Tierra de Tortugas

ROMANTIC PRIVATE SUITES ON THE BEACH IN KINO BAY

A message about our rentals…

We’re letting our friends, neighbors, and guests know that now you can reserve our Casa Tortuga and Casa Encantada rentals directly with us! They will no longer be available on Airbnb. Changes in the Bahía de Kino rental market, Airbnb practices, and our own priorities, have led us to redesign how we do business. We’re choosing a more personal approach!

Return guests are especially welcome, as are new visitors who are looking for a particularly special Kino Bay rental experience. Long-term options are available. 

Beginning now, rentals of our Tortuga Studio, Pelican Studio, and Casa Encantada apartment can be reserved by contacting us via email at [email protected] or on WhatsApp at 505-610-4615.

For photos and details, visit our RENTALS. 

We'd love to hear from you!

Perry Wilkes & Carolyn Kinsman

EUROPE 2024: A TRIP ON THE RHINE

From Amsterdam, we took a Viking Riverboat cruise from Amsterdam to Basel, Switzerland. Take the trip with us here...

Download Rhine Dispatch

EUROPE 2024: AMSTERDAM

We spent a delightful several days in Amsterdam. Come along...

Download Amsterdam Dispatch

 

EUROPE 2024: EDINBURGH

Greetings, readers,

Due to difficulties in posting our dispatches as we always have in the past, we are now creating them as PDFs for you download here:  Download Edinburgh Dispatch

Please let us know if you are not able to view this PDF. And write to us with any comments or feedback at [email protected].

Happy travels,
Carolyn & Perry

CHANGING THE WAY WE DO DISPATCHES

Let's try this another way.

Dear family, friends, readers of our Dispatches here on Typepad:

We have been posting on this site for twenty years! And it's been wonderful—a way to stay in touch with all of you while living in Mexico and wandering the world. We are grateful for your time and attention.

Recently, the difficulties of posting on this site has made it nearly impossible for us to share the stories and photos from our travels. After trying repeatedly but unsuccessfully to resolve technical problems, we have decided to do things differently.

As of now, we will be posting our Dispatches as custom-made PDF files that we can deliver direct to you via email, Messages, or WhatsApp. All we need is to know that you want to receive them. We still have lots of tales to tell from our recent four months in Europe, so if you are interested in receiving them, send your name and preferred contact info (email address, or phone number for WhatsApp or Messages) to [email protected]. We will put you on our list and send the dispatches as they are ready to go! Of course, you can ask to be removed from the list at any time, and we will never share your contact information in any way, shape, or form! 

Hoping to hear from you...warm regards,
Perry and Carolyn

All past posts will remain on Typepad and can still be accessed at dispatches.wilkeskinsman.com.

   

 

 

EUROPE 2024: The Lake District

I have been wanting to visit England’s famous Lake District since I first read the Romantic Poets in college. With only words, they painted vivid travel posters in my mind. But life always seemed to get in the way. And now we’re actually going there, the proper way, on a train leaving the charming seaside village of Whitby, passing up the Esk River valley and through the Yorkshire Moors. We’ll have three train changes ahead of us, and it will be a long day through much scenic countryside, and occasionally otherwise. But we like trains, and so it will be a good day.

 

 On our last drizzly morning we packed up early to roll our bags downhill – in a light Yorkshire rain, of course – through an alley and past a grumpy gargoyle (aren’t they all grumpy?!). He’s perched near that sweet little old Morris sedan that caught my eye early in our visit, and it’s still there, peeking through feral flowers that happily found a fertile niche in the pavement.

After rolling a few more blocks we stopped at friendly Cranberry Swamp for a hot bowl of porridge to fortify us against the drizzle, and it was all a perfect beginning to the morning. As an extra bonus, an interesting old guy sitting next to us at the window seats shared most of his life story, including adventurous tales of his RAF days. I’m not sure what he said to the young lady by the counter, but she also was amused. 

 

And then we were off again, rolling ourselves and bags downhill, past gulls cadging treats and small boats in the inner harbor, to the Whitby train station. 

 

 

Soon we’re aboard a comfortable dry coach whisking us through the Yorkshire back country, past bridges and villages. And sheep. 

We’re heading north along the coast to a train change in Newcastle. From there we cross the midsection of the UK, past Haltwhistle(!?) to Carlisle and another train heading south  to Oxenholme, the entryway to the Lake District. 

And one final short ride puts us at the little Windermere station in the county of Cumbria, where there’s apparently something for, well, everyone. 

 

We roll downhill a few blocks from the station to simple lodgings at The Carriage House. And the sweet breakfast area already has us looking forward to the coming morning.

 

It’s been a long day, but with our bags stashed it’s time for a look-about at famous Windermere. The grey stone walls and slate roofs match the grey skies overhead, with their promise of more rain to keep everything so green. And the grey stone blends well into the woodlands, like outcroppings of the local geology. 

Banners around town tell us the World Cup finals will be on big screens tonight in most of the pubs, and so we look forward to settling in for the main event with pints and food and the happy local lads. But at every pub they tell us there are no more reservations. Everybody’s full up for the event. Bummer. So we snag some decent cheese and crackers, and some cookies and good Portuguese wine, and trudge back to our room to catch the game. It was a closely-fought match, but Britain lost to Spain. And so there were no raucous celebrations in town that night.

 

Day Trip to Keswick

There are frequent inexpensive buses (£2 ea; US$2.62) linking lakeside villages throughout the District. So after breakfast we take advantage of this excellent service to get an overview of the area, and visit the village of Keswick, by Lake Derwentwater, at the end of the route. There were only a couple of scattered seats left on the upper deck and I found one next to an annoyed-looking chap who had the great misfortune to sit next to me. And he gives off the side-eye. I hadn’t noticed him until I saw the picture later, and then I thought it was kind of humorous. At least, for me.

So a cheap bus ride, in the rain, with lots of charming scenes along the way reassures us there will always be an England. And maybe at Keswick we’ll get a taste of what attracted Percy Bysshe Shelley to spend some of the winter of 1811 there working on his tract called, “The Necessity of Atheism.” 

He would soon mail copies to the heads of each college at Oxford, and would be booted out for his troubles. It was the sort of thing that in 1811 would be a serious cannon shot across the bow of the lumbering ship of social propriety. Today it would be more of a BB shot across the bow and be greeted with an eye-roll. At any rate, he was spending little of his time in class and preferred to conduct dangerous chemical experiments in his room. 

Shelley spent December and January of 1811-12 in Keswick with his first wife, Harriet, until they left for Ireland, to the great relief of his neighbors, who had grown tired of his pistol shooting and radical proclamations. And by the time we got to Keswick there was little sign of him.

 

We managed to choose a Saturday to go bus riding, so there’s a long traffic jam on the quaint old two-lane road – complete with appropriate signage to warn us of the obvious risks we must assume on this route. We may encounter ‘Elderly People’ as well.

There are endless picturesque scenes of stone houses and shops along the way, and a sheep’s pasture being repurposed for weekend festival parking. But the sheep seem to deal with it OK. 

 

We pass through a rocky cleft in the hills above Lake Windermere that leads to the next valley and we soon arrive in Keswick. This is the place where a happy crowd of hearty-to-party fellows in their colorful club ties wrap up the jolly public song-fest that kept their fellow passengers entertained, and depart for their next engagement.

We’ve arrived during a big street fair and the rainy streets are crowded with festing folk. There’s every kind of local handcraft, many other items, and tempting baked goods on sale under the tents.

 

And if your old roof is in dire need of a re-slating after several hundred years of English weather, the Lakeland Slate Company will surely be helpful to set things right once again.

The Brits are fond of their favorite pets, sheep or otherwise, and there are many opportunities here to lavish the love upon them. And you can get a charming (to the owner, anyway) new leash to help the furry ones avoid a run-in with the local pet constabulary. 

There are attractive places in Keswick that beckon us to join them for a hearty tank-up. Some offer such helpful services as a ‘Husband Creche’ for harried wives needing to drop off a complaining spouse for the afternoon. And warnings against memory loss should not be taken with any less than a hearty pint.

 

But it’s only midday and not the best time for that, at least not for us. And so, after a good look around, it’s time we caught the bus back to Windermere, where a tall tankard of ale (or some other beverage) will go down nicely later on. With a good dinner. Of bangers and mash. And peas. (Curiously, the usual standard UK fare of ‘mushy peas’ seems to be replaced these days with whole peas.) 

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The extended period of grey and dripping skies over England recalls a description of the clouds over foggy Amsterdam in The Fall (1956) by Albert Camus. He describes the gloom as flocks of grey birds hover overhead. And the snow that falls is the feathers they drop onto the city. It’s a remarkable novel that mostly takes place in a bar called Mexico City that once existed in Amsterdam. Camus compares the city’s concentric canal system to Dante’s bleak visions in the Commedia Divina. And the bar, located in the red light district, is in the “last circle of hell.” 

Yet despite the grey skies, Windermere and most of the idyllic Lake District are vastly unlike the tortured Dante’s painfully abysmal work. The Lakes are nestled into picturesque western foothills of the Pennines, the north-south mountain range that forms the backbone of the UK, the high rugged peaks that Daniel Defoe called “The English Andes.”

 

England’s Lake District is impossibly pleasant and gorgeous (dare I say precious?), as befits one of the UK’s great romantic destinations. Peter Rabbit and his friends from the works of Beatrix Potter, a long-time local resident, are surely hiding in the woods hereabouts. One expects to encounter modern disciples of legendary English landscape painters such as Constable and Turner, still trying to capture that elusive wispy foggy magic of these hills, lakes, and villages. And then there’s the magical poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Robert Southey and William Wordsworth whose words (and Wordsworth’s 1810 Guide to the Lakes) led so many of their admirers to these enchanted valleys.

 

William Wordsworth was born in 1770 in Cumberland, now a part of the Lake District. By 1787 he had published his first sonnet and entered St John’s College, Cambridge. In 1790 he embarked on an extensive summer walking tour of the Alps, Switzerland, France, and Italy, and then returned to graduate from Cambridge in 1791.

Wordsworth met Coleridge in 1795, and by 1798 they anonymously published Lyrical Ballads, an important piece of English Romanticism which contained two of their best-known works: “Tintern Abbey” by Wordsworth, and “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Coleridge. By 1799 Wordsworth had settled by the Lakes in Dove Cottage, Grasmere with his sister Dorothy. By 1800 Coleridge was living at Greta Hall in nearby Keswick, and Southey soon joined him at Keswick. 

The three would become an attraction as their fame grew, and they’d be called the Lake Poets, regardless of whether they much mentioned the Lakes. The stream of luminaries to visit Greta Hall would include: Keats, Shelley, Hazlitt, John Ruskin, and Sir Walter Scott. Southey and Wordsworth would each later be honored with the post of Poet Laureate of the UK.    

The so-called ‘Second Generation’ of Lake Poets included John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley and George Gordon, Lord Byron, who began as young radicals inspired by the French Revolution and looking for adventure in the Alps and exotic Italy – or even Albania and Greece, in the case of Byron. They were risk takers out to change the stodgy and classist society of England. But they were generally disappointed at actually meeting their older mentors living among the Lakes, who had become conservative with age.  

Coleridge lived to the age of 61, Southey to 68, and Wordsworth died at 80, but the Second Generation perished young in their travels. Keats died in a rented home at the foot of the Spanish Steps in Rome in 1821 at the age of 25, while searching out a warm weather cure for his tuberculosis; Shelley, at 29, drowned in 1822 in a boating accident in a storm off of La Spezia; and Byron died in 1824 of a fever at Missolonghi, Greece, at the age of 36, while helping the Greeks gain their independence from the Ottoman Empire. Their deaths in foreign lands gave them each a romantic credence that exceeded the fame gained during their short lives.  

And as always happens with rebels, all of the Lake Poets endured the petty sniping of critics who abhorred this modern rejection of the stilted elite language of classical poetry and honored its replacement by the organic tongue of the common people. The splenetic Scottish critic Francis Jeffrey referred to them as (according to Coleridge), “the School of whining and hypochondriacal poets that haunt the Lakes.”  

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A Day in Grasmere

We catch a morning bus to Grasmere, where Wordsworth spent much of his time learning from nature, marveling at the lessons gained from whispers of flowers, birds, and rainbows in the Lake District, and writing in the vernacular of the local people. We join the summer crowd of gawking visitors (about 70,000 per year) at the grey stone Wordsworth Museum, and become another wave of those who the poet later regretted calling to the Lakes in his popular Guides.

 

Dove Cottage is the home and garden where Wordsworth lived with his sister Dorothy from 1799 to 1808 and they spent their time in “plain living, but high thinking.” It’s a modest place that was at times a local pub, and is now connected to the Museum. Care has been taken to preserve the essence of the poet’s simple life, and there are even notes and manuscripts left in place. It seems well suited to the contemplative life that Wordsworth and Dorothy sought in these valleys. 

After an extended visit to the Cottage, we’re beckoned by a quiet patio next to the Museum’s fine little cafe. We happily settle under a shady tree on a long-awaited sunny day with a delicious bowl of hot soup, coffee, and slices of pie.

 

A quiet wander through the village after lunch puts us in touch with stone homes and gardens nestled into the gorgeous wooded hills overlooking the lake below and the peaks beyond. It’s a place the poet described as “the loveliest spot that man hath ever found.” 

 

In later editions of his Guide to the Lakes, Wordsworth spoke of incursions and changes from the outside world and had strong words about messing with the local landscape and indigenous architecture. 

“…in truth, no one can now travel through the
more frequented tracts, without being offended, at
almost every turn, by an introduction of discordant
objects, disturbing that peaceful harmony of form
and colour, which had been through a long lapse of
ages most happily preserved.”

He was well acquainted with Italy through his travels as a young man, but he grew to prefer the dramatic changeability of weather at the Lakes. And he described those blue Mediterranean skies, “the cerulean vacancy of Italy, as an unanimated and even a sad spectacle.” 

The nearby Wordsworth Daffodil Garden in St Oswald’s churchyard by the River Rothay was created to honor Wordsworth’s poem, “The Daffodils.” It’s the wrong season to experience the Springtime joys of daffodils, but the churchyard also contains the modest graves of William, his wife Mary, his sister Dorothy. And I wish we’d had time for tea overlooking the gentle waters of the Rothay, but somehow we didn’t.

 

Frequent reminders of Beatrix Potter are present, as she was another long-time resident among the Lakes. And we decide to forgo the long line to enjoy one of those famous Grasmere Gingerbread cookies.

 

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Windermere

So far we’ve explored a bit of the countryside, yet the village of Windermere has its own delights. And one of them is a hot cuppa at Brown Sugar, followed by a brisk walk downhill about a mile to Lake Windermere itself.

We’re walking right beside a roadway, but it’s also a naturalistic walk by the gardens and the flowers and the historic architecture of the Lakes. And the local architecture is something that Wordsworth had a few words to say about in his Guides. 

The quaint shop district appears as we get closer to the Lake, and there’s ample distraction for wanderers. 

 

We’re reminded of the World of Beatrix Potter and all her fuzzy friends. Beatrix Potter was an accomplished author and illustrator with a wide range of academic and scientific interests, including mycology. And some of her illustrations of mushrooms were published in respected guidebooks. But of course, it’s her tales of a rascally rabbit that brought her fame, and she wrote and illustrated about two dozen of those popular stories.

Potter was a smart businessperson who created a Peter Rabbit soft toy in 1903 and registered it at the Patent Office. It was the first fictional character ever licensed in England. And Harrods of London has carried a line of her merchandise for over a century. 

 

She was a conservationist who was instrumental in preserving much of the Lake District lands that are now administered by the National Trust. Her home at Hill Top Farm, in Near Sawrey, which she willed to the National Trust as a museum, is among those properties.   

 

But on another chilly morning, it’s a warm cup of soup that calls us even more ardently than Peter Rabbit.

 

Regardless of the overcast, it’s time for a lake cruise to get a better view of the place and the many fine small sailing craft that surely fleck the scene with white billowing sails on a pleasant sunny day. The lake is long enough that there’s still a ferry to transport people and cars to the other side. We also catch a glimpse of the deep forest lands over there that Beatrix Potter worked to preserve and protect during the 38 years she lived at Hill Top Farm.

 

Ice cream is a good reward as we trudge back up the hill, and we get a fleeting glance of a gorgeous classic Morgan coupe out on a day leg-stretch. The rumble of that old Morgan reminds me (slightly) of the old faded and cutely-ugly bug-eyed Austin Healy Sprite that I owned so long ago. But we pass a little scooter with full rain enclosure that’s probably much closer to the actual value of my well-worn Sprite than a gleaming classic Morgan show car. 

 

And upon arrival back at the top of the hill, a place called Tilly calls to us for one of the best meals we’ve had in many a day. But alas, this year our tyrannical schedule is dictating the short number of days we can spend in any one place, and this must be our final meal in the famous Lake District.

———————————————————————

Onward and Northward

In the morning we’ll be off again to the train station for a passage further north. We’re venturing into Edinburgh, into the land of the fierce Picts and Scots who defeated the overly ambitious Romans, and have ever since constantly badgered the English. It’s our hope not to annoy them with our presence, so please join us for the next leg of our 2024 UK-Euro trek . — PRW 

EUROPE 2024: York & Whitby

There is so much to do in London and we could spend a lot more time in this great city. We’ve been here a few times in the past and have always enjoyed our days in the Olde Blighty, as the overseas army called it back in colonial days. But our allocated London days have come to an end and it’s time to move onward to see a few other corners of the UK that we’ve missed in past visits. 

 

It was a suitably sodden English day as we donned rain gear and rolled our bags to the nearby ThamesLink station (just next to the West Hampstead underground station) to catch a fast ride to Kings Cross station, and a train heading north. At Kings Cross we dried out with hot coffee and scones before buying tickets to the old Viking city of York. There are about 25 trains per day from London to York, so tickets are easy to come by. And as the trip only takes 2 1/2 hours, there was no rush.

 

It’s a great pleasure to be on a comfortable train rolling northerly through the drizzly green English countryside of farms, streams and villages to a place we’ve never seen. York has been an important railway center since 1839 and is now the site of the National Railway Museum, along with the Jorvik Viking Center, and other attractions. The town was also a target for the infamous Baedeker Raids of WWII, that were based on the important historical sites included in those popular pre-war guidebooks. Most of that damage has been repaired by now, and we rolled in to the stately old rail hall in anticipation of whatever the town named York might offer.

 

There have been inhabitants for about 10,000 years in this location, where the River Ouse meets the River Foss. But it was the Romans who founded a city here in 71 AD and called it Eboracum after Ebraucus, a legendary king of the early Britons. 

And it was in 866 that Vikings, under the brothers Halfdan and Ivar the Boneless (other brothers included Björn Ironside and Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye!) as leaders of the Great Heathen Army, conquered the city and adapted the old Saxon name of Eoforwic to something more Nordic, like Jorvik. And over time, it became York.

Which brings us to ‘poor Yorick,’ the deceased former jester at the court of Prince Hamlet’s murdered father, King Hamlet. And Prince Hamlet’s famous lament at being presented with his skull:

“Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?” (Hamlet, V.i)

Alas, poor old Yorick has little to do with the city of York, but I thought it was an interesting gambit, a side track, if you will. Please pardon my lapses in judgement.

........................................................................................................

YORK

The train station is far from our lodgings and we know nothing about the bus system, so a cab is our only good option on this intermittently drippy day. But we’re soon safely inside our newish abode to stash our bags and make ready to wander. As soon as the rain lets up. 

But Carolyn has now come down with the London Crud, or whatever she inhaled back there. So we’ll spend a day just hanging out in our room as I venture forth in search of soup mix packets and saltine crackers. 

 

And then she’s up and it’s my turn to be bedridden for a day or so – right on the day we planned to have tea with Luke Waterson, our Brit author friend. He writes for Lonely Planet and other publications. He also has a couple of very good novels out, including his most recent called Song Castle. It’s an excellent read based on an actual musical event that occurred in Wales back in 1176 and attracted contestants from as far as Persia. 

So we both finally beat the Crud, but it keeps raining outside. And it’s unseasonably cold, according to the local people we ask. Unlike our past trips, this one is on a kind of schedule without lots of extra days built in before we board a costly river boat in Amsterdam, departing for Basel. So our wandering time in York will be truncated and we’ll only see a small portion of what’s on offer. And it keeps raining.  

But the sprinkles lessen just enough for us (two desert rats from Mexico!) to see huge York Minster and enjoy a welcome cup of hot tea and a needed sandwich in a warm and dry place called Bennetts.

 

The Guy Fawkes Inn, on a nearby street, reminds us that this notorious character was born here in York – apparently right where the Inn now stands. And I’m very sorry that we’d just had a good sandwich and we missed out on a hearty plate of Bangers and Mash with ale in that particular restaurant.

Fawkes was a Catholic who was part of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, when they conspired to blow up the House of Lords, and the Protestants therein, by planting 36 barrels of dynamite in the basement. He was caught before the blast, tortured and executed, as were his 12 confederates, and the survival of the King was celebrated by bonfires in the streets. But the event is now commemorated in the UK on November 5 as Guy Fawkes Night, and his effigy is traditionally burned in a bonfire. With fireworks of course.

 

Later, we wander the famous narrow streets of The Shambles to marvel at the offerings, including art, home made potions, and a window-full of enticing fruit scones. We notice there are ample provisions for broom parking. And we share the drizzly day with a bedraggled-looking mutt in a baby carriage. 

 

As the day ends and we make our way back toward our lodgings, we stop at the Stonebow Inn for ale and a platter of bangers. With peas, of course. Sadly, it will be our last meal in rainy York, and we savor the few dry moments.

The following cold and drizzly morning finds us rolling our bags to the nearby Stonebow bus stop and a drizzly wait for the warm local Coastliner 840 bus that will take us on scenic back roads all the way to Whitby. And it only costs us £2 each (about US$2.62 each). The Brit transport system – and in most of Europe too! – is a precious gift for the frugal and slightly-intrepid traveler. Oh, and did I mention that it was drizzly?

The bus windows are huge, if dripping with heavy rain. It’s a double-decker, but we decide to remain below with our bags. And soon we’re winding among dales and draws, over old stone bridges, through stone villages, and across the Yorkshire moors. In 2018 it was voted Britain’s most scenic bus route by Bus Users UK. I don’t believe you’d get a more scenic view on a big and costly Mercedes tourist ride.

 

The Yorkshire moors remind me of Sherlock Holmes and The Hound of the Baskervilles, which is set in Dartmoor, Devon, in southwestern England. Although that terrifying hound was fictional, moorlands can be rocky and sparsely-wooded, lonely and bleak, with dangerous peat bogs that can swallow an unsuspecting person.

The Book of Dartmoor (1900) related the story of a man who was making his way through Aune Mire at the head of the River Avon when he came upon a top-hat brim down on the surface of the mire. He kicked it, whereupon a voice called out: "What be you a-doin' to my 'at?" The man replied, "Be there now a chap under'n?" "Ees, I reckon," was the reply, "and a hoss under me likewise."

Peat bogs have sometimes yielded valuable archeological treasures, including unlucky animals and people who fell into them over the millennia. The remains can be remarkably well-preserved due to the oxygen-free water contained in the bogs.

But if a lighter version of the tale is more to your liking, a retelling with Peter Cook and Dudley Moore may just be the ticket. And no, I haven’t seen it yet but hope to at some point when in dire need of something ridiculous.

........................................................................................................

WHITBY

Soon we’ve arrived, warm and cosy, in the little seaport of Whitby, and the cold and drizzly (here we go again) day somehow befits its location on the North Sea. The stark skeletal ruin of the famous old dead abbey on the hill overlooking the Sea is a haunting emblem of the little port of Whitby. 

The wrecked abbey is often visible down narrow lanes and from vantage points over the village, just as it has been since the days of King Henry VIII. 

 

The first abbey at Whitby (then named Streoneshalh by the Saxons) was founded in 657 AD by Oswy, King of Northumbria, and destroyed in the Danish raids of 867-870. It was rebuilt as a larger edifice in the 1220s during a period of religious fervor that saw the beginning of the Crusades and the only English Pope, Adrian IV (r. 1154-1159), born just north of London. But the attending Benedictine order was dissolved by Henry VIII in 1540 and the abbey was abandoned. And therein lies a tale, of spite and malice, and ruthless headstrong rulers.

The ancient abbeys of England were victims of King Henry VIII and his spat with Pope Clement VII who refused to allow him a divorce from his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Henry decided to start his own church, which granted him the divorce. He then gained Parliamentary approval (the Suppression Acts of 1535 and 1539) to dissolve the Catholic religious orders at 625 abbeys and convents of England. 

Anti-monastic criticism was not unprecedented at the time, due to the vast wealth many of them had accrued and the few positive results they had on the morals of society. Desiderius Erasmus even characterized the majority of them as lax, comfortably worldly, wasteful of scarce resources, and superstitious. 

Henry also had ulterior motives, as he was funding various expensive wars at the time and needed the massive income that the monasteries and nunneries were generating from their lands and other profitable operations. 

Among Henry’s other rash actions, his second and fifth wives Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard faired poorly when Henry gave them each a trim at the notorious Tower of London. (“A bit too much off the top, eh whot?!”)

 Henry died at the age of 55. With a girth of 54 inches, he was an obese wreck of his former hearty self. Although Henry blamed his six wives for failing to produce a fit male heir, modern science has traced several genes in Henry himself that probably account for the nine stillbirths and early childhood deaths he left behind. 

Edward VI, his sickly only surviving son, served briefly as King of England, dying at the young age of 15. Henry’s daughter Mary I (by Catherine of Aragon) ruled for only five years, while his daughter Elizabeth I (by Anne Boleyn) reigned for 45 years until her death at the age of 69, and became one of England’s most important monarchs. 

Henry’s tumultuous reign reminds me of a line from a Dorothy Sayers novel: “Nothing in life so became him as the leaving of it.”

 

The old ruined abbey appears in Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel, Dracula, and that’s why we’re here. Stoker and his family were on holiday in Whitby in 1880, and it’s been speculated that he found the name for his new novel while doing research in the town’s library. And there’s no way he could have missed the ghostly silhouette of the ruined abbey on the hill. Early in the novel, Dracula sails from his castle in Transylvania for England to prey on young women. The ship’s crew all meet a variety of ghastly ends and the ship is wrecked on the coast near Whitby with its dead captain still lashed to the wheel. Then a bizarre dog-like creature is seen to leap off the deck and run up the 199 steps to the graveyard by the old abbey ruins. 

 

I had wanted to see Whitby ever since reading Stoker’s novel. It’s an epistolary work, told by letters and diary entries, which has little relation to the movies that came later. But that image of the broken abbey above the little village remained in my imagination. And I was compelled to climb those 199 steps leading to the ancient ruin. The views that unfold on the way up, the tapestry of overlapping red roofs, the harbor mouth into the forbidding North Sea, and small craft clustered safely into the inner harbor, are certainly worth the climb.

And at the top of the steps it’s a special experience to be confronted with the ruined abbey and the old moldy graveyard just before it. How many locally important lives are chronicled on these cold and mossy stone slabs.

It’s a solemn and haunted experience to wander through the remaining pieces of a wrecked abbey that must have been spectacular in its days. And to imagine the gifted workers who assembled these stones using only what we now consider primitive tools and techniques. 

But only a small number of these ruined English abbeys were actually destroyed on the order of the King or local authorities, while most of the abandoned buildings were looted for their valuable building timbers, the lead was stripped from their roofs, and the stone was quarried from their walls and arches to build the town itself. The fate of Whitby’s abbey was much the same as those many other shrines encountered and destroyed in past conquests by ancient empires throughout history. And sadly, it’s much easier to destroy than to build.

Perhaps the most famous of the shrines dissolved by Henry VIII is Tintern Abbey in Wales, memorialized in art by Gainsborough and Turner, and in poetry by Wordsworth – and even an acid-fueled visit in 1967 by Alan Ginsberg who beheld, “clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey.” Yet others, such as Martin Tupper (1858), ask us to "Look on these ruins in a spirit of praise" as an "Emancipation for the Soul" from superstition.

Regardless, the powerful image of an ancient ruined edifice can still inspire great art.  

 

 Back in the charming narrow and winding streets of Whitby there is much to explore. It’s a happy day spent meandering these lanes and alleys with rarely a car to pass us by. Add to that the added pleasure of taking a hot cuppa whilst gazing at the passersby. I can believe it’s why many of the Brits we’ve spoken to have fond memories of past family visits to the village. 

 

Carolyn had found us a nice room overlooking a quiet street to snug up in against the cold and rain, and vampires. Yet since Bram Stoker did so much to put Whitby on the traveler’s circuit, there are gothic monsters scattered about town. And there’s Stokers, a warm little coffee and scone place nearby our lodging. It became a regular stop on our mornings.

 

And there’s yet another famous person who was an important former resident of this little port, a fellow who had a large impact on the world in general. And a tall statue of him looks over the port these days from the headland opposite the old ruined abbey.

Capt. James Cook was born in Marton, North Yorkshire, a village not far from here. But Whitby is where he learned the sailor’s trade, crewing on colliers hauling coal to ports along the English coast. He joined the Royal Navy in 1755 and, although he was not formally educated, he soon mastered the mathematics, astronomy, and charting needed to rise in the ranks. While serving in Canada during the Seven Years War (1756-1763) he mapped the entry to the St. Lawrence River, and later the jagged dangerous coast of Newfoundland. 

By 1768 he was given command of HMS Bark Endeavour for a 3-year scientific voyage into the South Seas. In addition to tons of dry goods, the livestock on board included pigs, poultry, two greyhounds, and a milking goat. The ship also carried 250 barrels of beer, 44 barrels of brandy, and 17 barrels of rum.

Coincidentally, the Endeavour was built at Whitby as a collier of 368 ⁷¹⁄₉₄ tons named Earl of Pembroke, and began her life as a local ship type known as a Whitby Cat. But Capt Cook would go on to lead two more great explorations of the Pacific on a different ship. And after her one historic voyage, the Endeavour was sold off as a transport and renamed, and was used to supply British troops in the US War for Independence. She was scuttled in 1778 as part of the blockade of Newport Harbor in Rhode Island and largely forgotten, until 1999 when her final location was confirmed. These days there’s a small engine-powered ‘replica’ of the ship in Whitby that takes tourists for rides. 

 

So despite the rain and cold, Whitby was a fine choice for a 3-4 night layover. There are so many charming things about the place, and we didn’t get to most of them. Yet we’ll have lots of memories of this little old port village with headlands overlooking the North Sea, and with a helpful sign that informs us we’re 13,300 (km or mi?) from Tonga.

There’s a wire statue of Captain Dora Walker (1890-1980) who was the first female fishing boat captain on England’s North East coast and wrote several books about her many adventures.

Down below, there are waves crashing into the town’s protecting breakwater, small craft are bobbing on gentle waves, and a strong crew of oarsmen look to be heading for the open ocean for a proper workout. There’s a timelessness about the place, as if that’s how it’s been here in little Whitby for the past many centuries, and that’s how it’s likely to remain.

I drop a bob or two onto the platter of a gifted sand sculptor seated by his mournful-looking dog, and I admire a well-kept old Morris sedan parked in the alley as we head back to our lodgings on our last day here in these narrow lanes.

 

In our wanderings about town we’ve passed a quietly elegant place with the inelegant name of Ditto. But we needed a reservation. So it was top of list for our last night in town, and it was an excellent choice. 

 

In the morning we’ll catch an early train and be off to The Lake District, the place that Wordsworth, Coleridge and other Romantic poets and painters made famous long ago. Please come along for that one! — PRW

Europe 2024: Off to London

Another summer is upon us and we want to make the most of the years we have left to travel – and occasionally, to hobble – our way around the world. 

Yet this year will be differently structured than the past when we’d make it up as we go, and book ahead when we felt like moving on. But now there’s lots of ‘revenge travel’ underway, and those easy bookings of the past may not be available. It’s a revenge that seems to be shared by those fortunate to survive the COVID virus. 

Or as Robert Herrick said so well back in 1648:

Gather ye Rose-buds while ye may,
    Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to day,
    To morrow will be dying.

 

So this time Carolyn actually booked everything well in advance of our four months of wandering in the UK and Europe. And that was a lot of work on her part.

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A side note:

So just how do we wander around the UK and Europe for four months anyway? Are we like, rich or something? No, we’re not. For two people with a modest retirement and our Social Security, we’re actually below the US median, according to the charts I’ve found. But that modest income also ranks us very high compared to world averages. We have an older reliable vehicle, no house payment, and live in Mexico where our pesos go much further. And while in the UK and Europe we travel by train and don’t hang out in 4- and 5-star hotels or restaurants. Sure, we splurge now and then, but it’s not the norm. 

It wouldn’t work for everybody, but it works fine for us. In fact, it usually gets us out of the tourist zone and closer to the local people, and to the local stores and the good places where the locals eat. 

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Another aspect of the trip is that under the Schengen Agreement (signed in Schengen, Luxembourg, 1985/1990), non–EU citizens are only allowed a 90 day stay in the Schengen Area without a visa. So we’d be spending part of the first month traveling in the UK before hopping a short flight to the continent, from Edinburgh to Amsterdam. (Perry carefully planned the itinerary to make sure we wouldn’t violate any of the rules, and that was a lot of work on his part.)

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We left the beautiful sculptural summer clouds of New Mexico behind, to change planes in Atlanta, and then to get as comfortable as we could manage on a big transAtlantic overnight bird heading for London.

 

After landing at Heathrow Terminal 5 we quickly gathered a fistful of Pounds Sterling from an ATM to be ready for whatever lies ahead. Although it’s more common these days in the UK and Europe to charge everything, I like to have a bit of ‘foldin’ money’ in my jeans. I was a bit surprised to see the Queen is still on all the bills I got (few Charleys yet!), although she passed away in 2022. But I guess it takes time to make a full transition to the current occupant of the Throne, King Charles III. And the ‘Queenies’ are still good as gold, or whatever alloy is currently supporting the world’s currencies. (Shown on the reverse are Churchill, Jane Austen, and the artist, J M W Turner.)

 

Then we followed a trail of signs to the Heathrow Express non-stop train to Paddington Station in central London. (The new Elizabeth Line is a less expensive option from Heathrow but it makes a number of stops before Paddington.) Then we rolled our bags to the Underground station and sped onward to find our booking in London’s hilly neighborhood of West Hampstead, Camden. 

 

It had been a long un-restful night and day of travel, and our cosy apartment was a welcome crash pad with a good backyard view. A much needed nap was first on order.

We were just a few blocks from a metro station for easy access to central London. And in a modest neighborhood of flowers, townhomes and good little eateries. While we hadn’t paid a premium for some kind of garden apartment, it was certainly nice enough for a five-night stay. 

 

Whilst in search of a good neighborhood pub, we found the very welcoming Alice House. We nestled in easily amongst the locals with two tall drafts and a hearty meat pie on the table to share. Just above our heads a Premier League game was on the telly, and all was good. 

 

But the summer sun is late to set in the higher latitudes of the UK, and it was still very bright outside. So after our very fine pub grub we went in search of some local music venue, and found another local pub called The West Hampstead Arts Club. We ordered our drinks upstairs and were directed to the basement where we got the only corner table and listened as the opening guy worked with the sound tech. Soon the space was filled with the evening’s standing crowd. Our only view was a reflection in framed poster art pieces along the side wall, but the music was good. And hey, we were hanging out at a cool little dive in NW London, and life is good. 

 

 In the morning light the coffee beckoned and there was a sweet little shop nearby with strong java and a view onto West Hampstead street life just outside the window. I read a bit of news about the looming election, which was projected to be a well-deserved disaster for the flailing Tory party (and it was), and a welcome change from the shenanigans wrought by Boris Johnson and his crowd. (After the Tories lost, they vacated number 10 Downing Street on the following day, according to tradition, and the Labour Party moved in. There’s none of this US nonsense of trailing off for several months of lame-duckism.)

After being suitably caffeine reenforced, we explored the neighborhood – and dodged cars driving on the wrong side of the street. The many quaint sights of the UK are always a delight. 

Soon we were aboard the Underground and heading to the Goodge Street station, (with the memory of “Sunny Goodge Street” by Judy Collins ringing in our ears) for a visit to the venerable British Museum. And there we joined the long line of visitors (almost 6 million per year) awaiting entry to the first public national museum in the world, established in 1753, and dedicated to cover all fields of knowledge. It’s a special treat to enter through those stately columns. 

There are far more of the world’s treasures here (the Elgin Marbles, the Rosetta Stone) than any person can see in a day, or several. But we got another general taste of things and will return again some day. Another issue for us is the advent of ‘museum legs’ after only a few hours, due to our aging joints. So it’s become harder to endure long shuffling days.

(And while we usually enjoy a bit of lunch in the outstanding cafes we find in many museums, this one is more of a gourmet fast food operation with seating on benches.)

 

 

I had to appreciate the relaxed attitude of the couple blithely seated on the old marble entry steps, just by the sign reading, “Do not sit on the steps.”

 

But we have theatre tickets for the evening and it’s time to go. We also need to grab some dinner before catching the play, and it’s just our luck to stumble (with canes in hand) into a place that bills itself as, “The Oldest licensed Premises in London.” Carolyn decides to have her rich dark Guinness imprinted, and we happily settle in for another round of fine pub grub. Meanwhile, a young lady shares her ample locks of hair with a balding chap at a nearby table. Hey, we’re very near the Theatre District and this sort of thing just happens.

 

Crossing bustling Leicester Square, in the West End Theatre District, we’re ready with tickets to see Agatha Christie’s 1952 play, The Mousetrap, – which even had Richard Attenborough in the original cast. It’s been playing continuously here in London, with more than 10 million attendees, for longer than most people are alive, and it’s time we saw it. The surprise ending is accompanied by a request for the audience not to reveal it.

 

And then, finally, it’s time to catch the late train, along with other sleepy late-nighters, bound for our quiet West Hampstead abode. It’s been a very good day.

 

Another morning finds us trying to recall which way to look for cars before crossing the street, and we’re glad for the helpful signs painted on the pavement. Today we’ll catch the Underground again on our way to the pedestrian-only Millennium Bridge over the Thames to the old power station that’s now the big Tate Modern museum. 

There’s an expressionist exhibit in town that we’ve read about. This one features works from “Der Blaue Reiter,” the short-lived (1912-14) but influential ‘Blue Rider’ group of artists and composers who rejected Eurocentrism in favor of more world-based forms of art and music. The work of Gabriele Münter and Marianne von Werefkin, with their especially strong use of color, take center stage here. 

 

And there’s Yoko Ono, who invites us to participate in her artistic visions and see what happens. The first art piece I’m confronted with is lying on the floor so that people can easily walk across it. Its title: “A Work to be Stepped.”

We live far from major museums and like to culture up when we hit the big city – until we get another case of ‘museum legs.’ And then we depart, canes firmly grasped, to find a local pub for a couple of tall rounds of anesthetic assistance.

 

We’re lucky that London has no dearth of fine places to grab a good nose-wet and an ample platter of sustenance. And many plates come with a cup of peas that is apparently required to call it a truly British dish. I’m glad I like peas.

 

And tonight we’ll catch Hamilton. There have been years of hype surrounding this play and we’re looking forward to the experience. Later, while we head back to West Hampstead on the night train, I will reflect that it was worth the wait. 

In the past we’ve enjoyed such other West End productions as the comedic, Flying Karamazov Brothers (“They don’t fly, they’re not Russian, and they’re not brothers.”), and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard. I even read the play, but I’m still scratching my head over that one. And I did fine with Waiting for Godot, another example of ’theater of the absurd.’ I suspect that Shakespeare only concocted those minor characters with such unlikely names as a bizarre laugh-line for the ending of Hamlet.   

 

And so this almost-week has been a very good time to reacquaint ourselves with London where we did a lot of memorable things that this Dispatch-Diary may help us to remember in years to come. 

But tomorrow there’s another adventure ahead, as we’ll catch a train north to the old Viking town of York. Please join us there for the next part of our 2024 UK-Euro wander. — PRW

CUBA: Back to Havana

After an extensive 9 day overview around the western half of Cuba, it’s time to head back to Havana. We cross broad flat farmlands along the Autopista Nacional, with a plume of smoke in the distance that is probably where someone is burning off debris from the sugar harvest. There are billboards extolling the commercial benefits of local port services. And we share the highway with a variety of other vehicles, besides all those classic 1950s cars.

We stop for a lunch break at a perky little roadside cafe, in a setting of verdant orchards, that would not look out of place in many other countries. We order a round of delicious Cubanos, of course, and do our best carnivore act. We can finish off with a fine Cuban cigar, although none of us succumb to the urge.

There’s also a well-loved 1970s-80s Moskvitch-AZLK 2140 4-door parked near our table. Its fine detailing and proud red color bring a smile to the gear-heads among us.

 

Soon we’re back in the bus for the last leg of our trip, passing a few ‘Don’t drink and drive’ signs, and a toll booth, on our way to the picture-worthy outskirts of Havana. We’ll be afoot in the city once more, and sorry to bid a fond goodbye to Willie, our affable and dependable bus driver.

 

The modest and comfortable La Hostal ‘Gárgola’ will be our rest-up for the night. It’s been a good long day and most of us are ready for a kick-back before a final night on the town. A scroll on the wall tells the legend of the gargola, and assures us we´ll be safe here 

 

And the big final event of the Tour will be an evening at Legendarios del Guajirito, a showroom featuring the Afro-Cuban All Stars and Tropicana, along with some current members of the famous Buena Vista Social Club.

It’s likely that many non-Cubanos had never heard of the Buena Vista Social Club before Ry Cooder brought this trove of Cuban talent to the world stage with his 1997 Grammy Award winning music CD. And the 1999 Academy Award-nominated documentary film directed by Wim Wenders gave these forgotten artists an even bigger audience. Ry Cooder was later fined by the US government $25,000 for his ‘crimes.’ He had violated several spiteful laws, and made history in the process.

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The Cuban trade embargo, dating from the Eisenhower Administration, is the longest such embargo in modern history. It began in 1958 as a ban on the sale of arms to the repressive Batista regime. It was reinstated as a trade embargo after Fidel Castro nationalized the US-owned oil refineries without compensation, and it has long been criticized by a wide range of political factions. 

“The embargo has been a failure by every measure. It has not changed the course or nature of the Cuban government. It has not liberated a single Cuban citizen. In fact, the embargo has made the Cuban people a bit more impoverished, without making them one bit more free. At the same time, it has deprived Americans of their freedom to travel and has cost US farmers and other producers billions of dollars of potential exports.”
– Daniel Griswold, The Cato Institute

“We seem to think it's safe to open the door to a billion communists in China but for some reason, we're scared to death of the Cubans.”
– George McGovern

In 2005, even former US Secretary of State George P Shultz, called the embargo “insane.”

As for me, I’m still trying to understand a US foreign policy that would lavishly support murderous regimes in El Salvador, Guatemala, and other Latin American countries – to the tune of billions of dollars annually – while Cuba somehow remains a pariah. The hypocrisy is outrageous.

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And so, for our final big event in Havana we clamber up a winding stairway to the current location of the famous Buena Vista Social Club and settle in for an excellent evening of dinner, ample mojitos, and a rousing show. Such past stars as Compay Segundo, Rubén Gonzales, and Ibrahim Ferrer (“Los Superabuelos”) who were made world-famous by that 1999 movie, are no longer with us. Yet the evening still features some of the best musicians and cultural treasures on the contemporary Cuban scene and the ever-evolving Buena Vista Social Club.  

Following a 2007 performance in London, Howard Male, a reviewer at The Independent, described the ensemble as "something of an anomaly in music business terms, due to their changing line-up and the fact that they've never really had one defining front person", adding, "It's hard to know what to expect from what is more of a brand than a band." (Wikipedia)

So drinks and dinner are served – and one of our members finds her way onto the stage as the show begins. We’re not at the original 1930s location because, as shown in the Buena Vista Social Club film, local people and musicians could not agree as to where it actually was. And the Club changed locations several times over the years, as such clubs often do to follow changing tastes in the musical world. But we still got to experience some of the best talent that today’s Cuba has to offer.

Some of the show members find their way into the audience, while gorgeous young ladies in leather hats make sure we have ample beverages.

And then most of us somehow end up on the stage, happily doing some kind of gringo quasi-rhumba back to the main floor.

The show continues into the night, with even more All-Stars on the stage, and finally ends with a final stage-load of talent to help us clamber our way to the exit. Soon we’re back down the stairs and heading for a late bedtime, after an epic last celebration of Cuban culture.

 

On our departure day the morning seems to come earlier than usual and La Gárgula sets out an ample desayuno to see us off. Then we gather our bags and wait for taxis to the airport to catch our flights onwards. Our flight, back to Mexico, is later than the others and we can just hang out with the interesting folk who run the hostel. It’s a rainy day outside, we still have many questions, and time to deepen our understanding of Cuba.

But Havana still beckons as the heaviest clouds move past the city. People are back in the streets below, including a man carrying his young daughter through the puddles and a bread seller with a large bag of bolillos. 

 

We get about two blocks from the hostel and find our noses buried in the stacks at an interesting small bookstore named “Bohemia Habana.” There’s art on the walls, books (new and used) available in a variety of languages, and plenty of good liquor to encourage long literary conversations. There’s a stairway leading up to the family’s living quarters and the affable owner’s daughter is doing her homework in the corner.

We have way too many books at home – and always need more. I ask for a copy of the poetry of José Martí and he has it, of course. He has an extensive selection and I could have bought several more bags of books, but for the weight limit on our plane.

It’s still a few hours until our taxi arrives and Havana deserves another walk-around to collect a few last impressions – of ancient buildings, a bit of graffiti, bells in the plaza, a classic Peugeot, another talented street musician, and a soggy cat. 

We make time for a brief cafecito on a rainy day at the renovated Hotel Ambos Mundos, another of the many local Hemingway hangouts, and we are alone on a quiet Sunday morning. 

 

There’s something interesting around every corner in the streets of Havana. So we find a good lunch spot out of the recurring rain, where we can share a good sandwich before heading back to the hostel.

But now it really is time to leave and we’re soon off through rainy streets to Havana’s José Martí airport to catch our flight to Monterey, MX. There was a very long wait to board the plane, which was several flights after the one to Moscow (carrying Cuban recruits to fight in Ukraine?) and three to Miami.

 

I had packed my walking stick in my big check-on bag so I had nothing to lean on during the wait. Then my gimpy right knee collapsed and I ended up on the floor, so they hoisted me into a wheelchair and put me at the front of the line (on an Aeromexico plane with a notice in Hungarian on the seat back!). At least it happened just as we were leaving, and we made our way back to CIMA hospital in Hermosillo for expert care.

 

But that’s no way to end the tale, with some grumpy oldish guy heading from Havana to the hospital for a meniscus repair. Far better to recall the gorgeous landscape, the outrageous art, the warm people, the infectious music, and a few fine Cuban cigars.

For another nice ending to our stay here’s a YouTube video of Havana scenes to the tune of “Chan Chan,” perhaps the most famous song from the Buena Vista Social Club CD: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tGbRZ73NvlY

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Carolyn's Corner

My experience of Cuba was (as are probably most of my experiences of the world I explore) profoundly emotional. I tend to go in with eyes searching and senses in high gear. I’m less intellectual and certainly far less informed than Perry, who reads voraciously before he visits a place, then stores information like a computer hard drive. I feel. He thinks. I envy and respect his ability to synthesize all this and be rational. But I also cherish the feelings of a place, and here I share some of my feelings from this time in Cuba.

First of all, let me say that I think I could live in Cuba. It would be hard, given the economic difficulties being experienced now. But I grew up rather poor. My parents were subsistence farmers. My father worked a factory job at the same time he ran a small farm, because he loved the land; but it couldn’t quite feed the family. I was my father’s “boy,” and I worked in the fields from an early age. There is something so basic and satisfying about planting and nurturing and reaping that which will sustain you. The rural lushness of Cuba and the tenaciousness of the people who work its soil appeal to me. There is something very honest about it, including all the difficulties.

Examples of ingenuity in the face of adversity abound. At Las Terrazas, a small cooperative rural tourist community, we visited workshops where artists and artisans were creating products to sell in their shop using sustainable practices and recycled materials. I purchased this pad—made by breaking down old paper products of all kinds and recasting them into beautiful handmade paper. The cover art is by the young man who created it all.  

One concern, though, that tugged at me throughout the trip had to do with what happens to certain kinds of human creativity when there are limits placed on expression and dissent. And I did perceive that such limits exist. You can sense the costs of protecting the ideal, the vision, the dream. For example, our visit to the Korimacao art center in Matanzas was delightful, with talented young people sharing their music, performance, and visual arts.

 The art exhibited was proficient, but there was a certain lack of depth and complexity, and I thought what fun it would be to work with the artists to stimulate their creativity and interpretation of their experience. But when I asked if they ever had visiting artists come in from other places to do workshops or residencies, the quick answer was, “Oh, no.” I was left to think about why.

I also kept looking for recent publications by contemporary Cuban writers — novels, poetry, commentary. In all the places we stopped and shopped, I saw the same books abut Fidel, Che, and the heroes of the revolution. I bought some of those and appreciate them. But what about the writers of today? And when I asked where I might find some recently published works, my question was mostly brushed aside. Finally one young man told me that there isn’t much of that sort of writing happening because before anything can possibly be published it must go through extensive reviews and redaction and evaluation…and it is very unlikely that it ever will make its way into print. In my heart of hearts, though, I am sure there are people writing and that someday their secret manuscripts will be discovered under floorboards, locked inside old trunks, or hidden in the walls.

So, as we began the trip and then moved through a far too brief experience of Cuba, I kept a little haiku journal. I humbly share it here.

 

CUBA TRIP WITH INTREPID TRAVEL

January 24 (Hermosillo)
Stress of last details
What should be simple isn’t
Breathe and stay centered

25 (Hermosillo to CDMX)
Long day of waiting
Uncertain circumstances
Travel to nowhere

26 (CDMX to Havana)
Almost on the ground
Cuba! So long I’ve wanted
Now the chance to learn

27 (Havana)
Day of transition
We walk we see we begin
Now we are a group

28 (Havana)
Reality tour
Socialismo forever
Yet there is wealth

I ask who lives here
In lushly landscaped mansions?
Is there privilege?

While just blocks away
Unpainted windowless gape
Teaming with poor

29 (Havana)
I do not sleep well
Music plays in my head
Gaunt shapes dance

30 (Vinales)
Resourceful Cubans
Doctors drive taxis rent rooms
Smile wide for dollars

31 (Vinales)
Tourism rules with
Well healed and generous
Guilt ridden tipsters

Young Cubans dreaming
Escape to the plenteous north
Seductive culprit 

February 1 (Cienfuegos)
Something missing here 
Rushing through experience
Superficial view

Not built for touring
Ravenous to dig deeper
I could bolt and stay

2 (Trinidad)
I ask about books
About poets and authors 
Where do we find them?

No answer proffered
Beyond “in the libraries”
Where do they gather?

Are there probing minds
Reflecting on the present
Interpreting now?

3 (to Havana)
Back to Havana
Mountainous twist through jungle
Thick green timelessness

Scratch the surface of
This deep resounding story
Still writing writing

Hoy visitamos
La memoria de Che
Satura el país

En todas partes 
Fotos de Che y Fidel
Sabidurías 

Aún enseñando
Los héroes de ayer
Permanecen hoy

Values / Valores
Revolution’s legacy
Written on the walls

I carry with me
Some deep yearning in my heart
For hope realized

But for the dreamers
The idealists, the brave
How could we go on?

—CJK

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“It's good to have an end to journey to; but in the end it's the journey that matters.”
—Ernest Hemingway

And thank you for joining us on our brief but eye-opening journey through western Cuba.

PRW & CJK

 

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More Cuba Thoughts, etc.

Are we being prurient when visiting other cultures? In Cuba, are we peeking into a sort of Zoo of local people, watching their daily activities? And does that also apply to European cultures, like watching people dance in lederhosen to an oompah band in a German beer hall? Or are Europeans somehow exempt? There’s a saying that, “A native family consists of a mother, a father, two children, and an anthropologist taking notes.”

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So what is Cuba today? Is it yet another failed Utopian experiment – as most have been throughout human history? Humans have probably always yearned for some sort of utopia, whether it’s the tribes that first came out of Africa looking for a better place (all of us, really), those searching for a mythical Eden (Genesis 2-3), the works of Plato and Homer, those aspiring to Thomas More’s paradise somewhere in Brazil, the impractical 1820s ideas behind the founding of New Haven, Indiana, or any number of 1960s hippy communes. Given the inherent difficult nature of humans, the endless search for Arcadia, for Camelot, for Shangri-La… will probably always be a noble, if futile, quest.

And many of us have delusional ideas of what a ‘utopia’ actually might consist of, and who it might actually benefit. Working together has never been easy – or as Jean Paul Sartre observed, “Hell is other people.”

Americans pride themselves on being capitalists, but can we imagine the outcry if anyone seriously tried to end all the ’socialist’ programs that actually hold that rickety ship together? Besides Social Security, Welfare, and a few similar political targets, those would also include vast numbers of massive public subsidies that are given to – nay, lavished upon – privileged sections of the business community, and the wealthy. The fact is that capitalism had many tragic convulsions throughout history before it failed spectacularly in 1929 and did massive damage to so many common people. And that’s when the current US economic system became a bandaged-together project of capitalistic-socialism. Or call it socialist-capitalism. Your choice. But it’s certainly not anything like pure capitalism – and we all should be thankful it’s not. Try to imagine all the starving old people groveling for spare change on street corners, as they did in past eras, if they ever got rid of Social Security – to cite one obvious example in that tangled mess we call the United States.

“I live in New York because I couldn’t stand to live anywhere else and because I’m in awe of the puzzle: It doesn’t work well…but how does it work as well as it does?…..A recent report found that half of working-age New Yorkers, almost 3 million people, can’t afford to live here. Yet they do live here.”
– Kaitlyn Tiffany, The Atlantic

At the present time, the Cuban experiment appears to be evolving in a direction where individual ideas are given rein to craft a variety of solutions to portions of the endless problem of humans living and striving together to achieve a sort of workable society. It’s likely that no society in history has ever solved the messy problem of getting humans to agree on a group vision, and that may be the grand challenge that faces Cuba today as they work to create a new tradition.

“To create you have to be conscious of the traditions, but to maintain the traditions you have to create something new.”
– Carlos Fuentes

So Cuba, as always, will certainly continue to occupy a larger-than-warranted space in the US political sphere. And critics will continue to charge the island’s supposedly-failing economic system for the troubles they are having. But I have to wonder just how many other Caribbean islands are economically successful on their own – without massive outside subsidies from distant former colonial powers. Are there any? And I don’t think any of Cuba’s severest critics will be touting the disastrous economics of nearby Puerto Rico, which has received decades of large US subsidies. So for those Cuba-watchers, the coming years will be an interesting experience, to say the least. And meanwhile, it’s an engaging experience to visit the island.

“All of Cuba seems waiting for something — for whatever it is that happens next.” 
—Anthony Bourdain

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More about actually living in Cuba from Hege Jacobsen. Her colorful descriptions of life in Havana imply that you’ll either love it or hate it, depending on your good humor and tolerance for the ‘unexpected,’ such as power outages, food shortages, and the like. And apparently, you’ll need to ‘expect the unexpected’ when living in Cuba: https://www.findawayabroad.com/post/living-in-havana

As for living in Cuba, Mercer’s Cost of Living Survey 2023 rates Havana as #225 out of 227 locations for affordability, making it one of the cheapest cities in the world. If you have an outside source of income.

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For more news, opinions, diaries, and other writing about Cuba, and Latin America in general, check out The Havana Times. It contains a variety of articles and has been published daily since the Fall of 2008... www.havanatimes.org and www.havanatimesenespanol.org 

CUBA: Onward to Trinidad

We leave Cienfuegos, trailing a fine old hunk of Detroit iron that could be a 1957 Buick Road Master – or ‘road monster,’ as they were sometimes affectionately called. Reliable (and fuel-efficient) horse-drawn carriages serve for drayage and as taxis. And it’s laundry day as we pass an apartment building, with lots of clothes getting a fresh-up in the island breeze.

In the distance we see the green vista of nearby mountains and we’re never far from the bounty of banana trees.

 

Soon we’re into the deep beauty of the Sierra del Escambray. With a quick glance out the window of our bus it is easy to see why so many people throughout history have coveted the verdant mountains and fertile lands of Cuba, the largest island in the Caribbean.

People in a small town are waiting for a bus. Small homes are framed in flowers. A garden pathway leads through an old gate.

.

 

We stop for a delicious lunch, fresh from a handmade oven and with lots of good vegetables, in a quiet place that’s embraced by jungle. And later we stop at an overlook above a beautiful reservoir below. Cloud patterns dapple the hillsides beyond.

 

We follow the winding road upward through the forest, and Willie, our calm and capable bus driver, pauses while frantic piglets scamper over the asphalt to catch up with their mother.

 

At El Alfarero an expert potter is more than happy to showcase his considerable skills with slinging the mud. The walls are lined with fabulous pitchers and other fine objects, and we have no way of carting them off safely. But I still wish I’d stashed one of those tall beauties carefully in my big rolling bag, and just tried my luck. Purchases were made while I marveled over yet another fine piece of ancient rolling iron that was stashed in the warehouse.

 

Very soon we’re into the warren of cobblestone streets that is old Trinidad. While the town was founded back in 1514, it remained a tiny backwater until the 19th century when French refugees fleeing slave rebellions in Haiti established the lucrative sugar industry and built the mansions that still give the city its unique culture.

  

 

We get checked in to our accommodations and find that we’ll be bedding in what our friends soon call ‘the Barbie Room.’ Ah well, it’s comfortable and the hosts are very fine people. Plus there’s a nice courtyard with a view to the evening sky, and a veranda for having breakfast in the morning.

 

We’ll take an evening stroll through town as a golden light softens over the Plaza Mayor. And we’ll pause to watch local boys play an alleyway game of fútbol as the evening life of Trinidad comes alive.

 

And what’s for dinner? Yaneth knows a good spot that’s close-by and he has that all figured out for us.  Besides generous platters of fine food and Spanish wine, there’s a good band on hand. And any wild dancing that may ensue is up to the individual. A lively young crowd at the next table helps add to the mayhem.

 

When morning comes we crawl forth from the Barbie Room for a fine breakfast, and rich Cuban coffee, on the veranda. And then we’re ready for the day ahead, of long wanders afoot through these old stoney streets.

 

I’m actually sorry we won’t be riding in what Yaneth calls a “Russian bus,” a heavy old truck that’s waiting for just one or two more fares before departing on its loud and bumpy way.

 

The streets of Trinidad have much to see and experience. There are gorgeous old cars (imagine that!), a hard-working horse earning his pay (or hay!), and an enticing bar-coffee house, that I hope we’ll get back to later (we don’t).

 

And before long we’re museum-ing our way around the Plaza Mayor. Just a few years ago Trinidad celebrated its 500th anniversary, so the Architectural museum has a great variety of local antiquities. One of our tour group is a Mechanical Engineer and she was transfixed by the elaborate water and steam controls on an old showering system. There’s a quiet courtyard to visit, and artistic handicrafts (and a pretty smile) to find at the Museo Romántico. 

 

The artful old buildings of Trinidad offer countless photo opportunities for the so-inclined. A bright young woman leads us through an intensive short course in historical design trends. She’s careful to note the ornate, and once useful, spittoon that’s nestled conveniently beside one leg of the sofa. And she exposes the secret cigar cache that’s hidden inside an elaborately carved globe.

 

Cuba itself is a museum of fine handicrafts that we encounter often as the women produce some of the nicest stitchery you’ll find anywhere. And they do a variety of handsome Guayaberas as well – essential dinner attire for any well-dressed gentlemen to wear on a steamy tropical evening. I will buy one later, with local seeds as buttons, as a distinctively Cuban edition to my collection of Guayaberas. 

 

After all that, we’re thirsty. We’ll accept almost any good reason to enjoy an icy splash down the gullet. And there happens to be another good band playing at La Canchánchara, while we enjoy a cold mojito or daiquiri or the house special – your choice – under the long portal. (Lucky for us, Cuba is filled with good bands! And cold drinks!)

 

After we’re properly refreshed we have a free afternoon to explore further on our own. So we pioneer our way onward over the stoney grounds and find the Casa de la Música at the top of a long stairway. There’s currently nothing on the playbill but it’s a nice facility that could be worth checking on a later visit.

 

The stony streets of Trinidad have much more to offer, besides their charming and ankle-twisting cobblestones. Just past every corner there’s another adventure, another opportunity, to better understand the quotidian life of Cuba.

And in the evening, there’s another fine dinner to share before we depart in the morning. We’ll be heading back to Havana for another day or so.

 

But wait! There’s more!

In the morning we pull away from the colorful streets of Trinidad, heading for the beautiful mountains and valleys beyond. And along the way to Havana we’ll make another couple of stops, as Intrepid Travel makes sure we get the maximum experience out of nine days on the island.

 

First up will be the 1795 mansion of Pedro Iznaga, a notorious slave trader who later became far wealthier as part of the sugar boom in the Valle de los Ingenios. A huge sugar boiling pot, with an old bolted-together repair, sits in front of the casa. A local gentleman shares his colorful hawk friend with me – for a small fee, of course. And a good combo serenades the day from a shady spot in the Sala of the old casa.

 

And then again we’re off to another important stop – a memorial to recent Cuban history. We’ll be passing waterways, small homes, sylvan mountains, an ancient Oldsmobile tucked beside a home along the way, and other scenes of daily life in Cuba. And a town that sports a number of oddly spiky street decorations on poles. 

 

Soon our bus is parked and we enter the grounds of the monumental Che Memorial at Santa Clara. The entry to the building, honoring Che and the others who died in Bolivia in 1967, is down a shady pathway, but pictures are not allowed in the exhibit area. Yet the monumental sculpture just behind the building has plenty of photo opportunities. And there’s more text to read than we have time for. But it’s a peaceful spot for a few moments to gaze over the large ceremonial grounds to messages on the billboards beyond.

The stone-engraved message on the monument above reads:

“I feel myself such a patriot of Latin America, for every country of Latin America, like anyone else, and, who, at any moment, if needed, would be disposed to offer my life for the liberation of any of the countries of Latin America, without asking anything, of anyone, without demanding anything, without exploiting anyone.”

— Che Guevara

 

From the Che Memorial at Santa Clara, we’re heading next back to Havana for another evening in those fabled streets. Along with an excellent energy-filled evening featuring stars of the Buena Vista Social Club, and a visit to a small local bookstore. Please join us there for “Cuba Dispatch #5; Return to Havana,” coming soon!

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So what’s the real economic situation in Cuba these days?

Is this an island filled with poor people and only a tiny elite class, as we’ve been led to believe? If so, the extremes would probably be obvious.

Maybe we’ve been carefully steered away from the worst that Cuba has to offer; but we had not signed onto ‘The Bummer Trip to Cuba’ in the first place, and I only expected an honest general overview of the country. And I feel that we’ve seen that. We’ve seen the crumbling buildings of Havana Vieja, and the nice - yet modest - so-called ‘mansions’ of the Vedado District. But I’ve personally seen no rambling homeless encampments of ragged tents and cardboard, such as I’ve encountered in several US cities – and that are probably now a fixture in your own home town, dear reader.

At the other end of the scale there are only a few shiny newish cars, of various European brands, cruising the streets (if that´s some indicator of ´progress´), and certainly no grand new McMansions in large gated communities. I realize the ruling class probably has some of that lifestyle and I only saw middle class type housing in the Vedado District. But I didn’t see evidence of extremes of the massive wealth and grinding poverty that are common in many US cities these days. Obesity was generally not a thing, but there were no emaciated people in rags.

After we left the urban problems that Havana shares with most urban areas around the world, we saw modest homes and friendly people that seemed to be doing OK.

Critics might say, ‘Sure, you saw no extremes because everybody is poor’ – a one-liner that plays to a certain mindset. But I saw modest homes that probably cope well with a tropical environment. And while we’ve only visited the western half of the island, I haven’t seen the abject poverty in Cuba that I’ve seen in many other Latin American countries – literally, barefoot people living in tar paper shacks.

There’s no way we could know all the answers to so many questions after only 9 days in the country, but what does the data say? How is Cuba actually doing these days, econometrically speaking?

According to the UN Development Programme (https://hdr.undp.org/system/files/documents/global-report-document/hdr2023-24reporten.pdf), Cuba has a Human Development Index (HDI) in 2023-24 of 0.764. That number puts it in the ‘High’ ranking on a world-wide basis, and on par with Latin America and most of the World. (World Average: 0.739; Lt Amer: 0.763)

(The ‘Very High’ ranking includes most of Europe, the US, and other developed countries)

Cuba’s much-touted social programs have delivered decent results overall that are on par with, or slightly above, Latin America and the World:

Expected Lifespan: 78.2 yrs (World: 72.0 yrs; Lat Amer: 73.7 yrs)
Expected Schooling: 14.5 yrs (World: 13.0 yrs; Lt Amer: 14.8 yrs)
Mean yrs of Schooling: 10.5 yrs (World: 8.7 yrs; Lt Amer: 9.0 yrs)

But Cuba’s Gross National Income (GNI) per capita (PPP*) stands at only $7953, and is well below the income averages for Latin America ($15,109) and the World ($17,254). 

(* Purchasing Power Parity – refers to the price of a basket of similar goods in each country, adjusted to local conditions and local currency.)

Yet Cuba’s lower average income figure is comparable to the Latin American countries of Bolivia ($7988), El Salvador ($8886) and Guatemala ($8996) – all of which have received massive US aid over many decades.

On the UN’s Multidimensional Poverty Index (MPI) Cuba has a rating of 0.003, giving it one of the lowest rates of poverty in Latin America, and well lower than such global powerhouses as China (0.016) and India (0.069)

Compared to other Latin American countries, Cuba’s low poverty rate puts it close to Costa Rica (0.002), and Argentina (0.001). And lower than Ecuador (.008), Dom. Republic (0.009), Jamaica (0.011), Brazil (0.016), Honduras (0.051 and Guatemala (0.134).

The recent protests in Cuba over energy outages and the lack of food clearly deserve attention. And this is probably a good time for a partial opening of trade with the US, which could be beneficial to both countries. But the currently dysfunctional US Congress will likely continue to play the political games of the most extremist Members, instead of taking responsible action. 

Despite my best efforts at ignoring the most clearly dubious propaganda available, I had frankly gone to Cuba expecting to find crippling poverty, etc. And when I had been there a while I had to question if maybe ‘they’ or ‘somebody’ may be hiding the worst from me. Maybe they actually were. Maybe I was duped. But the research tells me I can believe what I saw. And I saw far more good than bad while on the ground in Cuba.

—PRW

 

CUBA: The Bay of Pigs & Cienfuegos

The beautiful lands of Viñales were the most westerly destination on our IntrepidTravel jaunt, so now we’re heading easterly again. We ride back on the big 4-lane Autopista through much of the same agricultural countryside, but we bypass Havana along the way to Matanzas and Cienfuegos Provinces. 

After an hour or so we’re parked at a nice little lunch stop – right near an eye-catching 1954 Chevrolet passenger van. Cars just don’t have those kinds of gorgeous and sensuous curves anymore. At least not to my hopelessly 1950s-calibrated eyeballs. After we leave this magical island it will probably take me a while to recover from the effects of the inevitable Future Shock that awaits my return from the Cuban time warp.  

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We turn off the freeway at Central Australia (yes, that’s really the name) and head south to the day’s first cultural stop, at an artistic coop and school named “Korimakao,” for a fine morning concert and an introductory talk from Yanet. The students here are remarkably talented and dedicated to their craft.

As we wander the grounds we find artworks almost everywhere. It’s good to see such a vibrant art scene — and maybe especially here, given the tiresome anti-Cuban propaganda we’ve heard for much of our lives that mentioned few of the good things that might be happening on the island. 

There’s a challenging silent theatrical performance filled with symbolism. And there’s a clever ‘hanging gallery’ filled with fine drawings in a great variety of styles to wander through and experience in a different way than we may be used to in a gallery setting.

Here’s an interview with Yander Roche, the Artistic Director of Korimakao. 

 

As we’re leaving Korimakao, a guy with an ancient, and loud, soviet-looking lawnmower catches my eye. It seems almost like a piece of performance art, and in such a verdant climate the grass is surely in need of frequent tending. 

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The entry road to la Bahia de Cochinos (the Bay of Pigs), in Matanzas Province, is lined with large white slab memorials to Cuban soldiers who lost their lives in the battle. And a billboard showing the continuity of rule between Fidel, his brother Raúl, and Miguel Diaz-Canel, the current President of Cuba. 

 

“Revolutions may or may not go backwards, but they surely give no rest to those who lead them.”

– David W Blight, Yale University
    Author of Frederick Douglass: Prophet of Freedom

 

 When we get to the actual Playa Girón section of the Bay where the invasion force landed in 1961, it’s an overhanging rock shelf instead of a broad sandy beach. And that probably made the whole botched, and CIA-backed, mess far more difficult than the invaders expected. Yanet also mentions that just inshore of this ancient reef there’s the big Zapata swamp to slog through before finding dry ground. And then the expected uprising of the Cuban people never materialized. The whole thing seems not unlike the poorly-planned Anglo-French invasion of Gallipoli during the First World War. 

After the CIA successfully overthrew Jacobo Arbenz, the duly elected President of Guatemala in 1954 – which was followed by 50 or so years of terrorist dictatorships – the CIA was apparently ready of another ’success’ to justify their huge black budget. And here I’m reminded of comments by Major General Smedley Butler, after he retired from the Marine Corps with two Medals of Honor. His 1935 book was entitled War Is A Racket.

“I spent 33 years and four months in active military service and during that period I spent most of my time as a high class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer; a gangster for capitalism. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefit of Wall Street. I helped purify Nicaragua for the International Banking House of Brown Brothers in 1902–1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for the American sugar interests in 1916. I helped make Honduras right for the American fruit companies in 1903.”

– Major General Smedley Butler, USMC, 1935

As I gazed over the site, I recalled a friend from Albuquerque, an older gentleman who was active in the 1960s anti-war movement. As I got to know him better he mentioned that, in his early idealistic years after World War II, he had been in the CIA. And he told me that he’d learned, “If you want something totally screwed up, send in the CIA.”

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Along the way to the city of Cienfuegos, the sun is starting to set, the cattle are heading back to the barn, and people are riding to town. We pass an industrial district as Fidel waves us onward to victory, while other signs acknowledge the workers who won the Revolution. Another sign honors the city of Cienfuegos, named after an early governor of Cuba.

 

As the sun sets over the pretty Bahia de Cienfuegos, and the local power plant, we enter the city that Cubans call “la Perla del Sur.” Local residents and young lovers are on the Malecón to enjoy the sunset. But we’re heading onward past a number of signs commemorating the 65th anniversary of the Revolution, on our way to the very nice Punta Gorda neighborhood.

 

We drive by the Casa Azul and stop in front of the bizarrely ornate Palacio de Valle. Clearly, the city of Cienfuegos was and is a special place on the island. This lavish confection by Acisclo del Valle Blanco, a wealthy man from Asturias and owner of several sugar plantations, contains Carrara marble, Italian alabaster, Venetian ceramics, and European hardwoods. No expense was spared to make this a fitting homage to the grand fantasies of the Alhambra in Granada, while his workers harvested valuable sugar cane under a piercing tropical sun to pay for it. But shortly after its completion in 1917, the sugar market collapsed, and del Valle died of a heart attack in 1919.

Just standing at a place like this, and bearing in mind that the US government maintained oversight of Cuba during this period due to the 1901 Platt Amendment, it can be easy to understand much of the revolutionary anger that powered the Revolution. And some of which may yet be simmering as many people still await their share of the benefits. Yet it’s also easy to imagine, after passing humble farms and folks in their jitneys, that a deep distrust of US intentions means plenty of folks might prefer to maintain their hard-won independence from chronic US meddling in Cuban affairs. Back in the days of US-imposed ‘stability,’ education and health care were far worse than today.

Two beautifully carved marble sphinxes welcome us into this pleasure palace that has seen dignitaries and lavish events over the years, and is now preserved as a work of the Cuban people. There’s a fantastical ‘One Thousand and One Arabian Nights’ quality to the whole thing as we climb the inner stairway to the stars. Or at least to the roof, with a gorgeous evening view overlooking the Bay. And sure, I could have hung out there in the quiet evening with a daiquiri in hand, while leaning on the rail to admire a nice three-wheeler below that reminded me of a wild ride in Meknes, Morocco, many years ago. 

 

Interestingly, as we look to the west of Punta Gorda and into the peach-tinged remains of a setting sun, just beyond the far side of Cienfuegos Bay lies the village of Juraguá on the shores of the Caribbean. It’s the former site of Cuba’s only proposed nuclear plant, a project that was started in 1983 under an agreement with the Soviet Union and came under criticism regarding the poor quality of construction, and possibly the outdated Soviet technology being used. It was suspended in 1992, and finally cancelled and abandoned in 2000.  

In 2005 the crazy architectural splendor of the Palacio de Valle was declared, along with the city of Cienfuegos, as a UNESCO World Heritage Site and is now a fine hotel that helps bring hard currency into the country.

(More pics and info at https://www.cienfuegos.com/palacio-de-valle/)

 

After a restful night in comfortable lodgings in town (not the Palacio de Valle), we enjoy a quiet breakfast on an upper veranda overlooking the neighborhood. And soon we’re sufficiently caffeinated (love that good rich Cuban coffee!) to explore the center of town. 

Our first stop is beside a ration store, and some of us wander in to watch the proceedings. There’s a bored-looking attendant at the counter just above a sign that happily reads, “La Alegria.” But she brightens up when a few Cubanas replace the curious Gringos, and she sees that they get their proper rations. I could have just taken the first picture and walked away, but that would have been unfair. I’m glad I waited for an actual customer to arrive, and I could catch her pretty smile instead.

 

It’s a pleasant Thursday morning and there are people in the streets – school kids, teenagers, grandmas – as we’d expect to find in any Latin American country – although not as many as we see in the center of Mexican cities. Some of the stores have little on the shelves, due to the country’s current economic situation. Delivery/taxi vehicles clog a side street. And we pass a fine-looking restaurant named La Verja, although we won’t have time to check out the offerings. But the pedestrian-way is clean and in good condition as we walk to the central plaza, the Parque José Martí.  

 

 The plaza is ringed by well-kept buildings that speak of a wealthy past, when the sugar barons ruled this area – and when most of the population lived in shacks. A couple of Transtur buses are parked in front of the ornate Teatro Tomás Terry (named for the “Cuban Croesus,” a wealthy local slave trader and sugar baron from the 1800s), and a quick scan of the scene suggests that many of those enjoying a morning in the plaza are likely tourists. Such as us. 

 

  There’s a playbill posted at the Teatro listing upcoming events that I’m sorry we’ll miss seeing. And there’s a coffee shop where I would normally enjoy spending some morning time reading through the local newspaper; or a copy of Granma, the official newspaper. If we were on one of our usual wanders we’d probably try to extend our stay to take in more local events like these, but a lack of such freedom is the price of signing on to the convenience of a tour.  

And so we enjoy a bench in the shade, and hear a few tunes (Guantanamera, again) from a couple of old guys on another bench nearby. They play a few other tunes when we request something else, and they’re glad to get the ten bucks I drop into the guitar case yawning open on the sidewalk. 

The musical tradition runs deep in Cienfuegos, and the music of Benny Moré y su Banda Gigante, one of the city’s most famous musicians, powered much of the Cuban dance craze of the 1940s. Among his best-known songs is one praising the city itself.

A city worker is focused on cleaning the plaza with an ancient broomstick, and I thank him with a five dollar bill. We’re here to spread some hard currency, not only to the tourist sector, and I appreciate the efforts of a fellow member of the working class.

 

As we leave the plaza we enter the colorful paintable streets of central Cienfuegos, and the daily life of the residents. There’s a lovingly, gorgeously, tricked-out classic car giving rides to tourists, but we won’t have time to enjoy it.

 

We’re heading back to the Punta Gorda area for a quick bathroom break – and Yanet, our Intrepid Cubano guide, knows where all those life-essentials are to be found. So we get a peek at some of the other lux hotels in the zone before leaving town. The tall Hotel Jagua is undergoing renovations under the Meliá Innside brand, a large Spanish company that runs several hotels on the island. (The company’s much-maligned decision in 2015 to honor the late Spanish dictator Francisco Franco does not seem to have harmed their Cuban prospects.) 

 

The small and classy Hotel Gran Caribe looks like an elegant alternative for a week-long escape to paradise, with a view from an inviting hot tub across the Bay to the distant Sierra del Escambray. And after a soak-with-a-view, a good nose-wet at the ultra-classy bar might set you back a few shekels, but probably fewer than a lot of other Caribbean bars. After visiting the main Plaza and the Punta Gorda district, the city of Cienfuegos seems a particularly attractive area of Cuba.   

 

So now it’s time to depart La Perla del Sur, and pass some of the more mundane local projects and street scenes on our way out of town. We’ll soon be heading into the verdant nearby mountains, and taking a scenic route on the way to our next overnight stop, at Trinidad. Please join us there when we publish that account. — PRW

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AFTERNOTES...

Notable people from Cienfuegos include:

A number of Major League ball players, such as:
Cristóbal Torriente (the Babe Ruth of Cuba & Hall of Famer), José Abreu (White Sox), Joe Azcue (Reds, Indians, Red Sox, etc), Yoán Moncada (White Sox), Yaciel Puig (Indians), Ángel Fleitas (Senators), and José Tartabull (Red Sox).

The prolific colorist abstract artist Gina Pellón, who lived much of her life in Paris.

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As far as Cuba’s economic prospects for the pre-Covid period of 2019/20, fDi Intelligence (“Your source for foreign direct investment information”) included the Cuban economy in three categories of its Top Ten Island Economies of the Future 2019/20. Cuba ranked #10 in Economic Potential; #3 in Connectivity, and #10 Overall. The Covid pandemic led to a drop of 11% in the economy by official statistics, and I didn’t find a more current update.