6. Santiago de Cuba
900 km south east of Havana lies the sweltering city of Santiago de Cuba. By far the hottest spot in the country, in more ways than one. A hectic, heaving, seething mass of humanity trapped under a grey pall of smog, this 'natural' dust bowl exists in stark contrast to the beauty of surrounding mountains.
My six hour bus ride here from Camaguey passes in a whirl of Cuban intrigue and gossip. I sit next to an Italian who has lived and worked here for five years and hates Cuba with a passion. Tales of duplicity, black markets, generational strife, Government corruption dominate our conversation, alongside interesting hints on surviving Cuba, tips which prove invaluable once we arrive in Santiago.
This is no Havana. Here tourists stand out like a sore thumb. Racial tension seethes in the humid air, youths lurk in shadows, there is a darkness to the alleys and lanes which is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. This is the home of Santeria, rituals and creeds, the heart of Afro Caribean Cuba. The atmosphere is unlike anywhere I have been so far, fascinating, yet also, frankly, scary.
I arrive after dark to find, as usual, the casa I phoned ahead to reserve has sent me elsewhere. I am too tired to care. But these kind home owners do care, a true Cuban trait, despite everything. It is not their fault the room is occupied, previous guests returned unexpectedly when their internal flight was cancelled, not unusual here.
My hosts meet me at the bus stop with profuse and genuine apologies, ensure I am settled for the night with their neighbour, then the next day collect both me and my luggage.
Their home is a delight and for two nights I have, by Cuban standards, a palace. A large bedsit with a private (ish) roof garden and a little shady terrace which catches the rare wind drifting from the mountains.
The family too are delightful. As in all my homestays, I have more space than they do, and I often welcome them up to my cooler space from their own subterranean living quarters. I find welcome sanctuary here from this troubled, fraught but undeniably charismatic city and enjoy the company of this lovely family.
Santiago was the birth place of the revolution and now is Fidel Castro's final resting place. At his request a simple rock marks his grave, alongside the chapel of heroes in Santa Ifigenia Cementery.
I visit early on my final morning, the blazing sun already high in the sky, to witness the twice hourly ceremonial changing of the guard and join the queue to stand in quiet contemplation at Castro's memorial.
Santiago is a salutary learning curve on the complexity of Cuba. Cubans are mestizo, mixed race, hence my being able to pass for a local. But not in this city. To use a Cuban term, this is 'negro' territory. It is safer to be an international, especially given the high police presence here.
This is a city where I see real Cuban poverty first hand. Its not the stark desperation and starvation of India/Asia, but the grinding exhaustion of people worn out keeping themselves alive. Essential rations allocated by Government do keep starvation at bay but in return everyone must work, work and work in a country on the brink of economic collapse.
Santiago is a ghost town, the port area is empty and the money poured into a new boardwalk for the Cruise ships has, literally, gone down the stagnant drain underneath the deserted planks as tourists are not coming. Oh the irony, it seems these developments to draw in visitors have put the already creaking infrastructure under too much strain, thus putting off many tour companies.
Daily power cuts are bad enough, but recent outbreaks of cholera have made the island a no go area.
Water is Cuba is, literally, poison, even the poorest local will not touch tap water, even the poorest shack has a water filter. Black slug stench permeates everywhere, overpowering even the incense in the beautiful cathedrals.
It is during the inevitably power less evening I invite my hosts to join me on my roof top garden to free them from the hot stiflingly room downstairs. Both are professional university lecturers, with good English, who have invested much in their casa, and their main anxiety now is the dearth of tourists.
As is usual here they ave no wifi and depend on day before phone 'bookings' via word of mouth, the way I booked. They now depend on home stayers, as their Government paid salaries are low and their casa takes considerable expenditure to maintain, but this year few have come. I came because of a recommendation, and promise to spread the word, it is all, bar a large tip, I can do to help.
My own account of dire customer service during my travels and how much I hate the ubiquitous two currency system which makes Cuba ridiculously expensive is a familiar one. They nod sagely, knowing all too well their country, with its lack of natural wonders and wildlife, is nowhere near as special as the Government insists.
The Government, they say, are in a bubble, persisting it is the duty of 'imperialist' visitors to pay exorbitant costs to visit Cuba, resisting calls to end the two currency system which locals feel is driving away tourists, as holiday firms abandon the country and backpackers pop in only to leave for the greater attractions of central and South America.
This is an intriguing time to visit, as Castro's death and Trumps election throws the future of Cuba into chaos. I am shocked by the actuality of Cuba, the reality is so far away from the representation in holiday brochures. In Santiago I really see first hand just how hard life is here. This is a country held fast in the grip of the past, desperate to move forward, but caught in an impossible present, trapped by dire economic crisis and at the mercy of internal and external politics.
900 km south east of Havana lies the sweltering city of Santiago de Cuba. By far the hottest spot in the country, in more ways than one. A hectic, heaving, seething mass of humanity trapped under a grey pall of smog, this 'natural' dust bowl exists in stark contrast to the beauty of surrounding mountains.
My six hour bus ride here from Camaguey passes in a whirl of Cuban intrigue and gossip. I sit next to an Italian who has lived and worked here for five years and hates Cuba with a passion. Tales of duplicity, black markets, generational strife, Government corruption dominate our conversation, alongside interesting hints on surviving Cuba, tips which prove invaluable once we arrive in Santiago.
This is no Havana. Here tourists stand out like a sore thumb. Racial tension seethes in the humid air, youths lurk in shadows, there is a darkness to the alleys and lanes which is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. This is the home of Santeria, rituals and creeds, the heart of Afro Caribean Cuba. The atmosphere is unlike anywhere I have been so far, fascinating, yet also, frankly, scary.
I arrive after dark to find, as usual, the casa I phoned ahead to reserve has sent me elsewhere. I am too tired to care. But these kind home owners do care, a true Cuban trait, despite everything. It is not their fault the room is occupied, previous guests returned unexpectedly when their internal flight was cancelled, not unusual here.
My hosts meet me at the bus stop with profuse and genuine apologies, ensure I am settled for the night with their neighbour, then the next day collect both me and my luggage.
Their home is a delight and for two nights I have, by Cuban standards, a palace. A large bedsit with a private (ish) roof garden and a little shady terrace which catches the rare wind drifting from the mountains.
The family too are delightful. As in all my homestays, I have more space than they do, and I often welcome them up to my cooler space from their own subterranean living quarters. I find welcome sanctuary here from this troubled, fraught but undeniably charismatic city and enjoy the company of this lovely family.
Santiago was the birth place of the revolution and now is Fidel Castro's final resting place. At his request a simple rock marks his grave, alongside the chapel of heroes in Santa Ifigenia Cementery.
I visit early on my final morning, the blazing sun already high in the sky, to witness the twice hourly ceremonial changing of the guard and join the queue to stand in quiet contemplation at Castro's memorial.
Santiago is a salutary learning curve on the complexity of Cuba. Cubans are mestizo, mixed race, hence my being able to pass for a local. But not in this city. To use a Cuban term, this is 'negro' territory. It is safer to be an international, especially given the high police presence here.
This is a city where I see real Cuban poverty first hand. Its not the stark desperation and starvation of India/Asia, but the grinding exhaustion of people worn out keeping themselves alive. Essential rations allocated by Government do keep starvation at bay but in return everyone must work, work and work in a country on the brink of economic collapse.
Santiago is a ghost town, the port area is empty and the money poured into a new boardwalk for the Cruise ships has, literally, gone down the stagnant drain underneath the deserted planks as tourists are not coming. Oh the irony, it seems these developments to draw in visitors have put the already creaking infrastructure under too much strain, thus putting off many tour companies.
Daily power cuts are bad enough, but recent outbreaks of cholera have made the island a no go area.
Water is Cuba is, literally, poison, even the poorest local will not touch tap water, even the poorest shack has a water filter. Black slug stench permeates everywhere, overpowering even the incense in the beautiful cathedrals.
It is during the inevitably power less evening I invite my hosts to join me on my roof top garden to free them from the hot stiflingly room downstairs. Both are professional university lecturers, with good English, who have invested much in their casa, and their main anxiety now is the dearth of tourists.
As is usual here they ave no wifi and depend on day before phone 'bookings' via word of mouth, the way I booked. They now depend on home stayers, as their Government paid salaries are low and their casa takes considerable expenditure to maintain, but this year few have come. I came because of a recommendation, and promise to spread the word, it is all, bar a large tip, I can do to help.
My own account of dire customer service during my travels and how much I hate the ubiquitous two currency system which makes Cuba ridiculously expensive is a familiar one. They nod sagely, knowing all too well their country, with its lack of natural wonders and wildlife, is nowhere near as special as the Government insists.
The Government, they say, are in a bubble, persisting it is the duty of 'imperialist' visitors to pay exorbitant costs to visit Cuba, resisting calls to end the two currency system which locals feel is driving away tourists, as holiday firms abandon the country and backpackers pop in only to leave for the greater attractions of central and South America.
This is an intriguing time to visit, as Castro's death and Trumps election throws the future of Cuba into chaos. I am shocked by the actuality of Cuba, the reality is so far away from the representation in holiday brochures. In Santiago I really see first hand just how hard life is here. This is a country held fast in the grip of the past, desperate to move forward, but caught in an impossible present, trapped by dire economic crisis and at the mercy of internal and external politics.
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