Tito Gonzalez, ‘Al Doblar la Esquina’- Ship’s In

Nobody was more surprised at the phenomenal success of ‘Buena Vista Social Club’ than the hard-line Communist Cuban government, which for years had surpressed all forms of popular music as vestiges of a recidivist bourgeois love affair with capitalism and all its inherent evils. They promoted classical music instead. Go figure. Well, that was before the USSR’s last gasp, and in the 1990’s ‘revisionism’ was not the dirty word it once was. Not only was pragmatism the new operative concept, but there was also a realization that a generation had been sacrificed in the the cultural evolution of the country, and that time was of the essence if the thread was not to be lost entirely. Well, it could have been worse. Havana fared better than Phnom Penh, after all. So the call went out for talent to come forward and show itself. One of those who turned up was Heriberto ‘Tito’ Gonzalez, as part of a group of musical taxi drivers. The rest is history, and Tito’s belated career was finally on its way after many years of fits and starts.

If Communism accomplished nothing else, it did manage to stop clocks all over the Communist-speaking world, so that much of the Cuban music in Cuba itself is something of a snapshot of the way things were BEFORE the proliferation of ‘Afro-Cuban’ music overseas, BEFORE the emergence of a plethora of new Spanish-language ‘Latin’ genres that would rival that of the English-speaking world, and maybe most of all… BEFORE Carlos Santana. I will tell you now, and I’ll tell you on my death bed, that no one single person is more responsible for putting that well-known sabor in modern Latin music than Don Carlos. He is the hot chile in that south-of the-border musical cuisine. He gave Latin music a new direction with a sharp edge, not just guitar-drenched, but rhythm-infused… and mind-penetrating. What he didn’t do himself directly, he did through his indirect influence, as simple comparisons before and after will attest.

The music of Tito Gonzalez comes from a simpler era, and his new album ‘Al Doblar la Esquina’ reflects that. This is an era when the brass in big bands ruled, the drums stayed respectfully on the sideline if not the background, and romancing the opposite sex was how you ‘got off.’ While Tito himself is a consummate player of the three-stringed tres (not to be confused with the cuatro), that pretty much stays in the background on this album and Tito mostly lets his rich baritone do the talking for him. Whatever it lacks in easy comprehensibility of intricate lyrics it makes up for with a rich melodic texture that wears well. The brass rule the harmonic airwaves on this album and that’s testament to Tito’s choice of a bandleader, too, in this case Jose Dumen, and a superb line-up of ex-pat Cuban musicians in the US.

This is one of those albums that only gets better as you go along. While most albums load their best stuff on the front-end of the batting order, Tito seems to be connecting first with the Buena Vista son expectations, and then moving into his own as the album proceeds, nothing short of a kick-ass salsero he is by the end, spiritual son of another Tito. Things get off to a rollicking start with ‘Busco a Alguien’ (I’m Looking for Someone’)- “no tengo compromisos… busco alguien que me queda” (“I’m not committed yet… I’m just looking for someone to stick with me”), an up-beat number that rolls out the brass in full force, especially a trumpet that soars over the top of it all. Song number two keeps it up, ‘Para Componer un Son’- “hace falta una razon, sentimento, y corazon” (to build a son… all you need is a reason, a feeling, and some heart) that tones things down enough to let some really good piano shine through, but not enough to lose momentum. Song number three does that for us, intentionally, ‘Aquel Viejo Amor’ (That Old Love), in keeping with the theme of loves and lives gone by, slow and syrupy and sentimental, as memories tend to be, almost too sticky to handle.

Love is the predominant lyrical theme of the album, not surprising for a man who’s lived his life on the seas, overseas, and always somewhere in between where he’s ultimately going. With ‘Cuando Tu Te Fuistes’ (‘When You Left’) a serenade wtih brass, the pain is almost too much to bear, ‘todo cambio para mi, un profundo dolor que me atravesaba’ (‘everything changed, with the deep pain I was going through’). La Despedida’ (‘The Goodbye’) waxes philosophical, ‘yo soy tu amigo y te ayudara’ (‘I’m your friend and I’ll be there to help’), but ‘Cancion para Bonnie’ reflects his new life in the US and the new love that cements it, romantic and hopeful. When the theme is not one of love lost and love found, it’s about the enjoyment of life regardless, the parties and the dances and the music. Soounds like a pretty good attitude to me. This man’s been around and single-handedly proves that if you stick to your dreams you’ll ultimately get… somewhere. As someone noted long ago, there is really no ‘there’ there… because there’s always a halfway point that must first be reached… always… and usually a corner or two to be turned. That’s ‘Al Doblar la Esquina’ by Tito Gonzales. Check it out.

OMARA PORTUONDO SERENADES CALIFORNIA, BAJA Y ALTA TAMBIEN

It’s always nice to pick up some quality music while traveling, but the timing seldom works out unless I’ve actually planned it that way, and even then… suffice it to say that some people’s big festive ideas for big ideal festivals don’t always work out. The Crossroads moveable fest in southern Africa a couple months ago was good, if small and a bit provincial. The Sauti Za Busara fest in Zanzibar in February should be much better, while covering some of the same East Africa musical turf. It’s good, and a bit different from the West, from whence most of the African genre of ‘world music’ derives, more of a reggae feel, as opposed to the Latino (Cuban-Africaine?) feel in the West. I’m looking forward to it. Then there’s the legendary Festival du Desert in Timbuktu and its sister fests in Segou and elsewhere in Mali, but lately they’ve been looking a little more generic than originally, almost like WOMAD Sahara, but that’s probably mostly because so many Malians are successful outside their home country.

Individual shows are harder to come across, and you’ve got to be an avid signpost reader to make that happen, or a lucky MySpace peruser/pursuer. Still it can happen. This year alone I’ve caught Oliver Mtukudzi in Addis Ababa and Ba Cissoko in Marseilles, while missing (only by inches) Lura in Wroclaw and Tinariwen in Paris and Rachid Taha in selfsame Marseilles. Okay, so I missed them, big deal, but at least I KNOW that I missed them. Of course the magic can occur closer to home also, like catching Omara Portuondo last week in Tijuana. In addition to its own great classical sounds, Buena Vista Social Club accomplished nothing so much as a feeling of great loss at the ‘missing generation’- or two- of the hemisphere’s greatest popular music (after the US). Fortunately it also released a handful of aging musicians for one last go-round on the world stage, one larger than they ever had before. Omara Portuondo is one of those. Fortunately Cuba has excellent health care, the pride of the Caribbean, and Omara Portuondo looks as radiant as she ever did in her youth. If the feet and hips have slowed down a bit, the upper body sways with the rhythm as smoothly as ever, not bad for a woman pushing eighty fast.

And what a rhythm it is! It’s as smooth as… the cheap imported rayon that passes for silk these days in Cuba (but the health care’s good!). Led by guitarist and musical director Swami Jr., Omara went through her entire new album Gracias song by song, note by note. How’s that for a Communistic approach to a concert? But while the songs and notes may have been weighed and measured to original specs, the emotion was real that came from ‘la novia del filin,’ featuring such chestnuts as ‘O Que Sera’ (What Will Be), ‘Amame Como Soy’ (Love Me as I Am), Adios Felicidad (Bye-bye Happiness), and the title song of course- Quiero agradecer a quien corresponda… no quiero guardarme lo que siento… (I just want to thank whoever it concerns… I don’t want to keep these feelings inside…). And for the encore, can you guess? Guantanamera, of course, guajira Guantanamera if that helps you distinguish it from the notorious torture chamber that passes for a US army base, funded by US taxpayers and located on Cuban soil, in case you didn’t know. I’d be willing to bet quite a few don’t, but that’s the region where the best Cuban music originates, and not coincidentally only a stone’s throw from Haiti.

Given a previous song in praise of Che and her striking resemblance to a terrorist’s grandmother, it’s amazing she can even get a visa to sing in the US, but she still can… sometimes. On Oct. 20 she’ll be at the San Francisco Palace of Fine Arts and Oct. 23 in Royce Hall at UCLA, so I guess the visa came through. I hope she’s not sitting in TJ waiting for it, though I thought I saw a woman at the Calimax with a basket of fruit on her head… Angelenos are so lucky, the best music in the world right there on the doorstep, offering itself up for little or nothing, so anxious are so many musicians to carve out their little niche in the Fantasy Factory for subsequent export. Hey, there’s got to be something the Chinese will buy… if only we could teach them Engrish ranguage. They kicked the big O a century ago… R&R wars anyone?

It’ll take Cuba longer. For all the glossy six-color tourist rap, downtown Havana ain’t pretty. But Omara is, and with a voice like a songbird in the morning. Hopefully the tourists will be crossing the Straits soon, and not just to Varadero’s sometimes-sunny beaches. And hopefully the new generation of musicians will get caught up before the ketchup. But it’s not yet, because Omara still hasn’t gotten a visa for the Grammys in Vegas next month. Of course if I’d known she’d be in LA… but naah, CECUT in TJ has a Cubanosofia cultural series going all month, worth checking out. The revolution started in DF, after all. I wonder where it’ll end?

CIAO CARRY BEIN’- ‘DYER MAKER, QUEUE BA, BAR BAIT-O’S & GUY ANNA

continued from previous So I’ve ‘done’ over half of the Caribbean countries now, seven down and only six (depending on current political events) to go. ‘Big deal’ you say, except that that’s a lot of flights and connections, not to mention expense. You don’t see many backpackers here, unless they’re sailboat-savvy. I hear you can get on boats in Antigua (drop the ‘u’ to match local pronunciation). That’s a greater number of countries than in all of South America. With your indulgence I hope to check some more Caribbean countries off the list by doing some simple airline stopovers. These are tiny countries with tiny less-than-Alaska-size populations and it’s not like they’ve all got distinct cultures. I figure if I get to Antigua I can go RT to Grenada on a LIAT milk run stopping off at several different countries on the way down and back. Then I’d just do a side trip to St. Kitts where I might even buy citizenship if I think it’ll get me into those countries that might not like a US passport. I’m serious. Current rate is $300K investment and $35K for paperwork. Who knows? Maybe they’ll let me run for president. With another little side trip from Miami to the Bahamas, I’d then have the Caribbean zipped up, all thirteen countries.

So I’m already planning two or three trips ahead while sitting in Montego Bay, probably not the typical activity here. They’ve seen it all. MoBay is yesterday’s travel news, like Acapulco or Hong Kong or Rio. I was shocked at how small the tourist strip is here. I haven’t been to Negril but I’ve been to Kuta in Bali, the road that never ends. If it weren’t for the airport and the cruise ships, this wouldn’t seem any more of a tourist destination than Hollywood or Chiang Rai or Flagstaff or Berkeley or Portland or Boulder, all places I’ve called home, however temporarily, chronologically inverse. I’ve seen cruise ships before in Ensenada, but not like these. These cruise ships are amazing, huge floating hotels that bring you only one step closer to ‘the real thing’ than watching the world on Nat Geo. The passengers go crazy when they land of course, ready to drink and shop. Would they even know the difference if you merely toured them around an island theme park, each stop a different country theme? It’d save on diesel fuel.

The next day dawns gray and blustery again, but I feel better, so I work out. I usually feel worse when I don’t. Now I got a big idea while watching the planes coming in low over the ocean to land at MBJ. Ever since watching the movie ‘Pushing Tin’ I’ve wanted to try that little air turbulence trick like Billy Bob Thornton where the plane flies right above you and lifts you off the ground. Of course it also throws you around so you need some heavy duty safety equipment which I don’t always carry in my pack. Also there’s usually the problem of gaining access to a runway, especially difficult in these days of flight terrorism. But if the flight comes in over water… and I’m content to stay in the water instead of actually flying around… what’s to stop me from a little bit of experimentation in turbulence? Of course there is the possibility of problems with the Jamaican equivalent of the FAA; that’d be a spot of bother, or… it could draw some kind of attention from the other people on the beach; but…

…the Thing, the bug, the virus, whatever- it’s still inside me. Sores aren’t healing and new ones are opening up. Tender tissues are swelling up in sensitive places. What’s in that water any way? Is it even safe to swim in a third world country so close to a city with its trash and sewage and God knows what? You don’t swim in Pattaya, Thailand. It’s not healthy; everyone knows that. Can you safely swim in MoBay? They got two tourist police for each tourist here. Why can’t they hire some people to pick up some trash, too? But there’s no time for abstract speculation. I need an exterminator… fast, before the Thing decides to franchise and found new colonies. I need a weapon. I need antibiotics.

It’s hard to appreciate the fact that bacteria used to rule the world. Think dinosaurs were the most successful species with their 200 million year run of the earth, or maybe (chuckle) humans? Think again. The explosion of multi-cell life as we know it occurred only some seven hundred million years ago. Bacteria have been around at least three billion, ever since Earth cooled down below the boiling point. The amazing thing is not that life occurred; it’s that complex life occurred. And I’m still trying to figure out my wife. Any responsible scientist who claims that certainly more life exists out there somewhere given the law of large numbers, is surely talking about bacteria. Any scientist who swears there are PEOPLE out there is taking corporate money from somewhere for something. The dreamers are just killing time scanning the skies for radio signals, until they actually find one… Back on Earth bacteria, good Muslims that they are, will never give up, always trying to regain turf that they’ve been forced to cede over to modern antiseptic societies. They probably will. It’s just a paradigm shift. In their world view we work for them, giving them shelter and transportation in return for some time on Earth. At least we can understand bacteria; they’re like us. Viruses are another story. They’re like another dimension, DNA in a condom and nothing else, always ready to infect, any time any place any vector. Wear protection.

Looking for a doctor in a Third World country is always fun. The only consolation is that it’ll probably be cheaper than the US, but it’ll probably be more than Thailand. It is, but health is more important, health and happiness. Considering that I’ll see my wife tomorrow for the first time in two months, I need to be fit, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. I wouldn’t mind a little icing on the cake, too, after pretty boring food for two months. The boredom diet works, and the travel diet too. I’m down to 173 pounds from probably 183 a half year ago. That’s fighting weight, lean and mean and polished to a high sheen... Blood pressure’s good, too. So it costs me $70-80 for the office visit and a week’s worth of penicillin from a clinic called, I shit you not, ‘Doctor’s Office’. What the Hell; this trip is way over budget anyway. I only spent $17-1800 for 50 days in the four southernmost South American countries a few months ago. These 60 days will end up at almost three times that, and I’m a frugal muthuh’ fuh’ yuh’, rice cooker and all. Who said that foreign travel is cheap? The initial flight for both these trips was a frequent flyer freebie, as is my next one to Rome; use ‘em or lose ‘em.

But the antibiotics work and this trip draws to a close. Even the defecation aggravation and resulting hemorrhoids seemed to respond. I knew it! They sneaked in the back door! Almost symbolically I caught a Seinfeld episode that I’d somehow missed, lost in the crowd, like the one illusory last peanut in a bag holding mostly empty shells, ‘Serenity Now’ (“Newman!”), the end of an era. It’s time to move on. I’ll spend a week in California before heading out to Rome. See you there. If you like this travel blog then it’ll definitely continue on TravelPod at http://www.travelpod.com/members/hardiek where I’ll eventually tell the stories of all my travel both past present and future, at least until I reach the official UN total of 192 countries. The Thailand-to-Timbuktu blog may revert to its earlier trial role as a world music mouthpiece for promotion and criticism. World music is a worthwhile cause that needs all the help it can get. Stay tuned.

WELCOME TO CUBA #4 of 4- LIFE BEHIND THE IRONIC CURTAIN

Sundays are not bad here, more to see and do than many places in Latin America. I run across an active cathedral while walking the old city, so decide to stick around for Sunday mass, my first ever. That’s typical me, waiting to attend my first mass in a Communist country. Before this I’ve only attended a small one in Gualupita, Mexico, up in the mountains close to Toluca, where my sweaters used to be made, maybe still are. There we slit chickens’ throats and made mole’ and paraded through town with an image of the virgin of Guadalupe just like the most normal thing in the world. This one on Sunday is a little more involved. It drags on so long I’m getting really hungry towards the end. So when everyone goes up for their holy wafer I sneak out to go look for a holy hot dog. My stomach rumblings threatened to disrupt the service. Aqui estoy, Senor, para hacer tu voluntad.

It’s good to finally get out into the countryside. This whole trip has had too little of that, and too much city. This is something of a life’s thesis for me, that civilization is not limited to cities, and northern European cultures have proved that, they the barbarians of the Roman outback who eventually superceded and surpassed it oh, say, around 1700. The larger synthesis of course is that cities CAN be very nice places, green and clean and not so mean. My current life thesis is similar but with a different emphasis- that nomadism (nomadicism?) is not only normal but healthy, put of our psychological and biological makeup, of vast frontiers and open skies. We didn’t just accidentally disperse all over the globe- we were driven, by the powerful engines of our imagination. Obesity is not much of a problem with this lifestyle, nor are mortgages. True, cities are a great repository of great art and the great artifacts of culture; let the clerks handle that. This is dialectical materialism in real time- thesis, antithesis, followed by a more complete synthesis, hopefully.

There’s nothing spectacular about the Cuban countryside, but still it’s nice, rolling fields with agricultural plantations and the occasional wilderness. We pass through Cienfuegos, a small city on the western coast, where half the passengers, mostly backpacker types, disembark. I notice scads of touts hawking rooms on the periphery. I breathe a sigh of relief. As much as I prefer to avoid touts, I prefer to avoid expensive hotel rooms even more. I assume the situation may be similar elsewhere. When we finally pull into Trinidad an hour and a half later, I gulp audibly. Uh-oh, I’ve been here before, not here exactly, but many other places like it, most recently San Pedro de Atacama in Chile. The rot sets in first where the fruit is ripest. It’s too small, a tourist enclave and little else. A lady on the sidewalk holds up a sign reading “ROOMS $15”, looking for all the world like a cute little webcam ‘performer’ with a sign across her bare midriff reading something like “$.99 min.” They swarm me like flies on shit, even though I explain that I’ve already booked a room. The problem is that my place knows nothing of it, even though I’ve paid a deposit.

So now I need the barkers and their colored balloons and their cheap cheap rooms. That’s no problem, but I immediately book onward transportation, just two nights and one full day here. That should be enough, considering there’s no food, or should I say ‘only expensive food’. The street scene in Havana, limited though it is, at least has some variety. Here there’s pretty much only pizza and sandwiches, though still only a quarter US a pop. Then prices for Gringo food go straight up from there, $8-10 a plate and on into the stratosphere. It’s no wonder everybody wants your lunch money, as if I spend money like that every meal every day for something as common as fried chicken. But that’s the big deal here, hawking you to come to their house to eat. I tire of the routine quickly. “Open a restaurant!” I bark back. There is some good music here, though, just like the Hemingway quarter of Havana. That’ll soothe frayed nerves. There are good deals to be had, too, it just takes time to familiarize myself with them, the guy with the coffee, the old lady with the fruit, etc. I went crazy when I found coconut custards and cakes for a dime a pop, buying a bag full for the onward journey.

All in all Trinidad’s okay, with a lively little late-night music scene, though I can think of probably a dozen places in Mexico just as colonially charming without a UN plaque. But this ain’t Mexico; this is Cuba. I travel onward to Santa Clara. This gives me not only another view of Cuba, but also a different route back to Havana, so as to avoid backtracking. It certainly doesn’t have the charm of Trinidad, but compensates with diversity, lots of local theatre, and I even manage to catch a concert. At least neither’s got the bombed-out feel of much of Havana. Comparisons to Hanoi are okay; comparisons to Phnom Penh are not. Only problem is that buses stop through on their way between Santiago and Havana, so the availability of seats depends on how many people get off. Ouch! This is what happens when you don’t have Internet, but they don’t seem to know that, or care. Long distance taxis do good biz in Cuba btw, claiming prices no more than the buses for foreigners, but I haven’t tested them yet.

The only guaranteed seat leaves at 3am the next day so I take it, figuring to save a night’s rent, too, since I don’t usually sleep too well anyway. This whole trip’s way over budget thanks to that flippin’ ferry in Suriname and the generally high cost of rooms in the Caribbean in high season. Thank God for the low-budget Melbourne Inn chain in Barbados and Port-of-Spain! If Cuba had wi-fi I could balance my budget here over the next three weeks, but I can’t go incommunicado for that long. That’s not negotiable. Cuba’s starting to get on my nerves anyway, and I’m sick to death of pizza, so that’s good. Otherwise I might feel some regret. Too short of a travel time gives false impressions, too. I’ll try to find something cheaper than Montego Bay in Jamaica, with wi-fi hopefully too, maybe Negril. At least I finally get through to Thailand on my world phone. I’m not behind an iron curtain after all, just an ironic one.

What else do I need to tell you about Cuba? Oh yeah, they’ve got $3 bills, both local currency and convertibles. That’s notable, especially the local ones with Che’s picture. What else? There seems to be very little racism in Cuba, blacks and whites freely intermixing and seemingly unconscious of it. That’s good. What else? Travel is easy, plenty of hostales and casas privadas outside the capital, so nothing to worry about there. They’ll find you. These people also smoke a lot, especially cigars, though cigarettes, too. Going to a concert in an auditorium? No problem. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. They drink a lot, too, mostly rum, available almost any time almost any place. The analogy to the Russian’s vodka is too obvious to ignore. My most communistic friends back home are usually the most pharmaceutically experimental also. Religion’s far from perfect but it’s better than all that I reckon. The three most common items at any street stall are: cigarettes, rum, and condoms, in no certain order, whatever gets you through the night. Now that sounds like my kind of dialectical materialism.

For some reason Cuba imports Gallo Beer (that’s a rooster, not an Italian) from Guatemala, reflecting new realities and trade relationships (ssshhh! Don’t tell Uncle) that got severely severed in 1954 the year of my birth and my taxi driver’s car. I thought about trying one for old times’ sake, but… naaah. Beggars here are creative, freely offering to show you their disease, bandaged back, third eye blind, etc. Pragmatic women are not to be outdone. They’ll follow you back to your hotel and THEN approach you, as if proximity implies acceptance. After a quick inconclusive chat in the Paseo del Prado, one even snuck through the door of my apartment complex while I was holding it for a key-less elderly lady. They’re quick, and stubbornly persistent. And oh yeah, Cuba’s got a long hard road ahead. They’re good people, I think, but they’re out of the loop. Some feelings are going to get hurt. Except for North Korea most all the other old Socialist bloc nations have long reverted to market economies with its ensuing growing pains. Their newly capitalist sons and daughters now come to Cuba out of nostalgia. When Cubans go to the US they probably look for lines to stand in, just to feel normal.

Cuba and the US attitude toward it is an anachronism. Communists and capitalists here and there have both fed on polarization and non-rational behavior for far too long to prove points that are no longer even valid, much less necessary. There are other more valid issues facing us today. But for me, this trip’s almost over, seven countries in as many weeks including Jamaica thrice. That’s not bad. Fortunately I got to stay in most of the countries long enough to go through the full range of emotions, in the case of Cuba: surprise, shock, disgust, adaptation, love, hate, and acceptance in that order, the other countries with probably fewer steps. That’s realistic. Always stay long enough to get sick of a place. Anybody who is totally in love with a place probably doesn’t know it very well or doesn’t know many others, or is fooling himself, one. So now I’m off to Jamaica then back to the US then on to Europe while the dollar can still hold its pants up. Life’s a beach, but I persevere.

WELCOME TO CUBA #3 of 4- HELL FREEZES OVER

It’s cold here. Who’d’ve thought I’d be wearing my goose-down vest in Cuba? My taxi driver says he’s never seen it this cold before, at least not this year. There are some cold winds blowing down out of the north, or maybe it’s just George W’s last breath of hot air now turned cold. Nevertheless the tourists out at Varadero are probably clamoring for refunds about now. This isn’t what they paid for. Maybe that’s not surprising considering its location a half degree north of the Tropic of Cancer. Those lines are no joke. In a couple days I’ll be a half degree south so we’ll see if there’s any difference. That’s the same stretch of water that Montego Bay sits on the other side of, and it was plenty warm and sunny the same day I boarded the plane for cold gray Havana. I’ve always thought of communism as cold and gray, but not Cuba. The tourist brochures advertise its luz, color, sabor y alegria, but that’s for you, not them. They get poverty, deprivation, promises… and long lines. Nothing defines Communism like long lines and the lack thereof implied, and the limits and rations therefore imposed. Now that may be very rational, but that doesn’t mean that it’s right.

Communism made a gamble, that the world was already developed fait accompli and that the only problem was one of distribution. Communism never foresaw DVD’s, PC’s, and cell phones, much less FaceBook, MySpace, and TravelPod. They certainly never foresaw that the consumer revolution would be manufactured in Japan first then China, leaving Western ideologies in the dust. Cuba is still there, clucking defiance. It’s sad, Fidel claiming on Obama’s inauguration that the West’s problems are ‘insolvable’. He may be right of course, but you don’t prove it by shutting off all dialog. That’s contrary to the spirit of dialectic. Cuba shows no news of the outside world, zero zip nada- just buddies Venezuela and Bolivia, the club growing ever smaller. If you perceive a world of limits, then the world is limited, admittedly also the mistake of many Western ‘small planet’ ideologists in the Seventies, myself included. I stand corrected.

Cuba’s got a hard adjustment to a market economy ahead and the longer they wait, the harder it’ll be. The dual currency system is only the most graphic illustration of such. China gave their dual currency up long ago, and Laos and Vietnam are slowly moving beyond dual-pricing, though you can expect Vietnamese to overcharge foreigners for as long as they can get away with it. Leaving prices un-marked facilitates this. Even Thailand does it sometimes, trying to overcharge me for something with the price written in Thai, absolutely refusing to believe that I can actually read it, even as I recite it to them word by word. Old notions die hard. At one point Vietnam even had prices for returning Vietnamese, in addition to foreigners and locals. It’s cumbersome to say the least, and subject to much abuse. When Thailand tries such nonsense they never check identification, just apply racial and facial criteria. A flight attendant in South America once explained to me how they’re trained to know what language you speak by looking at your face, Sociolinguistics 401.

Nevertheless, there is an emerging middle ground between ‘local’ mn and ‘foreign’ cuc currency, and that means reasonable prices in cuc, something that is slowly occurring in the places designed for upscale Cubans and emerging restaurant chains, such as El Rapido. There an espresso costs $.25-.30, instead of the ridiculously low nickel or overpriced (for Cuba) dollar. That’s still the best price I’ve had since late ‘70s post-devaluation Mexico City, when a good US wage was $4/hour. Good prices draw tourists, but so do simple open systems, such as integrated transportation and a single currency.

Fortunately the war’s over, almost. I thought a policeman might not let me go yesterday, but that was because the guy wouldn’t stop talking when I asked for directions, not because of any imcompatible overt offense (now there’s a trivia question for ya’). The gendarme at the airport weren’t so friendly. First some guy pulls more over straight off the plane and quizzes me about my intentions, presumably because I’m American. Then the nice Immigration lady seemed concerned that I was just ‘going all over’ as if that were suspicious in and of itself, acting as if Cuba were just another country in the Caribbean. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I guess I should be some bright-eyed little wannabe socialist or a fat-bellied tourist, one or the other, just for the sake of clean neat categories. Then the Customs guy started looking at my notes, as if notes imply plans imply covert activity, or so I imagine, and still do.

The big surprise here is that it seems no one’s ever met an American. I thought it was way past all that by now, what with reasonably priced flights from TJ and anywhere in Canada. It’s not.

“I’m fifty-one years old and you’re the first American I’ve ever talked to,” a friend of the house I’m staying in just told me.

“We’re not much different, are we?”

“Not at all, five fingers, two hands, two arms, two legs.”

We trade travel stories, he telling me of his trips to the Warsaw Pact countries and Angola. That sounds like a tour of duty to me. They make no attempt to hide their Communist connections, even a bit nostalgic I sense. I tell him my stories, and he gets excited when I talk about Hanoi. We have common ground. There are people named Hanoi here, or at least one who’s now a celebrity. I guess the Sixties affected everyone differently, we with our Dylans and Elvises, they with their Hanois and… Warsaws maybe? Havana reminds me a lot of Hanoi, similar latitudes and similar attitudes, the same ambience of revolutionary doctrine and military discipline and faded glory and pedicabs and… that edge, that psychological edginess that cuts both ways.

We have more common ground- a history of plantation slavery and resultant cradle of African-American diaspora culture. Cuba gets high marks for maintaining its African traditions, but in fact it’s probably the whitest place I’ve seen in the Caribbean so far, or Latin America either, except for Argentina. I haven’t been to the US Virgin Islands. If my Trinidad theory is correct, the culture defends itself most intently where it’s most threatened. But the ‘traditional’ dress here of Mammy-style pure white and lacy fringe, similar to that of Salvador, Bahia, Brasil, surely refers to the colonial time and place, not Africa itself, doesn’t it? You don’t see such in other predominantly black Caribbean countries. Or maybe it’s a religious thing, with connections to santerismo similar to Brasil’s candomble or N’awlins voodoo. You can see little stalls devoted to such in the back alleys, similar to the hechicerias shops I used to see in Oaxaca, Mexico, some thirty years ago. And of course Cubans are as anxious, and as hopeful, about what Obama’s going to do, as we all are. Still his first impression of an actual American comes from me. Now that’s truly scary.

So I finally bite the bullet and sit down and do some Internet. Sounds easy, right? It’s not. Many hotels have got the machines, but few sell the card with the code you log in with. They tell me any card will work on any machine, so I go buy one at a hotel I know has them, but they also have a waiting line. It turns out the card won’t work anywhere else, so I end up waiting two hours to finally log on. Real Commie queues, just like the old newsreels! Cool… TWO HOURS WAITING FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF USING INTERNET AT THE RATE OF $7 PER HOUR!! And then I can’t even get into my bank account, reserve a room with my credit card, much less Skype anyone. It’s barbarous. My world telephone won’t call through to Thailand either. I’m cut off. I’m glad I shortened my trip. I like Cubans, I think, but this is ridiculous. I get into the queuing aspect, though, becoming the traffic cop for Gringos ‘out of the know’, since lines are not always linear. I even took the pizza out of a local’s mouth after he called his order in over my head. I read him the riot act, and then left casting aspersions on his upbringing. When natives get restless, the tourists get even. Good fun was had by all.

WELCOME TO CUBA #2 of 4- PIZZA SI, WI-FI NO

It may be too little too late to save much of Havana. The old city is crumbling and it may be too late to renovate. If a massive program of renovation were initiated immediately, I doubt they could save it all. Hopefully they can come up with a plan to save the most important parts. As it is, the only part of the old city that sparkles are Hemingway’s old haunts around the wharf. Even there some gaudy modern buildings have been unfortunately constructed, though some that look like genuine Gaudis fare much better.

Black ladies with fruit on their heads and cigars in their mouths pose for tourists and tips, and Cuba’s legendary Afro-derived music is played in tourist bars and restaurants. The newer (turn of last century) west-of-downtown Vedado buzzes with activity also, but there it’s the locals, not tourists. If Miami has its Little Havana, then Havana likewise has its Little Miami. There in the Vedado are the modern office buildings and busy streets and smiling people. It’s only the vast gray area between the old wharf and the new Vedado- aka Centro- that hangs in limbo, waiting to be rescued. I even find my Cubana airline office in the new quarter. They’ll change my flight for $100. Flights are all priced in USD, and even though they penalize you to cash them, they seem to be all you can re-convert your convertibles to. I decide to wait, pending resolution of the Internet problem. Stay tuned.

But there is no resolution to the Internet problem in Cuba, no good one at least. The few salas de navegacion that exist are Intranet only, with an ‘a’ not ‘e’, and that means Cuba only. No amount of Southern US accent will change that. And you thought China was bad, blocking sites and such, especially now that the Olympics are over? Here they just block the whole thing, pretend it doesn’t even exist. Intelligent people ask me what I need it for; they don’t even know. And even the local stuff’s not cheap for the locals, almost two bucks an hour. The ‘real’ Internet is available only in hotels, and at prices approaching $7 per hour, highest I’ve ever paid anywhere in the world. That smarts. Wi-fi does not exist, at least not complete with Internet, ‘local only’. Nobody told me that, not Lonely Planet, not volunteer sugar-cane harvesters, nobody. I can’t deal with it. I can suffer many inconveniences, but not that. So I go back to Cubana de Aviacion and change my return date, cutting my trip almost in half. Then I go to the bus station and get a ticket to Trinidad, the colonial gem on the southern coast.

After four days of getting my bearings greased and realigned, my trip is now one-third over. I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend it all in Havana, like I did in Port-of-Spain. There’s too much here to see and do. Problem is, without the Net I hardly know where to go or what to do next, much less be able to book a room in advance. When I go to a new country every week, I can hardly plan them all out in advance and to minute detail. I can’t carry seven guide books. So I work in real time, but without the Net I’m reduced to intuition, and that’s dangerous in high season in the Caribbean. I could get hit with some outrageous hotel prices. You laugh, but I’ve already booked an RT flight LA-Rome for next month, and this trip’s not even over yet. But I should have things finally under control here economically and philosophically, so time to book, an excursion that is.

Everything’s not cheap of course, just food. Beyond a few cheap hotels they rise in price quickly and astronomically, and they still don’t have wi-fi. I’m currently staying in a casa particular, which is good value, but it feels a bit awkward being in someone else’s home, though the homes themselves are nice enough. It’s good to know that behind some of the time-worn exteriors are quite comfortable interiors. I moved out of my first hotel to save a few bucks and because nothing worked right. Remote controls never do- dead batteries usually- but I expect the faucets to. I actually took an Asian mandi-style splash bath for two days, rather than watch them turn my room into a work-site for two days, or God forbid, loan me a screwdriver. That would’ve required another chapter on Marxist class struggle. At least they had cable TV and good coffee, b’fast included. Loud Chinese kids were taking over the place, too, ostensibly students studying Spanish, or so they said, but I could see that look in their eyes, planning the future invasion- “you open the grocery store, I’ll do the restaurant, and Zhou Blou here will sell trinkets; we’ll pool our money and labor to start…”

The casas buzz you up by dropping down a key on a cord. But still they aren’t THAT much cheaper than the cheap hotels, and they don’t have cable TV either. Commie TV sucks, lots of shows about cows and the weather, but at least it has no commercials. So I tentatively book a room here for next weekend and figure I’ll wing it this week, starting in Trinidad. At least I’ll see some countryside in central Cuba. I want to be in ‘new’ Havana on the return anyway, with few or no tourists. The ‘real thing’ comes in many flavors. Old Havana may be more romantic, but I hardly need to get romantic with myself. With myself I always get lucky. If I were single, though, I’d probably give the girls here a second look, azucar moreno, el chocolate que me gusta… Ironically the long-distance bus system seems to be segregated between tourists and locals. When I asked for information, they asked if I was a tourist (thanks for asking), then sent me to another area of tourists only, mostly back-packer types. Hmmm…

At least they’re real buses here, not the crowded mini-vans that pass for public transportation in Jamaica, among others, including the Guyanas. Since I’m returning early from Cuba, I’ll be obliged to finally see some of that Jamaican countryside, too. It’s a trade-off. At least Internet is not illegal there, and it’s free at the Bobsled Café in Montego Bay, though a bit erratic. Like I said, not everything’s cheap here. With maps $5 a pop, excursions here involve quite a bit of dead reckoning, looking at my downloaded map on the laptop and getting my bearings, then starting out, noting landmarks, and trying to remember to compensate for any unexpected changes. That cheap street food is not so exotic either, basically variations on the themes of grease and starch. Fortunately I brought vitamins, because the smoothies and juices aren’t enough to compensate for the lack of veggies in the diet, regardless of their status as vitaminicos in South American parlance and habit. I know that ‘camp-out’ feeling well, vitamin deficiency, not of scurvy magnitude, but enough to blur the edges of my perception, so I can’t think of clear and witty things to amuse you, my readers. I have responsibilities. I remember running out into the Mexican midnight once to search the pharmacies for vitamins. Now I come prepared.

To be honest there probably is a bit of resentment at selling to foreigners at dirt cheap prices, though it usually stays below the surface, reflected only in surly behavior. Cubans are not big on ‘Thank yous’ anyway; I guess it’s not Communist. That food is subsidized by the government, which means the blood sweat and tears of the populace. But those high prices are made with subsidized food, too, remember, meaning everyone’s subsidizing the new capitalists. Why not help the tourists a bit too? Good prices are a selling point. I decide here and now that if trade with Cuba is liberalized, I’ll become a trade-show geek one more time just to promote their handicrafts… but I could be lying, not to you, but to myself. There are some nice things here, especially wood carvings, including… MY FROGS! MY COMMIE FROGS BORN IN HANOI ARE NOW IN CUBA!! History and evolution follow strange paths.

There are some other nice crafts here also- especially textiles, leatherwork, and ceramics- and Cuba’s reputation in the fine arts and literature is notable without question, but you can keep the art naïve that fills the stalls in tourist districts. Though superficially interesting, it’s more naïve than art, especially if they think I’ll buy it, analogous to the street musicians here who can’t play their instruments and the poseurs with their cigars and heads full of flowers posing for tips. I suspect mass-production and the hiring of ‘local color’ to peddle it. They’re parasites on the true musicians and artists who deserve to be seen and heard. So there, I said it. Hopefully I’m wrong.

WELCOME TO CUBA #1 of 4- LAST COMMUNIST STANDING (ALMOST)

Humans crawl through the ashes of a forgotten world, living in the ruins and going about their business as if nothing had even happened. What did happen anyway? Who knows? Who built the original structures, magnificent and pretentious at one and the same time, the stuff of dreams and the stuff of nightmares? Official government history says it was an evil empire, bent on domination. They sucked human blood for sustenance and reduced the populace to slavery to sustain their extravagant lifestyles. Other legends say no, that it was a time of plenty and opportunity was open to all, only limited by your time and imagination… and faith. If you believe in an expanding universe, then that universe will expand, and so will the economy, getting bigger and better continually. Belief is crucial. Once you stop believing, then the castles crumble. Sound like science fiction? Welcome to Cuba.

If you’ve never been to a Communist country, you should go. But hurry; they’re a dying breed. There’s nothing like it, the cold gray architecture, the suspicious glances, and the general lack of… anything. The hard part is timing. You want to see the “real thing”, i.e. real Soviet/Bolshevik-style communism, but you don’t want to suffer (too much) from lack of facilities. You want to see them on the cusp of their coming out. Frankly I was surprised- even shocked- to see Cuba in the backward state it’s in. We’ve all seen the pictures and heard the stories of the old 50’s cars, like stepping right into a Hollywood movie, but experiencing it is another thing. It’s a trip, pure time travel. Hey, they’ve even got horse-drawn carts here, and not just for tourists. Cuba’s been getting travel press for so long now that I assumed that the time-warp was all long past. It’s not. Cuba is crawling into the future on all fours, and I don’t think anything Obama has to say will change that any time soon. Tourism is way up for sure, but that’s all out at Varadero, destination of almost half the tourists flying in, most of whom will get only a day tour of the “real thing.”

When I check the Lonely Planet web site before visiting a place, then actually go there, sometimes I wonder if we’re talking about the same place. Maybe their local experts have little experience elsewhere so are without a point of reference. Regardless, LP talks about the ‘increasing congestion’ of Havana traffic. That’s a joke. This is like Communist SE Asia c.1995, maybe Phnom Penh or Vientiane, vacant streets and people camping in the ruins. That’s all changed there now. Laos is almost a little mini-Thailand now, and Phnom Penh is re-inventing itself (with Chinese help) as fast as it can. To be honest, so is Cuba, but oh so painfully slow. My first feeling is one of shock, then sadness. Then as I slowly readjust my point of reference to the reality here rather than the reality I come from, my mood starts improving. There IS life here, and lots of it, however subdued and tentative.

And then there are the underlying economics for me as a traveler. You have to book a hotel first for them to even let you in, so that’s not so expensive, but hardly indicative. When I first walked the streets looking at prices for street grub, I was shocked. Then I realized those were prices in local currency (mn), not the convertible currency (cuc) I was holding. Judging by price differentials for similar items I figured one cuc must be worth about six or seven mn. It’s actually twenty-four. At first I thought they might not sell the local stuff to me, but no problem. Shit’s dirt cheap here, at least street food. How about a glass of fresh fruit or sugar cane juice for… better sit down… a nickel? I haven’t seen prices like this since the late seventies. You remember that kid making smoothies for a quarter down on the strip in Puerto Escondido, right? He’s probably the president of Jumex now, what with his experience and all.

How about a sandwich here for a quarter, or maybe your own personal pizza? Sound good? The pizza is no great shakes of course. Nobody in Napoli is going to roll over in his grave but hey, it’s fresh pan caliente. That’s worth plenty. The trick is that you gotta’ get the local currency, or otherwise you’re de facto segregated from the populace by currency and cuisine. Some things only come in cuc of course, like filete Cubano of something or other. Prices in cuc are usually not bad either, just not dirt cheap, and mostly limited to the tourist places, and grocery stores. How about Uruguayan steak for $6? I don’t remember it that cheap in Uruguay, not that I spent any time looking. Harder to find is good espresso, notwithstanding all the little jiggers of café Cubano being sold on the streets, but the street stuff is sweeter and not fresh pressed, though still not bad for a nickel a swallow. I’ve found it as cheap as a penny. I also found a couple places with good espresso and nothing illustrates the pricing dilemma better. One charges one mn, the other one cuc, a nickel or a buck, take your pick. I’d be willing to bet some tourists don’t know the difference and happily lay down the buck instead of the nickel at the mn place, not even knowing the difference.

Still there can be money problems for the independent traveler. For one thing, your ATM card won’t work, or at least mine won’t, though a European one might. My Thai card doesn’t work either. European credit cards are supposed to work, but that’s good only if you can find places that accept them, not likely budget accommodation, certainly not private houses. If I stay the full three weeks I booked this could be problematic. I think I have enough Euros, but it could be tight. I better change an AmEx traveler’s cheque just to make sure I’m covered. Cambios won’t take them but a bank should. They don’t, but send me to some place that should. They don’t, but gave me a list of locations of the bank that does. Being my first day in town, none of these locations looks familiar, so I decide to put it on hold, being something I shouldn’t really need anyway. This is not a problem limited to Cuba either, for that matter. Fortunately I have no problem with money, just cash. Even in thoroughly modern Argentina, many ATM’s only give the equivalent of $100 US. That doesn’t last long. Fortunately I’m carrying traveler’s cheques for the first time in a decade, so the only problem is finding the bank that cashes them.

I decide to take a long walk to find the bus station and accidentally find one of the bank branches I’m looking for. With minimum hassle they indeed cash me one, so that little spot of bother should be mitigated. There’s only one problem remaining- Internet (sound of needle scratching long and hard against an old vinyl LP). The hotel I’m staying in has no wi-fi and charges $6-7 PER HOUR to use the rental box downstairs. They all do. This apparently is the standard, and gringos queue up for the privilege. It’s barbaric, not a cyber café to be had on the streets. What do the locals do? I’m moving to a casa particular to save a few bucks, but it looks like any savings will quickly get squandered in Internet charges, if I stay, that is. I doubt that Cubana de Aviacion will let me change the date of my return will such a cheap flight, but that doesn’t mean I can’t buy another one-way. I can hardly travel without Internet now, booking for the next stop a few days in advance. Otherwise I might get stuck with no place to stay or only at an outrageous price, with no useable credit card even. Usually I don’t worry about such things. In the high season in the Caribbean I do, especially here. Chill, Hardie, chill.

I don’t mind paying a few bucks extra for a place with Internet, but that’s per day, not per hour! Cuba is in the dark ages with respect to Internet, not a wi-fi signal anywhere. Other ‘Communist’ countries are replete with them. Other commodities are similarly lacking. What passes for groceries here is pretty pathetic. Ever bought a box of cookies from a jewelry showcase? Fortunately the street is ahead of the shops. They learn capitalism from the ground up, flea enterprise, buy two sell one buy two more ad infintum until rich. Bamako in Mali is no different. That’s the difference between Marxism and village Communism. The main breakthrough here is with food. Half the city walks around with a sandwich in hand in the mornings and a pizza in the afternoon, all sold from tiny home-based outlets and restaurants selling on the streets as well as inside to compete. Now that’s my kind of communism.

Everything is weighed and measured here, from bread to espresso, or at least advertised as such, one of the lasting legacies of communism apparently. I saw the same thing in Romania only a few years ago. Business is swift and the lines are usually orderly. The legend of Commie queues always emphasized the shortages, not the orderliness. That’s like talking about suicide bombers and focusing only on the bombs, never the suicide. There are no plastic bags though, or only available for sale in markets, never just handed out. My great point of pride is that I intuited this, and brought along my growing plastic bag collection rather than trash it, as I caught myself almost doing. Thus Communism has common cause with environmentalism. They act like they have common cause with Palestine, but obviously that’s only a case ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ Remember Soviet Afghanistan.