May 22, 2004
Caibarien - Live it up on eleven bucks.

There is a certain little town on the North coast that would not make the travel guide of Cuba, but it happened to be our favorite place and the one that redeemed our experience after some of the trials we'd been through in the bigger cities. It has an atmosphere of unprepossessing charm; it is what it is, a small city that has grown up outside of any outside influence and therein lay its appeal to us.

As we pulled in, motoring quite a ways from the ocean into a series of bays, the inevitable call came over the VHF and we were told to stay where we were while la Guarda commandeered a fishing boat and came out to meet us. The inspection followed, the obligatory forms were filled out and all they really wanted to know was: "What's the emergency?" Our reply that we needed food and water seemed to satisfy and we were allowed to stay for a day or two. Because of our deep draft (5 ft) we had to anchor out in the middle of the channel, a fair distance from the fishing compound at the wharfside, where, 20 minutes later, we pulled in to dock our dinghy. It was a fascinating place, as it was operated by a group of fisherman who work independently from the state, and it was the smoothest working cooperative I've ever seen. 30 boats or so were docked in an enclosed area, secured by a gate that had to be operated manually by one of the ladies (wives of the fishermen most likely) who were in attendance at all hours while the compound was open. They would operate the gate leading to the bay as well as the locked gate at the other end of the compound that led to the street to town. The area was complete with cafeteria, office and freezer room where they kept, weighed and sold the fish. It was an operation like nothing I had ever run into before.

Once we got to the town, we had the most fascinating movie set to examine. To our Americanized eyes, it looked like it could have belonged to a Western movie set - back in the 50's. The houses were more like apartments, adjoining one another, their colorful peeling painted doorways opening to a shared cement walkway. In front of the walkway there was a little ditch running with what could only be sewer water. Walking into the town, it was so quiet and abandoned looking, you had the feeling that 1/2 the population had left some time ago and that life had stalled sometime between the 1950's and the 1900's. Horses and carriage, donkey-drawn carts were as common as '56 Buicks and Fords.

The center of town was obviously the bar, an open-concept plan that consisted of a cement slab around which a group of 30 people were clustered around the one, slow foaming tap. Maciek wanted to try it (nope, not this girl!) so he walked up to the bar, expected the barman to produce him a glass and pour him a healthy pint. The barman pointed him in the other direction and when Maciek walked back, he found the "glasses" that we were provisioned with: empty beer cans with the tops cut off. There was one box for the dirty and one for the clean, and I was impressed that Maciek had at least learned enough from his dishwashing time on the boat to choose the clean one.

We wandered about the town square for a bit, buying a cheese pizza along the way (hey, at 3 pesos, approx. 4 cents US - who wouldn't buy one?) A few minutes later, back at the bar, we were accosted by a friendly pair who obviously had had a few slugs of the rum they were carrying and who wanted to be our friends. Edel asked us what music we liked, either Celine Dion or Metalica and then pointed to his friend and said he played trumpet in a local band that played the traditional music of Cuba. We said, yes, we liked that music better than Metalica, and blearily, the trumpeter agreed, then said he'd go and get his trumpet to play a song for us.

There was no dissuading these guys - they were determined to play for us and show these Canadians that they liked us from their hearts, and indeed they did. Right in the middle of the square, we were treated to a soulful rendition of "Maria" of West Side Story, then a blasting tribute to "Guantanamera" the most popular song of the day. They kept insisting they didn't want money, they just liked us.

Going back to the wharf where our dinghy was waiting, we had further adventures of the local kind. Trying to paddle the dinghy towards our anchorage we broke an oar lock, upon which we quickly returned to get away from the blowing wind and repair the damage. A kind fisherman offered to drop us off in his boat which was in the harbour. He insisted on getting into our dinghy himself and paddling it over to his boat and then to fetch us as well. Well, it was a Charlie Chaplin moment, no words can describe it... He stepped in heavily as if getting into a barge, overbalanced the small craft and plunged into the water headfirst on the other side! Sputtering and laughing, he somehow managed to heave his bulk into it and paddle over to us where we were doing our best to be polite and keep in our stifled snorts. While the dripping husky Cuban fishermen was sorting himself out, we saw a trio of French folk who happened to be going back to their catamaran at that moment in their motor-powered dinghy. We thanked the somewhat embarrassed fisherman and got a ride with French dudes. Maciek will never forget the massive body of the Cuban fisherman going slowly over the side of our dinghy with a pained look at his face when the inevitability of the plunge was obvious to us all.

We had intended to leave the next day but when we went back in to town to get groceries, we found it so alive and bustling with people, so changed from the deadness of the night before, that we couldn't tear ourselves away that day, or the next. For the next 3 mornings we would go into the fishing compound, shoot the breeze a bit with Luis the cafeteria cook, buying some breakfast and hot coffee (fish porridge - for the life of me I couldn't figure out how it was made but was it ever GOOD! or bolitas molida - fried balls of fish, or egg omelets) before wandering into the town for further exploration.

(T)