Willie the cop is always asking about my kayak, and my legendary claria. So this morn I bring my little computer down to breakfast, locate Willie, sit next down next to him, and show him the pics of the fish I caught. He is not surly and mean as I was afraid he might be. In fact, he is really happy that I took the effort to show him my pics.
We are bonded forever now, as only fishermen can be. Willie - this rigid authoritarian, impeccably dressed, every hair on his head in exactly the proper location, silver spurs jungling on his boots. And me the goofy hippie in flip flops, ragged old shorts and long (by Cuban standards) hair blowin in the wind. But there are linkages that go beyond ideology, and beyond style. And Willie and I have found common ground in the fraternity of pescadors.
Now we are on the bus again and off to Santiago on the S side of the island. We will stay there for 2 days. Soon we come to the border and cross over from Holguin into Santiago Province. And our lead dog is replaced by a new cycle cop. Willie stays behind in Holguin, and this new guy is also stylish and dignified, but he does not drive with the same aggressive intimidation as Willie.
Our new driver probably does not generate the huge laundry bill for soiled underwear, not to mention nervous breakdowns and years of future psychiatric therapy, that Willie creates when he is leading the Che bus into oncoming traffic. We pass and embalse (reservoir). You can see the dam, and the lake is drawn down now at the end of the dry season.
There may be trucha in here.
I am always at the window, trying to grab fleeting shots of this strange and wonderful land.
There is a mushroom cloud in the distance. US killer drone attack? No. They are burning a cane field after harvest.
We pass some harvesting equipment.
And we pass the cane factory again. Today it is running, processing the sugar harvest.
After a couple hours we come the Embalse Protesta de Baragua. This is one of the bass lakes recommended to me by my cyber amigo Ismael in Havana when we were emailing back and forth last winter.
It is the only bass lake I know of in Cuba that has a city right next to it. The city is named Julio Antonio Mella, after the Cuban hero of that name. Any brigadista knows that the International Camp in Caimito, where we stayed for a week last year, is named the J.A Mello Camp.
Mello was the founder of the modern Cuban communist party. Always a radical and hell-raiser, he protested everything and eventually was kicked out of Havana U. Later escaped Cuba and ended up in Mexico, organizing plots to overthrow the Cuban government. He was assassinated under extremely murky circumstances in Mexicfo City in 1929, at age 26. There are many theories as to whodunit, and why.
As is only fitting in Cuba, the city and the lake it is on are named after 2 different revolutionary heroes. The Protest of Baragua occurred in 1878, at the end of the 10 Years War against Spanish Rule. Most rebel leaders were burned out by a decade of fighting and losing, with nothing to show for it. But charismatic General Antonio Maceo Grajales refused to accept the surrender terms. He was a conscientious objector to the concept of peace. Or maybe more accurateyl - peace without dignity. He lived to challenge the empire, and went on to fight in over 500 battles against the Spanish. He was killed by Spanish bullets in 1896, shortly before the Spanish were finally driven out of Cuba.
Suddenly we are crossing one of the many arms of the embalse. This is a gorgeous lake. A Brigitte Bardot among Cuban bass reservoirs.
The water is green and clear, with inshore weed beds.
In the distance you can see the dam, which forms the headwaters of the Rio Cauto, Cuba's longest and biggest river.
This place is a trucha's dream home. What would happen if you walked a zara spook across the surface between that bridge pier and the cutbank, at dawn in January?
There are little islands with cabins on them, and even a rowboat out fishing.
Hell with Santiago, just drop me off right here please. But we go flying past. Soon we are on the freeway that crawls up over the low crest of the Sierra Maestra, and rolling down into Santiago.
This is Cuba's 2nd largest city, after Habana. Very different from the artistic and dignified city of Holguin. Set along the top end of a great natural harbor, beneath the peaks of Cuba's highest mountains, it is a rough tough heavy industrial port. An ancient city, second capital of Cuba, founded in 1514, long before there were cities called New York and Toronto. Used to be the capital of all Cuba - and therefore of the entire New World - until the Spaniards decided that Havana's harbor was bigger and better, and moved the capital there. This is the place Hernan Cortes sailed from when he sacked and conquered Mexico, and also the place Hernando de Soto sailed from on his expedition to Florida. Some people in Santiago have never forgiven or forgotten, and still consider their city as the rightful capital of the Western Hemisphere.
Our bus passes a park with a big monument to Antonio Maceo, hero of the Baragua Protest.
Then we head directly to the ancient Santa Ifigenia Cemetery. As followers of my previous blogs will remember, I have a fascination with cemeteries. Ever since I built a GIS for the 3 cemeteries in Ashland, OR, as part of my job there. This is no ordinary marble orchard, even by Cuban standards. It is the resting place of the remains of Cuban superhero Jose Marti.
The towering Jose Marti monument in Havana that we visited last year may be more impressive in size, but this place is Cuba's sacred heart. Fidel may be the icon of the Revolution, but Jose is the icon of Cuba. Like Maceo a year later, Marti died in battle against the imperial overlords, killed by a Spanish bullet, at the Battle of Two Rivers, at the confluence of the Contramaestra and Cauto rivers, on my birthday, May 19, in 1895.
Every half hour a color guard of soldiers comes marching out of a compound.
And then pause in rigid attention.
And then continue marching down the boulevard to Jose's tomb.
Here they replace the soldiers who have been guarding Jose's ashes for the previous half hour. If I kicked my leg this high I would be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.
Fnally the previous honor guard retires into the compound.
Now it is time for the 2 chosen brigadistas to join the ceremony, and present a wreath at the tomb.
It is both a sign of respect from Cuba to the brigade, and a chance for the brigade to honor Cuba's greatest hero.
While 2 brigadistas join the honor guard on the ground floor near the tomb, the rest of us watch from the 2nd floor.
It is a moving ceremony full of pomp and circumstance.
The tomb is a work of art, and Jose's statue looks down upon his ashes while the sun filters in from above.
Would love to spend more time wandering around this cemeterio.
Adjacent to the Marti Tomb are remains of Jose's successor, and Baccardis who founded a rum factory before they were kicked out of Cuba.
We are always on a tight schedule this year. No time for wandering off, much less for bass fishing. Soon we are marshaled back at the bus. Oddly, there are 40' lengths of 3' diameter black PVC pipe laying all around the main boulevard thru the cemetery. Looks like they are getting ready to install or replace a big water main right thru this ancient historical site.
Next we are taken to the Antonio Maceo Square, dominated by a huge modernist steel sculpture and a steel statue of Antonio himself upon his faithful steed. Under it all is a museum dedicated to Maceo, another in Cuba's long tradition of revolutionary idols. You know you have made the big time when they name a bass lake after your legend, but the Protesta de Baragua was only a small part of Antonio’s resume. Jose Marti was fighting under Maceo when he died.
There is a museo inside the big dirt mound that the statue stands on.
Inside is lots of history.
These are not real they are holographic images of a real pistol and bullets used by Antonio.
Antonio was a handsome man, born from a mix of races, and known for his coppery skin.
Our jefe Dave signs the guest book for the brigade. Dave has problems with his hip, and he was in intense pain just walking around on this day. But he continued to provide solid guidance and focus for us all throughout the trip.
As for me, it is so hot outside I cannot sit down without sweating.
The rest of the brigade heads back to the bus, while I take a shot looking down a big park towards downtown Santiago.
And live music at the door.
Unfortunately, I am called to go to work right away. Seems there is a shortage of Rum Tasting Technicians here, and I am pressed into service.
After lunch we head out to the historic Granjita Siboney farmhouse. This is where Fidel plotted and marched from during his ill-fated attack on the Moncada barracks in downtown Santiago.
The rebels stored guns and ammo in great secrecy in a dry well behind this farmhouse prior to marching on the barracks. Then on July 26, 1953, a group of 137 rebels assembled here to attack the regime of Fulgencio Batista, who had seized power in his own coup a year previous. These were not armchair revolutionaries. Only 4 of them had university degrees. They were mid-to-lower class working people. Many of them, like their leaders Fidel and Raoul, were of mixed blood and born out of wedlock, and lifelong victims of many kinds of discimination.Like fellow revolutionary George Washington in the US, who lost every major battle he fought but ended up a hero when his enemies finally got tired of fighting, Fidel was a dismal failure in his early military career. The Moncada barracks were the 2nd largest in Cuba after Havana, and Fidel hoped to catch them off guard, capture them, and convince the troops there to defect to his revolutionary cause. But it all ended in disaster.
Fidel’s security was not tight enough, and word of the attack leaked out to Batista's troops. One of the attack columns got lost in the woods and stumbled around in confusion until they were captured. And the barracks did not turn over to the Castro’s cause, as hoped for. They were more than ready for the rebels that did manage to find their way into town. The entire rebel army including Fidel was slaughtered or captured, except for a few that managed to escape into the mountains. Most of the captured rebels were summarily executed. Or, like Fernando Chenard Pena, tortured horrifically and then executed.
But not Fidel, whose father was rich and influential, and who had been a buddy of Batista in prior years. (It is said that Batista helped pay for Fidel's wedding. Such are the ironies of history.) Fidel and Raoul were imprisoned instead of shot in the head. Here are their mug shots.
And then soon released from prison after much public outcry on their behalf.
After the dust settled and the rebellion was quelled, Batista's men shot up the front of the farmhouse to make it look like the battle had occurred here. Not true. Only 5 rebels were killed in battle, all at the Moncada Barracks. The real killing occurred inside the barracks, where 56 captives were tortured and massacred. Later the bullet holes were filled in. But after the Castros came to power they shot the place up again, to recreate original appearance after the failed revolt.
This is a peaceful and pretty place now. There are some big old trees.
Readers of my previous blogs will notice an abundance of butterfly pics. In fact my fishermen friends have complained. "Hey! Where are all the fish pics? All you show is pics of butterflies." Butterflies in Cuba behave very differently than anywhere else I have ever seen. Maybe it is due to the constant heat here, or maybe it is due to the intense revolutionary spirit of the lepidoptera since the triumph of the Castros. Whatever the reason, the butterflies in Cuba almost never stop flying. There are flowers in bloom everywhere, but the butterflies never seem to stop and feed on them. So I can never get close enough to snap off a pic. But here at the tranquil Granjita Siboney I am actually able to snap off a fuzzy long range pic of a butterfly I cannot identify.
There is also a cool woodpecker hammering around in the big trees on this site.
I love the Cuban word for woodpecker – carpintero. The carpenter bird.
Then it is back to the hotel, and the pool, and a view of the hotel with our bus parked in front.
May 10
I get up early and go for a walk around town. Here is a shot of another big hotel, just down the street from ours. I forget the name.
It is rush hour, and traffic is heavy by Cuban standards. Many of the ancient old vehicles here are older than The Revolution itself. And they probably have not had a ring & valve job since Fidel was a kid in Biran. Going up hills or accelerating, they puke out enormous clouds of burning oil smoke. Cuba is a world leader in medicine, and they are damn well also a world leader in smog. Although vehicles are few here, many of them cast out stunning plumes of black, foul-smelling smoke. I try over and over, but I cannot get a single pic that captures the rush hour stillness and choking smog.
This bus is spewing a black cloud, and the back end of the bus is covered in carbon from the exhaust.
Although it is a very industrial city, this is one of the few places in Cuba where I saw people sweeping off the sidewalks.
They use big flatdeck trucks to carry workers to and from jobs. Many of the trucks are old, and their engines belch out massive clouds of hydrocarbons.
I snap off lots of pics, but none come close to capturing the noxious haze that fills the morning around Avenida Victoriano de Garzon. The planet Neptune has better air quality than Garzon Ave in the morning rush hour.
I want to hang around to get some better pics, but after a few blocks my eyes and throat are burning. Reminds me of my first year in Ashland OR, when the huge Biscuit Fire burned half a million acres of forest, and you often could not see to the other end of the block. Forest fire smoke is bad enough, but this is worse. My eyes are burning. I can't stay here. So I head off down a side street. The air is still acrid here, but breathable.
I make the rookie mistake of leaving my camera hanging around my neck in full view. This cheap camera is like a flashing neon sign saying "Tourista! Tourista! Tourista!". Cuba may be applauded for providing basic minimal food and medical care for all. But many people here have little or nothing else. Twice in the first few blocks I have old people come up to me begging for a peso. This is the side of Cuba that you will not see on the guided Che Brigade tour. Must remember to hang my camera INSIDE my T shirt, not outside.
But I am a veteran of last year's brigade, so I know how to handle this. I know how to lie. I pull my pockets out of my shorts to show that I have no wallet. (It is in my camera bag.) And they lose interest. And I lose my self respect.
I come upon an old guy wheeling a cart down the street selling fresh bread.
At the next corner the street is occupied by a market. Piles of fresh cut meat are awaiting early morning shoppers, or later morning flies.
There is some very fresh meat here too, ready to slice up.
Most important, I finally find that which I have been seeking since I woke up. A stand with a guy yelling "Cafe! Cafe! Cafe!" I buy 2 strong sweet tiny cupfuls for 50 cents, and head back to the hotel.
This morn we visit the Moncada barracks, site of Fidel's disastrous first attempt at revolt on July 26, 1953.
Like the Siboney farmhouse, the bullet holes from the rebel attack were later plastered over by Batista. And then the new regime shot the place up again after the success of the 1959 revolution to recreate the look of the original holes.
The big old garrison is converted to a museum of revolution now. And a grade school. There is a classroom full of kids right inside the main entrance. All visitors to the museum must pass here, and look in, and be aware of the irony of the transition from the grisly military crimes that were committed here to the present.
Then you get into the museum proper. The place is named after Guillermo Moncada, a black man, one of 29 Cuban generals during the War of Independence, and maybe more important, the man who put infamous "rancheador" (slave hunter) Miguel Perez Cespedes out of business. Moncada later sided with Maceo in the Protest of Baragua, going down in history as proud unconquerable revolutionaries, and providing a nave for a beautiful bass lake.
In the failed coup of 1953, Fidel's second in command was Abel Santamaria. Not as fortunate or well connected as Fidel. And not treated quite as politely after he was captured. Batista's men asked him to rat out his comrades. but he refused. So they tried to encourage him. Gouged out his eyes with a spoon. But he still would not talk, so they shot him. Then brought his eyes to his sister and fellow rebel Haydee. (One of many women who were prominent among the Castro revolution.)
"This is what happened to your brother. Tell us all you know about the rebels, or this is what will happen to you."
She replied with supreme cool. "If my brother was strong enough to remain silent, why should I be weak?"
Haydee Santamaria (R)
Haydee lived on to visit Fidel regularly while he was in prison. It was she who smuggled Fidel’s memoirs out of prison, including his famous "History Will Absolve Me." speech, and she who published them into books that made him famous, and she who led the public protests that ended up getting Fidel and Raoul released from jail, and exiled to Mexico. She become a hero in the 1959 revolution.
She was also rumored to have been one of Fidel's amours during the campaign. Hard to know for sure, When asked about his love life during these years, Fidel gave an answer that can be roughly translated into Inglis as: "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." In later years Haydee is said by some to have become disenchanted with the course of the Castro regime. She committed suicide in 1980 under mysterious circumstances.
The next room is the place where Batista's men tortured the unfortunate captives of the failed revolt.
Does not look like a happy place. The dictator was not a fun guy to be around if he didn’t like you.
After the failure of the Moncada revolt, Fidel was jailed, and then pardoned and exiled to Mexico. Here he organized a group of about 80 fellow Cuban exiles and a select few from other countries. One was from Italy, and another from Argentina whose name was Ernesto Guevara. This time they rented a farm near Mexico City where they received training in guns, sabotage, and guerilla warfare. They tried to maintain tight security, but failed. They were busted by the Mexican government. But in those days anti-imperialist and anti-US sentiment ran high in Mexico, and they were released. And they reorganized. Finally the rebels were ready to make their move on the homeland.
Thru a third party they purchased an old yacht called the Granma, loaded 80+ rebels aboard, and set out for Cuba under great secrecy for Cuba. There is a replica of the ship here in a glass case.
Like the attack on Moncada, the result was a disaster. The boat was overloaded and the rebels got seasick. Their marine charts were inaccurate, and their navigator got lost. Maybe their GPS unit malfunctioned? Instead of landing on the beach they ended up wrecking the boat on the shore of a swamp and lost most of their supplies, guns and ammo. This may have turned out to be a good thing, because the most important failure of the preparation was a breach of security. The attack was supposed to be a surprise, but Batista knew all about it in advance, including the identity of the boat, and the date and location of the intended landing. He was waiting for them with troops, and B-26 attack bombers loaned from the US.
But because the rebels got lost and could not find the beach where they intended to land, it took Batista's planes a while to locate them. But when they did the planes raked the shore with machine gun fire, and land troops were quickly shuttled in to hunt down the invaders. Most of the rebels were wiped out in short quickly. Within a few days only about 17 (the exact number is disputed) of the men who landed from the Granma were left alive. Che himself took a bullet in the chest, and thought he was surely going to die in the swamp.
It was almost a miracle that any of them survived. Victory was no longer an immediate priority. Helpless and almost defenceless now, the remaining rebels fled from Batista's troops to the relative safety of high peaks of the Sierra Maestra. Here they regrouped, reorganized, and little by little went on to lead a revolution that changed the world.
There is a map in a glass case that shows the course of the Granma, along with pre-invasion photos of all the rebels that sailed on her.
along with pre-invasion photos of all the rebels that sailed on her.
They all look so clean cut and debonair, like the businessmen, professors and intellectuals that they were before they hit the beach. The crisp white shirts and ties they sport here would soon become ancient memories, after they hid in the mud and got chased thru the swamps by Batista's men for two years before their eventual triumph. I am particularly amused by this picture of Camillo Cienfuegos, one of my heroes from the Revolution. Notice the shift from status quo to revolutionary to iconic hero.
And another mural that shows the succeeding campaigns that lead to the ouster of Batista, along with leaders of the various military campaigns. On the lower right, leader of Column 3 in Santiago, is Camillo Cienfuegos. In the center, leader of the Second Column marching across Santa Clara and towards Havana, is Ernesto, now nicknamed Che, Guevara.
After lunch we are back on the bus, and heading way back in time. Off to visit the amazing Morro Castle.
Columbus discovered and colonized Cuba from the west to the east. The first great harbor the Spaniards discovered was the amazing Bahia de Santiago. A narrow slot along a steep mountainous shoreline, leading into a huge calm, hurricane-proof bay.
Here they built their capital of the New World. Cannons mounted on the cliffs overlooking the narrow entrance to the bahia could blow any attacking military, bucanero or pirate ship to smithereens. So they built the Morro Castle, a fantastic example of stone and masonry architecture, now a United Nations World Heritage Site. More precisely, the Spaniards occupied and executive and management position, while the gruntwork was performed by a convenient labor force of indigenous American and later black African slaves. How many thousand unfortunate men were worked to death to build this place? Only their god knows, and he ain't sayin.
The castle was almost impregnable to attack from the sea. But in later years raiding buccaneers took up the habit of landing on shore, and attacking Spanish forts from behind. So the castle is built to be protected from this dimension also. It is every boy's fantasy to walk over a drawbridge into a castle, and I am still a child at heart, and today I finally get my chance.
Lucky for me, there are no Spaniards inside today, dumping buckets of flaming tar down on my head.
The moat runs all across the point of the peninsula. No way to get into the castle from land without crossing it.
Inside are historic old cavalry cannons.
In most cases the Spanish would have had slaves carry the cannonballs. But space was at a premium here. No room to maintain a large slave labor population within the fort, so the slaves were used more or less like Kleenex. Use once for your maximum convenience, and then discard. Since there were not enough slaves inside to move that cannonballs up to the guns, they built a little tramway to carry the heavy metal up to the armaments on the parapet overlooking the boca of the harbor.
The old cannons still watch over the boca, although they are not used often nowadays. It has been a number of years since the last pirate attack. Still, this is something to be noted by IKN intelligence. If they could sink a pirate man-o-war they could probably do some serious damage to an inflatable boat.
I could take pics here all day. There are about 20 different levels, with stone stairways connecting everything.
Looking N up to the great bay of Santiago. All ships must pass thru this narrow channel, guarded by the cannons of the Morro Castle.
Ever wonder where the English word "calaboose" came from. This is the Calaboose of Death, the room where they carried out the mas horrendas torturas.
In later years the castle was used as a prison. These are busts of some of the famous Cubans who were imprisoned here.
And of course, the chapel. This place is so cool. I can see how the Spaniards liked it here. You could torture slaves all day, stop by the chapel and get cleansed of your sins, and then go right back to work!
I know I am putting in lots of pics, but I could not take enough here. When I came to Morro Castle I was a firm believer in the Revolution. But now that I see how cool it would be to be king of Santiago, and have your own castle where you could shoot ships with cannons, dump big vats of boiling oil onto poor suckers in the moat, torture slaves, molest buxom wenches, pray to Jesus, and have the greatest view in the world… I am not so sure.
There is a restaurant on the site, and we have lunch there. With live music. Kind of a Cuban Lynyrd Skynryd, with the triple lead guitars.
Looking out from Morro Castle, barely visible as a thin line on the horizon, is the island Nation of Jamaica. Henry Morgan sailed across in 16XXX, landed on the shore to the E, and marched his bucaneros overland to sack the city of Santiago. But they wisely did not attempt to attack the castle.
Back at the hotel. Our maid has turned the towels into beautiful swans.
We head downtown to visit a museum dedicated to Vilma Espin Guillois. In her time as wife of Raoul Castro, Vilma lead the movement to end the machismo era of Cuban culture. She is regarded here much as a saint is regarded in religious cultures. After a speech about the changes in women’s rights since the Revolution, we all pass thru what must be the most minimalist museum I have ever seen. Two rooms with a bunch of pictures of women, a glass case with a headless bust of a woman wearing a faded gown. A glass case with a few bullets.
The streets of Santiago were built for horses, not tour buses. But our cycle cop Willie still clears the way.
The Vilma Espin Guillois museum does not get a lot of business. There is no parking for tour buses nearby. So we just park the bus in the middle of the street, and walk the last few blocks. If you have a problem with this, see Willie.
But our driver could drive this bus right into somebody’s living room, have a coffee and chat, and drive back out again with out scratching the paint. Often he has to jiggle back and forth to make it around a corner. And it must scare the hell out of the people in the buildings along the street, only a few feet back from the curb.
We are so close to the curb we can see right in people’s windows. It is so cool to see the kids waving back at us.
After the women’s museum we are bused along the waterfront and dumped off at a big park downtown.
I don’t know the name of the park, but it is famous in Cuba as the place where Fidel announced that The Revolution was, indeed, a Socialist Revolution. Unfortunately for the park, and the revolution, it is now impossible for a tourist to sit in this park for long. I sit on a bench and start reading my Hemingway novel. It takes about 5 minutes before the first approach, and old black woman with missing teeth. "Where are you from?" Canada. "Oh Canada, such a wonderful country. They are our friends." Then, where are you from, how long are you staying, and inevitable, "Can you give me a peso?" I have to do the empty pockets pantomime to get her to leave. But then there is another, and another. Things are very bad here in Cuba. Please give me a peso for a cup of coffee.
You can tell that this guy was seriously poor when I tell them I can’t give them money cuz my wallet is at the hotel, 3 km away. And he volunteer’s to walk there and back in the stifling heat if I agree to give them a peso. He is a chess fan, and plays chess here in the park, and scavenges spare change from Canadians.
Finally I give up on reading, and head out for a walk around town. We have about 45 minutes on our own, and I want to see the waterfront. So I start walking. I come upon an old church on an old street.
And a big old building.
Kids are playing soccer in the street.
There is weird, algae filled liquid running in and out of storm drains and sewers.
This catchbasin is a witches cauldron of toxic sludge. Every few seconds it would actually burb up a blurble of gas.
6:30 now. Last and only chance in the hectic brigade schedule to visit San Juan Hill. I remember hearing stories as a kid that my father's father fought here with Teddy Roosevelt in the "Spanish - American War", as it is called in the US. I feel obligated to get out there and see it before I leave town.
Loma San Juan is only 1 km from our hotel. I head off thru the steaming heat and evening rush hour down smog choked Avenida Victoriano de Garzon.
St. I pass the Parque Zoologico. Like most anything related to the non-human part of the planet, the zoo appears to be very low on the priority list of The Revolution. Lonely Planet tourist guide - normally quite positive about Cuban places of interest - is not so excited about the Santiago zoo. "XXX"
Looking thru the derelict chain link fence I can see a few animals in cages, but no people. 7 PM, and the park is probably closed. But when I get to the main gate I see the park is open. Situated along a hectic main street with zillions of pedestrians wandering everywhere, not a soul is to be seen in the zoo. A forlorn attendant waits in idle futility behind the gate. Cubans are bonkers about partying, rum, and blasting music beside the pool. Natural history, not so much. I do go in.
Just past the zoo is the sign for Loma San Juan.
It is here, US legend has is, that Teddy Roosevelt led his famous Rough Riders into the battle that once and for all removed the Spanish jackboot that stomped on the throat of Cuba. Replaced it with the jackboot of the US, bringing coca cola, democracy (in the form of Fulgencia Batista), the United Fruit Company, and the mafia to Cuba. Like so much of military history, the truth is somewhat less heroic than the famous image of Teddy mounted on his valiant steed bravely charging up a steep hill sword in one hand and FREEDOM in the other. In fact, there seems to be no hill anywhere nearby, and Teddy never even mounted a horse here. The 600 or so Spanish defenders held out stubbornly for a couple days against 6,000 US troops backed by overwhelming heavy artillery before finally surrendering. It was the end of one humongous empire (the Phillipines fell to the US soon after), and the malignant metastasis of another.
The gate is open, so I walk in. On the left are some concrete monoliths with brass plaques containing text in Spanish, and a brass face of a guy who looks like he may be Teddy Roosevelt. But upon closer inspection I can see by the bullet hole between his eyes that it is our old friend Calixto Garcia, who tried and failed to commit suicide, and had a park named after him located behind our hotel in Holguin, where we marched in the Primero de Mayo parade.
On the opposite side of the drive are a bunch of cannons arranged around an iron fence that surrounds a series of huge brass castings in the form of open books.
Some of the books seem to contain the names of US soldiers killed in action. Others the names of Cuban soldiers. Do these books contain the names of soldiers who died here?
At the other end of the parking lot, up on the only thing approaching a hill, is a big building that resembles the Moncada Barracks we visited this morn. Could this be an old Spanish fort that my grandpa stormed an helped capture?
No
A closer look shows that it is a resort hotel owned by Islazul - that same chain that operates the resort I stayed in at Veradero last year, and the hotel I will sleep in tonite.
The whole park area is about the size of a large suburban house lot in Canada or the US. Bordered by the pedestrian and vehicular hustle bustle along Garzon Ave, it is tidy, empty and silent. Sunset now. An island of shady tranquility in the maniac scramble of the big city. This place looks like no one may have ever visited is since the triumph of the Castros.
Was my Grandpa Best ever really here, or is this story apocryphal like Teddy's horse charge? I may never know for sure. But sitting alone on a bench beside an old cannon in the hushed evening shade, surrounded by a million busy Cubans, I feel I have completed a circuit in time and space. True or not, it is a good story anyway.
Back at the hotel after dinner I watch the Serie Nacional game on TV. We are in the semi finals now. Industriales (Habana) and Matanzas played last nite. Tonite it is Granma vs Villa Clara. This is the most horrendous wipeout I have ever seen on a beisbol field. The hapless Granma pitcher is serving up cream puffs, and the VC batters are pounding him into the dirt. The score is 11 - 0 before there are 2 outs in the first inning, 19 - 0 in the second inning. I am working on my mini computer, reviewing images for the blog and deleting junk. Around the fourth inning I head downstairs to look for refreshment. The bar by the pool is already closed, so I head over to the disco. It is full of foxy young Cuban women. They are all young, very cute and incredibly friendly. They all want to dance with me.
They are also jiniteros, and the bartender is their pimp. The word comes from the Spanish "jinitera", or horserider. But in the world of Cuban slang, it is the women who ride the tourist men, until a bunch of money shakes out of their pockets. Sex tourism is a fact of life in Cuba. Maybe one of the biggest sources of foreign exchange, although nobody is counting.
I head back up to my room with with my mojito, but there is no more beisbol game on TV. Do they have a mercy rule here like in little league, or did the TV station decide to pull the plug on showing the stupendous rout of a game? I switch stations, and find a show about Cuban jazz. A smoking hot electric guitar player is ripping with a precision jazz orchestra backing him. As the impending International Commissioner of Music (once the IKN takes power globally) let me tell you this is good stuff. But over the next hour the music slows down, and the soloists shift to keyboards (OK), flute (not so much), and finally to some cat singing opera to the jazz backup.
I can't handle this, so I switch stations again and stumble onto a really cool TV show. A nature documentary about one of Cuba's national parks - mangrove swamps, crocodiles, spectacular tidal ecosystems. Hey - this is my kind of stuff! The audio is in Spanish, with Spanish subtitles (Don't ask me why.) There are scientific looking people measuring tree trunks and root lengths, counting birds, and recording water depths on paper. I can't help but think that these people need to load all this data into a GIS.
Later I see the subtitles spelling out Systema Informacion Geographic. Hola! They do have GIS in Cuba, and they are loading all this data into it. Bueno!
Then the show is over, and a test pattern appears on the screen, backed by the stupendous trumpet intro to the Cuban nacional anthem. Time for me to go beddie by.
May 11
This is our last morn in Santiago. I go for a swim before breakfast, and then we are on the bus. On the way out of town we stop for a tour of the water treatment plant. Now this is my kind of turf. I am much more at home talking about real technology rather than abstract political theory. We park near the plant, which is on top of a ridge overlooking the city. Fed by reservoirs high in the Sierra Maestra behind the city, it would be gravity feed to here, and gravity feed from here to the rest of the city. Also parked near the plant is a spacecraft from the planet Zircon.
The Cubans suffer greatly from the US embargo, especially in hi tech fields. But the Che Brigade from Canada is not the only culture that offers them solidarity and assistance. These advanced have come all the way from the Crab Nebula to help the Cubans upgrade their water treatment technology. Of course, US president Barrack Gobombem reminded them of the US embargo, and threatened dire consequences if they did not stop. To which the Zirconistas, who are all great Clint Eastwood fans, replied:
"Go ahead. Make my light year. But be warned. If just one of your cruise missiles enters our galaxy, we will zap your warmonger culture with a Zirconian Death Ray that will reduce your primitive and belligerent nation to a smoking cinder in three tenths of a second."
After which the US backed off.
We start with a short talk by the jefe. We learn that the government is spending $60 million in upgrading the ancient and crumbling water system in Santiago. A staggering sum when your main source of foreign exchange is Canadian tourists and Italian men looking for cheap young black prostitutes. After the talk I ask if they have a GIS for their water system. In crumbling Spanish that is worse than a 90 old concrete water pipe I try to repeat the words I heard on TV last nite. Systema Informacion Geographic. Right away he knows what I am talking about! The jefe smiles and says yes - they are working on developing this "new technology". The new pipes and other infrastructure are getting loaded into GIS, but it is hard to get information about the older stuff cuz nobody knows the details about what/where/when.
I can only smile back. This was my job in Ashland OR, and it is the job of every utilities GIS tech everywhere – getting dependable data from old timers before they retire. Or going out into the streets with GPS units to learn the system pipe by pipe. Keep at it, Santiago. It will be more work than you think, but once it is done you will be very glad you put the effort into it.
Then we tour the treatment plant. They use sedimentation with flocculants, filters, and chlorine.
Sedimentation traps, emptied for cleaning.
The settling ponds in the foreground are fed from water collected in the Sierra Maestra mountains (background).
Skimmers crossing the settling ponds.
From the ridge wher water treatment plant is located there is a beautiful view of downtown Santiago.
One last pic and it is time to leave.
And now we are back on the bus and out of this big busy rough tough city. Over the Sierra Maestra and past gorgeous Embalse Protesta de Barragua once again. Many men come to Cuba just for the women. They are foxy and friendly and wonderful. By now I have pretty much narrowed the qualifications for the Cuban woman of my dreams down to only a few: 19-21 years old. Stunningly gorgeous. Owns her own little island in Protesta de Barragua, with a nice waterfront cabin and dock. Must be an expert bass fisher and own a 27 foot nitro bass boat, preferably metalflake purple, with 300 hp Merc. And of course, the boat must be fully loaded with bow-mounted foot pedal controlled electric trolling motor, GPS, side-scan sonar and underwater TV with onboard color monitor. Plus gimbaled drink holders so you will not spill your mojito while you are accelerating to get to a new spot.
Shouldn't be too hard to find.
On the way back we pass a cane train, heading into the big cane mill we have passed a few times already.
There are a number of small cemeteries that we pass along the way. Would be interesting to stop and look thru one.
Getting back near Holguin again when our faithful motorcycle lead dog suddenly goes bonkers, leads us off the hwy onto a tiny road up a twisting steep hill. Is he lost? Drunk? No. He is leading us up to Mayabe, a pretty restaurant on top of a hill overlooking the city, and - more important - overlooking the embalse I have been trying to get in to see. I click off a number of shots on full zoom.
Must analyze these later on my computer. Looks like there are flooded stumps at the top end, and probably some lunker trucha grande foraging around them.
There is a big cake, and a happy birthday for all brigadistas who are having birthdays during this years brigade, including me.
There are a couple artisans selling tourist stuff. Normally I ignore tourist shlock, but this guy is selling fresh made leather belts. I need a good belt. Even if you buy a cheap belt at Wal Mart in Canada made by Chinese slave labor it is gonna cost $25, and the thrift store belt I am wearing is full of heavy metal ornamentation and I hate it. Here I can get 2 really nice belts for $5, and help out an honest Cuban craftsman at the same time. Bueno!
After dinner they bring out a huge birthday cake for all the brigadistas who are having birthdays during the brigade, including me. Gracias!
Now it is back to the hotel, and time for me to start planning a way to get my kayak into this pretty embalse.
At the hotel we are assigned new rooms for the duration of our stay. Maybe my roomie Jeff and I will get moved down to a lower floor, and away from the nasty blasty speakers by the pool. Not so lucky. Instead, we are assigned Room 501, again on the top floor, and directly over the deathblaster speakers. The room is already vibrating from ear splitting noise as we drop off our stuff from the trip. It is the hottest day yet, and I am dripping sweat so I run down to the pool and jump in. The speakers are blasting out the eternal Cuban pool "music" favorite - mechanical moronic disco beat with a brain dead zombie shouting out "Chupa! Chupa! Chupa! Chupa! Chupa! Chupa!Chupa!" over and over and over. (= Blowjob! Blowjob! Blowjob!...) I try diving underwater and plugging my ears but I just can't stand the noise. Must swim as fast as I can to the pool ladder and get the H out of here.
It is not that I am offended by the sexual content of the "lyrics", as many Norte Americanos would be if they understood them. It is the incredible stupidity of the beat and tectonic plate shattering volume of the speakers that I cannot tolerate. This is the camel that broke the straw's back.
I must head over to see our patient and faithful ICAP tour guides. Sandra, Milagras, Adriana…PLEASE HELP ME!
Either I get another room or I am outahere. Thank God, Allah or Raoul. Their hotel is busy, but they have another room much farther from the pool. Air conditioner doesn't work as well, but at least you can’t hear the pool speakers. They are knocking the walls out with sledgehammers to expand a couple nearby rooms, but this is peaceful compared to being near the pool.
A bit of free time now, so I head down to the creek to visit my amigo Alex. I take my little computer along with the pics of the claria I caught there.
On the way I pass the organic farm again.
I would love to get a tour around this place, but it is always closed in the afternoon. So I snap off a few pics over the fence.
Past the organic farm is the creek. Today there is beer at Alex's emporium, and when there is beer there is always a party at Alex's.
Will he remember me? Of course!
We are great buddies again, and I show him the pics of my fish. The same megablaster speakers as at the Hotel Pernik pool are next to his beer stall, spewing out the same crazy disco jive. How the Cubans love their noise! But somehow it is all right here. We are only inches away face to face, but we have to shout to hear each other as I show him the pics.
"What did you catch it on - lagartija?"
"No. Pollo."
"Yes. But they bite better on lagaritja."
He and his friends/customers know all about me coming down to fish in the morn (CDR in action?) and he is really happy to see my fish. I give him my last year's Che Brigade T shirt and make him an honorary brigadista. He passes the shirt inside the beer jail to a woman (his wife?) and some other folks, and they fill up a liter of beer for me in exchange. It is truly inspiring to see them passing the T shirt around inside, pointing at the letters and logos, while Alex and I stand outside drinking and talking fishing.
This beer would likely not win first place at an international spirit tasting competition, but it has 4 positive things going for it. It is: 1) Wet; 2) Cold; 3) Contains alcohol; 4) It is dirt cheap.
And on this sultry sweaty Holguin afternoon it may some of the best beer I have aver tasted.
Alex and his friend, drinking tanker beer:
I ask Alex about trucha. Are there any trucha lakes near Holguin? No - the nearest good lake is Uta (Fingernail), about a 1/2 hr away. What about the embalse I saw beneath Mayabe hill? Are there any trucha in there? No, but he starts listing off a number of other fish in there. Claria. Talapia. A couple of Spanish names I do not understand. And biajaca.
Biajaca! This is the indigenous endemic Cuban fish I have been seeking! Alex claims to be an expert biajaca fisherman, and I do not doubt him. He has never BS'd me about anything yet. If I can get free time on one of his off days when he has no beer to sell he will show me how to catch biajaca there.
I scribble a little map. What about Embalse Guirabo, near the airport? Are there any trucha in there? Yes! But Alex assures me that I will never catch one there in summer. The water is too hot, and the trucha go deep to avoid the heat.
Ah, but Alex assured me - honestly - that I would not catch claria on pollo. But he had never tried so how could he know? He has also never tried fishing Embalse Guirabo from an inflatable kayak with an arsenal of Norte Americano weapons of bass destruction. I must get in there and find out myself.
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