"KARAOKE WITH FIDEL, SANTIAGO DE CUBA PART 3"
Oct 14 '01
The Bottom Line Why haven't I learned to just stay home?
After the events of my first trip to Santiago de Cuba, one would rightly presume that I'd never set foot in that city ever again. One could also think that I'd be reluctant to visit anywhere ever again. The sensible thing to do would have been to lock myself in my apartment and burn my Passport and frequent flyer credit cards. Then again who ever said I was the sensible type.
I've actually been to Santiago de Cuba, not once since that eventful week in May, but twice. The first time was in the Winter of 1995 when I stayed at the Club Amigo Buccanero Resort. That was the trip where I almost caused a riot in the streets while pursuing a couple of would be thieves ( "The First Rule of Travel, Keep Both Hands on Your Bag").
It was also the trip that involve the taxi ride through hell ( "Taxi Senor?"). That particular trip also led to the infamous "disco/cactus incident," the
"schoolroom incident," and the "rodeo bull incident" but those are tales for another time.
My third trip to Santiago de Cuba took place in October 1996. I had a week off (again) and as always had waited to the last minute in hopes of a sell off. Naturally I'd waited just a little too long and just about everything was sold. At least everything for Cuba was gone, or almost. I could have gone somewhere else, but I had my heart set on Cuba. Besides I'd already invested over thirty bucks in soap and shampoo at the local dollar store.
Two spots were available. First choice was Guardalavaca on the north coast, a place I'd never been to. Then there was Santiago de Cuba, at LTI Los Corales, a destination and a resort I was more that familiar with. It had recently been renovated I was advised and it and it's sister property LTI Carisol were now a super property managed by a German run hotel group.
I went with the known over the unknown. I've since been to Guardalavaca and had one of the best times I've ever had on a trip. I should have known that I chose poorly.
I flew into Antonio Maceo International Airport in daylight this time. That's the airport on top of the mountain, and right beside the cliff. Of course I knew this by now, unlike that first time and prepared myself for landing. I kept the flight attendant and her little drink cart close at hand and stocked up. I noticed a couple of other's doing this too. Obviously they were Santiago veterans too.
After stumbling off of the plane I discovered the newest little twist in Cuban Immigration policies. I cleared customs and had my carry on X-rayed and hand searched at a small security barrier right behind immigration. To my left was the luggage carousal, and to my right the main customs barrier and the exit.
For once my bag wasn't the last off of the plane and I quickly grabbed it. Suddenly a weedy little guy appeared out of nowhere and offered to carry it out of the terminal. He was, I guess, the local equivalent of a sky cap, but had no uniform or other ID that I could see. He didn't even have a cap.
As it was only a few feet to the exit, I declined. I started towards the "green" channel and had almost made it out when I was gently directed over to one of the customs tables. Here I was briefly interrogated and my Passport and ticket examined. Then the customs agent had me open my bag.
Like a kid at Christmas he rummaged through my carefully packed belongings. After a couple of minutes of flinging them al over the table, he looked up and smiled at me.
"Senor, why do you have so much stuff?"
"Pardon."
"You are only staying here one week, but you have four pairs of blue jeans, six bottles of shampoo, twenty bars of soap, and more T-shirts that I can count."
I just smiled at him and shrugged. The unstated question was I'd been here before and these were gifts for locals. Either that or I was going to trade them on the black market for cigars or other anti socialist items, like his sister.
"I am sorry Senor, but I have a little problem. I am obsessive about cleanliness. I wash and change my clothes several times a day." It was a weak reply, and a bald faced lie and we both knew it. He smiled knowingly.
"Senor," I asked. "Are you married? Do you have any children?"
"Yes, I have a wife and two children." He replied, knowing what was to follow.
"For your wife." I said handing over a couple of bars of nice scented soap and one of the shampoo bottles. He just kept smiling.
"For the ninos." I added a couple of packs of gum to the soap. Still that smile.
"Of course allow me to offer you a small gift as well, as token of my respect for the hard work you do, and my love of your country and it's people."
I tossed a small bottle of after shave that I'd picked up at the dollar store onto the desk. He slipped it all into a drawer and gave me the wave of dismissal. I hurriedly jammed everything back into the bag, and walked out of the terminal.
Outside I compared notes with the other passengers on my flight waiting for taxis and buses for the various hotels and resorts. Several had availed themselves of the helpful porter or his compatriots. Others like myself had declined. By funny coincidence, every one of us who'd said no had been subjected to a secondary customs search.
Any of us who'd been in Cuba before and were carrying clothes and/or toiletries had received a less than subtle hint form these guardians of Castro's island paradise. Well lesson learned I thought. Next time I'd splurge and shell out a buck.
We lucked out this time. The bus to LTI Los Corales was not a Warsaw Pact surplus cast off. It was actually Canadian. It appears my own Government had donated a pile of old transit buses to Cuba a couple of years earlier.
I actually got a surprise when I noticed that aside from a paint job the Cuban's hadn't changed it much. Near my seat was a small plaque advising me in English and French how to open the window in an event of an emergency. It also advised me that the bus, or at least the plaque, was the property of the Toronto Transit Corporation .
It was a full load that tooled down the coastal road through the mountains. By the time we reached our resort, the last stop there were only five of us. Another half dozen Canadians were staying at the sister resort LTI Carisol. Check in was breeze, as always and I quickly went off to explore the resort, and notice any changes since I'd stayed here three years before.
This time I didn't have a room overlooking the ocean. However my first floor room was right by the pool. Actually the pool bar itself was mere steps from my patio. Those steps would have been right by the Jacuzzi too.
The first day there, they announced that the pool, was to be drained and closed all week for repairs. Guests could of course traipse over to the sister hotel and use the pool there. It was less than a ten minute walk and there was a path now. The swim up pool bar was of course closed down too. In compensation they made the newly opened beach bar, all inclusive for the week. It was about a two minute less of a hike than to the other pool bar.
Both resorts were almost completely full. Well at least that meant there would be no melees in the dining room like on my last visit. There were like I said less than a dozen Canadians between both properties. There were about a dozen or so English tourists staying there as well.
The majority of the guests were Italians and Germans. The first group for the most part were a mixed group. Some younger couples but for the most part elderly ones. The Germans were almost exclusively older retired couples. Even the Brits and Canadians it seemed fell the other side of fifty. I was trapped at a retirement home on the beach for a week or so it seemed. Then there was the other thing, just about everyone was a couple. I was the odd man out.
While not wanting to condemn a whole nationality it seems as if Italian tourists and I just don't get along. I grew up in a neighbourhood that had many Canadian Italian families in it and found them to be on the whole wonderful people.
That said and done, I'm now convinced that there is some secret plot underfoot by the Italian Government to deliberately send the worst representatives of that proud and ancient land abroad on package tours to wreak havoc. Personally I don't care if that's the case, but why must they always show up at the same places as me.
This group as a whole were loud, obnoxious, and rude. They barged into lines in the dining room and at the bar and generally endeared themselves to the other guests and staff, not. At night they adorned themselves in the worst possible combinations of fashion, that just screamed "Euro Trash." That however wasn't the worst part.
Yes, at the pool and on the beach the men insisted on wearing speedos. Worse yet for the most part the males were over aged, overweight, and hirsute. It was not a pretty sight. Thankfully, as I noted, the beach bar was all inclusive.
The "leader" of this little group of ambassadors of good will was actually an Italian employee of the hotel. He was in his mid thirties and employed as part of the animation staff. Not head of the animation staff, just part of it.
I first met him on the second day. I'd joined in a morning game of beach volleyball. Now this was the first game I'd played in about six months and most of the people I was playing against were ten to fifteen years younger than I was. I was also the only non Italian or Cuban on the court and really couldn't follow the directions of my team mates, such as they were. I thought I was holding my own under the circumstances, but obvious they didn't think so.
This Latin Bay Watch wanna be's job was to ensure that all the guests, including me were enjoying myself. Rather than a friendly morning game to get a little exercise he treated it like an Olympic finals match. That is when he was not chastising me loudly for any mistakes I'd made.
By the way any error by either side with in twenty feet of me was considered "my fault."We broke for a beer break and in an attempt to be friendly, or show off his English he explained how he had been doing this job for over ten years now. He'd been all over the world working as an "animator' at various beach resorts. He seemed quite proud of it too.
In 1994 I visited Santa Marta on Colombia's north coast. Here at the Decameron hotel, one of two in the area I met another resort animator. This guy was a local kid, in his early twenties. He was bright and ambitious. One of the other staff filled me in on his life story.
He'd been a street kid, and this in country where many street kids don't make it past puberty. He'd managed to get a job at the hotel and eventually because he was bright, ambitious and not unattractive, he'd worked his way up to a position on the animation staff.
Realising success lay in how the guests treated him, he taught himself English, French, and German. This was a kid without any formal education mind. He also taught himself, or was taught how to read and write.
A couple of years later I was in Cartagena and staying at the Decameron there. A friend of mine from the other Decameron was the night manager there. I asked him how our mutual friend was doing.
He told me that he'd been recently been appointed entertainment director for both of the chains hotels in the area. He had an office job, and a staff. Not bad for a street kid I thought.
While my new "amigo" bragged away at the bar of his many volleyball accomplishments, I remembered my Colombian friend and compared the two. I considered telling this tale to "Giovanni Hasselhoff" but decided against it. I doubted he'd see the point. I didn't play much volleyball for the rest of the week.
Having written off half the European guests the first day, I figured at least I could get along with the Germans. Hey at least I spoke the language, albeit very poorly. However my initial attempts at polite chit chat were met with some very serious rebuffs. Not only that but I noticed that they were giving the other four Canadians dirty looks too.
One of the Brits filled me in on the situation the second day. The Germans, like the others had been there for a couple of weeks already. The week before there had been a rather large contingent of Canadian guests staying there as well. There had also been an incident.
It seems one of the Canadians had brought a Johnny Horton tape with him. He'd also bribed the Cuban DJ to continually play one song from it. Every night when the Germans trooped into the large room that served as both disco and the stage for the evening's shows, they were greeted with a rousing chorus of "Sink the Bismark." They were not amused.
Later in the week some of the Brits, Germans and Italians left. They were replaced by a large contingent of some seventy Finns, all of them senior citizens on a package tour. This caused a bit of a stir as it appeared that none of the Finns spoke English let alone German, Italian, or Spanish.
Naturally none of the Cuban staff spoke Finnish. The one multi lingual Finnish tour rep with the group was a bit harried after a couple of days. Poor guy probably could have used a vacation himself.
I soon became aware that one of the old Finnish guys was having no problem communicating with the staff. He spoke fluent Russian, as did one of the older bartenders. This was something they both wisely decided not to share with anyone else. I caught them chatting one afternoon at the pool bar and was sworn to secrecy. I got great service at the pool bar for the rest of my stay.
Because there were only five Canadians staying at the resort that week, our local rep from the tour operator must have decided he could have the week off. When I first started going to Cuba, it was a Canadian living in Cuba that handled orientation and any minor problems that arose.
Either for political or economic reasons this position in most resorts has now been filled by Cubans. Regardless of their nationality, I've found some of these reps to be excellent and others, well less than excellent. This guy fell into the later category.
After dropping us all off at the hotel he simply disappeared. He had pointed out where his desk was in the lobby and the hours he was supposed to be there were posted. However he appeared to be there.
Naturally some of the other Canadians had a minor problem and needed help. Fortunately one of the other tour company reps and the hotel staff were able to assist them. I've noticed that in larger establishments where there are several of these reps, they'll often buddy up to cover each other. Our guy was a "real buddy" that week. Mind he got his.
One of the improvements since my last stay was they now had a daily shuttle to the city. A mini bus took you in early in the morning and picked you up late in the afternoon. There was a nominal fee, but it was much better than the $40.00- $50.00 US a taxi cost. With not much to do around the resort, after a couple of days I availed myself of this service.
The bus that morning was almost a full load. Just after I boarded, an elderly German couple got aboard. They gave me a bit of a dirty look after seeing my maple leaf pin, and realising that the only empty seats were beside me. I chose to ignore them for the long ride into Santiago.
Just before we reached the city limits I realised that they had a bit of a dilemma. They appeared to want to visit the zoo, although God knows why, and San Juan Hill. The bus made only one stop at Cespedes Parque in the centre of the city. They were frantically looking a their map, and asking the other Germans, if anyone knew where the zoo was.
Well I did know where the zoo is, and it's near San Juan Hill. I asked them politely, in German, if I could help them. I apologised for my pitiful German and pointed out on their map where we were and where they wanted to go. I then asked the driver to drop them off there, before we continued on. I also noted on their map where the pick up point was.
Later that afternoon on the ride back they rather looked rather pleased with themselves. They told me they'd had a great time and thanked me for my assistance. Great now maybe this re enactment of the Battle of the Reichswald would finally end I thought. Of course I was mistaken.
As for me the little excursion into Santiago had been a pleasant time waster. I'd tried to track down my friends the two medical students from my last visit, but had been unsuccessful. For the most part I spent the day as I usually do in a strange city just strolling around and exploring.
I found myself at the Moncada Barracks eventually. This old fort was once the largest and most important military installation in eastern Cuba before the revolution. It was also the site of Castro's first failed attempt to overthrow the Batista regime. The buildings, complete with bullet holes in the walls are now a primary school. There is also a small museum.
Admission to the museum was $1.00 US plus another buck if you wanted to take pictures. For this I got the services of a bilingual guide. This pretty young thing was a product of thirty plus years of Government indoctrination. I've got a degree in military history and have a good grasp on the events of the Cuban revolution. It was both enlightening and entertaining to hear her rehearsed comments and explanations as we looked at the exhibits.
Most amusing was listening to her "explanation" of how Castro and his followers were defeated in this crucial battle. It appears that in the official Cuban historical account they were not defeated and forced to retreat. After failing to take the garrison by surprise and suffering casualties, they decided they'd accomplished enough for the night and left of their own accord. It appears Cuban military leaders can BS as good as their NATO counterparts.
One of the prime exhibits on display was the tribute to Cuba's first and only cosmonaut. This was a nice little Cold War PR exercise at best. My favourite though was Fidel's rifle. In a special case was the rifle he was reputed to have carried in the mountains.
Incidentally in the nearby town of Siboney, where the attack on Moncada was planned, there is another museum. Here in another glass display case they have Fidel's torn and stained combat pants. I'm told the shirt is in another museum in Havana. One of these days I'm going to have to tour the rest of the island to find the museum(s) where they have his boots and hat on display.
After Moncada I strolled down to the harbour. Here I again sneaked into an official tour group and took the tour of the local cigar factory. This is a rather small place and doesn't produce any of the world famous brands. In the main room where the rollers sat and worked I got a first hand example of the new Cuban economy at work.
Sitting at a bench was an old woman roller. At her feet was a large shopping bag. Every third of fourth cigar she rolled she discretely dropped into the bag, and not into the tray which was picked up whenever it was full. She caught me staring at her doing this and gave me a nice little conspirital wink and a chuckle.
"One for Fidel, one for me. Two for Fidel, one for me. One for Fidel and one for me."
I'm sure these fairly cheap cigars would soon find themselves in Montecristo boxes. By nightfall they'd be for sale on street corners. More than likely to the same tourists who were wandering around the factory taking pictures of everything and seeing nothing.
Back at the resort there was really nothing to do aside from hang around the pool bar, or the beach bar, or the lobby bar, and after a while that gets boring not to mention unhealthy. I was the odd man out, being the only non couple there. Besides there was the language and other barriers to deal with. The place was rather isolated and cabin fever was starting to set in. Mind it was a four star, nicely landscaped cabin fever.
I decided to book a day trip. The problem being there's only so many places you can go in the immediate area. Having been to Santiago twice before I'd actually exhausted most of the little tours available. That is all except one.
There was a day trip to Montego Bay Jamaica available for $180.00 US. You left your hotel really early in the morning and were driven to the airport. Here you caught a small light aircraft for the quick run over to Jamaica, about 90 miles away.
A tour of Dunn's River Falls and other sites in the nearby area completed the rest of the morning. Lunch was thrown in, and the afternoon was free to either shop or explore the local beach on your own. The flight, and the shuttle back to your resort were early in the evening. Actually I'd be back just in time to make last call for dinner.
I'd never been to Jamaica, and it sounded like a nice little introduction. If I liked the place, I could then consider it for a more detailed and longer trip later on. Besides there was also the plane ride. One of the small little tourist groups like AeroCaribe or Gaviotta ran the aerotaxis used on these trips. The plane ride itself would be almost worth the cost.
The planes used for the most part were Cuban Airforce surplus. A lot of the Cuban military had got into the tourism business as a means to earn hard currency. These planes, like almost all of Cuba's military equipment was Soviet in origin. The plane was the Colt Anataov.
This was a small Russian designed and built aircraft. It's main use was to drop paratroopers and infiltrate people behind enemy lines at night. For this reason it was robust, and flew low and slow. Just the thing to take some tourists across the Caribbean Sea. Oh yeah one more thing it was a biplane.
I booked the trip and made arrangements with the front desk for an early wake up call. We'd be leaving for the airport around 6:30 am. Getting up at 5:00 am should be ample time for breakfast and the rest of my morning routine I thought.
I decided to make it an early night due to the long day ahead of me. Besides it wasn't as if their was a surplus of evening fun and games there that week. No wild all night parties and playing drunken hide and seek with the border guards this time for me. A rousing after dinner game of bingo, a glass of warm milk, another of water for the teeth, and it was nighty night.
I did stop by to catch the evening's entertainment and grab a night cap on my way to my room. That was as usual not a good idea. That night was karaoke night in the bar. Actually every night was karaoke night that week. I guess that was just Fidel's special little way of sticking it to me.
A little bit about karaoke as it is performed in Cuban resorts. First the machines are the older models. That means you're spared those annoying videos. You are not however spared the annoying audio part.
This is more than made up for by the animation staff who acted as the MCs. Now the average Cuban animation staff, speedo wearing Italian transplants aside, is on the worst of days uber perky. There must be something however about forcing their inmates, excuse me guests, to sing for their supper, literally, that brings out the Marquis de Sade in them.
They naturally have the same songs used in karaoke all over the world, a collection of pop classics and old standbys. Well almost the same as anywhere else. It appears that even karaoke isn't immune from the ever present shortages in Cuba. Most of the songs in the book were not available. These were crossed out with black pen.
What was left appeared to be, for some strange reason, the complete works of Gloria Estefan, in both English and Spanish. Now this was the fun part. I already noted that almost all the guests had little or no grasp of either of these two languages. This didn't stop them from trying to sing though. In fact after a couple of drinks they seemed to believe they were fluent in both English and Spanish. They weren't.
I leave it to your imagination to picture what this looked, or rather sounded, like. For my part I was trying real hard not to fall of the bar stool. I wasn't laughing out loud, that would have been rude. It was trying to control my giggles that were causing me to lose my balance.
Then the bartender noticed me. Naturally he knew I spoke English and was about to point this out to the head uber perky one . I suggested that this would seriously affect his tips both for the night and the week and he quickly developed amnesia. I finished my drink, regained my composure, almost, and headed back to my room.
The minute I got in to the room, I flipped on the TV and headed to the bathroom. What I didn't realise was that the volume was turned way up. Either the maid had done it or I had accidentally. I realised it the second I came out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later and was almost to the set to turn it down when there was a banging on the door.
I abandoned the TV and answered the door. There standing in the hall was the elderly German gentleman from the mini bus. the guy intent on seeing the zoo. It appeared we were next door neighbours.
I was a bit taken back by his dress. I swear he was wearing full wool PJs, a bathrobe, and a night cap. One of those with a tassel. This at a resort in the tropics. I was so busy staring at this that I missed what he was saying. No problem he repeated it.
"TV too loud. Pleeze to turn down, or I call manager!"
"Yeah no problem bud.I slammed the door in his face. I did turn it down though before crawling into bed.
Early the next morning. Way too early to be honest the phone rang. It was 4:00 am, I presumed it was my wake up call. It wasn't.
"Senor Smith, theeze is the front desk. De flight to Jamaica today is cancelled. De engine fell off of de plane. So you don't have to get up early, thank you. Good bye."
I lay there shocked. There were two thinks about that brief message that were just so Cuban. First waking me up just to tell me I didn't have to get up, that I could sleep in. Secondly the matter of fact manner in which she'd given me the reason the trip was off. It was as if this was a regular occurrence in Cuba. Actually it turns out it is.
Well I was awake and it was way too early for breakfast so there was only one thing to do. I turned on the TV and watched HBO, loud. Hey Germans are early risers, right.
After breakfast, and getting my refund from the tour desk, I headed for the beach bar. Here I bumped into my neighbour, sans night cap. He was engaged in an animated discussion with several other geriatric Tuetons.
The minute I arrived, the conversation stopped and they all stared at me. The last words I'd heard were "TV" and "manager." I grabbed my beer to go. As I left the bar I whistled the opening bars of my favourite Johnny Horton song.
The rest of the week was kind of anti climactic. All too soon it was time to board the big bus for the run down to the airport. At the airport our missing rep decided to put in a guest appearance. Like I said a couple of the Canadians had needed his services earlier in the week and of course he was nowhere to be found.
I questioned him on this and of course he denied it. He swore he'd been at his desk every day, aside from his one day off of course. It was so obvious he was lying and he was so smug about it, that I didn't press the point.
I checked in my bags and was on my way to the security barrier when I shook his hand and slipped him something. He thought it was his tip. I'd almost reached the barrier when he came running after me and caught up.
"Senor, you do this for a living?" He asked handing back my business card to me. It was the one I'd slipped him. On it was the name of a large Canadian Travel company. I was doing some free lance work for them at the time. Part of my brief was reporting on resorts.
"Yup." I smiled back. "Hope you enjoy your new job, whatever it is amigo." I grinned and slipped through the barrier. My last sight was him standing in the middle of the terminal, crestfallen. All of a sudden it hadn't been to bad of a trip, I thought.
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Member: James Smith
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