6/14 –So there was a change in plans today and we instead go to Trinidad in the south a couple of days early. It means two sad, sad things -- one, we're getting our beach time earlyy and two, since we're staying in an ALL-INCLUSIVE resort (huh? you could almost hear everyone's brains clacking around going, "Does not compute. Does not compute.") that beach time will be drenched in pina coladas -- FREE pina coladas. Wowie.

 

So the bus ride was pretty fun since everyone was so pumped -- even I didn't mind too much and I had tto sit next to Captain Dumbfuck for three and a half hours, listening to him ask questions we just had answered and to him trying to sing and play guitar. (Seriously -- it's one thing to bring a guitar if you're an ok player but a bad singer. It's another if you're a bad player but an ok singer. It's another thing altogether if you're both a bad player and a bad singer. it's ridiculous. It'd be like some mathematically impaired nabob bringing along a slew of tickertape calculators and accounting books on the trip. A waste of time and energy and totally unnecessary. Who ya trying to impress anyway, Einstein?) Ugly, but bearable since our rainbow was leading us to a gratis paradise on the sea. While we're driving I’m in mega-pensive mood (probably because I can't (or don't want to) talk to my neighbor for fear of disturbing his virtuoso performance) and all of the things I’ve seen are raging around in my head. I really need to be in front of my computer to do a massive mind dump. I think my papers going to be ok. I’ve got a lot of stuff to use, which is comforting. I’ll worry about that later.

 

As we drive, the plains keep me in my introspective mood, but eventually we get to the mountains and the view changes a bit. The turkey buzzards are still here, lazily circling overhead or sitting twelve deep on a string of fenceposts (the writer in me wonders if you can see these birds circling over the entire country, signaling the state of the nation, the birds waiting for the regime's final breath before descending.) Also here are the occasional flamboyante, now a brilliant orange, and ribcage fern, but now we start to see the nascent sugar fields as well. (Interesting thing about these is that they look like overgrown houseplants rather than the giant thrushes of majestic rods as I’d pictured. somewhat strange.) There’s mango trees scattered about, the heavy, bulbous fruit appearing to hang on ropes, the branches sagging under their weight -- they look like the trees people decorate at Easter with the eggs hanging on tiny strings. (Entiendeme?)

 

There are endless horses and cows, all emaciated and tired looking, something like an endless replication of Quixote’s steed, and strings of decaying block houses, four out of five of which have people sitting in the doorway or on the porch. (This last part was charming and cute at first, but now it's infuriating because nobody is working! ANYWHERE in this country -- the city, the countryside, Havana, Smallsville, it doesn't matter. Nadie hace nada. It’s Monday and there is absolutely no reason for this many people to be sitting around, unless, that is, your official statistics boasting such high levels of employment are bullshit, or only half true -- sure, people may have jobs, but they have nothing to do at them and thus cut out early or just don't go. I’m beginning to think it's a combination of the two.)

 

When we get to the hotel they dick us around and refuse to let us check in (which is a costly error for two reasons -- one, it means our university will not come back here next time (the prof cancelled the contract immediately) and two, the staff will not get as much in tips now as the collective spirit of generosity shuddered and died in a sweaty, frustrated pile in the hotel lobby), so a group of us ditches our bags in storage (they won't let us check in, but they will watch our bags. Idiots...) and heads to the beach. I’m sitting there staring out into the sea thinking, damn this is beautiful. And not the least bit relaxing. (I’m such a happy bunny when I’m near the water. We need to move to the ocean or the sea.) I just laugh at it now because it's just relentless and because I’ve only got four more days to endure it, but it really is obnoxious. These places are SO beautiful and romantic it's ridiculous I have to be here without V. Italy HAS to be done together. Please?

 

I laze at the beach and the pool the rest of the day, sipping coladas, eating fresh coconut, tanning, dipping, and repeating. It’s great and after dinner we play some chess -- jumbo pieces, the up to your knee kind -- ping pong, checkers, pool, etc. until I’m totally wiped and feeling sick from all the sugary drinks. (I can't drink the beer -- that was the source of my never-ending shitting -- so I’m stuck with sticky sweet drinks or nothing at all.) I turn in and smile 'cause I’m almost home. Yay!

 

6/15 –Woke up and got to cross off one more day on my countdown -- we're down to three more days until I can see V! YAY!!! This morning we stayed in Trinidad, the third city built way back in the day, one that sits on the peninsula of Ancon (which I guess means "giant horse leg" due to some semblance it bears to that item on a map). We started off by going to this local potter's place to scope some goods -- it's been in the family for over a hundred years and has some cool stuff, but there's no way I’m getting pottery back to the States in one piece, so it's kind of a waste. (Cool part was seeing one of the potters sitting in the shade of a mango tree, birdcages hanging gently from its branches, their contents sweetly chirping away while he painted some pieces. Very tranquilo...)

 

Next it's off to the tower Manaca Iznaga, built to show the wealth of its Spanish constructor in colonial times and to keep an eye on his charges while they worked in the fields. It had a giant bell (a major symbol of wealth back then -- the bigger the bell, the bigger the fat cat) and a fantastic view of the Valle del los Ingenios, the old valley of the sugar mills. There are no mills here now and limited amounts of cane, but the view is still spectacular from atop the tower.  The ancient wooden staircases leading to the top are a little nerve-wracking -- especially when there's carpenters up there measuring boards to replace while you're climbing -- but all worth it in the end.

 

Scaling back down we checkout the old owner's house (now a restaurant and shop, but still architecturally impressive), the old guarapo machine in the back used to grind the cane (it's one of those old models with the giant wooden pole that runs horizontal to the ground and that one or two people walk in wide circles to operate), and the giant calderas, huge iron half-spheres used to boil and crystallize the sugar post-juicing. (A neat story on the bells from before: most of them were bought from the US, specifically from Philly, and were part of a rather prosperous trade route at the time. When the ships would go back without goods from Trinidad, US merchants/mariners needed to maintain buoyancy on the ships, so they filled the holds with rocks. Once the boat reached Trinidad again, the rocks were pitched and used to pave the streets. (And these dangerously uneven cobbles line the roads to this day.))

 

Then it's off to the Plaza Mayor and the other bell tower in central Trinidad (we were in the valley twenty minutes outside of town before. This is all in the city proper now.), which holds the pirate museum. Now my friend Noah and I see this and think, "Ooh, cool! Pirates! Sword fighting and 'argh, mateys!' and all that stuff, but then we get inside and all the memorabilia is from the sixties. Pirates in the sixties? What kind of backwater bullshit is this? And then we realize they're referring to the CIA-trained and -funded counterrevolutionaries who happeneed to come to the island on boats. Pirates. O...k....)

 

After this we traipse up to the top of the hill in town to see this abandoned Spanish church (with the three bells in a row on the front, you know?) and then grab some drinks at the Folklorico bar/restaurant. Here we're treated to canchancharas, old time drinks the natives and rebels used for an energy boost when they were fighting the Spanish. They’ve got honey, lime juice, and aguardiente (fermented cane juice) in them and are quite tasty. There’s an afro-Cuban band playing and traditional dancers going at it and it's all very cool. After a quick lunch at an old Spanish house/mansion, it's time for the mar, mar, mar! I do some swimming, some kayaking, attempt some windsurfing, and just generally laze about. It’s quite nice and as always I wish V was here to share it with me. (You think you’re sick of reading about it? Now you know how I felt thinking it every five seconds. Trust me – you’re getting off easy.)

 

Later at night we have a little fiesta that's been arranged for us with the local CDR, or Committee for the Defense of the Revolution. These were formed on September 28, 1960 to put an end to local acts of sabotage or revolt aimed at overthrowing the revolution. They are formed on a block-by-block basis where all party members are a part of it and they monitor the occurrences on their block as well as cooperating in national literacy campaigns, community service programs, and coordination of voting registration and participation. Each one has an executive board of five and each group bands with eight to ten other CDRs in their region to form zones of cooperation. Think neighborhood watch program crossed with village board, only with the power to have you arrested.

 

Our CDR party was thrown by the #80 blah dee blah and it has around 150 members, half of which greeted us in the street for the fiesta. It was mostly old people and little kids as the people our age are either working at hotels in the area or studying at school, they said. So picture it -- tiny, rough cobblestone road, a hundred or so people standing on the sidewalks or in the doorways of the shack-like, one-story houses, music blaring from a lone boombox on the shoulder of the one-lane road, handfuls of people dancing in the street, a feast of ajiaco (the typical Cuban stew that has a little bit of everything -- pork, platanos, potatos, onions, garlic -- and is delicious), cake, fresh fruit and salads, stiff Cuba libres lining the hands of every third person, all this activity whirling by your eyes under a solitary streetlight, the engulfing darkness of the countryside waiting just beyond the stretch of the light. Fantastic.

 

The party was great fun and it was really, really nice of them to have it for us -- they were incredibly gracious. The kids were hilarious, the older folks kind and approachable, the women persistent and aggressive. ("No" was not an acceptable answer -- dancing was required, like it or leave.) It was good to talk to some locals and interact, even if we were getting a somewhat skewed line of bullplop again. It was a weird dance of sincerity and the standards of delusion. One minute all the kids run out of the houses to greet us with miniature Cuban flags and a flower to take home (mine stuck me and drew blood, but I’m assuming that was unintentional. :) and the next you're getting the standard lines about universal health care, education, and the great state of harmony and progress the nation possesses. There was a little formal farewell at the end where the president gave a brief speech, thanking us for traveling so far and being so willing to see Cuba for ourselves rather than believing everything we read back home. Then she asked for a representative from our side to say some parting words and from the back of the crowd I hear, "TIMO!" shouted from one of my new Cuban friends. Thanks, amigo. Appreciate the volunteering... So I say a few words, dazzling the crowd with my charm, intellect, and million dollar smile, and then hop on the bus leaving the women breathless, the men envious, and the children in awe. What can I say? I’m a verbal assassin. Anyhoo, the experience as a whole was really great and we return to the hotel energized, but exhausted. Alright, I’m turning in. Luego…