Loving Linguistics in Latin America

After nearly six months of travelling through South and Central America, I have experienced a number of distinctly different cultures, from the heavily European influenced Chile and Argentina, the indigenous Quechua communities of Bolivia and Peru, and the indigenous Mayan groups in Mexico and Guatemala, as well as the ´ladino´mix of indigenous and Spanish that exist throughout the entire region. But I recently encountered two completely different and distinct cultural groups in the Caribbean that I found absolutely fascinating.


A couple of weeks ago I found myself in a small town called Livingstone, on the Caribbean coast of Guatemala, close to the borders of Belize and Honduras, and it was here that I first encountered the Garifuna culture. They are black, descended from Africa, and speak Spanish as a second language, with Garifuna as their mother tongue.


I´d never even heard of the Garifuna people before, but they have a fascinating history that has meant they have a unique cultural heritage and identity today. Way way back in the early 16oo´s a couple of Spanish ships carrying Nigerian slaves crashed into the Caribbean island of St Vincent. They then intermarried with the two indigenous tribes from the island at the time and became known as the Black ´Caribs´.


About a hundred and fifty years later, there was a war between the British and the French over the island of St Vincent. Both groups wanted control, and the Black Caribs fought on the side of the French. Eventually the British won and took control of the island, but they had a problem. The island was mostly populated by Europeans who traditionally kept African slaves, and they didn´t want a bunch of free black men running around the island, so they rounded up the Black Caribs and basically shipped them off the an island in Honduras, knows as Roatan, and from there they moved to the coastal regions of Belize, Honduras and Guatemala. They then went on to intermarry with local indigenous Mayan people, and so the culture that developed was an intriguing mix of African, European and indigenous elements, with a strong emphasis on dance and story-telling. The religion is similarly an amalgamation of aspects of all these influences, a mixture of Catholicism with aspects of traditional African religions and Mayan indigenous beliefs as well.


In Spanish speaking Guatemala you might imagine that they would seem out of place, but Livingstone doesn´t really feel like Guatemala. It was such a chilled out place, accessible only by boat, which contributed to the remoteness, and the lazy nature of the town. I only stayed a day, but the town was interesting to me because it was so different from any place I´d seen throughout my travels. I spent a lot of time just people watching on the main street, and honestly, there was some amazingly beautiful people to watch. Both the men and women had poise and grace, they seemed like giants after spending so much time with the indigenous folk in the highlands, and the had the innate rhythm that seems to come with black skin and African roots.


But I was on my way to Honduras, so I didn´t get to stay and experience life in Livingstone for more than a day. My destination was Utila, one of the Bay Islands also off the Caribbean coast of Honduras. As a keen scuba diver, I was determined to make the most of the tropical waters and the beautiful reef and marine life to snorkel and dive to my heart´s content. I hadn´t really read all that much about the island before arriving, all I really knew was that it is the cheapest place in the region to dive, that was enough for me. I hadn´t even thought about the people of the island and the culture.


So I was pleasantly surprised to find a delightful mix of people living on the island. Descended from a mixture of American, English, Dutch and other European settlers, the main language of the island is English, spoken with a charming Caribbean accent. The islands were the property of Britain until the 1870s or so, but the people from the island were left almost completely to their own devices. People from the island look very European, any of them could pass as tourists from Britain, but they, and their parents, even grandparents and great grandparents were born on the island. The current population of the island is around 6000, most of whom have European ancestry.


It was only a few decades ago, when the Honduran government made Spanish the mandatory language of instruction in schools, that the islanders even started to learn the language. Except they speak Spanish with the same thick Caribbean accent that they use to speak English! The younger generations are bilingual, but older Utilans are mostly monolingual English speakers. Although calling it English might be stretching it a bit... Whenever the locals were speaking to me I could understand every word, but when they started speaking to each other it was a different story.


As a linguist, I found their interactions fascinating, and I spent many evenings covertly observing groups of locals sitting around the streets and listening to their conversations. IThe youngsters I found much easier to understand, and I found them linguistically fascinating. They had a wonderful linguistic phenomenon in their speech known as code-switching. As complete bilinguals they would alternate between Spanish and English, and intersperse the two in all their conversations. The older generation I found incredibly difficult to understand, and I had to strain and use my considerable imagination to even guess the general gist of the conversation. I would love to have stayed longer to properly study their intonation and mode of speech and document more of what I observed, because five days wasn´t nearly enough to begin to make sense of it, let along learn to speak it! But I did find myself affecting a Caribbean nasal drawl to my vowels when I addressed the locals, except my attempt at the local accent had me sounding rather cockney, I fear.


All in all, Utila was a gem that I hadn´t expected. I came down with food poisoning on my first night on the island, so I couldn´t dive as much as I had hoped. I spent most of my time lounging around the hotel, relaxing, sleeping, reading, and generally being anything but active, which happened to be exactly what I needed at the time. And through this, I found an even richer cultural experience, as it gave me ample time to observe and interact with the local people of the island. I left feeling charmed by the people, their laid back slow pace of life, and their delightful Caribbean English.

Holy Week AKA Semana Santa... In which Tracy goes a-hunting processions!

Holy Week, also known as ´Semana Santa´is by far and away the biggest celebration in Central America, and it seems that people do one of two things. Either they participate in the Easter festivities, which, in true Catholic tradition, are grand and elaborate, or they ignore the religious aspect entirely and head to the regions tourist hotspots, making the most of their five-day vacation to relax and enjoy themselves. Either way, wherever you want to go in Semana Santa is likely to be crowded and busy.



Antigua is the centre of the Easter celebrations, and is widely regarded as THE place to experience Semana Santa. It is a beautiful colonial city in Guatemala, full of churches and plazas and brimming with tourists. In Semana Santa is really comes alive, with daily processions and ceremonies. People from all around Central America make a pilgrimage here every Easter to be part of the celebrations. Tourists from around the world flock here, and it is said that you need to book a room in the city up to four months in advance to be guaranteed a bed to sleep in. AND the prices are hiked up in the true spirit of capitalism, a combination of ´whatever we can get away with´and ´supply and demand´. You can pay as much as US$40 for a room in a dormitory, in hostels which normally charge $6.



Between my sudden trip back to Australia, my grandfather´s funeral, and being robbed, I hadn´t even realised that it WAS Semana Santa, so I was horribly unprepared for the holiday. The idea of seeing a real Easter procession in Antigua was so exciting and compelling, and I had been finding it hard to break through the loneliness and find the motivation to travel and be excited about new things that I was determined to go to Antigua, despite the fact that it was going to be over-crowded and pricey. Originally I was optimistic about my chances of finding a bed the city, but after searching the internet and calling every number I could find in the Lonely Planet I determined that there was NO empty beds in the entire town.



Meanwhile I decided that I would experience the start of Semana Santa in another place sacred to the highland Guatemalan people, Lake Atitlan. A beautiful lake set amongst volcanoes and traditional villages, it is a dream tourist destination... I arrived on the first Sunday of Holy Week, so avoided the bulk of the tourist crowd which was apparently scheduled to arrive en masse on Wednesday. It was plenty crowded for me, though, and the main town on the lake, Panajachel, reminded me a lot of Kao San Road in Bangkok... A tourist strip with shops, restaurants, bars, hair brading and dreadlocks, with a suspicious lack of local people. Despite the beauty of the surroundings, I didn´t like it very much. So I decided to get out of there pretty damn quick and visit the surrounding villages, two of which were supposed to have some unique local traditions that they practise throughout Semana Santa, and I was eager to observe the combination of Mayan traditions with Catholocism.


The highland villages in Guatemala were generally quite charming, and the thing that I loved most about them was the genuine indigenous presence. The people wore traditional dress, and maintained their traditional lifestyle and beliefs. Catholicism is the predominant religion throughout the region, but in the highlands it has a decidely indigenous feel. Catholic church ceremonies in the highlands can contain anything from offering coke to the saints (also thought of as the Mayan gods) sacraficing a chicken, Mayan chants, and more.


The item most of interest to me in Lake Atitlan was a deity known as either Maximon or San Simon depending on who you are talking to. I´m not entirely sure who exactly he is supposed to be, the Lonely Planet describes him as some sort of combination of Mayan gods, the Spanish conqueror of Guatemala, as well as Judas from biblical times, but that just seemed too weird to even contemplate. Whoever he is, the local people certainly believe in his power, because while I was on my way to the lake I ended up almost unable to breath in an extremely crowded chicken bus full of Mayan dressed men and women on their way to make offerings to him in San Jorge, one of the lake villages. I decided that it would be a ritual worth seeing, so the next day I decided to go exploring and hopefully catch a glimpse of the ellusive San Simon. The lady next to me on the bus had explained that they parade an effigy of him around the village and people chant and make offerings throughout Semana Santa, so I just assumed that it would happen every day. But when I arrived at San Jorge, the village that had been so full of life and colour yesterday, I found a town practically deserted, with no sign of San Simon anywhere. When I asked where the procession with San Simon was, they looked at me like I was mad and told me that it was the previous day...


So I wandered around the village from top to tail, which took about ten minutes in total, before deciding to move on and try to spy San Simon in one of the other villages that worship him. The Lonely Planet described the ritual of the village of Santiago Atitlan, who apparently parade San Simon around throughout the whole of Holy Week so I thought that I might have more luck there. I took a ferry over to this village in the afternoon, and I found a bustling market full of tourists and locals. It was charming, and I bought myself some mango, a couple of local cakes and sat and had a coffee for about 20 cents in a lovely local coffee house. But when I tried to find out about San Simon, the locals once again looked a little blank and said, ¨you should have come in the morning, they took him out then¨. So I missed San Simon again, but did enjoy the village and the boat trip on the lake was also lovely.


On the Monday evening I decided that I wasn´t going to let a lack of hotel rooms in Antigua stop me, so I booked a one way bus ticket for Antigua on the Tuesday, with the idea of leaving my luggage for the day in a travel agency and spending the day in the town before leaving late in the evening to stay in Guatemala City, which is about 45 minutes by car from Antigua. I left early in the morning so I could make the most of the entire day in Antigua and see as many processions as possible. I arrived in Antigua by about 8am, and stashed my backpack in the office of the bus company and set out to explore the town centre.


The town was alive with colour, people and life, and I just loved walking along the old, cobblestone streets. Every building in the city had purple drapes hanging from their windows, and dried flowers, which appeared to be the appropriate decoration for Easter. I found my way to the main square and picked up a list of the processions and a map describing the exact route. It was double-sided, and I found the list of processions for Tuesday and so went procession-hunting... The first procession said that it left from the ´Iglesia de la Merced´ (Church of the Mercy?) but I really couldn´t work out how to follow the map at all. I am usually pretty good at navigating, not through any innate skill, but more because of years of practise throughout my travels. Give me a map, and I´ll be able to take myself around any foreign city, guaranteed. So I was somewhat disconcerted to realise that the map I was looking at made no sense and did not seem to correspond to the reality of the town. The main plaza was on a different place on the map, and the street names where all wrong. It made my head hurt, so I gave up looking at the map and decided to ask locals for directions to the Church of the Mercy instead. So finally I found La Merced, was was a beautiful structure, except that it was.... empty. I waited but there was no sign of a procession anywhere... Feeling a little confused, yet still not deterred, I found the next procession in the list, which apparently left from Iglesia de San Francisco. The map still didn´t make any sense, so I asked locals again and directed myself to San Francisco, still optimistic that I would locate my first procession there... only to find the church empty as well.


I started to be suspiscious at this point, and weaved my way through the streets back to the main plaza and the tourist office where I had got the map in the first place. I found one of the tourist police, and all but shoved the map at him, complaining that it didn´t make sense, that I had been to both the churches on the list but there were no processions anywhere.


And once again, I was looked at like I had grown an extra ear or something, while the policemen patiently explained that there WERE no processions in Antigua today, it was the rest day. But it´s right here, I said, pointing at the map and list of processions, and as I pointed I noticed the heading in large purple letters ´PROCESSIONS IN GUATEMALA CITY´.


I had been guiding myself around the wrong city looking for processions that didn´t exist! I couldn´t believe that after all my time travelling I made made such a rookie mistake... and after the failed attempts in Lake Attitlan you would think that I had learnt my lesson!


I think I would have found it rather amusing, except I was bitterly disappointed that I had chosen the one day that had no processions as my day trip to Antigua. It was still a lovely place, but I couldn´t seem to find the energy to explore, so I did what all good women do when a little down in a new town. I went shopping! Retail therapy definitely works wonders, and by the time I left the market I had made a whole in my wallet, and added approximately 6 kilograms to my luggage, but I was cheered immensely... until I had to carry the backpack that is!


Anyway, I definitely learnt a valuable lesson through days of futile searching for efigies and processions that didn´t exist, and that was the importance of talking to local people when planning my excursions. Any of them could have told me where and when to find San Simon if I had asked, or which days were the best to visit Antigua. I definitely learnt the importance of conducting a little research in advance, whether it be through the internet or even better by talking to locals.



I eventually found some processions, on Good Friday, in the city of Coban. Coban is an ordinary Guatemalan town, with limited international tourists, but large enough to host a couple of grand processions. So I got to experience a very authentic Good Friday celebration, without the tourists, which was probably the ideal situation I could have hoped for I think.


I got up early friday morning to watch the local people preparing, creating ornate carpets of sawdust and flowers, known as ´alfombras´. These really looked like carpets on the road, some were quite simple, others amazingly complex and detailed, but all were made with love and reverance. Some were made by family groups, others by businesses, yet others by volunteer groups, such as the volunteer firefighters, which was my favourite alfrombra, probably because of the cheeky guys who were making it.


The alfombras lifespan is short, however. Generally the streets are only allowed to be blocked one or two hours before the processions, so groups have a very short window in which to create their masterpiece, and generally it requires a large number of workers to complete it in time. Less than a couple of hours after they begin, the alfombra is destroyed as the procession passes over top.


The processions are nothing like the parades that we are used to in Australia, with clowns, floats, marching bands, dancers... Rather somber in nature, they tell a story. From the Sunday before Easter there are daily parades that go through the Easter story, each portraying a different aspect of the last week of Jesus´ life, from palm Sunday, when Jesus entered Jerusalem on a donkey, to the miracles of Jesus, such as raising Lazarus from the dead and other miracles, the betrayal of Judas, the last communion, the cruxifiction on Good Friday, then the burial, and finally the resurrection on Easter Sunday. Thousands of men and women walk along with the procession, dressed in purple church robes, except for Friday afternoon, which is the burial, and everyone is dressed in black. It literally takes hours for the procession to move past any given point, the march is long and slow. Finally, the pinacle of each procession is a float, or a number of floats, that are also carried on the shoulders of devout followers, who literally march up to, sometimes even more than 12 hours around the streets of the city.


The reality of the procession process is that after the rush to complete the alfombra in time, the parade itself comes incredibly slowly... After you´ve stood in the same place for two hours in what you thought was a prime position just outside the church, only 100 metres away from the entrance, and you are STILL waiting for the finale, you can be forgiven for a moment or two of boredom.... But when the float passes by and the crowds swell, there was no feeling like it.


The emotion I felt at that moment was quite indescribable. Observing the thousands of people parading, then finally Jesus on the cross and the weeping virgin, flanked by ladies dressed in black, really brought a tear to my eye. It was so beautiful, so spiritual, and I had gone through so much in search of the procession that it was like a dream come true. I found the entire process inspirational, momentous, serene, beautiful, and a number of times was moved to tears...



While I stood, squashed up against people on each side with everyone straining to catch a glimpse of the procession moving past, I felt a sense of completion, and so grateful that I was able to witness that moment. I felt a sense of knowledge that moments like these were the reasons that I travel and through the Easter experience I think I have come to appreciate being here again. It truly was an experience worth waiting for, and I was not a bit disappointed by the reality. I have to say that it is one of the highlights of my trip, something I have never seen before, and am unlikely to ever see again.

Being robbed in Guatemala City...

After five months of theft-free travel in South America, the United States, Cuba and then Mexico before flying home for my pa´s funeral, it was the very day that I flew back from Melbourne into Guatemala City I fell victim to one of the classic tricks, and allowed myself to be robbed.

Of course, it didn´t help that I had travelled two days without sleep and it was 5am in the morning, and dark in Guatemala City, reportedly one of the ´crime capitals´of central America. If in doubt, check out this list of incidences that have occurred against American in Guatemala City.

http://guatemala.usembassy.gov/recent_incidents.html

Needless to say, I was VERY glad to get out of Guatemala City.

Anyway, I had arrived at the airport just after 4am in the morning. My luggage was the first to come out, and there were no taxis waiting in the queue. I had to walk 500m or so up the road and find the taxis waiting, and literally had to wake up the first driver in the queue! It seemed as if the whole city was sleeping.

I just wanted to get out of Guatemala City as soon as possible, and the taxi driver told me he knew where the earliest buses to Xela left from, so he took me there... It turned out that this place was a random street corner, and there was a lone bus sitting on the side of the road with a few local people sitting on it. Apparently the bus was supposed to leave for Xela at 6am. So I got on and waited as well, but by 6:30am the bus still hadn´t left.

The bus had an overhead luggage compartment, just like a plane, that could be sealed. Around 6:40am, an official looking man got on the bus, and told us all it was safer to put our luggage up in the sealed compartments up top. I normally wouldn´t dream of letting my backpack leave my side, after all, it has my laptop, camera, mobile, plus all of my insurance information, everything I need really. But I had heard stories of buses being held up at gunpoint in Guatemala, and I guess I figured that if our luggage was locked up there then it might be safer than if it was visible, and besides, the official looking man told us so, so I very reluctantly put my stuff up.

Next, a very large man then sat down next to me, effectively trapping me in my seat. Before I knew it, the man stood up, and in doing so he dropped his mobile phone, which lay in pieces at my feet. I bent down to help him pick up the phone, and gave it to him, and he got off the bus again.

´That´s weird,´ I thought to myself… Then I realised I´d been distracted when I was picking up the phone, and I straight away looked up at the luggage compartment, where my stuff was, which was slightly ajar, when only a few moments before I had closed it securely. Without even looking I knew that my bag would be gone, but I opened it properly just to check. Of course, I discovered that everything in there had been cleared out, and the guys that had been sitting behind me were gone as well.

At least I had kept my money belt on me, with my cash, my credit cards, my air ticket and my passport. Virtually everything taken was replaceable, and covered by my insurance policy, with the exception of a few photographs I´d taken in San Francisco that I hadn´t backed up yet.

When the bus driver finally got on the bus around 7am, an hour after the scheduled departure time, I reported the theft to him, but he seemed very disinterested and told me it happens all the time, that there was nothing he could do and I should go to the police. Then he proceded to drive the bus around the corner, around another corner and then stop. He announced that the bus had mechanical problems (even though it clearly didn´t) and we would all have to get on the next bus which was at 7:30am from the same place.

I suddenly felt very tired and did not want to stay on another bus waiting possibly for an hour for it to leave, feeling exposed and vulnerable and just wanted to get out of there. So I decided to get a taxi to one of the more official bus terminals, where the first bus left at 8am.

As I sat in the taxi, I thought about what had happened. I was numb, after the loss of my grandfather, the loss of a few personal items didn´t really affect me at that stage. But I pondered the way it had happened, and wondered, suspiciously, if the whole thing was an organised scam, from the fake ticket inspector who gave the instruction to put the luggage up, the ´distractor´and the thieves posing as passengers on the bus, but also possible the bus itself with the overhead compartments, the bus driver, who didn´t get on the bus until right at the last minute, only to drive it round the block and kick everyone off. I still don´t know if the bus and the bus driver were involved or not, but in hindsight the whole thing appears awfully suspicious. I guess I did all I could. I reported it to the police, who seemed incredibly disinterested in the whole event, but they helped me to get the report that will allow me to claim insurance so I guess I should be grateful for that.

A few weeks down the track, I find myself missing my stuff dreadfully. I miss my i-Pod, that I had only had for a month or so, but I sit on long bus rides wondering what I ever did before I had it. I miss my faithful notebook, that I kept all my Spanish notes in, from new word, grammar notes, phrases. It was like a diary that had so many memories in it. Every new word I learnt I wrote in it, and every word had a story, a memory, a time or a place where I learnt it. I miss my laptop most of all, as I used to use it often, not only for communicating with family and friends, but for writing the blog, recording my thoughts, and watching movies or tv shows to relax in the evenings. Anyone who reads my blog regularly will have noticed that I am far more behind now than I have ever been in the past. I miss being able to write my thoughts whenever and wherever I feel the urge, in bed late at night or in a coffee shop...

But the worst thing about being robbed, however, wasn´t the loss of my stuff, but it was been the change in my attitude here. I find myself watching people on the streets, and looking at everyone as if they are out to rob me. I don´t trust anyone. It´s almost like they are the enemy. I have practically stopped talking to local people that I meet on the street, in a park, and especially on buses... I find myself looking around at the local people and wonder which one of them is going to rob me next. I am instinctively suspicious of everyone.

So many other people, travellers and Guatemalans alike, have also shared with me their stories of being robbed, or assaulted. Most of them had experiences far more frightening than my encounter, often involving weapons, from knives, machetes, pistols, even machine guns, and I realise how lucky I was to be essentially ´tricked´ out of my stuff rather than ´held up´.

When I was in Xela my Spanish teacher told that she was walking near her house when two guys fell into step next to her. One of them put his arm around her shoulder as if he were her friend, while the other showed her the knife helf to her stomach. ´Give us your money,´ they demanded. ´Your cell phone and jewellery too.´ Of course, she didn´t argue with them, but gave everything she had and in return she wasn´t harmed. I have always been careful as I´m walking the streets, have always had my bag in front of me, held tightly, but now I stay more aware of the people around me as well, and don´t let anyone get too close.

I hate that the robbery has meant that I automatically mistrust practically everyone in the country, when most of them are like my teacher, undeserving victims of the same criminals that prey on tourists as well. Most Guatemalans are honest, hard working, very poor people that don´t deserve my suspision, only my compassion and empathy. But for a while I have had very little of that to give. I guess if nothing else, I know that this experience has made me a little more careful, which is probably a good thing, and through sharing it I have hopefully been able to warn other travellers of the same scam.

And now I face my next daunting task, which is replacing all those items that I lost. I have a new Spanish notebook that I am starting to fill again with new words and phrases. I bought a new camera, as well. Nothing special, but something that will record my memories in digital form, for later. Now I am looking at replacing my laptop, which is a slightly more signficant investment. The idea is a little scary, to be honest. I think I´m going to have to wait until I feel a little more secure that it is not going to be taken again before I make up my mind to make that purchase!

A maudlin post about grief and loneliness, with very little about travel...

Before embarking on this round-the-world trip my grandfather was diagnosed wtih mesothelioma, a type of cancer caused by asbestos, always fatal, with an average time from diagnosis to death of approximately 12 months. It was a huge shock for everyone, especially as my pa had always been so healthy, even at 80 years old he was gardening and lifting with the strength of men half his age.

I immediately postponed my departure in order to spend some quality time with him, which made him angry, and he said he didn't want me changing my plans for him, but at the same time I think he was glad that I was around for a bit longer... He was an incredibly selfless man and he told me that he wanted me to follow my dreams and do what I loved. He loved to get involved in my travels, and would advise me where I should and shouldn't go. My mum, while an incredibly intelligent woman, is less geographically aware than her father, and when she informed him (erroneously) that I was planning on going to Venezuela (it was actually Guatemala!) he came to me, concerned. 'I don't think you should go there, love... It's not very stable politically at the moment.' He loved to hear about places that I had been, and places that I was planning to go, and when I was trying to put together my itinerary he went into his study and gave me piles and piles of maps of South and Central America, lovingly collected over decades of subscribing to National Geographic.

He never dreamed of travelling the globe, like I did. His dream was his family, and he lived it fully. But his interest in other cultures, other languages, other places, meant that he was able to share my travels in a way that few other people in Australia could. And he followed my adventrued faithfully like the proud grandfather he was, reading my blogs, in the end listening to them as my mum would read them aloud to him.

He was so proud of his travelling granddaughter, and when I went to Poland to learn Polish he called me every week, and loved sharing stories from his childhood. In Poland I lived in an apartment that was only a couple of blocks from where he grew up. To be honest, I think he would have loved for me to be happily settled with a husband and kids closer to home, but more than anything he wanted me to be happy. He never once indicated disappointment in me, only support and love and total acceptance. As a person who depends greatly on the approval of others, I was incredibly grateful for that, as I would not have been able to do what I have without the support and acceptance of my family and friends.

According to the values of society my Pa was not a rich man. He never really had much in terms of material belongings. He worked hard and sacrificed for his family. It was common for him to go without breakfast and lunch on payday, until the money went into the bank, but he always made sure he children had enough to eat. He had his house, and his car, but little more. As an immigrant without a formal education, he worked in a factory all his life. He was working class, a battler.

But to me, he was the richest man in the world. His family was everything to him. It was like his kingdom and he was our king. My cousins and I don't see each other a lot, mostly we don't have a lot in common. But one thing we were always totally united in was our absolute adoration for our pa. He was our hero. Truly noble, good and selfless down to the bottom of his soul, he looked for the good in everyone. He would go out of his way to help others, at times literally giving the shirt off his back.

He had it tough growing up as a child in Poland. After the German's invaded the schools were all shut down, and he took on the responsibiliy of finding food for his family. Every day he would sneak out of the city through back streets and walk through forrests and plains for 8km, then go by train out to the countryside where he would buy food at a farm. He would then take it back to the city the same way. If the train was stopped by German soldiers he would have to walk the whole way back, nearly 40 kilometres.

In 1944 he fought in the Warsaw Uprising, although he was still a boy then himself. His mother was tortured by the Germans. They broke both her legs in order to force her to reveal his whereabouts, which she never did. He was captured by the Germans anyway, and interred in a Prisoner of War camp, where there was a shortage of food and they were forced to do hard labour. His dad was also executed about the same time.

But despite all of this, he didn't feel bitter or hatred. His heart was full of love and forgiveness. He was truly one of the best people the world has ever known and noone knew this more than his family.

My pa died on Tuesday February 26th at about 4:30pm. I was sitting in Los Angeles airport when I found out, having flown from Guatemala City. I was trying to get home in time to say goodbye, but it happened too quickly. I guess that's a good thing. I would hate for him to have had to suffer any more than he did.


But I haven't felt like writing anything since. I made it home for the funeral and spent two weeks in Melbourne, mostly spending time wiht my nanna and my mum, amongst family. A week ago, I flew back to Guatemala to continue my travel. I didn't really feel like coming back, to be honest. In a way I think I resent it. It was because I was selfishly doing what I wanted and travelling the world, that I couldn't be with my family when they needed me, when I needed them. Sometimes I think that not being able to see my grandfather in the end was like my penance for choosing to travel over being at home.

I wish so much that I could have been there for him in the last few weeks of his life, so that he could be sure just how much I loved him. I know that Pa loved following my travels and that he would have wanted me to come back, but now I'm back in Guatemala, everything feels a bit hollow. I miss home so much my heart literally feels like it is aching in my chest. I can't seem to muster any enthusiasm for the things that used to be so enchanting to me... Ruins, churches, temples, nature... I feel like I've seen them all before.

I spend most of my days pretending I'm alright, and trying to be alright, but mostly I look at my watch and think about how many hours I have to kill till I can go to bed. I'm sightseeing, not to see the sights, but because it fills up the day and keeps me occupied. I miss the presence of my loved ones desperately.

Although I lost my grandpa nearly three weeks ago now, it feels so much harder now that I am alone away from everyone that I love. But I guess that is what grief is all about. You wake up and just pretending you are okay until one day you wake up and realise that it is true. For me, I just hope that that day comes soon. Maybe writing this will help. I certainly hope so, or else the remaining six months of my trip looks like it is going to be very long indeed....

My travel map.... so far!

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How to look Cuban in one simple step!

Cuba is a rainbow of different-coloured people, from those that are very black to those that are very white, and every colour in between. There were blond Cubans, brunette Cubans, African Cubans, indigenous Cubans, even Chinese Cubans, as well as all kind of combinations of the above! It was another thing that I loved about the place. Everyone is all mixed together, and there are no ghettos of blacks, nor suburban areas of only whites, nor any of the class differences that are often associated with these. Black and whites play together as children, hold hands in the street as teenagers, work together as adults, and get married, and it is totally normal. It was such a wonderful, inspiring part of life there that I really wish we could take and export it around the world.

With such a diverse range of people, I figured that I could probably pass as local, in the same way as I did in Argentina and Chile. But everyone seemed to know automatically that I was local, and in the beginning I could never work out why. I wasn’t walking with a backpack and camera in hand like other tourists, but there seemed to be a stamp on my forehead that screamed ‘gringo’. I didn’t work out until almost my last day in Cuba what the problem was.

On my last full day in La Habana, I decided to change casas in order to save a few dollars. A couple of friends had recommended a cheap casa, so I decided to try it out, and found that it was central, clean, with lovely people, and for a fraction of the price that we paid at other places. A true bargain! After settling in to the Casa I worked out why it could be so much cheaper. They didn’t ask me for my passport, didn’t want me to register, and there were no signs up that signify an official ‘Casa Particular’. I realised that I had discovered an illegal Casa! I’d heard of ‘illegal casas’ – black market operations that operate without the government’s knowledge and pocket all the money for themselves. I’d wanted to find one, because I’d heard that they were much cheaper than the ‘official Casas’, but had had no idea how to find them. But somehow I stumbled into one without planning to.

The system of Casa Particular is incredibly tightly controlled by the government. Ostensibly this is to protect the tourists, but really it seems to be a revenue raising enterprise for the government, with official Casas having to pay about $200 a month in taxes. Of course, this means the cost is passed onto the tourist, who pays more than $20 a night for a room, which incidentally, happens to be more than twice the minimum monthly wage for Cubans.

I would never have expected that this casa was illegal, as the front door to the place was directly opposite the ‘Capitolio’, probably the most famous building in Habana! This was not a back street, hole-in-the-wall operation. It was extraordinarily public. They were hiding in plain sight, so to speak. The penalty for operating an illegal casa apparently can by quite high, so there is a lot of risk involved, especially if you have envious neighbours who dob you in. I guess the casa I found had good neighbours… Or perhaps they slipped them a little bit of money on the side to keep them quiet. I was too shy to ask.

Regardless, it is still risky to have foreigners staying in your house if you are not official, and it makes it much easier for the Casa owner if you happen to look a little ‘Cuban’ and can blend in a little more. In my first few minutes there, I happened to overhear one side of a phone conversation that went something like this. ‘Look, I have this Italian staying here, but he’s complaining that the price is too expensive and he wants to find somewhere cheaper so I thought of your place. He’s in his forties, speaks excellent Spanish, and he looks Cuban. Would you mind if I sent him to you?’

When I had dumped my bags and settled in, I got myself ready to go walking for the day, and was about to leave when the lovely ladies at my illegal casa gave me the once over. They told me that I looked far too much like a tourist, and I needed to look local. I wondered how they were going to achieve this miracle, but I put myself into their hands. They grabbed me, and started rearranging my clothes, while I sat back and watched. As they worked they kept muttering that my knee-length skirt was too long, and my top wasn’t tight enough. When they had finished, I examined myself and found they had tied the top of my skirt with a couple of elastic bands and folded it a couple of times, to hike it up to just below my bottom, and done something similar with my top, and I was showing a lot more leg and stomach that I have ever shown anywhere but the beach! Now everything started to fall into place, and I realised why I hadn’t been able to pass before.

Cubans are by far the most skimpily clad women of all the countries I have been to. Cuban women wear short skirts and tight tops, and it isn’t limited only to those with drop dead gorgeous bodies either. I’ve seen women of all shapes and sizes dressed in tight mini skirts showing short fat legs and lovely round tummies! It was one of the things that I loved about Cuba actually. They really seemed to embrace their bodies, and love them, regardless of size, shape or colour. It was as if those corrupting magazines and media that seem to dictate what a perfect body should be in the West didn’t exist… Because in Cuba they don’t! I found it so refreshing, and I spent a lot of my time people watching, admiring the fact that larger women were embracing their bodies and dressing ‘sexy’ as well. They had a way of walking to go with their dress. They kind of sauntered, hips swaying in a rather lazy fashion, instead of the more determined, purposeful stride that Western women tend to adopt. Cubans in general are far less inhibited than we are in the West. Watching the dance floor is spectacular, as it appears that without exception, all Cubans can dance. Women and men flirt outrageously, with women rubbing their bottoms up against men’s crotches, in true dirty dancing style. Picture the kind of moves you see in Dirty Dancing in the ‘underground’ nightclub, only these are happening not only in night clubs and discos, but in any public arena that happens to have music playing in the evenings! It was fascinating to watch the interactions between men and women that appeared incredibly sexual on the dance floor, but after the dance the two would then go off to separate sides of the room, and it would become apparent that it was nothing more than a dance. Cubans seem to be incredibly liberated, expressive, and demonstrative, which made it so interesting to watch.

But anyway, the fact that so many different sized women in Cuba wear whatever they want gave me a bit of confidence, so I figured, ‘When in Cuba…’ and went off walking in my mini-mini-skirt and equally mini-mini-top, trying to adopt the kind of Cuban ‘saunter’ that I observed in those around me. Interestingly, within a couple of blocks a man approached me, and instead of the English ‘hey beautiful lady’ or something that I would usually hear, he spoke to me in Spanish. I had no idea what he had said, so told him that I didn’t understand him. He looked surprised and switched to English, saying that he had assumed I was Cuban! So it was true! A shorter skirt and skimpy top, combined with a sway to the hips was the only thing needed to make me look local!

Anyway, while I was Cubanified, I gained personal experience of the ‘machismo’ culture of Cuban men. I had heard occasional comments that I understood as I walked around the streets before, but when I was dressed skimpily the comments multiplied at least ten times or more. I couldn’t keep the Cuban saunter up all day, and must have reverted to my Australian walk throughout the day, because the comments came in a combination of English and Spanish, as well as a type of whistle that sounded a bit like the hissing sound a sick cat might make! I’d heard the sound directed at me before but hadn’t realised it was supposed to be appreciative! Some of the comments were worse than others, some were quite charming. In English it was generally ‘Beautiful lady’ or ‘Hey, where are you from?’ with a couple hissing at me to get my attention, then made some pretence of wanting to know the time. In Spanish they were much more creative. ‘Hey gorgeous’ was kind of standard, as well as ‘Are you looking for a man?’ and ‘Wanna come dance with me, darling?’ but there was also ‘I thank God for your beauty’ that I heard a couple of times, as well as my favourite, ‘What a beautiful ass, thankyou for showing it to us!’ That one made me laugh out loud!

Interestingly, despite all this, I never once felt physically at risk; most men seemed content to appreciate at a distance without needing a reply. A few came closer to try to talk to me, but a short, ‘sorry, not interested’ put them off. None were persistent or tried to continue after I told them ‘no’ which surprised me, and is a lot more than I can say for men I’ve met in a lot of other places around the world, who just can’t seem to get the message that you aren’t one bit interested. The men were much more forward than in the West, but also seemed to back off more readily too, maybe because they are used to be rebuffed! They would have to be. Given the frequency of their come-on’s it is not possible that every woman they call out to accepts them. To be honest, I’m not sure how serious any of the comments are. I couldn’t help but wonder if I stopped, and took up one of the guys on their invitation to go dancing, whether they might look at me shocked and say ‘actually, I don’t really have time, and didn’t really mean it. I was only trying to be nice!’ But of course I was never game enough to try, just in case!

Maybe I’m being overly naïve, but it seemed to me that the Cuban way was just a different style of interaction between men and women. Men are taught to appreciate a woman that they see as attractive through sounds and comments, but I don’t think it is anything more sinister than that, and it is pretty easy to ignore. I know it goes against everything I’m supposed to feel as an emancipated, independent woman of Australia, I have to confess, it definitely made me feel more attractive as I walked around the town. I kind of liked it. I felt beautiful, powerful, sexy.

But as flattering as all the attention was, though, after a while it was tiring. After having to ignore or laugh off at least a hundred such encounters, I finally got so frustrated that I yelled at a guy who tried to talk to me! I tried ignoring him, but he kept following me. Admittedly, he was only asking me where I was from, so I decided there was no harm in answering. I said I was Australian. Then he asked me why girls from Australia don't want to talk to boys from Cuba! Well, that was it! I couldn't hold it in anymore, and told him that I didn't have to talk to anyone I didn't want to, that he was a bit creepy in continuing to talk to someone who clearly didn't want to be bothered, and that I was going to go and get my husband who was in the hotel room waiting for me, and he would kick his ass if he didn't leave me alone! He looked a little shocked and apologised, saying he was only trying to make conversation, and left promptly. I decided it was time to go back to being Australian, and put my skirt and top down and felt much more relaxed. But in order to help the ladies in my illegal casa, before arriving back home, I hiked it my skirt up a good six inches and tied my top as well, so I would not stand out too much as I stood on their doorstep! They hadn’t been arrested by the time I left the next day, so I guess it worked, but I couldn’t help wondering how many tourists going through their casa get the same ‘cubanification’ and how many people would put up with it!

Waiting in queues… Communism in action!

One of the effects of the communist era in Cuba has been that the Cuban people have an incredibly well developed system for queuing, that after my time in China, I definitely wasn’t expecting. Waiting for things in China was also a legacy from communist times, but instead of the communist era making Chinese good at waiting in queues, it turned normal Chinese people into monsters when there is a line involved! Chinese queue with their elbows, and generally the accepted form is to push and shove and push and shove until you have pushed everyone out of your way and you are at the front of the line and can get on the bus, go to the toilet, buy your ice-cream, or do whatever it is you were queuing for.

By contrast the Cubans are extremely civilised, and when there is a queue for anything, there is no pushing or shoving; Cubans are far too easy-going and laid back for that. In fact, if you have to wait for something, there is rarely any need to queue up in a line at all. What happens is that you arrive at where a bunch of people are waiting, maybe it is in a bank, maybe for a bus, and you ask ‘Who’s last?’ Someone will raise their hand, and you remember that person, because that’s who you go after. When the bus comes, a rough line forms and you stand behind that person in the line. In the bank, when that person goes up to the counter, you know that you are next. It’s so brilliant, and civilised, and no one even bothers to try to push in, or jump the queue.


My favourite waiting experience was in Coppelia, Cuba’s most famous ice-cream parlour. The Lonely Planet describes it as a cultural experience without equal; it is a park with a number of different areas in which ice cream is served at ridiculously cheap prices. Rough queues form at the outer edges of the complex, each entrance having its own ‘line’ that leads to a certain area of the park. You ask who’s last, and remember that person and everyone kind of huddles around in a sea of people, but as people are called into the magical realm of Coppelia one table at a time, you realise that everyone knows their place. We were after a Cuban rapper and his girlfriend, and he spoke excellent English, sounding just like a hip hop DJ from a disco in the states! His English had a rhythm that really made it sound like he was rapping as he explained the process of waiting in line, getting a table and ordering your food. The average wait time is about an hour, he told us! We must have been there on a very average day, because almost exactly one hour from the time we arrived at the front of the queue and were let into the section of tables and chairs in our area.

I was hoping that it was bloody good ice cream to make it worth the wait! When it came I found that the ice cream itself was nice, but nothing particularly special. In any other country in the world, I’m sure I would be furious if I waited an hour, only to find that rather than the hundreds of flavours available in Haagen Daaz, Ben and Jerry or Wendy’s that there was exactly one flavour on offer that day, chocolate. I don’t even particularly LIKE chocolate ice cream, but I didn’t have much of a choice.

Five scoops of ice cream cost 5 pesos, or about 25 cents, so Joo and I ordered five scoops each, feeling incredibly decadent as we did so. But when our lone plate of 5 scoops appeared, I looked over at other tables and I was agog to discover that the standard was 3 plates each, or a whopping 15 scoops per person, as well as an assortment of cakes and biscuits to go with it! Joo remarked that it looked like everyone was eating ice cream for their dinner! The rapper and his girlfriend seemed to find this statement incredibly funny, and I found out why when their plates came out. Four cakes, four bowls of ice cream, and several biscuits later, they laughed that they really wouldn’t need dinner! I guess if you have waited in line so long you want to make the visit worth it, but I still couldn’t work out how so many skinny people could eat so much ice cream in one sitting and still stay skinny! I guess it’s not something that is done everyday, that’s for sure!

Despite the queuing, and the rather average tasting ice cream, the process of standing in line with other Cubans felt authentic and real, and gave me a shiver of excitement that I was experiencing ‘real’ Cuba. I found that I really didn’t mind the wait. Of course, the fact that the whole thing only cost me about 20 cents probably helped. But more than that, the wait gave us a time to chat, to socialise, and make new friends and no one seemed impatient or frustrated. By the time we got to the table, the rapper and his girlfriend had invited Joo and I along to a concert the following night, and we felt like old friends. I guess I could really see the beauty in the slower pace of life in Cuba that means people aren’t always in a hurry, that gives people the time to pause, to talk to people, and appreciate the smaller things in life. As I sat eating my five scoops of chocolate ice cream, I tried to imagine people in New York stopping their daily routine to wait in line for an hour for a bowl of ordinary-tasting ice cream, in only one flavour, and it made me realise how refreshingly different things in Cuba are. I couldn't help but wonder if the lazy, laid back nature of the Cubans that allows them to wait so patiently without complaint is due to the effects of communism, or simply the culture and climate, or some combination of both. Whatever the reason, though, I figure that it would be such a dreadful shame if that aspect of life there were lost in the corporate rat-race, should capitalism and the free market be introduced.

Trying to make sense of Cuba...

Cuba has been a country that I have wanted to visit for a long time, and not only because it is the birthplace of salsa dancing, which I have had a passion for since I was at university. But more than that, it is one of the only remaining communist countries left in the world, and the only one that can be readily visited. I get the feeling that Fidel Castro is fading, and when he dies that a great change is in store for the country. That’s not to say that I think there’ll be a McDonald's on every street corner or that rampant capitalism will take hold immediately. But I think that Fidel’s death will be a catalyst for change, and when that happens things will never be the same. I guess that is one of the reasons that I was fairly determined to visit Cuba on this trip, and not put it off until 'next time'. And it definitely did not disappoint. Being in Cuba was exhilarating, challenging, frustrating, amazing, and inspiring. I loved it! It was so different to any place I’ve ever been before and had me in an almost constant state of 'wow' from the first moment, from the buildings, the cars, the clothes, the people, the nature... even the money!

There are two economies at work in Cuba and two currencies to go with it. The 'convertible' peso (mostly known as CUC) which is roughly equivalent to the Euro, and the Cuban peso, 24 to a CUC, making 1 cuban peso roughly 4 euro cents. Tourists are supposed to only use convertible pesos, but Cuban people also need to use them to buy packaged goods, petrol, clothes, toys, as well as to get into the flashier nightclubs and have meals in nicer restaurants. With cuban pesos, also known as national money, things on the streets are incredibly cheap, by international standards at least. A bus ride within the city costs 40 cuban cents (less than two cents!) which is by far the cheapest public transport system I’ve ever encountered. A cup of orange cordial, or coffee on the street is 1 peso (4 cents) and a sandwich or piece of pizza is 5 pesos (20 cents). Three scoops of ice-cream in a cone is also 5 pesos.

There is a lot of price fixing by the government, and despite the fact that the average wage for Cubans is between US$8-$18 per month, for me, it was one of the most expensive countries that I have visited. The budget hostels for backpackers that are ubiquitous in the rest of the Latin America do not exist here; the only option is to stay in a ‘Casa Particular’ which basically is a room in a house of a local family. A room costs around $20-$25 regardless of whether there is one or two people staying. That being the case, I got on the plane with a mission: to find a suitable travel companion in order to avoid paying the exorbitant room costs on my own.

I was lucky enough to find Joohyong, a Korean student, friendly and loquacious, that I liked from the first. We chatted about our plans, and it turned out we were both going to be in Cuba for about two weeks, and we planned to see similar places, so we decided to join forces and travel together. That mission accomplished, I turned my attention to learning as much as I could about Cuba.

Although Cuba is still quite fervently communist in many ways, there are small ways that the market economy is encroaching on life there. This has apparently only been allowed in the last ten years or so. People are allowed to operate business from their house in order to make a little bit of extra cash, and so you see a lot of people selling something from windows or doorways in their house, from coffee, sandwiches, refreshments, pizza, or watch repairs, jewellery, DVD’s. I found it such a contradiction that the insistence of the government in keeping out the free market, and maintaining the strict principles of communism, in that everyone is practically paid the same wage, was the very thing that created the need for the market economy in the first place, to supplement the minuscule government salary that they receive. Such operations are tightly controlled by the government through permits and paperwork and any profit above the wage allotted from the state must be declared, and is taxed heavily by the government.

In our first day in Havana, Joo and I were walking in the old town and we spotted one such business: a small sign on the doorway of a house that simply read ‘coffee’. We ordered some Cuban coffee, which was fantastic; strong and sweet, and at 4 cents for an espresso shot it is definitely the best value coffee I had in all my travels! We got talking to the gentleman in the house, and it turned out that he was fluent in English, as well as Spanish of course, and Italian, French and Arabic. Juan-Benjamin was the sort of man people could write a book about. The son of Iranian immigrants and a practiser of Santeria, an Afro-Cuban religion that mixes Catholicism with traditional African beliefs, he was incredibly sociable and he invited us into his house to sit and chat over our coffee. Unlike some over-touristed nations, everyone in Cuba seems delighted even to talk to visitors to their country. I also suspect that the Communist system means that people have less urgency in their daily, hence have a lot more time to sit and chat with foreigners if they want. There is a Cuban saying that makes me laugh every time I hear it. 'They pretend to pay us, so we pretend to work.' Of course, the laziness that is exhibited throughout the streets could also be attributed to the tropical climate, or simply the laid back culture. But for whatever reason, locals love making conversation, and I spent a lot of my time in Cuba simply sitting in a park or in the street and chatting with an array of local residents, such as Juan-Benjamin.

Cuba, he told us, is unlike any other place on earth. “You can’t compare Cuba to anywhere else,” he said. “ Things here stopped in 1959 with the revolution, while the rest of the world kept moving.” I asked if we could take some photos together, and Juan-Benjamin also took out his digital camera, which seemed sparkly and new, and quite possibly never been used. He certainly had no idea how to even turn it on! ‘A present from my god-son in Spain’, he explained proudly, ‘camera’s like this can’t be bought here.’ I chatted with Juan-Benjamin for the better part of the morning, intrigued by his story, his outlook, his experiences straddling the world of Cuba and the West. As we were chatting, I couldn’t help but notice the fact that the courtyard in the house was half under construction. Juan-Benjamin saw me glancing at it, and apologised profusely for the mess, explaining that the man that they had hired to do the work was caught by the police with his tool kit. They had questioned him as to why he needed tools, as his job was as a shopkeeper, and under pressure he confessed that he was working privately in his spare time in construction. He was jailed for a week! The crime, apparently, was working in a private capacity that was unsanctioned. Juan-Benjamin was hoping that he was to be released that day, and would come back to work for them immediately, but they weren’t sure what would happen when he left jail.

The story was alarming, and made me realise just how tightly the government tries to control people’s lives in Cuba. I met another person with a similarly sobering outlook on life in Cuba. While walking along the Malecon, a famous wall that hugs the coast for 8km across Havana, I started up a conversation with a man wearing a doctor’s coat and stethoscope. To protect his identify I’m going to call him ‘the Cuban Doctor’. Anyway, I immediately felt a sense of trust in him, maybe it was the doctor’s uniform, but for whatever reason, I boldly asked him some questions that I had been wondering about life in Cuba. I asked about the double economy system, and how Cubans can live when some things cost so much in convertible pesos, but they are paid so little in national money. I also asked him how people really feel about the government, because so far I’d only really encountered really positive comments from the casa owners, and it really contrasted with the account that I’d heard from Juan-Benjamin. I really didn’t ask much more than that, but he took the question extremely seriously, and asked me to sit with him while he explained his ideas about capitalism and communism, Cuban history, corruption, the West, the coming change, and much, much more. He gave me about three hours of his afternoon, asking nothing in return, and helped me to understand a little more deeply the paradox that is Cuba. He had clearly thought deeply about each of these issues, and his analysis was insightful, honest and realistic. He explained that most Cuban people are deeply patriotic, and in many cases this love is extended to their government. However, he explained, there are probably an equal number of people who are critical of communism and the decisions of the current administration. But they are pragmatic, and just aren’t sure that a Western-style democracy would make things all that much better. The closest example they have of such a system is the United States, which has not done a lot to endear themselves to the Cuban people.

Although one of Cuba’s top cardiologists working in one of the best hospitals in Havana, the Cuban Doctor makes the equivalent of about 18 dollars per month. He explained that all Cuban people get a ration card that entitles him to a monthly allotment of food that can be purchased at special government stores known as ‘bodegas’. Items at bodegas are sold at a highly subsidised price, so things cost about a twentieth of what it would cost in ordinary markets. Through his ration card he can buy about 3 kg of rice, 250g of beans, 2.5kg of sugar, as well as some other things such as coffee, pasta, salt and cooking oil.

‘But it’s definitely not enough to feed myself,’ he explained. ‘If I had to live on my salary alone, I would definitely die,’ he said.

‘So what do you do then?’ I enquired. He explained that some people get second jobs privately, others operate a small business from their home, some scam tourists, yet others survive on supplements from relatives overseas. But one this is universal: most do it tough. He spoke about the difficulties that he faces on a daily basis, and for him one of the hardest things is the control. Not having the freedom to leave Cuba, and travel wherever he wanted. And not having the freedom to speak freely about the things that he doesn't like. He also remarked on the fact that some people in his workplace do their jobs poorly, but get paid the same amount as him, which he feels is unfair, and makes him quite frustrated. He would like to be rewarded for his effort. He spoke about the fact that in the past many people have found life under the communist system so unbearable that they preferred to chance taking a boat to Florida.

'Some people make it and have a better life,’ he told me, ‘But some people drown in the sea on the way. I never thought that I would get so unhappy that I would consider it, but right now, I'm on the verge of taking the chance and going myself.’ At this alarming statement, I interjected, encouraging him to wait and see what changes the next few years might bring. We exchanged addresses so we could be penpals, in the traditional sense of the word because Cubans aren’t allowed to use the internet, he explained. To be honest, I’m doubtful that I’ll manage to write, because I can barely manage to keep in touch with my closest friends and family, but he was so earnest about writing that I’ll make an effort, I guess. He told me to be careful what I wrote in my letters, because mail is often intercepted and read by government officials. My heart broke a little for the Cuban Doctor, with his desire for a better life, and his idea that if only he could get to America or Australia or some other Western country that things would be okay. I tried to make him see that things weren’t as simple as all that, and that the life of a refugee in the West can often be harder than the place that they are fleeing. But I was touched that he shared his story with me, and his time, and I fervently hope that Cuba can change in a way to make people like him be able to have the futures that they dream of.

Not everyone’s story is as sad as this, though. I encountered so many people that were fiercely proud and supportive of their government and the communist system. They acknowledged that some things were difficult, but were quick to point out the long list of positive things that Cuba has, thanks to the communist government. One memorable encounter was with a young girl of about six or seven years old. I took my poi out onto the street one night to practise, and was practically mobbed by neighbourhood children who wanted to play with them. I gave up the idea of practising, and supervised the kids playing instead, but there was one little girl who wasn’t interested in playing. She just really wanted to talk to me, and spent most of the evening by my side. A couple of comments that she made really stood out.

‘Do you know that I am a student in primary school, and my brother goes to high school?’, she announced, proudly. ‘And in Cuba all children can go to school AND university for FREE! Did you know that?’

I responded with what I hoped was a suitable degree of awe.

‘And see that over there? That’s a hospital. Did you know that in Cuba all people can go to the hospital and everything is FREE’

‘How wonderful!’ I dutifully replied.

It was a really interesting interaction for me, for a number of reasons. Firstly, her desire to share her love of her country with a visitor and the manner in which she went about it which was so cute. But it was clear that she these were ideas that she had been taught by her elders; she was far too young to have come up with them on her own. It showed me (if the multitude of government sponsored billboards, posters and slogans hadn't already done so) that propaganda is definitely alive and well in Cuba. But as I thought more about it I figured that they have the right to be proud of their health and education system, and why shouldn’t they have the right to hold them up as examples for the world? As a developing nation, they have same amazing statistics, that many more developed nations should envy. The life expectancy for both men and women is close to 80 years. There is universal free medical coverage, almost universal literacy, and the population is incredibly well educated and informed. And unlike many nations, access to education is not determined by race, socio-economic status, or family connections. A lot of really positive things come out of the system, and I think it's really important that any consideration of Cuba should also acknowledge that not everything under communism has been bad for the people.

That being said, life for Cuban people definitely is not easy, especially in terms of economy, and people have to resort to all kinds of methods to try and supplement their income, some legitimate, others not so. That is the reason that a lot of people come away from Cuba feeling disillusioned, frustrated and unhappy. Many tourists that I spoke to told me that they really didn’t like Cuba at all, and when I asked why told stories of hustlers, corrupt baggage handlers and casa owners that treated them just like walking wallets. While most people I met seemed to want nothing more than my company, I definitely encountered my share of people that were eager to take advantage of any sort of connection with foreigners and those elusive convertible pesos! One of the most innocuous of many encounters was with a guy who wanted me to buy an internet card that would allow him to access the internet for an hour. Worth 6 CUC, for him it wasn’t the price that was prohibitive, but the fact that he was Cuban. ‘Cubans aren’t allowed to use the internet,’ he explained. ‘It’s only for foreigners. We can use a local Cuban email address, which doesn’t cost much at all, but everything else is blocked. And all the correspondence through the Cuban mail account is monitored. Foreigners are the only ones allowed to buy the cards that gives unfettered access to the net.’ I felt for him, so I gave him the $3CUC internet card that a fellow tourist gave me. I was saving it to send some emails home, but decided that he could use it more. It was far more common that I would talk to someone for half an hour or so, before they would suddenly say something like, ‘Do you have a few dollars that you could spare to buy me a beer?’ I was always embarrassed to refuse, but I didn’t have a few dollars to spare to buy myself a beer let alone someone else! But at the same time, I always felt a pang of disappointment when I encountered people that seemed to want to take advantage of my ‘foreignness’ to get something. But whenever I would become frustrated I would remind myself that local people earn such a small amount of money, and they do whatever they have to survive... As a friend from couch surfing explained to me ‘people do a lot… a lot of informal, illegal things… and a part of this is sometimes tricking foreigners or taking advantage of them. I don't like it, but it’s part of the reality that people have to take into account. At the same time, there are also foreigners coming here to take advantage of the economic situation of Cuban people. Who suffers? The average, everyday traveller.’ So I forgave them when I felt hassled and smiled and walked away.

But one thing I couldn’t forgive was the guy who tried to mug me on one of my first nights in Havana! Mugged probably isn’t the right term, but I don’t know how to use the past-passive form of the verb ‘to bag snatch’. Basically a man pushed me to the ground, and tried to snatch my bag. Fortunately, I’m in the habit of keeping a pretty good hold on my bag, and I refused to let it go, so after a couple of unsuccessful yanks, he ran away and I was left unharmed. I’d heard that crime was basically non-existent in Cuba, so it surprised me a lot. I’d been through places that were considered far more dangerous, and survived unscathed, so I definitely wasn’t expecting it. It was stark reminder about the affects of poverty, and Cuba is definitely a country with widespread poverty and economic difficulties throughout all levels of the community. But the question needs to be asked. How much of this is caused by the communist system, and how much is caused by economic troubles resulting from the trade embargo? In place for over forty years now, the U.S. embargo prohibits American companies from operating in Cuba and sanctions are imposed on foreign firms that do business there. This has had a huge affect on so many aspects of life in Cuba, from access to vital food and medical supplies to transport. The embargo makes it difficult and expensive for Cuba to buy new cars, buses, and trucks. The latest introduction in the public transport system in Havana is trucks that carry a carriage on the back, affectionately known as 'camels' because they look like they have humps. When you look at the roads, it really does seem like life stopped back in '59. People still drive American cars from the fifties, and ofttimes carparks look like classic car shows! The embargo also makes it almost impossible to access spare parts, so they improvise, and take parts from other places, other cars, integrate it all and somehow manage to make it work. The public transport system is notoriously unreliable. I heard someone say that Cubans have two jobs. One is their actual job, and the other is getting to their job. The daily commute for people in Havana can be as much as 3 or 4 hours, because there are just not enough buses in the country to fulfil the need! Also, access to oil has also been difficult. Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, Cuba had a relatively plentiful supply, but since then it dried up. Now Venezuela is supplying oil, so things are better than they were but it is definitely not abundant nor cheap.

The embargo has meant that generations of Cubans have lived with limitations and restrictions, and learnt how to make the most out of whatever they happen to have. I was also astonished to learn that many people actually WASH and DRY plastic bags and re-use them, taking their own along to markets. This is not out of desire to protect the environment, particularly, but rather to economise. In order to make a profit, markets just can't afford to give them away, and they don't mass produce them like they do in other places, so people have to supply their own, which I thought was fantastic, and definitely something we could learn from. There is a spirit to the Cuban people that is really inspirational. They have so many admirable qualities. Despite their hardships, they exhibited such an easy-going nature, a laid back warmth and friendliness that often made me feel like family from the first moment that I met them. They are resourceful and creative. Their simple joy in life, their passion for dance and music, and an ability to enjoy themselves that by far outstrips other developing nations that I have spent time in. Regardless of their political views, they are united in their deep, abiding love for their country. They are patient, polite, and have an incredibly civilised system of waiting in queues that should be exported around the globe! (I'm going to write a whole blog entry about that next). There is practically no racism, and class-based differences are also minimal. They are sociable and open, and even in big cities there is a very real tangible feeling of community. And above all, they definitely know how to party!