Saturday, July 22, 2006
"Night" by Elie Weisel
Read it today. His first book. Still important today. Especially given the situation in Lebanon.
Just Finished...
"Over the Edge of the World" by Laurence Bergreen. Magellan's circumnavigation of the globe. Good read.
We should never complain about airports and travel delays. Even airline food is better than what those guys ate. And no scurvy!
We should never complain about airports and travel delays. Even airline food is better than what those guys ate. And no scurvy!
Remember This?
From Star Wars, Episode IV: "A New Hope"
This was Tikal, Guatemala.
A minibus picked us up on schedule (surprise!) at the hotel for the ride to the local airport to meet the rest of the day's tour group. Several had flown from Guat City just for the visit to Tikal. All told there were about a dozen of us plus our guide. She was a cute Guatemalan woman with pretty good english skills, although she referred to the skeletal remains as "skeletors." "Skeletor was here?" I asked Mick. SKELETOR was a character he loved when he was a little boy. From Masters of the Universe.
Tikal is set among lush, surrounding jungle. The tops of several temples protrude above the canopy to provide a remarkable setting. The brief Star Wars shot seen above was of the planet "Yavin IV", from which the attack on the first Death Star was launched.
(See how much you learn on this blog?)
We did the usual tourist things, clambering among the ruins, taking as many photos as possible and cracking wise.
Tikal was mysteriously abindoned long before the Spanish arrived, around AD 950. One of our fellow tourists asked me, in all seriousness, if I had heard the "theory" that UFOs had come to take the Mayans away. Haven't heard that one, but then I don't do all that much crack anymore.
Finally we climbed atop Temple IV, the famous Star Wars money shot. It was a stunner.
Even more stunning was the rain we could see approaching from beyond the temple peaks. Several folks climbed back down the steep ladder-like steps to the base. About a dozen, Mick and me among them, remained up top.
As the rain cloud came ever nearer Temple IV we realized it was going to be a soaker, our second in as many days. But, the photo opportunity was too good to resist. So we stood our ground and snapped photos like papparazzi.
There was a small recessed area on top surrounded by scaffolding used for reconstruction. Everyone crowded into the recess, hoping to avoid getting drenched. It didn't work. But, the temperature was warm, the group was in good spirits and the view was unmatched. At one point, one of our group, Eedrick (sic), a British chap working for the United Nations (He had been in Guatemala for two weeks working on a joint UN-US-Central American nations peace-keeping exercise. Venezuela wasn't invited, which helps explain why Hugo Chavez thinks the US is going to invade. Again, I digress...) pulled an umbrella from his backpack to protect his only set of dry clothes. It was a futile gesture, but I said "What a perfectly British thing to do. All you need is a bowler and you'd be complete!" He got a kick out of it and it got Mick to laughing. So it was a win for me.
God Save the Queen!
The rain poured heavily. At one point we couldn't even see the temples. There was a clap of thunder and we suddenly realized we were standing at the highest point in the area, in puddles of water up to our ankles, holding onto steel scaffolding for support. They say God watches over mad dogs and Englishmen. So Eedrick and the rest of us morons were OK.
Eventually the rain slackened. Soon one of our number who had climbed down before the storm hit reappeared to announce the group was waiting for us. Turns out they had spent the entire time miserably huddled in mud under a tree. Too bad. They missed quite a show.
After a late lunch (Pollo of course. To be fair they offered beef too, but most took the chicken.) we buzzed back to Flores. The afternoon was spent trying to dry out our stuff (AGAIN!)and exploring the village. We booked two tickets for the next morning on Maria Elena bus lines to Chiquimula, near the Honduran border ($20 a pop). The ticket seller, whom the San Juan Tour office person called in off the street, said a Tuk-tuk would pick us up at our hotel at 5:40AM for the 6 AM bus. It seemed too easy, but later the desk clerk at the hotel told me that was how it worked. I tell ya, travel in developing countries is WAY more interesting than in the First World.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Hassan Cobs puts his two cents in...
They couldn't handle Jason's name down South of the Border. This was his take on my dream sequence.
Put this on your must read list.
Put this on your must read list.
Another Central American Travel Day
Mick and I decided to head onward to Tikal, Guatemala. After a leisurely breakfast in Caye Caulker (leisurely for the mosquitos), we boarded the ferry back to Belize City.
The boat was an open affair with maybe 35 folks aboard. As we left Caulker I could see waves breaking over the barrier reef. This reef consists of the second longest barrier reef system in the world, second only to Australia's. It is also a UNESCO World Heritage site. Was I close enough to "collect" it? Jason says no, since he actually dove it a few days later.
OK, fine. But, after watching a show about the North Korean/South Korean border I'm claiming North Korea. I was in Panmunjan in 1976. As part of the tour we entered the building where negotiations take place. North of mid-point of the table is technically in North Korea. I'm saying the ruling lies outside the "law" against airport visits.
But I digres...
As we were blowing on toward Belize City a thundersquall blew up. Since we were all sitting out in the open it looked like we were going to be soaked, if not fried. The crew of the boat quickly broke out tarps for the passengers. It was a futile effort. But whay a wild ride! Lightning and pelting rain crashed down around and upon us through windblown waves. Highly recommended. Better than Disney.
The two hour wait for the bus gave us the chance to dry out our stuff. Fortunately, we were booked on a direct bus to Sta. Elena, Flores in Guatemala, the nearest town to Tikal. The bus wasn't bad. There seemed to be quite a few evangelicals aboard, notable for the women's conservative dress. Each woman's hair was covered with a kind of napkin folded and pinned in exactly the same way. I always wonder where the rules for that sort of thing come from. You know, starched habits, non-patent leather shoes,head coverings. That sort of thing. Who makes those up?
The conquistadors may have established Catholicism as the dominant replacement religion, the protestant evangelicals are giving a good run at conversion. Seventh Day Adventists, Church of Christ and several others have been hard at it. Saving souls with promise of the afterlife payoff. It must be a good sell, because the average Centroamericano sure ain't gettin' it down here.
Crossing the border into Guatemala was simpler than Belize. One building held the customs offices for both countries. One immediately noticeable difference was the money changers. They swarm the bus the instant it pulls to a halt. The rate of exchange stinks, but at least you can get rid of the previous country's now worthless scrip. We should really go to a Euro-type currency throughout the Americas. Everyone takes greenbacks anyway. It would make it much simpler. Greece gave up the Drachma, the oldest existing currency in world history, when the Euro came in. I can't imagine there would be much resistance to replacing all the various Colones, Dolares, Pesos, Quetzales and whatnot.
I came to enjoy the border crossing immensely. Much more interesting than the mindless lines in airports. Inner dialogue, don't you know.
We hit Sta. Elena bus station around 8 PM. It may be summer with long days up north, but nearer the Equator it gets dark around 6 or 7. So we were in the dark as to which way to go, figuratively and literally. But, soon we were oriented and heading to the little island city of Flores. Mick was grousing about the seemingly dodgy neighborhood, but no one paid us much mind.
Flores sits on a small half mile squared island in Lake Peten. In Mayan times the Itza had an established village there. Today it is mostly restaurants, bars, hostels and souvenir shops. A 400 meter causeway connects Flores to the mainland. As we started onto the causeway Mick noticed a nice lookinghotel off to our left.
The Peten Esplendido was indeed very nice. And due to my near total lack of Spanish I thought the clerk quoted a price of $50 a night for a two night stay. A nice two night stay in a double with A/C, private bath, swimming pool (which we never got around to using) and cable TV seemed like a good deal. And it would have been a good deal. But, it turned out it was $100 a night. Ouch! Hadn't planned on that. Fortunately, and unlike Cuba, plastic works it's magic in this part of the world (This would be huge later on).
After booking a tour of Tikal for the next morning we hit the local ATM and scouted Flores. New currencies always ppush the limits of my math skills. It took three withdrawals of Guatemalan Quetzales until I had enough for the next day's festivities.
The boat was an open affair with maybe 35 folks aboard. As we left Caulker I could see waves breaking over the barrier reef. This reef consists of the second longest barrier reef system in the world, second only to Australia's. It is also a UNESCO World Heritage site. Was I close enough to "collect" it? Jason says no, since he actually dove it a few days later.
OK, fine. But, after watching a show about the North Korean/South Korean border I'm claiming North Korea. I was in Panmunjan in 1976. As part of the tour we entered the building where negotiations take place. North of mid-point of the table is technically in North Korea. I'm saying the ruling lies outside the "law" against airport visits.
But I digres...
As we were blowing on toward Belize City a thundersquall blew up. Since we were all sitting out in the open it looked like we were going to be soaked, if not fried. The crew of the boat quickly broke out tarps for the passengers. It was a futile effort. But whay a wild ride! Lightning and pelting rain crashed down around and upon us through windblown waves. Highly recommended. Better than Disney.
The two hour wait for the bus gave us the chance to dry out our stuff. Fortunately, we were booked on a direct bus to Sta. Elena, Flores in Guatemala, the nearest town to Tikal. The bus wasn't bad. There seemed to be quite a few evangelicals aboard, notable for the women's conservative dress. Each woman's hair was covered with a kind of napkin folded and pinned in exactly the same way. I always wonder where the rules for that sort of thing come from. You know, starched habits, non-patent leather shoes,head coverings. That sort of thing. Who makes those up?
The conquistadors may have established Catholicism as the dominant replacement religion, the protestant evangelicals are giving a good run at conversion. Seventh Day Adventists, Church of Christ and several others have been hard at it. Saving souls with promise of the afterlife payoff. It must be a good sell, because the average Centroamericano sure ain't gettin' it down here.
Crossing the border into Guatemala was simpler than Belize. One building held the customs offices for both countries. One immediately noticeable difference was the money changers. They swarm the bus the instant it pulls to a halt. The rate of exchange stinks, but at least you can get rid of the previous country's now worthless scrip. We should really go to a Euro-type currency throughout the Americas. Everyone takes greenbacks anyway. It would make it much simpler. Greece gave up the Drachma, the oldest existing currency in world history, when the Euro came in. I can't imagine there would be much resistance to replacing all the various Colones, Dolares, Pesos, Quetzales and whatnot.
I came to enjoy the border crossing immensely. Much more interesting than the mindless lines in airports. Inner dialogue, don't you know.
We hit Sta. Elena bus station around 8 PM. It may be summer with long days up north, but nearer the Equator it gets dark around 6 or 7. So we were in the dark as to which way to go, figuratively and literally. But, soon we were oriented and heading to the little island city of Flores. Mick was grousing about the seemingly dodgy neighborhood, but no one paid us much mind.
Flores sits on a small half mile squared island in Lake Peten. In Mayan times the Itza had an established village there. Today it is mostly restaurants, bars, hostels and souvenir shops. A 400 meter causeway connects Flores to the mainland. As we started onto the causeway Mick noticed a nice lookinghotel off to our left.
The Peten Esplendido was indeed very nice. And due to my near total lack of Spanish I thought the clerk quoted a price of $50 a night for a two night stay. A nice two night stay in a double with A/C, private bath, swimming pool (which we never got around to using) and cable TV seemed like a good deal. And it would have been a good deal. But, it turned out it was $100 a night. Ouch! Hadn't planned on that. Fortunately, and unlike Cuba, plastic works it's magic in this part of the world (This would be huge later on).
After booking a tour of Tikal for the next morning we hit the local ATM and scouted Flores. New currencies always ppush the limits of my math skills. It took three withdrawals of Guatemalan Quetzales until I had enough for the next day's festivities.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
I Saw This on Google News
The prestigious Pew Internet & American Life Project has just finished a look at bloggers: who they are, what they do, and whether or not they do it in their pajamas. (Not so much on the PJs, it turns out.)
The results are not just surprising, but hopeful. For one thing, you might want to cancel the caterer for the funeral for the death of the American newspaper. The study found that 85 percent of bloggers "read newspapers'' (Not me)and half of that group does so "on a typical day.'' Just to add to their interest in current events, nine out of ten watch the news on television (Yep).
That's significant because the Pew survey estimates that there are some 12 million bloggers in the US and they are being read by 39 percent of the population, or 57 million readers. And, the Pew study indicates, the numbers are growing.
We could do a whole riff on how this is an alarming trend for the news business and how the bloggers are short circuiting the traditional channels of objective journalism except for one thing. It doesn't seem to be true.
They are reading the papers, although in a lot of cases they are doing so on the internet. They are young (54 percent under 30)(Ouch!), racially diverse (60 percent white, 19 percent Hispanic, and 11 percent African American.) Over half of them, 57 percent, say they have never published anywhere before (I'm trying).
Now what's wrong with that? This sounds like a motivated, interested, and engaged group that is eager to find new information. Isn't that exactly what we'd hoped for the younger generation (Even my older generation)?
Oh and all those laments about how nobody under 30 cares about what's going on with the leadership of the country? Not so much. Fully 72 percent say they "look on-line for news or info about politics.''
Now, as we know, not many of them vote. That's a bad thing. But as someone who has used an absentee ballot for several years, it only points to the need to find a way to make voting easy, simple, and as convenient as finding a YouTube video. Why isn't there a way to vote on line?
Are there security concerns about voting on a wireless connection from a Starbucks? Sure. Do I know anything about how to make it safe and tamper-proof? Not a thing. But I am sure some very smart people can figure this out. If we can handle our bank accounts from an internet connection, surely there is a way to vote. Don't you think this would encourage this generation to become involved in the process?
Because it isn't as if they aren't interested. Some 61 percent told the survey that they blog to "motivate people to action.'' That's a good thing, even if it is just to motivate cats to action. Almost the same number say they write "to entertain.''
Also good. Nobody wants to read a dull, fact-filled treatise on global warming. There's nothing wrong with making it enjoyable to read. That's another lesson newspapers might want to keep in mind when they think of their new audience. Interesting and informative is good. The days of treating news like broccoli -- this is good for you, now have some -- is headed the way of a dial-up Internet connection.
Oh and by the way, that stock in that PDA company? The one that makes the personal assistant to track your schedule, keep your phone numbers, and store information? This might be a good time to sell that.
The blogger-people are big on Instant Messaging (84 percent)(Yes) on cell phones (89 percent used one in the previous month)(Yes), digital cameras (also 80 percent)(YES YES YES!), and cell phone text messages (55 percent.) Fifty-six percent of them used a laptop computer with a wireless connection (Yes)and nearly half, 47 percent, have an iPod (Yes)or MP3 player.
PDAs? Only 28 percent (Nope). I'm no expert, but I'd bet on a Blackberry rather than a Palm Pilot.
And finally, the majority of the blog people say they are really most interested in one thing -- expressing themselves creatively (D'ya think?). In fact, hardly any of them, only seven percent, say they are doing it to make money (You can make money with this?).
Speaking as a blogger, I would only make one comment in that regard.
They got that right.
Good article...
The results are not just surprising, but hopeful. For one thing, you might want to cancel the caterer for the funeral for the death of the American newspaper. The study found that 85 percent of bloggers "read newspapers'' (Not me)and half of that group does so "on a typical day.'' Just to add to their interest in current events, nine out of ten watch the news on television (Yep).
That's significant because the Pew survey estimates that there are some 12 million bloggers in the US and they are being read by 39 percent of the population, or 57 million readers. And, the Pew study indicates, the numbers are growing.
We could do a whole riff on how this is an alarming trend for the news business and how the bloggers are short circuiting the traditional channels of objective journalism except for one thing. It doesn't seem to be true.
They are reading the papers, although in a lot of cases they are doing so on the internet. They are young (54 percent under 30)(Ouch!), racially diverse (60 percent white, 19 percent Hispanic, and 11 percent African American.) Over half of them, 57 percent, say they have never published anywhere before (I'm trying).
Now what's wrong with that? This sounds like a motivated, interested, and engaged group that is eager to find new information. Isn't that exactly what we'd hoped for the younger generation (Even my older generation)?
Oh and all those laments about how nobody under 30 cares about what's going on with the leadership of the country? Not so much. Fully 72 percent say they "look on-line for news or info about politics.''
Now, as we know, not many of them vote. That's a bad thing. But as someone who has used an absentee ballot for several years, it only points to the need to find a way to make voting easy, simple, and as convenient as finding a YouTube video. Why isn't there a way to vote on line?
Are there security concerns about voting on a wireless connection from a Starbucks? Sure. Do I know anything about how to make it safe and tamper-proof? Not a thing. But I am sure some very smart people can figure this out. If we can handle our bank accounts from an internet connection, surely there is a way to vote. Don't you think this would encourage this generation to become involved in the process?
Because it isn't as if they aren't interested. Some 61 percent told the survey that they blog to "motivate people to action.'' That's a good thing, even if it is just to motivate cats to action. Almost the same number say they write "to entertain.''
Also good. Nobody wants to read a dull, fact-filled treatise on global warming. There's nothing wrong with making it enjoyable to read. That's another lesson newspapers might want to keep in mind when they think of their new audience. Interesting and informative is good. The days of treating news like broccoli -- this is good for you, now have some -- is headed the way of a dial-up Internet connection.
Oh and by the way, that stock in that PDA company? The one that makes the personal assistant to track your schedule, keep your phone numbers, and store information? This might be a good time to sell that.
The blogger-people are big on Instant Messaging (84 percent)(Yes) on cell phones (89 percent used one in the previous month)(Yes), digital cameras (also 80 percent)(YES YES YES!), and cell phone text messages (55 percent.) Fifty-six percent of them used a laptop computer with a wireless connection (Yes)and nearly half, 47 percent, have an iPod (Yes)or MP3 player.
PDAs? Only 28 percent (Nope). I'm no expert, but I'd bet on a Blackberry rather than a Palm Pilot.
And finally, the majority of the blog people say they are really most interested in one thing -- expressing themselves creatively (D'ya think?). In fact, hardly any of them, only seven percent, say they are doing it to make money (You can make money with this?).
Speaking as a blogger, I would only make one comment in that regard.
They got that right.
Good article...
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Belize City to Caye Caulker
The staff at the Embassy were friendly evangelical types. Religious tracts were prominent in the office. They even had a chapel off the office. Mick and the proprietors were on a first name basis.
We slept late and dicked around most of the morning deciding what to do. Yesterday was a hard push day. Jason and I needed some decompression time. After hitting a nearby internet cafe the group elected to grab a cab into town to scope the Caye (Kee) Caulker ferry schedule. We should have just checked out and gone, but we were idiots. The lessons learned earlt though would serve us well later in the trip.
We hopped into an airport cab. The guy quoted a USD $25 fee for the five minute ride. We were out of the cab before he finished the sentence. "But that's the standard price," he said. And indeed there was an official sign quoting the $25 fee. Well, this was not New York City and BS is BS no matter where you are. There had to be a cheaper way. There was. Sort of.
The Embassy's owner told us to wait a few minutes and he'd take us out to a taxi stand on a nearby highway. "Shouldn't cost you more than a dollar," he promised. We felt much better.
Meanwhile into the office comes a guy who was taking his friend into town. "You guys need a ride?" Oh yeah, free ride! This just keeps getting better.
So we get to downtown Belize City and Jason offers him ten Belize Dollars (About $US)
for his troubles. "Ten bucks!?," he exclaimed. "I need at least 20." So much for THAT good Samaritan.
We grabbed lunch and hopped the ferry for the 30 minute ride to Caye Caulker.
We spent a night there enjoying the World Cup and the ambiance. The one word that best describes Caye Caulker is laid back. The Rasta ethic is overwhelming and it didn't take long to get tired of that. I don't care for Reggae. It's like Reggaetone. They only have one song and just change the words a little.
Jason decided to stay behind a few days. On the ferry over he ran into one of his old friends whose sister lived on Caulker. We planned to hook back up in San Pedro Sula, Honduras in a few days. Mick and I were off to see the Mayan cities of Tikal and Copan.
One thing I was finding out, the road was always calling.
We slept late and dicked around most of the morning deciding what to do. Yesterday was a hard push day. Jason and I needed some decompression time. After hitting a nearby internet cafe the group elected to grab a cab into town to scope the Caye (Kee) Caulker ferry schedule. We should have just checked out and gone, but we were idiots. The lessons learned earlt though would serve us well later in the trip.
We hopped into an airport cab. The guy quoted a USD $25 fee for the five minute ride. We were out of the cab before he finished the sentence. "But that's the standard price," he said. And indeed there was an official sign quoting the $25 fee. Well, this was not New York City and BS is BS no matter where you are. There had to be a cheaper way. There was. Sort of.
The Embassy's owner told us to wait a few minutes and he'd take us out to a taxi stand on a nearby highway. "Shouldn't cost you more than a dollar," he promised. We felt much better.
Meanwhile into the office comes a guy who was taking his friend into town. "You guys need a ride?" Oh yeah, free ride! This just keeps getting better.
So we get to downtown Belize City and Jason offers him ten Belize Dollars (About $US)
for his troubles. "Ten bucks!?," he exclaimed. "I need at least 20." So much for THAT good Samaritan.
We grabbed lunch and hopped the ferry for the 30 minute ride to Caye Caulker.
We spent a night there enjoying the World Cup and the ambiance. The one word that best describes Caye Caulker is laid back. The Rasta ethic is overwhelming and it didn't take long to get tired of that. I don't care for Reggae. It's like Reggaetone. They only have one song and just change the words a little.
Jason decided to stay behind a few days. On the ferry over he ran into one of his old friends whose sister lived on Caulker. We planned to hook back up in San Pedro Sula, Honduras in a few days. Mick and I were off to see the Mayan cities of Tikal and Copan.
One thing I was finding out, the road was always calling.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Mad Dash to Belize
We were to meet Mick in Belize City on the 20th. He booked a hotel at the airport. The plan was for him to wait for us. I figured we would be there by 4:00 PM.
Wrong.
From the Cancun airport (after a "dream-like flight" from Cuba) we grabbed an ADO-line bus to Playa del Carmen, Mexico. We needed to get to Chetumal, Mex. to catch the bus to Belize as quickly as possible. It was already after 2PM.
ADO Bus station in Playa del Carmen
The ride to Playa del Carmen took two hours. Luckily we grabbed another ADO first class bus on to Chetumal, a four hour ride. It even had movies. One was the remake of "The Longest Yard." Don't remember the other.
Arrived in Chetumal, Mx around 8:30PM. That's when it got interesting. The last bus from Chetumal to Belize City had left at 6 PM. The next one ran at 5 AM. This was looking bad. Mick would be wondering where I was and what should he do. We had never planned for that What if... But it seemed a night in Chetumal was a possibility. We checked out a couple hotels in the Lonely Planet, which by now was becoming a better guide to life than the Bible. I hit the ATM for $100.
I suggested we check outside the bus terminal for a taxi. Maybe some enterprising cabbie would be willing to make his week.
There was a cabbie who offered us the "helpful" information that the 9PM bus to Belize was available at a different terminal about a mile away. It was now 9:07. Even in Central America there was no chance to dash to the station.
BUT, if we hurried to the border we could possibly catch up to the bus before it had cleared all the passengers out of Mexico and into Belize! Hope springs eternal. Especially for those with no hope.
About this time a young lady with who I figured to be her six year old son appeared. They too were trying for Belize. The fact that she was "muy caliente" was instrumental in our offering to split the cab with her. Let's just say she sported an aft deck of stellar proportions. In a word she was "shipshape." The cabbie quoted 70 pesos (@$5) and we were off.
It turned out she was a Uruguayan native. We never figured out where she was ultimately headed. Her lack of proper papers held her up at Mexican customs. In a fit of largesse when we reached the border I offered the cabbie 100 pesos and told her the ride was on us. The cabbie then says, "No. Seventy pesos each." For once in my life I didn't fold. I told her to go and walked away. There was nothing he could do. As an American I'm used to paying a "Skin Tax" wherever I go. It's OK. We're wealthier and a dollar in the hands of someone in a developing country means more to them than to me. But he was trying to screw with her. That went beyond the pale in my book.
So, we were at the border. Seemingly. The situation was unclear. Jason and I blew through the Mexican office no sweat. We walked on. After crossing a little bridge
we figured we were in Belize.
We were not. There were a couple casinos with several cars parked outside. We tried hitching a ride from several passing cars. No dice. I approached a bevy of cabbies loitering in front of one of the casinos to see if a ride to Belize City was possible.
"Well, that guy over there might be able to take you." This dude with an old Mercedes allowed as how he could do it for $150 (a princely sum), but we'd have to wait at least 20 minutes because he had a fare back into Chetumal. A hundred and fifty beans was pretty steep, but we were running low on options. If we were there when he returned we would talk it over. Belize cCity was a good 100 miles away and I was worried about Mick.
So along about now here comes this Rasta cat on his bicycle. I think he lived in the free zone between Mexico and Belize. He told us to follow him down the road to the ACTUAL border crossing into Belize. With nothing better to do we followed. Along the way he's giving us the usual native-to-tourist BS (Am I starting to sound like Paul Thoroux here?).
"My brother-in-law will give you de ride, Mon. Jus' call me." Along with this line came the promising information that plenty of taxis and buses were available "jus over de border." Of course, it turned out there was no such thing. But, we were yet to learn that. In fact, that was the first of a valuable lesson you'd think I'd know by now. To wit: When asking the locals for directions, time schedules, costs or any other information, the likelihood of said information being anywhere near correct is almost nil. I recall going to the Taj Mahal in Agra, India last year. We were pressed for time and asked several locals what the hours of operation were. "It's open 24 hours a day." "They close at five." They're open until ten." None were correct.
But, I digress.
The Belizean customs building appeared and we dropped the Bob Marley disciple in his nether zone. He was the first Belizean I came to refer to as "Jive-ass, Dreads-wearing, Jar Jar Binks yapping, Rasta Mon scam artist. But, he meant well.
So...Belize customs. A large, well-lit, basically empty warehouse. At the far end sat a bored official. He looked at our passports and announced we needed the Exit Tax Stamp. We were to go back out the way we had entered and go to a neighboring building. There actually was a neighboring building. There was also absolutely NO WAY to enter said building. It was surrounded by a fence with no gate. It appeared locked up anyway.
I was getting antsy. So back we go to the first building. Lo and behold, there sat the customs tax guy. He must have been in the crapper. Fifteen clams and two minutes later we were in.
Now what? There were no taxis. No buses. Just a couple private cars waiting for people.
And this is where we caught the big break of the night. A lady was waiting on her friend who was returning from the US. She had a small car, but figured she could cram us in for the ride to her home in Orange Walk, Belize, halfway from the border to Belize. Maybe we could catch a cab there.
An hour later we were in Orange Walk. It was only about 10PM since we had gained an hour crossing the border. But the place was like Mayberry. Locked up tight. Not a cab in sight.
Rose, as her name turned out, took us to her home. Her husband, Clarence, was on the couch watching the Miami Heat clinch the NBA title (like I cared). Darned if Rose doesn't talk Clarence off the couch to take us to Belize City.
While he was getting ready she showed us some artifacts she had collected.
They were very nice. Jason thought she might have been hinting at us to buy some. I didn't catch that. But, Mick (a budding Archeologist) says we shouldn't buy relics, because the market it creates leads to the destruction of ancient sites. Once the artifacts are removed they lose relevance, because they can't be documented. So much for all those arrowheads I had a a kid, of which I have no idea what happened to them.
I didn't have much cash and I thought they looked a little too perfect anyway. Read "Blink" by Malcolm Gladwell.
Again...I digress.
A few minutes later we were moving again. We arrived at the Belize City airport about 45 minutes later. Mick was supposed to be at the Embassy Hotel (not Embassy Suites). Nothing about the place made you think "Five or Four or Three Stars."
So we go to the office door. It's locked. Locked!? That's just great! We've KILLED ourselves all day to finally reach our destination and the place is closed. There was a note on the door with a phone number to call. Who had a phone? There was a door bell. So in frustration I started ringing the bell. Nothing was happening.
Suddenly Rose says "I see someone coming." The door opens and, happy day, it's Mick! Touchdown!
The perfect end to a perfect day.
(I was so happy I paid Rose and Clarence the ninety dollars I had left. Like Mastercard some things are priceless.)
Wrong.
From the Cancun airport (after a "dream-like flight" from Cuba) we grabbed an ADO-line bus to Playa del Carmen, Mexico. We needed to get to Chetumal, Mex. to catch the bus to Belize as quickly as possible. It was already after 2PM.
ADO Bus station in Playa del Carmen
The ride to Playa del Carmen took two hours. Luckily we grabbed another ADO first class bus on to Chetumal, a four hour ride. It even had movies. One was the remake of "The Longest Yard." Don't remember the other.
Arrived in Chetumal, Mx around 8:30PM. That's when it got interesting. The last bus from Chetumal to Belize City had left at 6 PM. The next one ran at 5 AM. This was looking bad. Mick would be wondering where I was and what should he do. We had never planned for that What if... But it seemed a night in Chetumal was a possibility. We checked out a couple hotels in the Lonely Planet, which by now was becoming a better guide to life than the Bible. I hit the ATM for $100.
I suggested we check outside the bus terminal for a taxi. Maybe some enterprising cabbie would be willing to make his week.
There was a cabbie who offered us the "helpful" information that the 9PM bus to Belize was available at a different terminal about a mile away. It was now 9:07. Even in Central America there was no chance to dash to the station.
BUT, if we hurried to the border we could possibly catch up to the bus before it had cleared all the passengers out of Mexico and into Belize! Hope springs eternal. Especially for those with no hope.
About this time a young lady with who I figured to be her six year old son appeared. They too were trying for Belize. The fact that she was "muy caliente" was instrumental in our offering to split the cab with her. Let's just say she sported an aft deck of stellar proportions. In a word she was "shipshape." The cabbie quoted 70 pesos (@$5) and we were off.
It turned out she was a Uruguayan native. We never figured out where she was ultimately headed. Her lack of proper papers held her up at Mexican customs. In a fit of largesse when we reached the border I offered the cabbie 100 pesos and told her the ride was on us. The cabbie then says, "No. Seventy pesos each." For once in my life I didn't fold. I told her to go and walked away. There was nothing he could do. As an American I'm used to paying a "Skin Tax" wherever I go. It's OK. We're wealthier and a dollar in the hands of someone in a developing country means more to them than to me. But he was trying to screw with her. That went beyond the pale in my book.
So, we were at the border. Seemingly. The situation was unclear. Jason and I blew through the Mexican office no sweat. We walked on. After crossing a little bridge
we figured we were in Belize.
We were not. There were a couple casinos with several cars parked outside. We tried hitching a ride from several passing cars. No dice. I approached a bevy of cabbies loitering in front of one of the casinos to see if a ride to Belize City was possible.
"Well, that guy over there might be able to take you." This dude with an old Mercedes allowed as how he could do it for $150 (a princely sum), but we'd have to wait at least 20 minutes because he had a fare back into Chetumal. A hundred and fifty beans was pretty steep, but we were running low on options. If we were there when he returned we would talk it over. Belize cCity was a good 100 miles away and I was worried about Mick.
So along about now here comes this Rasta cat on his bicycle. I think he lived in the free zone between Mexico and Belize. He told us to follow him down the road to the ACTUAL border crossing into Belize. With nothing better to do we followed. Along the way he's giving us the usual native-to-tourist BS (Am I starting to sound like Paul Thoroux here?).
"My brother-in-law will give you de ride, Mon. Jus' call me." Along with this line came the promising information that plenty of taxis and buses were available "jus over de border." Of course, it turned out there was no such thing. But, we were yet to learn that. In fact, that was the first of a valuable lesson you'd think I'd know by now. To wit: When asking the locals for directions, time schedules, costs or any other information, the likelihood of said information being anywhere near correct is almost nil. I recall going to the Taj Mahal in Agra, India last year. We were pressed for time and asked several locals what the hours of operation were. "It's open 24 hours a day." "They close at five." They're open until ten." None were correct.
But, I digress.
The Belizean customs building appeared and we dropped the Bob Marley disciple in his nether zone. He was the first Belizean I came to refer to as "Jive-ass, Dreads-wearing, Jar Jar Binks yapping, Rasta Mon scam artist. But, he meant well.
So...Belize customs. A large, well-lit, basically empty warehouse. At the far end sat a bored official. He looked at our passports and announced we needed the Exit Tax Stamp. We were to go back out the way we had entered and go to a neighboring building. There actually was a neighboring building. There was also absolutely NO WAY to enter said building. It was surrounded by a fence with no gate. It appeared locked up anyway.
I was getting antsy. So back we go to the first building. Lo and behold, there sat the customs tax guy. He must have been in the crapper. Fifteen clams and two minutes later we were in.
Now what? There were no taxis. No buses. Just a couple private cars waiting for people.
And this is where we caught the big break of the night. A lady was waiting on her friend who was returning from the US. She had a small car, but figured she could cram us in for the ride to her home in Orange Walk, Belize, halfway from the border to Belize. Maybe we could catch a cab there.
An hour later we were in Orange Walk. It was only about 10PM since we had gained an hour crossing the border. But the place was like Mayberry. Locked up tight. Not a cab in sight.
Rose, as her name turned out, took us to her home. Her husband, Clarence, was on the couch watching the Miami Heat clinch the NBA title (like I cared). Darned if Rose doesn't talk Clarence off the couch to take us to Belize City.
While he was getting ready she showed us some artifacts she had collected.
They were very nice. Jason thought she might have been hinting at us to buy some. I didn't catch that. But, Mick (a budding Archeologist) says we shouldn't buy relics, because the market it creates leads to the destruction of ancient sites. Once the artifacts are removed they lose relevance, because they can't be documented. So much for all those arrowheads I had a a kid, of which I have no idea what happened to them.
I didn't have much cash and I thought they looked a little too perfect anyway. Read "Blink" by Malcolm Gladwell.
Again...I digress.
A few minutes later we were moving again. We arrived at the Belize City airport about 45 minutes later. Mick was supposed to be at the Embassy Hotel (not Embassy Suites). Nothing about the place made you think "Five or Four or Three Stars."
So we go to the office door. It's locked. Locked!? That's just great! We've KILLED ourselves all day to finally reach our destination and the place is closed. There was a note on the door with a phone number to call. Who had a phone? There was a door bell. So in frustration I started ringing the bell. Nothing was happening.
Suddenly Rose says "I see someone coming." The door opens and, happy day, it's Mick! Touchdown!
The perfect end to a perfect day.
(I was so happy I paid Rose and Clarence the ninety dollars I had left. Like Mastercard some things are priceless.)
Sunday, July 16, 2006
I Had A Dream...
Standing on the glistening sands of a Cancun beach, I looked out to sea. Castro's Cuba stood seemingly just over the horizon. After 46 years, through nine American presidencies, a war in Vietnam and two in Iraq, a near-nuclear conflict with the Soviets (by way of Cuba) and the fall of the Soviets this island nation stands as an anachronistic paean to old-style communism. A so-called Worker's Paradise.
But, alas, due to the constant pandering for votes to the Miami-based exile community Cuba remains off-limits to American citizens. The US has a long-term embargo against trading with this enemy. The Cubano ex-pats, from the initial wave of escapees when Fidel came to power, were wealthy former landowners under the US-backed regime of Fulgencia Batista, a right wing dictator put in office by the CIA. When Fidel nationalized the banks, sugar plantations and any other worthwhile assets, the owners were out and the "people" were in. So they flooded south Florida. They became citizens and used their wealth and growing influence to oppose anything Fidel. Thus the trade embargo. It is a felony for an American citizen to go to a country 90 miles from Key West. Technically, as I understand it, we can GO there.. We just can't spend any money there.
So a trip to Cuba would have to remain a dream.
I laid down on the beach for some sun. The roar of the waves lulled me to sleep, dreams of Cuba in my head.
Suddenly, in my dreamlike state, I was aboard a Cubano Airlines Soviet era YAK-42 approaching Havana. The plane was comfortable enough, albeit a little crowded.
Upon landing it took almost two hours for the passengers to claim their luggage, our first taste of Communist efficiency. Surprisingly the airport (Jose Marti International) was fairly modern. Much better than the shacks in Jeddah or Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.
Driving from the airport I felt we could have been in any other Central American country, including parts of Puerto Rico, except for the billboards extolling the virtues La Revolucion.
Sure, there were the old 50's era cars. But also some Euro models, including lots of old Soviet Ladas. (Remember one of early blogposts from Bulgaria? I waxed poetic on those pieces of crap.) The might have even been a rare BMW.
Soon we were driving down the Malecon, reminiscent of the Corniche of Alexandria, Egypt or Marine Drive (The Queen's Necklace) in Mumbai, India. The skeletal remains of Viejo Habana recalled the long lost glory that pre-dated Fidel, Che and the Revolution. It was one of the most impressive "City First Impressions" I have encountered.
Soon we were esconced in the Plaza Hotel. High ceilinged, air conditioned, cable TV and with bathroom with windows looking down on the city. This was a place for foreign tourists. Security was tight. We would be ID'd each time before we hit the door and as we approached the elevators.
That evening we headed out for something to eat. Electricity is at a premium in Cuba. The streets were dark. But, police presence is constant (They don't want to risk tourists getting mugged. Bad for business. They may be Commies, but dinero es dinero.) We came to a little salsa joint, "Bar Monseratte." A live band had the joint jumpin'. I'd say half the patrons were locals, the rest turistos. Jason (Disturbingly he showed up in the dream) bet the band would play "Guantanamera" within 15 minutes. He thinks just because he speaks a little Spanish he's an expert on all things Latino. I'm happy to report he was dead wrong. It was 23 minutes.
After finding out the American dollar was no longer coveted in Cuba I cashed in the last of the 65 Euros I had purchased when I was in Egypt (Funny the things that come up in dreams). Turns out they preferred Canadian bucks. And I had just been in Montreal. If only I had known.
We ate pizza and drank Bucanero Fuerte until last call, 11:30PM. We were out by 12:30.
You know how in a dream sometimes you are suddenly transported to a completely different place? Well, that's what happened next. Below are some of the sights we dreamt about along the way:
The next morning we were on a bus bound for Valle de Vinales, a UNESCO World Heritage site about three hours west of Havana.
Parque Nacional Vinales (pronounced Vin Yal' Ez) is a fertile plain of several valleys separated by pincushion or haystack hills called mogotes (Mo Go' Tays). The whole area was once several hundred meters higher in elevation. About a bazillion years ago a network of underground rivers ate away the limestone bedrock underneath creating massive caverns. Eventually the caverns gave way leaving the eroded walls seen today.
The area is developing as a Mecca for rock climbers. It has been written up in the New York Times as such.
In fact we stayed in a "Casa Particulare" which was owned by a man who is developing climbing in the area.
Casa Particulares are basically spare rooms in private homes. Ours was a single room with a private bath and two beds, 20 pesos. It's a little taste of capitalism for Cubans. I think they like the taste. When we reached the village of Vinales our bus was met by throngs of locals hawking their rooms.
After checking in we decided a hike was in order. Jason found mention of a five mile trail just outside of town. It took us about a half hour to find the trailhead and two more minutes to lose the trail, never to see it again. Sort of.
We followed a rutted, sandy road (thinking it was the trail) until we came to a cemetary above the village. That's when we knew for certain we'd missed the trail.
But, that didn't stop us. Scouring the trusty Lonely Planet Guide we spied a hiking trail located north of town. Off we went Walking along the road leading to the trail we passed a house with two blonde, blue eyed kids, a boy and a girl, playing. They could have been Scandinavian. With no hesitation they approached us, greeting in English. Jason asked them if they were taught English in school. Without hesitation the boy said yes, while simultaneaously the girl said "si."
It had been raining lightly, but we avoided the worst of it. The area of the hiking trail had been soaked however.
After a while we gave up trying to avoid the puddles and just waded right in. Unfortunately I wasn't wearing soaks. By the time we finished my dogs were fairly raw.
All in all I figure we had hiked four hours, at least 10 to 12 miles. But, like morons, we weren't finished. After a shower back at the casa particulare we lazed around a bit and observed rural Cuban life.
These two guys were wondering what the Hell they did in that last life to deserve this.
It appeared, in my dreamlike state, that at least in rural Cuba life is much more social than in the US. The little main street was alive with people out visiting. It was Sunday evening. Father's Day. At least to my eyes they seemed happy. I can't think when Cuban society opens up to the West (or gets opened) and accepts Capitalism, even China-style, they will be happier. They have little here, but they have much. They say in Cuba there are a thousand doctors for every aspirin. Medicine of any kind is at a premium. That's why I gave the Sra. of the casa my two bottles of Bayer and six bars of soap. They could make a nice piece of change off those.
As evening approached we decided we needed to look for a place to eat. We hadn't eaten since breakfast back in Havana. Jason suggested we try the nearby Hotel Jasmine a couple kilomters outside town, an easy stroll. We had walked so much already, what was a couple miles more?
More than we thought apparently. In what was turning out to be a disturbing trend (you know how those frustration dreams can be) we headed the wrong way out of town. Dusk was nearing under a clear blue Caribbean sky, a lovely time of day. The sky turned golden against the silhouette of the pin cushion mountains. Traffic was light. It was a pleasant walk.
Eventually, though, dusk turned to dark. Under cover of a starlit sky we pressed on til we came to a camp ground. The restaurant there had closed. But, not catching on, we kept going. This Jasmine Hotel must just be a few hundred meters further. It wasn't.
Amazingly, in total darkness we came across another restaurant. Closed. The security guard there was very friendly. In what Jason later told me was heavily accented Spanish he told us he'd never heard of the Jasmine. Nice.
We had walked at least three miles, which meant we had that far to go back. It was pitch black. But, what a star-filled sky! No light pollution. Stars you'll never see back in the States. Only in a dream.
In the blackness we were joined by a Cuban local, named Lazaro. Lazaro was a veritable Hispanic Sam's Club. He offered to get us girls, cigars, alcohol, entry to cock fights, a ride to Pinar del Rio (another town), anything we wanted. But, no Jasmine Hotel. Laz had never heard of it. Sheesh!
Fortunately for me Jason was stuck with the task of conversing with Lazaro. Initially he tried to speak only with me, as had the restaurant guard earlier. We figured it was because I was the elder of the two. But, when I told him "No fumo Espanol" (I don't smoke Spanish.) I was off the hook. To his credit Lazaro attempted to hitch rides for us (to no avail) and guided us to safety against pedestrian, bicycle, horse-drawn and vehicle traffic. Except for cars and trucks everything came at us out of the pitch dark.
It looked like ol' Laz was thinking of hanging on to us for the night. Not really desiring his company I hit upon a plan. I set a pretty stiff pace. He commented on it to Jason a couple times. Whenever there was a lull in his constant babble I picked up the pace, not quite running, but covering ground at a pretty hot pace nonetheless. By the time we re-entered Vinales Lazaro was finished. He dropped off at the first house we came to.
Oh yeah, as we topped a small rise before Vinales Lazaro pointed out Hotel Jasmine to us. It was south of town. We had gone west.
We never did find a place to eat. But as it turned out we weren't very hungry anyway (How hungry do you get in a dream anyway?).
By eleven we were back in our room fast asleep. The roosters lit up around 5 AM, but I held out til 7. The grunting hog outside my window turned the trick.
An interesting intra-dream story. Walking down the Vinales main street that evening we noticed a sign in an office offering a taxi ride direct to our hotel in Havana for 15 pesos. This seemed a good deal, because the only bus from Vinales to Havana available to us didn't leave until 2PM and would take close to three hours. This would cut into our planned Havana exploring time. The bus was 12 pesos each, plus a five peso taxi from the bus station to the hotel. So it was a no-brainer. The cab could leave anytime and we wanted to go as early as possible.
We arrived at the oficina shortly after breakfast the next morning. It turned out there had to be four riders to complete the deal. The young lady working at the office asked us to stay close by. It was her job to fill the cab. OK, fine.
After a short wait along come two girls who looked like they might want to go to Habana. Actually they were on their way to Trinidad, meaning they had to go through Havana. So there was hope.
It wasn't easy though. They seemed incapable of decision. Here were their options:
1. Take the 2PM bus to Havana to connect on to Trinidad. Only the Trinidad connector leaves Havana at 1 PM. So they would have to spend the night in H-town.
2. Wait in Vinales until 7:30PM to find out IFthere was room on the NEXTmorning's 8 AM bus to Havana, THEN make the connection to Trinidad.
3. Throw in with us, get to Havana in time for the 1 PM to Trinidad. Be in Trinidad by 6.
They had until 10 AM to have any chance of making it. It was 8:50. How this was a difficult decision is beyond me. But, that's the essence of frustration dreams. I said they suffered from "Paralysis by Analysis." Jason called it the "Itty-Bitty-Titty-Committee." Either way it was hard to believe. Finally right around Ten the viability of option three hit home. Fifteen minutes later we were rolling. Although the driver managed to fry his clutch, we made the Viazul bus station by 12:30 and our hotel by one.
The girls were from the Netherlands and were pretty experienced world travelers. They had recently been to Sri Lanka, so we shared some commonalities. One even worked in the travel industry. Maybe Jason and I looked too shabby to trust. But, what do you expect from a country that can't decide whether they are the Netherlands, Holland or Dutch?
Back in Habana we spent the rest of the day piling on more miles exploring Viejo Habana.
We walked the Malecon, visited the Plaza de Armas, Plaza de Catedral, Universidad de Habana and the Plaza de la Revolucion.
We saw the Nacional Hotel, the one financed by the American Mafia. It was where in Godfather II Hyman Roth celebrated his birthday with Michael Corleone and associates.
If there was to be one thing that would get me in trouble with the Federales (Bush's Federales, not Fidel's) it would be this:
The only thing I forgot was my "McLenins" tee shirt.
As dusk of another Caribe day neared we headed back to the Plaza, passing through non-turisto areas. We were approached, as we were fairly frequently, by friendly Cubanos seeking to get us cigars or chicas. At one point a couple policia warned me to put my camera away for safety. But we had no worries. We ended up at the Capitolio, a smaller, more intricate copy of the US Capitol building.
A '57 Chevy.
"El Che" is still everywhere.
Fidel, not so much.
The old cars broke down frequently. But, they always seemed to stop to pick up hitchhikers. Everyone pitched in to help. We think it was considered de rigeur for riders to offer a small fee for the honor.
Havana Harbor. Remember the Maine? Nothing there to indicate it ever happened.
Three wheeled cabs up for daily repairs.
The original Bacardi Rum factory.
Was it a dream?
The droning of the Cubana airlines plane suddenly gave way to the crashing waves back in Cancun. I awoke with a start. What a dream. So lifelike. So real.
Of course, it's a felony for Americans to go to Cuba. And I'm a law-abiding American citizen. I would never do something like that. Photoshop and Google Image can make it look like one has been anywhere.
Those who know me well know there are certain things I would never do. One of those things is something I claimed to do in this story.
I NEVER fall asleep on the beach. That's how you get burned.
But, alas, due to the constant pandering for votes to the Miami-based exile community Cuba remains off-limits to American citizens. The US has a long-term embargo against trading with this enemy. The Cubano ex-pats, from the initial wave of escapees when Fidel came to power, were wealthy former landowners under the US-backed regime of Fulgencia Batista, a right wing dictator put in office by the CIA. When Fidel nationalized the banks, sugar plantations and any other worthwhile assets, the owners were out and the "people" were in. So they flooded south Florida. They became citizens and used their wealth and growing influence to oppose anything Fidel. Thus the trade embargo. It is a felony for an American citizen to go to a country 90 miles from Key West. Technically, as I understand it, we can GO there.. We just can't spend any money there.
So a trip to Cuba would have to remain a dream.
I laid down on the beach for some sun. The roar of the waves lulled me to sleep, dreams of Cuba in my head.
Suddenly, in my dreamlike state, I was aboard a Cubano Airlines Soviet era YAK-42 approaching Havana. The plane was comfortable enough, albeit a little crowded.
Upon landing it took almost two hours for the passengers to claim their luggage, our first taste of Communist efficiency. Surprisingly the airport (Jose Marti International) was fairly modern. Much better than the shacks in Jeddah or Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.
Driving from the airport I felt we could have been in any other Central American country, including parts of Puerto Rico, except for the billboards extolling the virtues La Revolucion.
Sure, there were the old 50's era cars. But also some Euro models, including lots of old Soviet Ladas. (Remember one of early blogposts from Bulgaria? I waxed poetic on those pieces of crap.) The might have even been a rare BMW.
Soon we were driving down the Malecon, reminiscent of the Corniche of Alexandria, Egypt or Marine Drive (The Queen's Necklace) in Mumbai, India. The skeletal remains of Viejo Habana recalled the long lost glory that pre-dated Fidel, Che and the Revolution. It was one of the most impressive "City First Impressions" I have encountered.
Soon we were esconced in the Plaza Hotel. High ceilinged, air conditioned, cable TV and with bathroom with windows looking down on the city. This was a place for foreign tourists. Security was tight. We would be ID'd each time before we hit the door and as we approached the elevators.
That evening we headed out for something to eat. Electricity is at a premium in Cuba. The streets were dark. But, police presence is constant (They don't want to risk tourists getting mugged. Bad for business. They may be Commies, but dinero es dinero.) We came to a little salsa joint, "Bar Monseratte." A live band had the joint jumpin'. I'd say half the patrons were locals, the rest turistos. Jason (Disturbingly he showed up in the dream) bet the band would play "Guantanamera" within 15 minutes. He thinks just because he speaks a little Spanish he's an expert on all things Latino. I'm happy to report he was dead wrong. It was 23 minutes.
After finding out the American dollar was no longer coveted in Cuba I cashed in the last of the 65 Euros I had purchased when I was in Egypt (Funny the things that come up in dreams). Turns out they preferred Canadian bucks. And I had just been in Montreal. If only I had known.
We ate pizza and drank Bucanero Fuerte until last call, 11:30PM. We were out by 12:30.
You know how in a dream sometimes you are suddenly transported to a completely different place? Well, that's what happened next. Below are some of the sights we dreamt about along the way:
The next morning we were on a bus bound for Valle de Vinales, a UNESCO World Heritage site about three hours west of Havana.
Parque Nacional Vinales (pronounced Vin Yal' Ez) is a fertile plain of several valleys separated by pincushion or haystack hills called mogotes (Mo Go' Tays). The whole area was once several hundred meters higher in elevation. About a bazillion years ago a network of underground rivers ate away the limestone bedrock underneath creating massive caverns. Eventually the caverns gave way leaving the eroded walls seen today.
The area is developing as a Mecca for rock climbers. It has been written up in the New York Times as such.
In fact we stayed in a "Casa Particulare" which was owned by a man who is developing climbing in the area.
Casa Particulares are basically spare rooms in private homes. Ours was a single room with a private bath and two beds, 20 pesos. It's a little taste of capitalism for Cubans. I think they like the taste. When we reached the village of Vinales our bus was met by throngs of locals hawking their rooms.
After checking in we decided a hike was in order. Jason found mention of a five mile trail just outside of town. It took us about a half hour to find the trailhead and two more minutes to lose the trail, never to see it again. Sort of.
We followed a rutted, sandy road (thinking it was the trail) until we came to a cemetary above the village. That's when we knew for certain we'd missed the trail.
But, that didn't stop us. Scouring the trusty Lonely Planet Guide we spied a hiking trail located north of town. Off we went Walking along the road leading to the trail we passed a house with two blonde, blue eyed kids, a boy and a girl, playing. They could have been Scandinavian. With no hesitation they approached us, greeting in English. Jason asked them if they were taught English in school. Without hesitation the boy said yes, while simultaneaously the girl said "si."
It had been raining lightly, but we avoided the worst of it. The area of the hiking trail had been soaked however.
After a while we gave up trying to avoid the puddles and just waded right in. Unfortunately I wasn't wearing soaks. By the time we finished my dogs were fairly raw.
All in all I figure we had hiked four hours, at least 10 to 12 miles. But, like morons, we weren't finished. After a shower back at the casa particulare we lazed around a bit and observed rural Cuban life.
These two guys were wondering what the Hell they did in that last life to deserve this.
It appeared, in my dreamlike state, that at least in rural Cuba life is much more social than in the US. The little main street was alive with people out visiting. It was Sunday evening. Father's Day. At least to my eyes they seemed happy. I can't think when Cuban society opens up to the West (or gets opened) and accepts Capitalism, even China-style, they will be happier. They have little here, but they have much. They say in Cuba there are a thousand doctors for every aspirin. Medicine of any kind is at a premium. That's why I gave the Sra. of the casa my two bottles of Bayer and six bars of soap. They could make a nice piece of change off those.
As evening approached we decided we needed to look for a place to eat. We hadn't eaten since breakfast back in Havana. Jason suggested we try the nearby Hotel Jasmine a couple kilomters outside town, an easy stroll. We had walked so much already, what was a couple miles more?
More than we thought apparently. In what was turning out to be a disturbing trend (you know how those frustration dreams can be) we headed the wrong way out of town. Dusk was nearing under a clear blue Caribbean sky, a lovely time of day. The sky turned golden against the silhouette of the pin cushion mountains. Traffic was light. It was a pleasant walk.
Eventually, though, dusk turned to dark. Under cover of a starlit sky we pressed on til we came to a camp ground. The restaurant there had closed. But, not catching on, we kept going. This Jasmine Hotel must just be a few hundred meters further. It wasn't.
Amazingly, in total darkness we came across another restaurant. Closed. The security guard there was very friendly. In what Jason later told me was heavily accented Spanish he told us he'd never heard of the Jasmine. Nice.
We had walked at least three miles, which meant we had that far to go back. It was pitch black. But, what a star-filled sky! No light pollution. Stars you'll never see back in the States. Only in a dream.
In the blackness we were joined by a Cuban local, named Lazaro. Lazaro was a veritable Hispanic Sam's Club. He offered to get us girls, cigars, alcohol, entry to cock fights, a ride to Pinar del Rio (another town), anything we wanted. But, no Jasmine Hotel. Laz had never heard of it. Sheesh!
Fortunately for me Jason was stuck with the task of conversing with Lazaro. Initially he tried to speak only with me, as had the restaurant guard earlier. We figured it was because I was the elder of the two. But, when I told him "No fumo Espanol" (I don't smoke Spanish.) I was off the hook. To his credit Lazaro attempted to hitch rides for us (to no avail) and guided us to safety against pedestrian, bicycle, horse-drawn and vehicle traffic. Except for cars and trucks everything came at us out of the pitch dark.
It looked like ol' Laz was thinking of hanging on to us for the night. Not really desiring his company I hit upon a plan. I set a pretty stiff pace. He commented on it to Jason a couple times. Whenever there was a lull in his constant babble I picked up the pace, not quite running, but covering ground at a pretty hot pace nonetheless. By the time we re-entered Vinales Lazaro was finished. He dropped off at the first house we came to.
Oh yeah, as we topped a small rise before Vinales Lazaro pointed out Hotel Jasmine to us. It was south of town. We had gone west.
We never did find a place to eat. But as it turned out we weren't very hungry anyway (How hungry do you get in a dream anyway?).
By eleven we were back in our room fast asleep. The roosters lit up around 5 AM, but I held out til 7. The grunting hog outside my window turned the trick.
An interesting intra-dream story. Walking down the Vinales main street that evening we noticed a sign in an office offering a taxi ride direct to our hotel in Havana for 15 pesos. This seemed a good deal, because the only bus from Vinales to Havana available to us didn't leave until 2PM and would take close to three hours. This would cut into our planned Havana exploring time. The bus was 12 pesos each, plus a five peso taxi from the bus station to the hotel. So it was a no-brainer. The cab could leave anytime and we wanted to go as early as possible.
We arrived at the oficina shortly after breakfast the next morning. It turned out there had to be four riders to complete the deal. The young lady working at the office asked us to stay close by. It was her job to fill the cab. OK, fine.
After a short wait along come two girls who looked like they might want to go to Habana. Actually they were on their way to Trinidad, meaning they had to go through Havana. So there was hope.
It wasn't easy though. They seemed incapable of decision. Here were their options:
1. Take the 2PM bus to Havana to connect on to Trinidad. Only the Trinidad connector leaves Havana at 1 PM. So they would have to spend the night in H-town.
2. Wait in Vinales until 7:30PM to find out IFthere was room on the NEXTmorning's 8 AM bus to Havana, THEN make the connection to Trinidad.
3. Throw in with us, get to Havana in time for the 1 PM to Trinidad. Be in Trinidad by 6.
They had until 10 AM to have any chance of making it. It was 8:50. How this was a difficult decision is beyond me. But, that's the essence of frustration dreams. I said they suffered from "Paralysis by Analysis." Jason called it the "Itty-Bitty-Titty-Committee." Either way it was hard to believe. Finally right around Ten the viability of option three hit home. Fifteen minutes later we were rolling. Although the driver managed to fry his clutch, we made the Viazul bus station by 12:30 and our hotel by one.
The girls were from the Netherlands and were pretty experienced world travelers. They had recently been to Sri Lanka, so we shared some commonalities. One even worked in the travel industry. Maybe Jason and I looked too shabby to trust. But, what do you expect from a country that can't decide whether they are the Netherlands, Holland or Dutch?
Back in Habana we spent the rest of the day piling on more miles exploring Viejo Habana.
We walked the Malecon, visited the Plaza de Armas, Plaza de Catedral, Universidad de Habana and the Plaza de la Revolucion.
We saw the Nacional Hotel, the one financed by the American Mafia. It was where in Godfather II Hyman Roth celebrated his birthday with Michael Corleone and associates.
If there was to be one thing that would get me in trouble with the Federales (Bush's Federales, not Fidel's) it would be this:
The only thing I forgot was my "McLenins" tee shirt.
As dusk of another Caribe day neared we headed back to the Plaza, passing through non-turisto areas. We were approached, as we were fairly frequently, by friendly Cubanos seeking to get us cigars or chicas. At one point a couple policia warned me to put my camera away for safety. But we had no worries. We ended up at the Capitolio, a smaller, more intricate copy of the US Capitol building.
A '57 Chevy.
"El Che" is still everywhere.
Fidel, not so much.
The old cars broke down frequently. But, they always seemed to stop to pick up hitchhikers. Everyone pitched in to help. We think it was considered de rigeur for riders to offer a small fee for the honor.
Havana Harbor. Remember the Maine? Nothing there to indicate it ever happened.
Three wheeled cabs up for daily repairs.
The original Bacardi Rum factory.
Was it a dream?
The droning of the Cubana airlines plane suddenly gave way to the crashing waves back in Cancun. I awoke with a start. What a dream. So lifelike. So real.
Of course, it's a felony for Americans to go to Cuba. And I'm a law-abiding American citizen. I would never do something like that. Photoshop and Google Image can make it look like one has been anywhere.
Those who know me well know there are certain things I would never do. One of those things is something I claimed to do in this story.
I NEVER fall asleep on the beach. That's how you get burned.
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