boomers-on-the-road

Happy Birthday Fidel To Havana today. Though Fidel’s 80th birthday party isn’t until Saturday the military will be locking down the entire city tomorrow at midnight – no one will be able to go in or out. We want to be there a day early just in case. We don’t want to miss it! We three confab over breakfast: Mauricio will find us a ride and we will go to change Euros because the rates are better here than Havana. We have to sit outside the bank on a wooden bench waiting for the guard to let us in, one by one, to sit on another bench. I ask a Cuban fellow if he is el ultimo, the last one in line. “Si.” I carefully memorise his face. It is the custom in Cuba to mark your place in line behind the current el ultimo. Then you can go for a walk or stand to the side and talk with your friends or whatever. As long as you return to the line before your el ultimo is served you can reclaim your place. It’s a very convenient system for a place where the locals spend a lot of time in lines. The guard is playing favorites by allowing locals to jump the queue, but why should they have to spend their lives always waiting for foreigners? Finally he points at us and flicks his fingers toward the glass door. We’re in. We still have time before Mauricio is scheduled to meet us, hopefully with a car. We stroll over to the botanic gardens which turn out to be someone’s back yard. We content ourselves with gazing through a wrought iron fence at the quarter acre of untamed jungle before returning to our casa to wait. Finally Mauricio shows up one hour late. He’s smiling but I can see a bit of stress underneath. “Senores, you were supposed to meet me at the bus terminal. I had to let three cars go.” Our mistake! We didn’t get the message right and thought he was coming back here. He has brought a big yellow taxi, an ageing Lada, and a new friend, a young guy who wants to show us his family’s property. It’s for sale. “Really? I ask. “I thought all real estate was property of the state.” Not this property he assures me. “Do not worry about the property, Senor, it is an excuse for you to visit and meet his family. We can do it quickly. They will be honored, Mauricio reassures me. “Why not!” We enjoy a guided tour of their well-kept pink farmhouse, a grove of fruit trees and a chicken coop, and are generously given a bag of grapefruit before hopping back in our taxi. The budding young realtor sits in back with us. He is talkative and wants to know about the countries we have visited. Most Cubans don’t get to travel much and they dream about faraway places. Our driver, Jilberto, has ginger hair and is about 60. He recalls the days before the revolution as being difficult. “Now I am still poor but I have enough to eat. I have a home, a business. My family is happy and my children are not like me; they have a good education.” Does he like Fidel? “Fidel is a special type of person that comes around only once in a century.” We exit the Autopista and drive through pastoral countryside to Las Terrazas. We pay an entry fee and coast past manicured lawns and forested glades to a sparkling manmade lake. White stucco houses with red tile roofs are tastefully arranged on the opposite hillside. This is the closest to a planned community we’ve seen in Cuba. One of these homes belonged to Polo Montanez, another unsung Cuban musician who, like the world famous Buena Vista Social Club, received recognition in later years when his star exploded throughout Latin America. He received awards, gold records and more for his songs about the simplicity of rural life. He died in a car crash a few years ago and now his home is a museum full of pictures, framed awards, guitars, hats and other memorabilia. His brother, sister and former bass player graciously shake our hands and show us around. We buy a pirated copy of one of his DVDs from them and take their picture. Jilberto drives us up to La Moka Hotel which sprawls elegantly down the slope. Here trees grow through balconies and the birds chirp beautifully, restfully. We reach Havana as the sun descends and soon find the quiet neighborhood where the casas we’d reserved are located across the street from each other. It’s within a short walk of the Plaza de la Revolucion where the birthday festivities will take place. We ring the bell and Dona Oneida welcomes us. She’s bird-like, chirpy and friendly while her husband is smiling and very easygoing. Our bedroom is immaculate and yes, it’s pink but not too pink. After the formalities with our passports, we walk over to Mauricio’s digs which aren’t so immaculate but they’re serviceable. The old woman ushers us in and we are surprised to see a Canadian guy we’d met in Vinales. It takes over an hour to arrange plates of fast food because our first choice has run out of potatoes, the second choice is selling only drinks because the chef left, and number three’s kitchen is somehow broken. Mauricio’s fourth choice is a sad story. The one-eyed chef who had been making gourmet box meals from his home sits and stares sightlessly at the TV. “Diabetes has taken his other eye,” his wife relates. She is so fat she can barely walk. Finally we settle for burgers and roast chicken at the mall. Back at the casa we watch the pre-birthday festivities on TV. People in their thousands are streaming about on the Malecon taking in the glittery performances of entertainers from many of the Latin American countries. It is said that representatives from 80 countries have come to Havana for Fidel’s birthday. Ecuador’s new leftist president has arrived with an entourage of 3,000 leaving behind many thousands more to protest in the streets over his obvious excess with taxpayers’ money in this, the second poorest South American country. Lynda’s painful back has become worse overnight. Not as bad as in Cusco but the pain doesn’t let her bend over easily. Mauricio arrives for breakfast but he’s not his usual happy self. “Senor, Senorita Lynda I have had a bad night. When I returned to my casa after dinner I found that the Canadian was registered with the police and the Senora hadn’t registered me.” “But we’d paid her for last night over a week ago before we’d left for Pinar. She took the number of your passport and visa to give to the police,” I interjected. “I know, Senor. She told me I could stay but I knew I had to find another casa because if the police came to check I would be jailed, and as you know all the neighborhoods near the Plaza de la Revolucion are crawling with police. I have been up all night looking but so far all the casas are full.” He finishes his breakfast. “Now I must go look for a casa. I am sorry I must leave you for a few hours. I will return by noon.” We take a walk and look in the windows of the small shops run in peoples’ living rooms where there’s a few vegetables for sale, clothing, make-up, video tapes. “Let’s go to the bus terminal to see if we can find Vincenzo,” Lynda suggests. Five minutes later we see him waiting beside his car. That’s a good sign. But when we greet him he seems distant and makes an excuse to walk away. A friend of his takes up the conversational slack and we exchange pleasantries. Soon we leave. Maybe Vincenzo is afraid to be seen with us after THE incident. Mauricio returns with good news. He has found a casa, a near miracle considering how many people have come for the event. We three walk the half mile to Old Havana and turn down a side street. Mauricio rings the bell and an orange steel door unlocks to reveal worn marble stairs leading to a dark-haired woman smiling at us from the landing. Erlinda invites us in and offers us cups of tea. While she busies herself in the kitchen, Mauricio shows us around her grand colonial apartment. Around the spacious central lounge room are three bedrooms and a study filled with books. Mauricio’s room overlooks the street. It’s huge! We can see the harbor from the terrace. Marble tiles cover the floors and ornate moldings frame the 20 foot high ceilings. There’s a chandelier wherever one should be. “Come sit and enjoy your tea while it is hot,” Erlinda calls. Tea and fresh bread sit on the round white wrought iron table that’s surrounded by potted and hanging plants. Directly above us a wide skylight completes the feel that we are outside in a small courtyard. Erlinda’s mother and daughter join us. They all look a generation younger than their years. Erlinda is a professor of philosophy at a nearby university. “The job doesn’t pay a lot but I like it very much. I have registered my home as a casa particular to earn enough money to keep it in good condition.” “I am an air traffic controller,” the daughter says in well-spoken English. “I have traveled to Mexico City to work at their airport for experience. We get only about 80 planes a day on our one runway but Mexico City has three runways and has many more landings and takeoffs every day. It is a different world.” “I am 85,” says the grandmother. Later that afternoon we return to our casa for Lynda to do some more Pilates and rest her back for tomorrow. We are not honored guests and will have to do lots of standing. Mauricio is waiting for us in front of our casa at 7am sharp. “Good morning Senor, Senorita Lynda! It’s a beautiful morning but it will be hot later. Let’s go look for a good spot to watch the celebrations. The security is tight and we will not be able to get very close so we must find our spot early to ensure you will get a good view for your cameras.” Walking along a park-lined boulevard towards the Plaza we see people filing out of every side street. Many are dressed in white and red. They’re smiling and talking animatedly. “Fidel comes out today!” I hear a man shout. Children rush about in excited groups; nearly all are in school uniform. Now we’re like a river rushing along the boulevard with overflowing tributaries of humanity joining us at every block. We hurry past a long line of buses, three wide, which brought in people from the other provinces. They had to arrive before Havana was locked down last midnight. Did they sleep in the buses, on the grass? We see a line of guards manning a barricade a block away and the masses flow to the right, up to the marshalling area where the parade will begin. “Let’s go talk to the guards,” Mauricio suggests. “Maybe they can help us find a good spot.” The soldiers are non-committal but a quick inspection tells us that we’ve found our spot. On the left and slightly obscured by a few drooping branches we can see the back of the bleachers which will soon be filled with dignitaries. Slightly to the right the 450 foot tall star-shaped Jose Marti Memorial tower looms over the trees. Beneath this monolith the various luminaries, including Fidel hopefully, will exhort the faithful to stay the course of the revolution. And directly in front of us, 200 or so feet away, is a bridge, an overpass that our street dips under. The entire parade must cross this bridge. It’s a straight shot with nothing to block the view and the bridge is narrower than the avenue on either side of it so they will have to slow down. I take a few scenery shots then change to the telephoto lens. Soon it will be picture-taking time! Cubans and foreigners begin crowding around us, finding suitable spots. There’s an air of excitement “because I think this is an important day three times over,” Mauricio informs us. “This is the fiftieth anniversary of Fidel’s landing back on Cuban shores to start the revolution. It’s the delayed celebration of his 80th birthday (Fidel Ruiz Castro was born on August 13, 1926). And everyone is hoping to see and hear Fidel today for the first time since his operation. I have witnessed previous celebrations,” Mauricio relates, “and often Fidel will talk for hours. Then the marching will begin. The people will march past the grandstand several times then Fidel would join them and lead the march throughout Havana. Many thousands would march with him for hours.” “I don’t think that will happen today,” I respond. “Unfortunately, no. It is a specially Cuban experience that may never happen again.” The microphone comes alive and the dignitaries clap and wave their small Cuban flags in unison. A brief introduction precedes the Cuban National Anthem after which the speeches begin in earnest. How long will this last? An Australian traveler wearing a shirt made of a Cuban flag and with flags affixed to his hat and backpack starts waving his other Cuban flags and shouting for Fidel. A dark glare from one of the soldiers silences him but not his enthusiasm; he keeps waving his flags. Then Raul starts to speak. Fidel’s younger brother and caretaker of the government while Fidel is recuperating, Raul’s voice is less inflective and his style more sonorous than his older brother. But does he have the staying power to speak for hours? Will we have to wait for hours in the heating sun for the parade to begin? The short answer turns out to be ‘no’. Raul is more kindly than Fidel and speaks for less than an hour. Then the show begins with a bang, literally. We plug our ears and enjoy a 21-gun cannonade which fills the air with smoke. Now comes the motorcade of saluting generals standing in jeeps, which sets off another round of flag-waving amongst the dignitaries sitting on the bleachers. It’s time for a rolling review of recent Cuban history. First come horsemen dressed in white colonial uniforms carrying different versions of the Cuban flag. A full-size replica of the motor vessel Grandma follows. It is motorised and mounted on wheels, perfect for a parade if not a cruise on the high seas. Hundreds of school kids surround it. They are in uniform and wave small red, white and blue Cuban flags above their heads. “The flags are meant to represent waves,” Mauricio informs us. Now the revolutionaries of 1956 have landed, or at least their enactors. Dressed in peasant gear or old khaki uniforms and shouldering rifles and the occasional bazooka, they walk past in a random formation looking ragtag and disheveled. As they should. Historically, they have just survived a near shipwreck and are being chased throughout the Sierra Madres by the old dictator Batista’s soldiers. The parade returns to the present with a few more generals in jeeps (applause). Then the military marches past. Led by flag bearers holding their ensign, representatives of various units of the Army and Navy, in their dress whites or khaki best, march past in strict formation. We hear a roar from the right and look up in time to see a formation of helicopter gunships, bristling with missiles, fly impressively overhead. Oohs and aahs escape from the crowd. Here comes the rolling stock. Amphibious armored cars, rocket launchers and personnel carriers precede a wave of light tanks who belch thick white smog that fogs our view and lends a surreal atmosphere to what I’d describe as an all-too-realistic scene. Personnel carriers are followed by truck-mounted rocket launchers and more tanks. Then comes the mobile artillery followed by heavier tanks and truck-mounted radar units. Now come the big boys, the mobile missile launchers some of which take up more than the length of the bridge. And there’s more! A high-pitched rush hits the ears as a formation of jet fighters streaks overhead. Now that’s a rush! The crowd around us cheers. They like a good show. It’s the people’s turn. Led by a line dressed identically in red and white they file past ten to twelve abreast in their tens of thousands waving flags, raising arms, cheering, or just walking. A half hour passes and they’re still coming. I see a few tourists among them. They seem giddy with the excitement but to the Cubans it is simply something civic that you do. The civic-minded march and those less political watch it on TV. Later that evening we will watch it on the news with Dona Oneida and her husband. The crowd will look even larger as the announcers guess the numbers at 500,000. Now it’s been nearly an hour since the people started marching past and their line has thinned out. We three decide to find another vantage but a short walk tells us it is all over. No Fidel. As we wander home through the dispersing multitude I can’t help but notice the different atmosphere. The Cubans are quiet. When they do talk their voices are low and subdued. I think this year’s celebration is a disappointment to them and I wonder how much of the Cuban revolution is based on a cult of personality. Will it outlast Fidel?