May Day

Well you don’t find yourself in Cuba on 1 May and not march with the workers, do you?
 
When we planned the trip I imagined being in Havana and marching past Raul Castro. Maybe even Fidel would be well enough to come out. But no juggling of the schedule could get us to Havana for today so we decided to march wherever we ended up. I’d assumed that the march would be at some civilised time in the morning but no, it starts at 7 so after hearing the rain beating down all night, we were up at 5.30. Dark. Switch on the light. Dark. Another power cut. We dressed in the dark, found our waterproofs in the dark and packed our bags in the dark. I was glad that I’m methodical with rucksacks. As we  quietly let ourselves out of the front door in the dark, Alfredo emerged and apologised for the darkness. The first civil thing from him. The first thing he could do nothing about.
 
Although it was still half an hour to sunrise and the clouds were thick, the light reflecting off the sea made everything an eerie luminous grey. People were milling around with hand-sized Cuban flags or large furled ones. Many were in groups all wearing the same colour t-shirt – a workers’ or union group, I guessed. We wanted to march with a group and since we both work in education we looked around for a teachers’ union. The health workers were easy to identify since they had a hospital bed to push but we couldn’t find educación, colegio, escuela or universidad on anyone’s banner or t-shirt. We asked some of the amiable people milling around. No-one knew. Just keep looking, they said.
 
7.15, 7.30... It started to rain and umbrellas appeared from nowhere for people to huddle under. As the rain eased we spotted a school banner. They were greatly amused at the thought of us marching with them; of course we could. They asked us to help carry the Cuban flag: huge, horizontal. What? Us? Us. At the front. In the middle. Waiting our turn to march we chatted with the teachers while the school band played all around the flag. Each time the rain started again the musicians scuttled underneath without missing a beat.
 
Finally we started moving. Down the road next to the sea, left past the park then past the podium of dignitaries with muffled socialist slogans coming too loudly out of the loudspeaker in front of them. Viva el socialismo… por la patria… The teachers waved, the children played. Then the moment we were past the podium and the dignitaries’ attention was on the next group, the teachers and pupils abruptly disbanded, said goodbye to us, rolled up their flag and ran for their bus parked a short way down the street. Duty clearly done.
 
We walked back to watch other marchers. Groups came through with their workplace banners. Apart from those with their own bands, who danced their way down the road, they were mostly low-key, damp, chatting to their colleagues until they neared the party officials then those on the podium side of the group became animated, sang, waved placards, smiled, chanted in rhythms familiar from all marches (the workers, beat, united, beat, will never be defeated, beat). But only those on the podium side. It became clear that most were not there by choice. The most consistently lively group, dancing in the rain to their own exuberant band, were the young men doing their two years compulsory military service.
 
On our way to the bus station to change our tickets to Havana a taxi driver accosted us to offer a ride for less than the price of the bus. 15 CUC each door-to-door. Although we’d prepaid our bus tickets, we would have to pay a penalty to change them, as well as pay for taxis to the Cienfuegos bus station and from the Havana one so, since his taxi looked in good condition, we accepted. 2pm at the casa particular. Deal.
 
Which left us four hours to visit Cienfuegos in daylight. The Teatro Terry is a quite exquisite theatre with filigree fronts to the circle, balcony and boxes. Behind the seats, louvred wooden doors open to a wide balcony which is open to the street. Natural ventilation. Then we took our first bicitaxi to La Punta at the far end of the coast road with its bizarre Palacio de Valle. Moorish? Indian? Some sort of fortification?

Everywhere, of course, were people. Onion sellers, donkey-cart drivers, musicians... Too many to blip but do look at the couple in extras.
 
Back to Barbara and Alfredo’s to assemble our bags. At the appointed time two men turned up, neither of whom were the taxi driver we'd spoken to. Hah. Tout. We’d been sold. One of the men had a rickety taxi and it seemed that the other was his friend coming some of the way for the ride and that we'd also be picking up a woman going to Havana. So this is how the price is kept low. Once our bags were loaded the driver said that of course we'd have to pay more because we were going all the way to the casa particular door in Havana. I didn't argue, just told him to unload our bags and we'd use our bus tickets instead. No, no, no, it’s fine, it’s fine, the price agreed was the price to the door.
 
The driver's mate squeezed in beside us but was fairly soon dropped off then replaced by a woman. The journey was quicker than it would have been by bus and it was extremely convenient to be dropped at the door of the casa particular that had agreed to take us for one night. Where we met the very wonderful Carmen and Ariel. La Ventilada, anyone who might be going to Havana. The nicest people you could imagine. In the dining room of their third-floor flat, over copious fresh coffee, we talked and talked and talked. How things are in Cuba. How things are in the UK. The cost of university, here and there. The cost of dental treatment, here and there. The cost of glasses, here and there. Politics, economics, ideologies, culture. We talked until it was dark. Fascinating, fascinated and yes of course we could stay the whole weekend – they’d sorted out a bed for us in the ground floor flat. Whose? How? It didn’t matter.
 
Finally out to walk in Havana Vieja in the evening. Narrow pedestrian streets, large elegant squares, sad crumbling buildings, stupendous restored buildings, pools of lamplight, music, chatter. No rain. This place is magic.