Cuba Post #1, The Bibliographic Tour, February 2013: Havana and Matanzas

In February of 2013, I took advantage of easing travel restrictions for travel to Cuba, a nation long off-limits to U.S. citizens.

The trip, though brief (eight days counting our arrival and departure days), was abundantly rewarding for our 16-member entourage. United States citizens all, we hailed from such dispersed states as Arizona, Maryland, Wisconsin, and Hawaii. The tour, arranged by Toronto-based Authentic Cuba Tours, was targeted at bibliophiles. Over half of us were librarians, and the balance was educators and academics.

What follows is a largely photographic essay of those days, with emphasis given to its bibliographic aspects.  Over the coming days I will add a large number of photos documenting my Cuba experience under the following headlines: 1) First Day, 2) Old Havana and the Havana International Book Fair, 3) Metanzas and Ediciones Vigia, 4) Casa de las Americas, National Literacy Museum, and the Cuban National Library, 5) Cienfuegos and the Cienfuegos Provincial Library, 6) Trinidad and Evening Theatre, 7) Last full day in Cuba, and 8) Departure.

If you have arrived here via the hyperlink found at the end of my International Leads article, please note that this blog has no direct ties to ALA's International Relations Roundtable (IRRT). The views expressed here are simply my own.

Remember that any of the photos can be enlarged by clicking on the photo. The one exception is the Che billboard. 

FIRST DAY

From I Love Lucy’s Ricky Ricardo to Fidel Castro, from the love-struck rhythms of Cuban Bolero music to the Cuban Missile Crisis, Cuba has long fascinated me. Perhaps that’s why the sign at Miami International Airport made me feel like a six-year old on a Christmas morning.





My first clear view of the Cuban landscape.  Cuba's north coast, seen barely 40 minutes after leaving Miami International Airport.



After clearing customs we stepped out into the city of Havana, and a billboard in tribute to Che Guevara was one of the first things we saw. The sign says, "We see you each day, pure like a child, or pure like a pure man. Che, Commander Friend." We would see many signs honoring Che, but few if any honoring Castro. Not that Castro isn't honored, but Che is dead. In a Cuban cultural context, we were told, bestowing great honor and affection upon the dead is accepted and encouraged. Less so for the living. Castro will have to wait.



The 50-plus year U.S. trade embargo against Cuba has helped to create an exceptionally adaptable and versatile --though at times stoic -- people.  No U.S. cars have been imported into Cuba since 1960, so any U.S. car seen there is an antigue. Cubans do their best to keep them up, though it is a challenge. Though they may look good, they break down constantly, we were told.  This does not mean that new cars aren't seen in Cuba. Contemporary Japanese, South Korean, Chinese, and European vehicles are a common sight.



That's me below sitting in a Chevy Bel Air. Not sure about the year. 1953? The taxi driver was kind enough to take this photo. On this day, I had gotten accidentally separated from my tour group in Old Havana, ended up taking a cab back to the Hotel Nacional, where I was able to get in touch with the tour guide via phone, at which point I took a taxi to the restaurant where we were lunching. I actually enjoy little (mis)adventures like that. I got to practice my Spanish with two different taxi drivers, and got to know Havana a little better.  I loved Havana.





That's me in Havana's Revolution Plaza behind an image of Che.  At night Che "goes electric".  I remember seeing photos and film images of Revolution Plaza as a child, and had gotten the impression it was bigger than it really is. It is surprisingly small when actually seen, kind of like a Wal-Mart parking lot without the cars. It was a windy and cold day -- again, by Caribbean standards -- but most of the year Cuba is known for being very hot and humid. Further below is an image of Camilo Cienfuegos, another compadre of Fidel.  He was killed in a plane crash off the north coast of Cuba, while Che was killed formenting revolution in Bolivia.  Camilo also "goes electric" at night. 





This billboard on the margins of Revolution Plaza says, "54 Years of struggle and victory."  The right image is of Castro, the other of Cienfuegos. I don't recall seeing a single billboard during my 8 days in Cuba urging me to buy something. I found that rather refreshing.

The image below is of the legendary Hotel Nacional de Cuba, playground of Mafiosos and Hollywood celebrities in pre-Castro days. We stayed here a total of five nights. Like Cuba in general, Hotel Nacional had an appealing time capsule quality.



Looking northeast at the Havana malecón. Malecón is a Spanish word that refers to a paved public walkway by a lake or ocean. A favorite pastime in many waterfront Latin American cities is walking along the local malecón.

SECOND DAY


HAVANA INTERNATIONAL BOOK FAIR

A banner at the Havana International Book Fair. "Leer es crecer" means, "To read is to grow."

Each year the Havana International Book Fair honors a nation. In 2013 it was the African country of Angola. That's the Angolan flag to the left, the Cuban flag to the right. In 2014 the honored nation will be Ecuador.



In the 1970s and 1980s Angola fought a war for independence from Portugal, followed by a civil war, with one faction backed by then-apartheid South Africa and the other backed by the U.S.S.R.  Cuban forces and material assisted the U.S.S.R.-backed faction.

From top to bottom the sign says, "Tent, Children's Literature....stories, adventures, comics."

A comic book that tells the story of the Cuban Revolution. The image to the right of Castro's head is Jose Marti, generally considered the father of the Cuban independence movement.

The National Library of Argentina's booth.

Below: The booth of the Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Further below: Two children wear recycleable materials as they dance.








In the children's area.



Shadows grew longer as the afternoon progressed.



The Havana skyline as seen from the grounds of the Spanish fortress.

In the first video clip below I'm holding the camera as I walk into a meeting room. The second is of the Canal de Entrada and Havana skyline as seen from the old Spanish fort.

 

 

SECOND DAY

OLD HAVANA

Old Havana -- the original Colonial Period Havana -- had fallen into a state of advanced deterioration. Nowadays, however, one rehab zone after another seems to be the rule.  Well, not quite. I made a point of wandering away from my tour group and walking deeper into Old Havana, and as I did it got more decrepit and run down looking, until I decided it was time to turn back. When I returned to the restaurant/tavern (which by the way had been one of Hemingway's favorite haunts back in the 1930s), my group was gone. So I had a drink. 

Cuba uses a color-coded system on its licenses, a system borrowed from the former Soviet Union.

Our guide Eric, in the red cap, explaining...something (I forget what exactly now).  Three of my favorite people on the tour are here. To the left, Delores, from New Orleans; Mary, in the center with the red hair and white top, from Idaho, and Darnella, to the right, with the blue, red, and white shirt, from Arizona.  Delores, a retired college professor from New Orleans, was such an interesting person to talk to.  I could have asked her to marry me, or adopt me. 

This street has just about been rehabiliated/reconstructed.

The tall, elegant building above is known as Camera Obscura. For two CUCs (Cuban Convertible Currency), you can go to the top and take in a spectacular view of Havana.

This is the Plaza de la Catedral, home of Havana's baroque-style Cathedral, constructed by Jesuits in the mid-1770s.

A closer view of the Cathedral.

C.D.R. stands for Committee in Defense of the Revolution, and this is one of its neighborhood stations near the Plaza de la Catedral.

Inside the Cathedral.

The first two video clips below are of the plaza in front of the cathedral, while the third is of the Bodeguita del Medio, once a favorite hangout of Ernest Hemingway.

 

 The two video clips below I took while I was being delivered back to my tour group in the Chevy Bel Air I was pictured in earlier.  We are driving along the waterfront,  though you don't see any water, and the malecon is to my left. 

 

 

THIRD DAY

EDICIONES VIAGIA

CITY OF MATANZAS

Enroute to the northern coastal city of Matanzas, we stretched our legs at the rest stop to the upper left. With a little imagination I could almost convince myself I was at a U.S. rest stop. Above right is a photo of the Cuban landscape taken from the rest stop. The photos below are of workers producing one of Ediciones Vigia's limited-edition (200 copy) book runs, with a photo of a finished work further below.



 Near the entrance to Ediciones Vigia.

 




 

This Russian mde car has Che's image on the headlights.

Cuban graffiti

 

A vintage car seen at the rest stop.

 The Matanzas fire station could use a cleaning.

 





















 

 

 






 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nica post #5, May 3 & 4, 2013:

(Note: First read Nica Post #3, Am I There Yet?, to put this post into context.) 

When I went to bed a few hours later that evening --  feeling quite exhausted--  I was a guest at Big Corn Island’s Arenas Beach Hotel.  I stayed in a one-room bungalow with adjoining bathroom. 

There was a consistent, soft breeze, coming off the ocean, which was at most a 3-minute walk from my door.  The humidity and daytime temperatures were high, but the latter at least subsided markedly when darkness fell.  I had some luxuries: wireless internet, hot and cold water (though I was admonished not to drink the tap water and I purchased bottled water even to brush my teeth), and air conditioning.  When I returned to the Nicaraguan mainland a few days later, I knew I would lose all three. The Corn Island phase was the “me time” part of the trip.

The next morning I took a 5-minute taxi ride to Nautilus Dive Center, the only dive center on Big Corn Island. There I met the proprietor, Chema Vides, a.k.a. Pirata Chema.  I was his only customer that morning, and soon he, I, and his assistant were a mile or so off-shore preparing to dive.

 

As Chema donned his gear, I noticed that he had several quite pronounced gashes around his abdomen area. Scar tissue. He explained that he had fought – as a Contra – during the Nicaraguan civil war of the 1980s. Interestingly, although he has lived in Nicaragua for years, he originally hailed from Guatemala City, at 5,000 feet elevation and far from the ocean.  Chema was quite a character, and his “pirata” moniker was a good fit. 


The last time I had gone scuba diving was in June or July of 2010, almost three years previously.  Whenever I experience a diving hiatus, I am usually a tad nervous about jumping into open ocean again. This day was no exception. 

Pirata Vides

Scuba diving is awesome; it puts me into a state of awe than can border on anxiety.  The anxiety almost always ends once I am in the water and safely through the first 35’ or so descent. This is largely because at around 35’ – if I make it that far having successfully equalized my ears – I usually experience no further ear problems or related issues. I am a slow equalizer, however. I am almost always the last one down. I must have a narrow Eustachian tube.  

The dive was enjoyable – even highly enjoyable – but it was not an A+ dive.  Part of my mild disenchantment had to do with our not going to Blowing Rock, the “go to” diving site on Big Corn Island.  Chema explained in broken English that, with only one customer that morning, the trip to Blowing Rock, which is considerably farther off-shore, could not be justified.  Blowing Rock aside, though, the underwater scenery, however enjoyable, never got out of the "B" range. Visibility was good, but I'd seen better at places like Grand Cayman, Utila, and Roatan.  The reef looked reasonably healthy and beautiful, but not as much as some other reefs I'd seen.


Me, 60 ft. down.

Following the first dive, we briefly returned to shore for what were to me ambiguous reasons.  I waited onboard and about 20 minutes later Chema returned with another customer, a woman who I quickly learned was named Arianna (Ari for short).  Ari lived in Havana, Cuba, until she was 25, at which time she left that island nation, living (as I recall) for a while in Argentina before marrying a Spaniard and taking up residence in Spain.

Ari spoke limited English and I spoke limited Spanish, but we managed. Despite the language limitations, and the drone of the engine as we headed toward our dive site, the two of us began exchanging stories.  My curiosity about Cuba, which is by far Latin America’s most interesting nation (in my estimate), along with Ari’s intrigue upon learning that I, an Americano, had spent some time there (where Americanos are rare), left us with much to talk about. After all, her country and mine have perhaps the most paradoxical relationship in the history of New World geo-politics. Her love of scuba diving, moreover, equaled or surpassed mine.  Ari was by nature enthusiastic and optimistic, constantly smiling and laughing.  


The ferry ride from hell. Before boarding.

The next day, May 4, Ari and I left our respective hotels and met at the dock. There we took the 45 minute ferry ride to Little Corn Island (LCI). It was perhaps the most miserable 45 minutes of my life so far.  As soon as we left the harbor, waves began to heave and the boat began to “jump the water,” rising upwards and slamming back down with great force.  It was nightmarishly painful and there was absolutely nothing that I – or any of the other miserable passengers – could do about it.  I heaved to vomit several times, though (thankfully) nothing came out. (I’d positioned myself so that, to my left, was the open ocean, the best place to direct one’s vomit.)  I heard the sound of several others heaving, but luckily none were immediately behind or next to me. The small boat was crammed with passengers to the maximum and, while life preservers were on-board, they were not distributed to the passengers. (OSHA would not have approved.) It felt unsafe, and it was. Such are the adventures of traveling in a developing country. 
 

The joy of deboarding.

LCI was beautiful. Unlike Big Corn Island, which had been ravaged by a hurricane some years before, Little Corn’s tree canopy was in much better condition.  Little Corn was a tropical Haight-Ashbury. Fair-skinnd Caucasians from places like Belgium, Germany, Britain, Canada, and the United States were all about, most all of them 20-somethings, many of them pot-smoking 20-somethings.

"Downtown" Little Corn Island.

Our hopes of diving on LCI quickly turned sour as the two dive shops near the dock were booked solid for the day.  Since Ari was heading back to Spain the next day, this day offered us two the only hope of diving on Little Corn. So we began what we thought would be a short trek across the island to a third diving establishment, one away from Little Corn’s mini-urban madness.

In spite of the heat and the intense tropical sun, the hike across LCI was fun. However, we made a wrong turn somewhere, so upon reaching the north end of the island we were nowhere near where we wanted to be. We walked along the shore, which in places was very rocky and where we were continually under the sun. Since we were on the north side, the currents and wave action were far more aggressive. That we could see without even going into the water. We briefly stopped at a small-ish resort under construction, where we found some shade and asked for directions. We pushed on, and on some more, until we found the place we were looking for.

We did get to go scuba diving that day, but I wish we hadn't.




On Little Corn Island's north shore.

 





Capt. Chema

On Little Corn Island, looking northward.