In Gavotta we trust: A typical Cuban car journey

Pink Buick convertible in Havana

Note: For some reason I don't have a photo of the car I mostly talk about here, so the photos in this post are of some of the other fabulous cars we travelled in during our time in Cuba.

A particularly dilapidated model - but it still went!

We ride back from Viñales in a 1955 DeSoto, with a Mercedes engine and a Hyundai steering wheel. The driver, Carlo, is young, with a big gold-plated watch, lots of gold rings, shades and a pink hat with the logo "In Gavotta we trust". He has a baby blue phone, which he uses a lot during the drive. For the first 30km or so, until we get on the motorway, he beeps and waves at practically everyone we pass - other drivers, pedestrians, people standing outside their houses. He blows kisses at hot girls, then stops to pick up his girlfriend, a stunning creature with purple fingernails extending at least half an inch beyond her fingers. 

On the motorway Carlo speeds down the fast lane - these old cars can go surprisingly fast, and anyway, the tarmac is generally in slightly better condition in the fast lane. Sitting in the back, bumping over the potholes, I want to suggest he slows down a bit - I can tell you from personal experience that the rear suspension in cars has improved since the era of a 1955 DeSoto. 

But I don't. The masculine joie de vivre of drivers of these Cuban "American cars" is little changed from their counterparts in 1970s TV shows like Happy Days. Like the Fonz, Carlito is cool.

Lada, with a retrofitted Toyota engine and Suzuki dashboard. We only had to stop a couple of times going up the hills...

Still, his constant fingering of the crucifix hanging down from the wing mirror is slightly nerve-wracking for his agnostic passengers. Having God on our side would definitely be an advantage in a crash, because there aren't any seat belts to protect us. 

The experience of a Cuban motorway is somewhat different to that of the M4 or SH1. Horses and cows graze on the verge, though picketted so (hopefully) they won't wander into the traffic. Horse and carts trot along the hard shoulder, sometimes with and sometimes against the flow of traffic. There are bicycles, scooters, old fashioned tractor-trailers and at intersections lots of people wait on the verge for buses or lifts. Occasionally there will be a guy standing by the road holding up a handful of mangoes for sale, and dogs trot along the sides too, though either they have more road sense than New Zealand possums, or the ever-present vultures do their cleaning-up work well.

Periodically we see a sign "cruce peligroso", which reminds drivers that there's a dangerous crossroad coming up. The "peligroso" bit is that motorways have no barriers; at a junction, pedestrians, bicycles, horse and carts, and ricketty buses may be trying to cross four lanes of motorway traffic and a central island.

1952 Chevrolet - and Geoff buying mangoes

The speed limit is 100km/h on the motorway, and although you might think a 1955 Desotto might not hit 100, it seemed faster. or maybe it was just bouncing over the ruts and potholes, with the wind in your face from the open window.

It's the nearest I'm ever going to get to feeling like Olivia Newton-John.

Another 1950s Chevvy - with Ben about to head off diving

At one stage a policeman pulls us over, and Carlo gets out, shows some papers, gives the cop a big hug and a cool dude handshake and gets back in. A friend, we ask? No, just someone he sees on his frequent trips from Viñales to Havana.

I forgot: the Carlito knows everyone.

Cuban cigars, mojitos, and more

Cuba has had a tough time - its fate over the last few hundred years has been so often moulded by forces outside its control. The American embargo basically punished the country for being socialist, despite the fact that socialism in Cuba was largely beneficial for the majority of the population - providing free healthcare, universal education, and massive poverty reduction. (It was left to other regional dictators - unpunished by Big Brother as long as they were right-wing in their political leanings - to indulge in state-sponsored atrocities.) 

Then there was the economic destruction of the 1990s caused by the Soviet Union withdrawing its support almost overnight - not because of anything Cuba did, but because of the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. 

These two disasters left Cuba decades behind in terms of economic development - as seen by the shortages of many consumer goods we take for granted, and the presence not of Toyotas and Nissans on the roads, but of patched 1950s American and 1980s Soviet model cars. Also, the fact horses and bicycles are the main form of transport in many areas.

Further back, things weren't much better for the Cubans. From the late 1400s, there were the rapacious Spanish colonisers who, when they didn't find gold in Cuba, contented themselves with setting up large slave-worked plantations - sugar cane and tobacco, for example. With sugar now produced more cheaply and efficiently in countries like Brazil, that has left a legacy for Cuba of being best-known for two products - cigars and rum.

The trouble is, being reliant on tobacco and alcohol for your export economy isn't a bargain in these health-conscious times. You can't give away cigars to many tourists, and while a lot of people would have a bottle of rum in their drinks cabinet, it certainly wasn't top of mind in our household until I discovered mojitos. (Recipe below - mojitos are totally yummy, if you like that sort of thing.)

The main thing to come out of this economic disaster is tourism. Technology-spoilt visitors love the old cars, the horse-drawn transport, the crumbling picturesque colonial architecture, the small-scale farmers growing crops the way they did 200 years ago, with oxen to plough the fields and horses to get around. 

The area around Viñales is a great example of enterprising Cubans taking advantage of tourists' love of all things old-fashioned. The town sits a couple of hours west of Havana, close enough for visitors to be able to take an old American car along a potholed motorway that you share with horse-drawn carts and bicycles, and you find yourself in one of Cuba's main tobacco-growing regions.

Viñales is very picturesque - green and lush and with the sort of ridiculous vertical hump mountains you get in traditional Chinese paintings. The tobacco is dried in thatched sheds, the thatch stretching almost down to the ground. And the best way to visit the area is by horse, which adds a definite sense of adventure.  

Our grand day out in the tobacco fields happened almost by accident. We'd set out to walk to a cave swimming hole but quickly realised it was far too far and much too hot, so asked around about alternative transport. There are no roads, we were told, but within half an hour a local guide had arrived with five handsome steeds. Cubans use western saddles, with the useful handle at the front to hold onto if you aren't very experienced, and any self-respecting horseman wears a cowboy hat and spurs. Locals tend to trot everywhere, a relaxed sitting trot that probably takes years of practice to be comfortable, although luckily the horses are quite happy to walk for foreigners. Still it feels very derring-do. 

In typical Cuban fashion, the whole horse trek was extremely laid back. Helmet-less and unencumbered by form-filling or bossy leaders, we ambled out through the fields, stopping when we met a tobacco farmer to inspect his drying crop and be given a demonstration of cigar-making, and a chance to try and his product. Being 13 years old was no impediment to having a drag.

I can't say I'm a convert, but it was fun pulling on a hand-made, honey-soaked cigar in a thatched tobacco drying house, with the horses waiting outside. And Geoff makes an excellent Cuban cowboy - complete with cigar.

We eventually got to the cave swimming hole, tied up  the horses, and found that the swim was actually underground, among some fine stalagmites and stalactites. The guide switched his torch off and it was eerie swimming in pitch darkness.

By the time we got back to the horses it had started to rain - a torrential tropical downpour which turned the tracks into orange muddy streams and had us soaked through in minutes. There was even a hairy river crossing, with water up to our horses' bellies.

Still, it makes the area wonderfully green.

And now that recipe for mojitos...

INGREDIENTS

1. • 2 tablespoons (1 ounce) fresh lime juice
   • 2 heaping teaspoons superfine sugar
   • 1 cup crushed ice
   • 12 fresh mint leaves, plus 5 small sprigs for garnish
   • 1/4 cup (2 ounces) white rum
   • 2 tablespoons (1 ounce) club soda

PREPARATION

1. 1. In 10-ounce glass (such as Collins or highball), stir together lime juice and sugar until sugar dissolves. Add 1/4 cup crushed ice. Rub mint leaves over rim of glass, then tear leaves in half and add to glass. Gently stir for 15 seconds, then add rum, remaining crushed ice, and club soda. Gently stir for 5 seconds, then tuck mint sprigs into top of glass and insert tall straw.

In memory of my friend San San, who always wanted to see the world

On Monday, just as we were coming back into Cuba from Mexico with shiny new visas ready for the next stage of our trip, I heard that my wonderful friend San San had died suddenly that morning. She had been sick for a couple of days, and then collapsed at home. She was 51 and it was totally unexpected.
Her death leaves an enormous hole for me, and it's impossible to imagine how her family feels, including her five fabulous children, Michelle, Daniel, Marian, Samuel and Richelle. Then there are her "adopted" children, like my sons Ben and Sam, their friend James, and Ben Gilbert, who called her "mum". Many, many others were touched by her enormous heart, her huge kindness, her enthusiasm for life, her optimism when things were hard, and the yummy food she always had ready for family, friends, and co-workers.
On the long trip back to New Zealand, I thought a lot about the woman most people call Mabel, but who we always knew as San San. Among other things, I thought about her love of life, even though hers was a tough one. Her father died of TB when she was young, she joined the (ultimately unsuccessful) student uprising against the Burmese military government, spent time fighting the regime in the jungle and then years in a refugee camp in Thailand. In New Zealand she faced all the frustrations of a new immigrant - language and cultural barriers, lack of money, difficulty in finding a job, struggles with bureaucracy to get what she needed, coping with a large family in a strange country. Quite apart from fiercely missing her mum, brother and other relatives in Burma.
She kept positive and optimistic throughout. 
But this is a travel blog, and as I'm writing this, I'm also thinking how much San San wanted to travel, to see the world, to take the sort of holidays most of us take for granted. And it was starting to look more of a possibility. Her life was going well - for the first time she had a steady job, promotion prospects; a bit of spare money. 
Our two families always spent Christmas together - we had a dream about meeting up for Christmas in Burma/Myanmar this year, where she could show us her country and introduce us to her family.
Maybe it wouldn't have happened this year, but it would have happened. And now it won't - or at least she won't be part of that trip. And that is really really sad.  So too is the fact she didn't have the opportunity to see the places she always wanted to see - Jordan, Europe, Asia, the rest of New Zealand. She never had time to fulfil her dream of just taking off and exploring. And that is impossibly unfair.
But reflecting on San San's death has also made this trip that my family are taking feel even more valuable. Travelling the world for nine months sometimes seems crazy, irresponsible, stupid. Things go wrong and you miss the stability and normality of home. In a country like Cuba, where simple things like buying a bus ticket, or finding butter in a store, are complicated, occasionally you wonder if it wouldn't be easier to be in a place with ubiquitous internet and stocked supermarkets.
You also wonder if you'll end up a poverty-stricked pensioner regretting having spent all your savings on frivolous - if fabulous - globetrotting.
I don't think that now. San San's death reinforces the many clichés about living life now, and seizing the day, and not putting things off, and never knowing what the future will bring. Sam and I have made the several thousand kilometres journey back to New Zealand for the funeral, but we will go back to Cuba to hopefully finish our journey. And I know that this trip is the right thing for us, and we need to put everything into making it something we will always remember.
For us. And now for San San.  
We'll miss you, lovely friend.

The middle of Cuba: Sancti Spiritus and Morón

Sancti Spiritus somehow sounds like it's going to be a nice place. Even to a non-believer, the name has a good ring to it. Uplifting. Like someone loves it. I mean, at least it's not called "Slaughters" or "Martyrs of Barbados" or "Colon". And it is an unexpectedly nice place, with all the beautiful buildings of Trinidad - it was tarted up for its 500th anniversary in 2014 - and none of the hassles. 

The main street (the Boulevard) is pedestrianised, and has quite a few shops that appear to be selling things that people might want to buy, which is somewhat of a novelty. There is a pretty little arched stone bridge, almost like something out of an English village but with a very Cuban orange plastered top, over the (predictably rubbish-clogged) Yayabo river. And overlooking the bridge is a classy looking restaurant which the guide book promised had "one of the best wine cellars in Cuba". 

At the end of the Boulevard (which has Wi-Fi almost its entire length - shock horror!) there is a pretty main square, with fine buildings and street stalls offering virgin pina colada, chicken croquettes, ice creams and, occasionally, churros. (Also Wi-Fi.) There was a festival going on (marking the beginning of summer, apparently - you mean it's going to get hotter!!), and there were lots of people around, and seats set out on the main drag for what appeared to be a talent competition and went on into the early hours of the morning. (The stage was on the street right outside our huge, cool, airy casa particular rooms, which gave us a ringside view from the terrace, and when we'd had enough, the air conditioner was noisy enough to mean we weren't disturbed.)
Nobody asked us if we wanted a taxi or a horse, the food was in local prices, and all in all, we were very pleased with Santi Spiritus. 
We wanted to try Taberna Yayabo overlooking the river, but things didn't work out quite as expected. It poured with rain the night we wanted to go, and the restaurant we found instead was a spectacularly bizarre place, with water pouring through the roof, only one copy of a menu that anyway was in such tiny print you couldn't read it, the oddest waiting staff we've come across - though surprisingly good food. (Which wasn't the case in the other restaurant we tried in Sancti Spiritus, which advertised Chinese food, a novelty we couldn't resist, but should have. We'll stick to Cuban food, beans and rice in future). 
We were also stymied when we decided to check out the movie theatre, which advertised four movies - one each evening at 8.30pm Thursday to Sunday. We were assured that Saturday's movie, Marea Negra (2016), was in English with Spanish subtitles, but when we rocked up excitedly the cinema was unfortunately closed for the night for fumigation. (They do lots of door-to-door fumigation in Cuba, against mosquitoes, we've been told).

The problem for Sancti Spiritus as far as a tourist is concerned, and the reason presumably it's so free of touts, inflated prices and general irritants, is once you've wandered around the pretty streets and stuck your head in shops full of washing powder and tomato paste, and eaten too many ice creams - there is nothing much else to do. No horse treks, or hop-on, hop-off bus tours, or swimming holes. 
There was a hotel 10km outside town supposed to offer fishing trips, but when we headed there we found a grim, dilapidated, Soviet-style concrete block, with more than half the rooms apparently boarded up, an overcrowded swimming pool, and no visible lake. Apparently it was too dry for fishing. On the other hand, they did offer the best mojitos we've had. Which was a distinct consolation.

And so onto Morón, which is as uninspiring as its name is unfortunate. The city's one claim to fame is an abusive 16th century bureaucrat, who was nicknamed "Cocky" by locals and eventually run out of town. Apparently the city was named after him, though the link is not totally clear - was he called Snr Morón, or was he so unpleasant, the name "moron" stuck? Anyway, there's an iron cockerel statue in his honour on the way into town, which crows at 6am each morning. Unmissable.
Anyway, the town is a flat dusty place, full of bicycles, hot uninteresting streets, closed shops (OK, it was Sunday), pizza joints with long queues, and uninspiring places to stay. The Lonely Planet recommends Alojamiento Maite, where "the tireless Maite" has added a swimming pool and a famous restaurant and "guests can lounge on the substantial roof terrace with a mojito". The pool was tiny and empty, the terrace tiny and hot, and tireless Maite tried to cram the five of us into a 3-bed room and charge us double the usual rate. She also appeared to have tirelessly taken over all the surrounding houses, in an un-Communist fashion, to block out competition.
We ended up down the road in a nick-nack-ridden house owned by an elderly couple, with pink satin bedcovers with frilly hearts (always a bad sign), electric shocks from the hot water system and a "terrace" where you could sit in a hard chair and stare at the washing line, water tanks and car spray joint next door. Which is what the elderly couple did a lot.

Once you've exhausted the childish joy of photographing signs that say "Restaurant Morón" (just add a comma) or "Book shop Morón" etc, you are through with the city. Our host suggested the "Hotel Moron" had a pool, so Sam and I trudged for miles in the blazing heat only to find the Hotel Morón(another hideous Soviet-looking block) has a small, dry fountain, but no pool. The guy on reception laughed a lot when we turned up, towels in hand. 
Actually the swimming adventure had a happy ending. We hopped on a cycle taxi where a cheery guy took us to another hotel, a rather beautiful colonial house just down the road from where we are staying where we begged, successfully in the end, for Sam to be allowed to swim. 
However Morón (unlike Sancti Spiritus) does have its Inspiring Tourist Attraction. Emma, Geoff and I took a horse and carriage out to the Laguna de la Leche. Being in a horse and carriage is a fine way to travel, and quite normal here in the town. The drivers take their passengers the 8km out there and then wait while they have lunch and a wander, and then take them back. Meanwhile the horse crops the grass, the driver has a beer - and everyone's happy. 

The lake is Cuba's largest and is supposed to have reflective underwater lime deposits (hence the "milk" in the name), though it just looked like a normal lake, a bit smelly and with plenty of beer cans and plastic bags around the edge. The place was packed with locals, drinking in little bars along the lake front, or eating in one of two restaurants on stilts over the lake. Laguna de la Leche is renowned for its fishing, although strangely, we were assured the fish on our menu were from the sea, and the food was not particularly good. The setting was very fine though. And they had good mohitos. Does one need anything more?