Communist Everywhere; Communists Nowhere

Many months have passed since I returned from Cuba. The final posts have sat shelved in my head, silently waiting for that chapter to be put to a close. I think it's probably time. So much has happened since then that the words about my travels already feel like fiction. Most prominently the one I loved and missed like a limb is now long gone, and the journey, for now continues on my own. But as I sit in the park next to Westminster, the spring sun just about warming my arms, I feel that I understand that the journey never ended; just continued. That chapter, however, is done, and the next is about to begin. But for now, perhaps, a touch of retrospect. Cuba.

The morning after the evening before, I awoke with a raging hangover. In spite of my usual caution I had let the guy I was living with con me into paying a large bar bill of whiskey we had accumulated. After spending the evening trying to understand his drawl-like Spanish, spoken with increasing rapidity, and telling opportunistic local girls that I had a girlfriend, and that no she wasn't here, and that no I still wasn't interested despite her not being here, I returned back to my room with the landlord who I now intended to avoid as much as possible. Five days and I would be leaving, hopefully to see the blue skies and beautiful beaches to relax and unwind after many months of relentless travelling. The end was so near and before long it would be Christmas. Still, even then, it became clear that suddenly being without Emily, and desperately missing home and the people I loved there, this was not going to be a walk in the park.

I dragged sore head from the pillow, and my rather unkempt self from the bed, planning to go out and explore the capital of the land of inspiration, passion and revolution: Cuba. I was here, exploring a land living under the flag of an ideology that had, many years ago, threatened to spread all over the world. But first I needed to get some food inside me. I left the room, slipping from the apartment unheard, and began to walk the streets. At this point I became rather aware of the fact that I was going to struggle without any form of written information or guidebook. I walked the streets for a while turning my nose up at the rather ill-equipped and poky looking eateries, before happening upon a supermarket. Result. I skipped inside to be presented with the strangest sight: There was virtually no branding. Rows upon rows were filled with white tins marked 'Banana' or 'Manzana'. Something so commonplace everywhere in the world, and so taken for granted, as branding was missing. To add to that the selection was utterly dreadful, with only basic necessities being provided. In the end I purchased a tin of peaches, a packet of biscuits and some juice. For someone as utterly obsessed with food as I, this was another issue that I was going to have to tackle. I walked to the sea front and sat eating some biscuits, whilst trying to digest the scene around me. It was a cold and grey Sunday; not raining but occasionally spitting, with a chilly but not cold wind. On one side of me the aggravated waters of the Atlantic harshly beat upon the large stone grey walls producing massive leaps of sea spray. On the other side was a large mesh of metal leading to an open arena where staunch communists came to loudly protest against the evil plight of Capitalism upon the world. At the end of the area stood Lenin holding a child in one arm in one hand and pointing towards the fairly proximate shores of the United States. On this chilly grey Sunday, however, there was no shouting. Just an empty space covered by a metal frame silent against a backdrop of grey, crumbling, tower blocks. Occasionally an old car from the 50s would trundle past emitting smoke and noise. Sporadically placed people would occasionally stop and stare silently at the body of water that separated them from an unknown world. More as if they were on Robben Island than that of the land that Fidel sold as being full of devoted men and women struggling for a common good. I wandered around the adjoining streets for another couple of hours, observing a general sadness that seemed to seep from every dark and crumbling corner. I returned to my room feeling rather lonely, clearly affected by the morose surroundings. The remained of the day was spent reading in my room, only broken by a trip to the hotel down the road to write a message to Emily (which alone took an hour due to the dreadful connection speed).

Another morning, followed a long night. I couldn't sleep. I didn't want to be in Cuba, but my flight was about a month away. My money had seriously depleted following a falling pound and changing the ticket would cost a fair bit. But then again Cuba was dreadfully expensive for tourists. In fact my room, one of the cheapest I could find was more expensive than what had been my daily budget. I dragged myself from bed, ate a couple of biscuits and a pear from a tin, before showering and going for a walk. Fortunately the sun was out, and the place looked much less cold and depressing. With very little else to do I walked down to where I had been the day before and walked along the front watching the ever-frantic Atlantic throw itself upon the sea wall. Within no time I found I was being harassed by locals on a very frequent basis, starting seemingly kind and inquisitive conversations, which were rude to not respond to. I knew what there game was but I was alone and not planning to annoy any scruffy locals who had likely seen me using my camera earlier. After the sixth or seventh it was quickly becoming inexporably irksome, and I just wanted to get away from it. But where? I went to get some food and to read my prized economist that I had picked up at the airport in Mexico. Unsurprisingly before long I was once again besieged by people keen to sell me something. I ignored them, and carried on reading as they gesticulated to each other how rude I was in Spanish.

I finished my food and continued walking along the front. The whole place was so run down it was unbelievable. Anywhere else this would the most expensively developed area in the city, yet the buildings looked like they were in the wake of civil war. Clearly the communist agenda did not want to invest heavily in cosmetics. I continued along to an old fortress, which was rather pretty but hardly spectacular. The city had clearly once been utterly charming and beautiful but although I'm sure that the package holidays had carefully selected routes on their bus tours that showed the charming side of the city, but that's not what I saw. the people stood around with nothing to do. Their local shops barely provisioned with a half rotting vegetable or two. They looked sad and helpless, oppressed by a regime that they didn't want to be under. From what I could see Havana was a city full of people waiting for the end of Communism but not sure when, living in a crumbling city run by a crumbling system. I felt sad for them and hope that they get what they want soon.

As for me, I had had enough. I was ready to go home. With each day I missed Emily more and more, and although going home wouldn't result in me seeing her any quicker, at least being able to perhaps speak to her whilst at home with my family would help the time apart pass. But then I went to the cash point to get some money and found that Barclays had blocked my bloody card again! And this time I was unable to call them. This was a potentially massive issue. I had around £20 in cash and would need that the taxi and departure fee. How could I change my ticket? I back to the apartment and asked the owner who cheated my out of most of my money if I could use his phone. He wasn't keen but relented eventually, and I was able to call the local office. They said they would check and to call back the next day. With no money, energy or resilience, coupled with the fact it was getting dark I returned to my room hopeful, but utterly depressed. I hadn't realised how much I had been propped up by Emily's bright presence, but now with it absent I was desperately alone. I tried to read for a while and then eventually fell asleep. The next morning I called the office again, where to my relief they confirmed that they had a space on the evening's flight, and that they could take my emergency credit card with a signature (I didn't know the PIN). I walked to the office, filled in the necessary paperwork. I was going home. Within 24 hours I would be back on home soil!
So with one more day to kill and feeling revitalised and energised that this was my final day I left the apartment planning to see what I could do in the city armed with half a pack of biscuits, no money and a smile. I began walking down the street when I saw what looked like a blonde western looking girl, under 50 and not in a tour group. I quickened my pace, could this be a real English conversation. I came up behind her and hastily uttered “excuse me”, she spun around in surprise. “Hi sorry to startle you, my name is Liam. Will you be my friend”. In hindsight the absurdity of this statement is undeniable, but immediately she smiled and responded that she would. “Where are we going then?” I muttered back. She didn’t know. So we began walking. It was wonderful speaking English again. I had struggled so much with the Cuban drawl and, although I’m ashamed to say it, I had begun to think that every local was just using me for something. We spent the day wondering around looking at propagandistic memorials, while she informed me about how she was staying there studying Spanish at the university. She hated it and couldn’t wait to leave too. After 3 weeks Havana had had a similar impression upon her. As the day drew to a close we said our goodbyes, and I went back to thank my hosts insincerely, pack my things and head to the airport. As I sat in the airport drinking the coke that I had purchased with my last few dollars I sat and contemplated my short time in Cuba. In different circumstances I may have been able to see the beauty that lay within the cracks, however I arrived ill-equipped and under prepared. Cuba had been a nightmare for me and I was more than happy to be going home.

Cuba was done and so were my travels. I had travelled as far as Cancun overland, from Rio to the freezing South of Patagonia, upwards along the spine of the Andes to the sticky hot Caribbean Cartagena. After sailing around the Darien Gap to Panama, I, along with Emily, had raced around Central America to Cancun where, with no other option, I flew the last leg to Cuba. Sitting in the departure lounge it felt more like a burden, but as time passed I would begin to see the achievement of how far I had travelled. There are no more adventures to be had on this journey; just a review of the experience and the subsequent conclusions to be made. I think, and I hope, that I have learnt many valuable lessons from this experience, but I’m sure that they will manifest themselves as time goes on.