We have been here a month already and the first week seems like distant past. The days are rolling by and aimless wanderings have been replaced by the sweaty commute – a one hour stroll through littered Centro Habana , past the looming Capitolio, plunging into Habana Veija with its narrow grey veins skirting quaint plazas and finally arriving in the tranquillity of Santa Clara convent. We spent most of last weekend compiling another presentation and in the end it was postponed for 3 days. Mild irritation at this delay was soon overtaken by the ravenous joy of finding delicious hamburgers on a menu closeby. It’s been a good week for food with the added discovery of an Arabic restaurant that has humus and pita, and the tastiest flan ever made, just down the road. It was sitting there gorging on egg-based puddings that we noticed a man who looks like the guy on the front of the Lonely Planet guide. Pulling the aforementioned book out of my bag we were taken aback in realising that it was indeed he. The situation was quite apparent – some years ago he must have been snapped smoking a cigar and obviously looking utterly Cuban, then chosen as the face of the new edition and since has decided to sit around waiting to be noticed by Lonelyplanet-wielding tourists. He even had a ‘pimp’ with him- a mute woman who presumably hung around with him to get a cut of the earnings. It would have been stupid not to take a photo so of course I did. I wanted him to hold the book over his face, which I knew would be comical, but he decided was slightly degrading. Either way it was a short-lived moment of happy surprise that earnt him some pennies from my pocket. The novelty was crushed the day after, when returning for 2 more puddings we saw him sitting in the same spot. Grrrr. Still, easy way to make a living I suppose.
On Tuesday we were supposed to get a boat across the harbour and then walk into Guanabacoa, with enough time to meet an important man who would tell us some important things. The boat was naturally out of order so we walked for half an hour to a bus stop where no buses stopped and eventually compromised and paid the extortionate fee of 3p to get a brand spanking new Chinese bus with the most comfortable bus seats in the world. We were dropped off somewhere further away from our destination than where we started, and somewhere in the middle of 1991’s Olympic Village. Hunger, sweat, delays and excessive walking makes Jonathan a sour-faced boy, but thankfully I spotted a patisserie before it got out of hand. The mood change was abrupt and I enthusiastically stated “ Quiero muchas senora” – I want lots, senora. I probably bought one of everything and two éclairs. The best was a cinnamon swirl number, which was partially soaked in coffee and caused me to stop and compose myself. ‘Yollum’ then decided it would be best if we just walked the rest of the way instead of waiting for another bus. He didn’t know the way and we had to retrace our steps a fair distance, eventually tramping into town, parched and unenthused. We met a hideous lady with hairy thighs and a dry perm, and she walked us around the main museum in Guanbacoa. As an overview of a town with centuries of rich colonial history the musuem seemed strongly biased towards cult-based doll-worshipping religions. There were several glass cabinets full of dusty displays, ranging from stuffed owls to stunningly embroidered dresses to terrifying manikins with sinister eyes. In another room hung a dozen amazing still life paintings by two local boys aged 12 and 13. They all consisted of fairly imaginative arrangements of inanimate objects – a watermelon holding down a piece of string that is wrapped around a feather, whilst a violin nestles comfortably next to some avocado stones balancing on the edge of a jug. In a few restaurants you see paintings like this and it’s a refreshing change from ‘pizza hut art’ in England – a soft focus macro photo of a tulip, printed onto canvas and then brushed with a transparent paint that when dry gives the tacky illusion that the photo is a one-off painting by a romantic artist. Its best not to dwell on these things though, I don’t want to be a miserable old man yet.
When we want clean clothes we can just give Alice a bag of smelly rags and she brings them back clean, ironed and folded. This is a welcome convenience but the handing-back process is not right. The first day there was a knock at the door and Alice appeared with our clothes - joy, muchas gracias Alice. However, instead of just laying them down and leaving she picked up each item separately, held it in front of her face so her eyes were poking over the top like a bashful Arabian minx, and guessed who’s it was before being told if she was right or not. At first John and me found the clothes game funny and kind of sweet but when you’ve got 10 pairs of boxers and each one is manhandled before being returned you end up feeling a bit exposed. I also noticed my red Converse had gone missing and in the evening Alice waltzed in very please with herself, holding out my trainers, freshly washed and sparkling like new. I didn’t quite know what to say. I don’t like new shoes, and it was very kind of her to clean them but I didn’t think they were dirty, just worn and full of character. Now they are just SO clean, and so pristine. I now hide my other shoes when I go out because if she does that to my favourite trainers I might have to strike her. Yesterday she entered our room and came over all nervous, started giggling and had to hide behind the wall for a few seconds before we discovered she had made orange juice. She’s just mental! For a visual – maybe 5’2”, larger upper body, always a pair of orange or denim shorts and a black vest. Long black curly hair in a ponytail and a rotund face that can only be described as cheeky – one my least favourite adjectives.
When our presentation finally rolled around it was a massive anticlimax. I had spent a couple of hours translating two paragraphs I’d written into Spanish and was pretty proud out the outcome, especially this bit; “Y si eso esta bueno para social interaccion y un sentimiento de la communidad – una superpoblado area ponen un grande presion en los services publicos, especialmente donde una area estaron neglectado”. Yeah! In the end I just recited it without thinking and we had very little feedback on the whole. Everyone was getting involved with a discussion on urban planning and the failings of urban theories by such greats as Corbusier, but I decided to sit back and let it all wash over me and nod convincingly. Yollum looked at me and said “ eh, Yonatan doesn’t say much, si?”. I think I just smiled in agreement which turned out to be a wise choice. Now Yollum considers me to be the silent genius, perhaps. He brought up a Buddhist or Taoist quote – “If you are going to say something, it must be better than silence”. I thought that was quite profound and immediately added Yollum to my Christmas Card list.
