this pic did not turn out, cuz the camera died.)
The crushing of private enterprise in Cuba also crushed any hope of maintaining or modernizing the crumbling urban infrastructure here. The regime was wise, after they committed to their rigid state controlled model, to invest their pennies in treatment rather than cure. Much cheaper to pay a bunch of doctors to heal the sick rather than pay the enormous sums it would cost to provide clean healthy water, efficient sanitary sewers and treatment plants, end effective stormwater drainage that would not horribly pollute urban streams. And much cheaper to provide endless amounts of cheap rum and loud music to keep people amused, and distract them from demanding improvements in their living conditions. This is city life on a bare subsistence level, and all the free medicine, education, arts and crafts, and cheap booze in the world will not change that.
Once the sun breaks thru the clouds I am in big trouble. Like a slug crawling across hot pavement I have only got a limited amount of minutes before I shrivel up and die from dehydration. But I am still 2 km from the hotel. Why are there no 7-11s selling slurpies here? Step 4 in the IKN Revolution will occur when I appoint myself to the role of Jefe de la Slurpee. Soon there will be little slurpee stalls all over Cuba, dispensing this life nourishing nectar to everyone who is in need. After the IKN takes power slurpees will become a basic human right in Cuba, right along with health care, education and gender equality. And we will take all the doctors and lawyers who are currently driving taxis cuz they make more from tourist tips than they do from their regular work, and convert them to more useful employment – selling slurpees!
But there are no slurpees to be had today, and I stumble back into the hotel sweaty and beat. Soon a big thunderstorm rolls into town. Now it is cool again, so I head over to the beisbol park and bus station, where there were lots of vendors stands selling food. I see that the Cuban solution to plugged catchbasins is working. The channel they chopped thru the curb and sidewalk is delivering most of the runoff into the ditch. Meanwhile, the buses and bicyclers head over near the center line to avoid the deep water near the curb.
The six brigadistas have returned from Camaguey, and are ready to head out for one last nite on the town. But I have had my fun for the day. Time to watch the last game of the Series Nacional semifinals. The mascot for Industriales (a guy dressed in a King outfit) is committing unspeakable atrocities upon a stuffed crocodile, which is the mascot for Matanzas. And in the end, the Kings from Havana defeat the reptiles from Matanzas, and go on to play Ciego de Avila in the finals.
May 19
Nothing to do today but wait around for the taxi to the airport. Must evacuate my hotel room at noon, so I head down to the pool. Don’t care how loud the music is today. I will soon be on a quiet jetliner above the clouds. The pool is hoppin, as it should be on a weekend. But there is a storm brewing, and dark clouds are massing over Holguin.
Every great leader, and every powerful revolutionary movement, spawns its own imitators and copycats. And the IKN is no different. This group of idealistic young rebels call themselves the IGBON (Inflatable Goofy Blowup Octopus Nation), but that name is too long and it will never catch on with the masses like IKN. Besides, their fragile little craft will never handle the big waves of the open ocean, and will be outflanked and outmaneuvered by any attack from inflatable kayaks. Let them dream of victory in glorious sea battles yet to come. I admire their revolutionary spirit, and the IKN will be glad to welcome them into the fold after the inevitable Innflatable Kayak Victory.
You know they have the speakers cranked up loud when the disc jockey puts on his earmuffs.
But I am immune to the noise now. Won’t have to listen to this much longer, and besides I have most of a full bottle of Siete Anos to dispose of before I head to the airport. I have two full bottles that I am taking back to Canada – one of cheap Siboney rum and another rum bottle full of wild Cuban honey that I got thru Sandra. One of the great crimes in Cuba is leaving ron behind that will go to waste. I am not a criminal, and I am doing my part to get rid of the evidence. So the noise is not such an issue for me today.
Notice how people avoid the deep end of the pool, nearest to the speakers.
Occasionally a foolish Canadian tourist will venture into the deep end. But they always soon come flopping to the surface, like a baby salmon in a stream in BC that has been zapped by the electroshocker of fisheries assessment crew that had the voltage set to high. Twitching spastically from an overdose of disco beat, they must be fished out of the pool and taken to the hospital immediately. And if there is no permanent ear or brain damage, they are often back at the hotel again in a few days.
Now my wayard fellow brigadistas arrive – we are the last of the Che Brigade left in Cuba. I try to interest them in helping me finish off my bottle of Siete Anos, but they are all business. Don’t want to drink before going on the plane. Well, I don’t want to leave my ron behind, so I guess I will just have to drink it myself! Jolting flashes of light strobe in the clouds, and then all hell breaks loose. Chicas in bikinis and disco dudes flee for the cover of the bandstand.
We have seen a number of thunderstorms already, but not like this. Mother Nature has pulled out all the stops, and is delivering one grand finale in honor of the impending departure of the Che Brigade. The last wimps leave the pool and run for cover.
What is the difference, you are wet already? Maybe it is the crackling blasts of lightning that are splitting the sky open all around. I love Tstorms, and after every lighting bolt I wait for the thunderbolt, and raise my clenched fist in the air. Viva La Revolution! Viva Socialismo! And Viva the power and glory of Mother Nature! (And Viva Siete Anos, which is providing a lot of my inspiration.)
Now the pool is empty, and the storm has done what no man or woman could – silenced the deathblaster disco speakers. They cannot compete with the noise! But the stupendous violence above only increases.
My mind keeps running and endless loop of the Byrds version of Bob Dylan’s iconic song about thunderstorms, The Chimes of Freedom….
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds. Seeming to be the Chimes of Freedom, flashing.
Flashing for the warriors, whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugee, on the unarmed road of flight
And for each and every underdog soldier in the night.
We gazed upon the Chimes of Freedom, flashing.
I have seen a lot of weather in my time, but this is above and beyond. An endless mind boggling explosion of power and fury from above. Probably more energy getting unleashed over Holguin this afternoon than all the cruise missiles blasted into Iraq by the US. A magnificent fare-the-well to the Che Brigade.
Water is pouring down everywhere.
And it will not let up. The sky is crackling and blinking with light, and cosmic drumrolls lead into ear splitting booms from the clouds. The sky cracks its poems in naked wonder. Viva!
Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Strking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
And the poet and the painter far beyond his rightful time…
It is raining so hard now you can hardly see the other end of the pool. People are huddled under the shelter, afraid to come out.
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
condemned to drift, or else be kept from drifting…
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned and forsaked
Tolling for the infidel, burning at the stake.
And we gazed upon the Chimes of Freedom flashing.
Now things have gone from storm to flood. Anyone with any sense has fled for the shelter of the seating area around the bar.
But runoff from the roof is creeping over the tiled floor where we are sitting, like the tide coming in over a mudflat. Well, bad for some, but a golden opportunity for those who have been drinking Siete Anos. There is about an inch of water built up on top the tiles now – perfect for running full speed and then doing skid-slides along the glassy floor, and spewing great showers of water into the faces of the sober people watching me in amazement and dismay. I run thru the torrent into the hotel. Must get to the top floor and take a pic. But this is a storm of epic proportions. The entire second floor is getting flooded out by runoff splashing in from the roof, and every spare body on staff is out with a broom or mop, sweeping floodwater out the door.
Lucky for me I am not on staff, so I have other interests. These flooded aisleways are the ultimate place to practice skid/slides. No tables full of food and booze to knock over if you go off course. No touristas upset about getting splashed in the face by a fat drunken maniac. Just long straight runways, like flooded bowling alleys, to skid down, barefoot, endlessly. I could do this all day, but I don’t want to miss the action by the pool.
Finally, after about two hours, the storm has spent its fury, the rain lets up, and people start going back into the pool.
One last pic of me by the pool.
And we are off. A spectacular ending to a wonderful trip.
Then we are taken to the airport. Hard to believe that there are this many Canadians here at 8 PM, in a landlocked city beyond the end of tourist season late in the evening. Must be at least 1,000 canucks leaving from this airport alone tonite.
Not hard to see how the stats all say that one out of every 30 Canadians now comes down to visit Cuba every winter. Much harder to figure out why the other 29 stick around all winter shoveling snow.
And then it is back on the plane for me, layover in Toronto, and back home to Van Isle the next morn.
No comments:
Post a Comment