CUBA LIBRE REDUX - Bad Decisions

Lots of Room to Congregate Under Watchful Windows 

Arguably the three most important buildings in Cuba are the primary government offices anchoring the Havana square in which a hundred thousand Cubans cheered Fidel after the Revolution. To this day it remains hallowed ground for his speeches and official celebrations.  

Ubiquitous Sprouting Antennae, Revolutionary Faces

Government buildings in Cuba are readily identifiable by the myriad of antennae sprouting from the roof tops and it is no different in this complex.  Opposite the eight-story metal outlines of Fidel, Che and Camilo Cienfuegos is the dominating marble memorial to Jose Marti, slightly less propagandized. 

Marble, Marble, Marble Everywhere

We have been encouraged by locals to visit a renowned attraction a mile or two from the Marti Memorial…  a cemetery.  One hundred and forty acres and 53,000 plots for dead people seems to me a waste of our precious time in this vibrantly alive city but I am overruled and so we begin the two mile trek along a route I have selected from our city maps to the Necropolis Cristobal Colon.

Over the years I have developed a second sense about personal safety issues when walking in foreign cities.  I love to experience a city from ground level but have been reminded every now and again that human nature is human nature whether you are walking down a busy boulevard on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Barcelona mere steps from Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia when someone attempts to steal your shoulder purse, (Kristine) or sashaying absent-mindedly past a Mosque with a camera hanging from one’s neck in Riyadh while a hostile crowd of bearded men glowers at your obvious infidel-ness.  (Me)  So I am observant when I am on unfamiliar walking tours, taking note of economic conditions, the physical condition of my surroundings and of course, people gatherings that could signal my being in the wrong pew at the wrong time.  Our long trek towards the cemetery takes us longer than planned due to another one of those bad decisions for which I have a knack, having honed the art of bad decision-making during the many years of my foreign travels.  

Our path takes us through an obviously poor neighborhood and my senses are alerted as we approach a group of six or seven men including one quite ancient gentleman with a wheelbarrow standing idly on the sidewalk blocking our way.  Preparing to usher my three companions to the other side of the street we are suddenly greeted by “Hola’s,” broken English and big smiles.  It is apparent to both them and us that we are not on a regular tourist path when they ask us where we are going and if we are lost. (We are not because my map reading is not altogether incompetent but maps do not relate economic conditions)  When we describe our destination the old man with the wheelbarrow smiles and points us two blocks up and tells us when we approach the yellow wall surrounding the cemetery, turn to the right and follow the wall to the main entrance. 

At the bright yellow wall (the only artifice within miles sans chipping or faded paint) we turn to the right but are approached by a young man asking if we are headed to the entrance.  Enter RK’s poor decision making process.  Buoyed by the friendly reaction from the previous group (who looked threatening at first) I listen to this pleasant young man’s offer to take us to the rear entrance which is a much shorter walk. I convince my fellow travelers to follow this young man to the left along a quite dilapidated and garbage strewn street rather than to the right as the old man had suggested. A quarter mile later we are at the rear entrance.  It would appear he has saved us a long walk.  But wait…  a small glitch appears.  There is a guard at this gate.  The young man apologizes and explains there is NEVER a guard at this (broken) gate.  No amount of cajoling or “gifting” can change the guard’s demeanor, friendly but unstintingly firm.  We MUST walk all the way back to the main entrance.  We reluctantly tromp back the way we came and then follow the old man’s original directive to the right.  The old man with the wheelbarrow is now across the street from us, smiling, and I can only imagine his opinion of these dumb touristas.  Thirty-five long, silent minutes later we arrive at the main entrance.  

We, Along with 25 Funerals Everyday, Enter Through the Main Gate

This episode was indicative of our entire time in Havana.  Regardless of the location, regardless of the poverty, regardless of seemingly dangerous neighborhoods, we never once felt threatened or unsafe. It has been many decades since I have experienced that level of comfort while exploring a foreign city on foot.  Furthermore, at no time along that entire yellow wall walk did I find any chipped paint.  Next?  140 acres of gravestones, of course.