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I’ve driven up from Miami airport on the Florida Turnpike to this small town north of Palm Beach to visit family. It’s a hot-bed of visual arts and I’m staying with brother-in-law, Bob. His wife Lisa is a painter of flamingos – it’s her speciality and she’s part of the vibrant art scene here.

We go to a gallery which is selling some of her work and meet the owners. It’s the off season now – too hot – and all the snow birds have flown or driven back to their northern summer so business is slow. We travel south to Palm Beach to visit the Norton Gallery, currently being expanded, but not with federal funding.

Once again this is a very well curated art collection with a small collection of very significant artists. Renoir, Matise, Degas, Monet, Pissaro, Picasso and Miro are here along with American Artists, Georgia O’Keef, Edward Hopper and the New York realists. There’s a fine courtyard exuding peace but not cool at this time of year.

I’ve found the YMCA in Stuart and manage to catch up on swimming in their open air pool which confusingly turns out to be 25 yards long. Still it’s too warm both in the water and out to do my usual distance. Re-visiting Stuart beach after 7 years in interesting; it’s quite busy with bathers and sun-baskers. The same Snack Shack is there and the turtles are still laying their eggs. Their nests are marked of with orange tape so we can avoid trampling on the buried eggs.

What wasn’t here all those years ago was the newly built Elliot Museum of art, history and technology. The temporary art exhibition is ‘The History of Quilting’. Originally quilts were made with any old scraps of fabric and filled likewise.

From its humble beginnings as the bed covering of the poor, it has evolved into an art form with intricate designs and stitching.

 

Stirling Elliot was an inventor and made many improvements to early bicycles, steering and gears on the first motor cars. There is a huge collection of early vehicles and an extensive collection of vintage and classic cars. Many are stored on a racking system and can be brought down for close inspection. There’s his personal collection of baseball memorabilia and local history exhibits. If you are into model ships, you will be in heaven but the connection between a group of Evenrude out-board-motors and photographs of Hollywood stars, is not immediately apparent. Mr Evenrude married a starlet.

It’s time to move on – returning to Miami and then to London to find the temperatures about the same in both cities, possibly hotter in the later.

I’m getting very familiar with Miami Airport. Passing through it on my way to Dallas, I exchange travel stories with an older American couple who are on their way to Ecuador – they are waiting for their delayed pane to arrive from Bogatoa. I discover that my flight has been cancelled due to mechanical problems so I have to queue up to get re routed via Orlando. Horray, I’ve always wanted to go to Orlando … not. Fortunately I don’t have to go out of the airport, just cross over the lounge to another gate – easy. I’m staying with my niece in the suburb of Highland Park an area of very posh houses on tree-lined streets. There’s not a lot to do in Dallas, according to my niece. I’ve identified a little-used swimming pool but she belongs to the Four Seasons Golf & Sports Club in Irving and arranges for me to go.

There’s a pool there with only one other swimmer, so it’s perfect. The changing rooms and spa area are plush and almost deserted – it’s Friday morning. I’m the only one in the lunch bar afterwards and take advantage of the plentiful supply of Uber taxis in this city. On Saturday we go into town as I want to see architecture. Dallas has some spectacular pieces, but we’re also here to see the Kennedy 6^th floor museum.

This is the former University Book depository from where Lee Harvey Oswald shot JFK. There’s no photography allowed on the 6^th floor, but I highly recommend this well curated exhibition. The narrative is mater of fact, which I find more moving than schmaltz. Dallas has struggled with the reputation for being the place where a president was assassinated, and the exhibit does not shy away from mentioning Kennedy’s detractors here. I was only 12 years old at the time, but remember all the coverage – this brings it all back and I’m able to look down and photograph the spot from the 7^th floor. Conspiracy theories still abound but all the evidence is presented and I’m fairly certain that Oswald did it.

Later we all take a ride on my hosts Vespa scooters and then walk along a disused rail line now paved over for runners, cyclists and dog walkers. There’s a beer at the end before we return to the scooters.

The other thing to do is visit the George W Bush Library. I’m sceptical about this as He definitely wasn’t a favourite of mine at the time. Every president since Hoover has one of these so-called libraries around the country. George W’s Library is accommodated on the site of the Methodist University – it’s very grand.

Trying to maintain some sort of neutrality in the face of the populist view of George W and all the accusations thrown at him during his presidency, I’m struck by the slickness of the presentation and suspect a gap between the fine and patriotic rhetoric and reality. A lot happened in this time: 9/11, the banking crisis, Hurricane Katrina, the Iraq War, but the narrative starts at the beginning; His childhood, being the son of a former president, his marriage to a librarian and his decision to give up drinking and return to his church. This exhibition dwells on the positives and the ‘honour’ it is to ‘serve’ in public office. There is a strong sense of duty to the American people and he’s cut his teeth on the governorship of Texas.

What is a surprise is that the first achievement is Education. A large display declares ‘No Child Left Behind’ – several times. George is quoted ‘to stand for office you must stand for something’, so I’m looking forward to finding that out. I’m also wondering about the legacy of this education policy and how many children are still being left behind. The passions of Laura Bush come to the fore here and it’s clear that her work as a librarian has been key.

The Bush’s are photographed often with black children and whilst George was famously photographed with a book upside-down (probably hastily put in his hands by a photographer) and there were various other gaffs in classrooms common to most politicians, I’m getting a feeling that he wasn’t quite as dumb as was rumoured. There is a statement he made whilst visiting Mexico.

‘The United States has no more important relationship in the world than our relationship with Mexico. Each of our countries is proud of our independence, our freedom and our democracy. We are united by values and carried forward by common humanity.’

Now, although this is the sort of diplomatic speech required for the occasion, It is strikingly different from the rhetoric coming out of the current administration regarding US/Mexico relations. No walls mentioned in this speech – note the underlined passages.

Next we get to 9/11 which seems to be accurately reported. It happened on his watch, and doesn’t mention his failure to turn up, but instead memorialises the event. 9/11 eventually leads to the Iraq war/invasion and here the justification is that although no weapons of mass destruction were found, they were convinced that Sadam had the ‘capability’. Hmm. This is of course leads to the launch of ‘The War on Terror’ which continued though his time and strangely, is on-going as I write in 2017.

I think Bush was probably unable to resist pressure from the military, pubic opinion etc urging him to go into Afghanistan and Iraq. I compare this decision with Obama’s not to put troops on the ground in Syria. Neither seems satisfactory. Moving on there are key policies in other areas: Expand Free Trade; Strengthen Alliances; Prevent the spread of Weapons of Mass Destruction & Encourage Democracy.

I just get the impression that the current administration is going in the opposite direction. How did that happen?  There’s some great photography here and walls of images depicting the US as multicultural, which is of course true, especially in the southernmost states where everyone seems to be speaking Spanish.

A replica of the Oval Office allows visitors to sit in the presidential chair and be photographed making a phone-call. There’s a replica of the rose garden, but the climate in Dallas doesn’t suit roses, so you have to look hard to see the few struggling specimens.

The second half of the exhibition gets more personal with an account of the visit of Elizabeth II, An interesting map on the incidence of HIV around the world and a section on Protecting the Environment – neither of these are supported by the Trump Administration. There’s a participatory game where we get to make presidential decisions. Each participant has a desk and console and first up we have to choose an issue for which Bush made a decision.

Thinking that my answers to things like the Iraq war might be pre-determined, I choose the banking crisis having momentarily forgotten the outcome. The majority of the players also go for this. They are mainly young people, so it’s interesting that that’s on their minds. The game involves listening to various different agencies and opinions and the basic question is weather to let the banks fail and cope as best they can or to throw federal dollars at them in the hope that they will recover and be able to repay. We have limited time and get interrupted with updated information from news sources. My decision is to use the Federal Dollars, but surprisingly the majority of players go for the Darwinian option. It is now revealed that saving the banks is what Bush did and I’m vindicated.

Finally we are treated to a cute video story fronted by the bush twin girls, showing family life and the importance of Camp David in entertaining and getting to know world leaders. The whole experience is a great example of storytelling from which the Museum of Revolution in Habana could learn.

On the other side of the huge entrance foyer are George W Bush’s portraits of Veterans of the Afghan and Iraqi wars. He’s had various tutors and you can see a development in the style. The images are confronting and often include full length representations showing prosthetic legs and wheel chairs.

I’m undecided about George as an artist, but the work is definitely superior to Churchill’s water colours, which were never meant for display. This project seems to be an act of atonement – to somehow apologise for the wars, without actually doing so. I find it quite gruesome and don’t want to spend too much time here – worth the look though.

My last evening in Dallas is another Vespa ride around the real estate of Highland Park – ranging from 2 – 10 million. I get to see some typical Texan homes – the contrast with Habana is dramatic.

 

 

 

Tuesday:

Jean-Paul and Alicia are at breakfast, it’s their last day here. She works for a diamond firm doing admin and assessing gems. She’s held some very expensive diamonds in her hands and tells me that they come in all colours. When I mention the synthetic diamonds, she’s quick to point out that even though occlusions can be fitted into the gems, they can be easily recognised for the way their points are slightly rounded whereas the real thing has sharp angles.

It’s a long walk to the other side of the Old Town. All along the way repair and restoration work is going on sporadically. Many large 19^th century buildings have been gutted and remain fenced off with an architect’s photoshop of what it’s all going to look like.

Many, like the Palace of the Ursulines remain untouched.

I pass the Central Railway station which looks as if trains don’t run here any more. The terminal building was once impressive and there are pictures of it being built in the 1900’s and an impression of what it will look like when restored. Martí’s birthplace is around here somewhere.

It’s a small house brightly painted in yellow and blue. There’s a bit of a panic when I enter as there is no ticket office and the entrance fee is 3 cuc. The place is over staffed and they don’t seem to know what to do with me while they go and get change. I suspect it’s free for Cubans. This modest house contains photographs of Martí’s parents, his childhood and personal items he may have used, like cutlery. The captions are entirely in Spanish, so there’s a bit of guesswork involved. There are pictures of Martí at different times of his life and in different countries, but no sense of narrative about his work.

With my trusty map, I head off in search of Simon Bolivar, another hero of South America.  I fancy walking along the Bay of Havana, where the piers are. The offers of taxis continue unabated, particularly as I approach regenerated pockets. I spot a huge warehouse which seems lively.

It’s full of arts and craft stalls; painting, leatherwork, woodwork and of course tee shirts and souvenirs. I decide it’s time for me to get a Ché Guevara tee shirt and spot a green one; it’s very good quality. I’ve already resolved to go though a green phase, so even though I pay too much for it, I’m content.  I continue my search for Simon Bolivar, thinking to look at the ancient Convent of Santa Clara. It is indeed crumbling and closed in spite of being marked as a museum on the map.

 

 

 

I do find the house of Simon de Bolivar, but it’s not open to visitors – I have to make do with a statue of him across the road. I discover the delightful Plaza Vieja where the heat overcomes me and I have to sit down. The Coffee place is over subscribed so I order a ‘Limonada naturel’ at the almost deserted café next door.

A local woman sits at my table complaining about the crowded coffee shop and the heat. After a moment she starts going on about coke. I get the impression that she wants me to buy her a coke, but I profess no Espanol. She persists, asking for 2.50 cuc and eventually I relent but go into the café, find a can of coke from the refrigerated cabinet and take to the counter. It’s actually 2.75. I tell her coke is very bad for her, full of sugar, but she takes no notice and disappears the moment she’s got it. I imagine that it was the 2.50 she wanted and not the coke. Time to move on to the Plaza di San Francico di Asis where there’s a huge bank over the plaza from the church with a funky sculpture of a seated couple.

This part of the city really is the place for tourists, most of it has been restored and if you’d not been in Central Habana, you would have a very different impression. This is where the cruise liners berth, guided tours are everywhere and it’s difficult to find a café that doesn’t do a full course lunch. A plain looking place, with cheaper prices looks worth a try. A few back-packers are eating. One couple have to go up to the counter and the service is hopeless. I do manage to attract the waiter’s attention and order a beef burger and a beer. The local beer listed on the menu is not available, only the more expensive imported stuff.  It’s still reasonable and the burger is very hot.

I have to go up to the counter to pay as there is no hope of attracting the waiter’s attention.

I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve been offered cigars.

‘I don’t smoke’ I say several times until they get the message. ‘Gave up 25 years ago,’ I say. There’s a few that suggest I buy gifts for friends, but I can’t think of anyone who smokes cigars. I decide to take a tricycle taxi back to my digs for the experience and it’s hot. I spot one at a corner. They line up in order like regular taxis. This guy is eating sweet corn for lunch. He knows where my street is and it’s a fair way. He’s been on holiday to Moscow although he didn’t seem to think there was much for him to do there and he found the Russians very dull, not like the Cubans, he says.

He’s only in his twenties and I wonder how a Tricycle taxi driver can afford to go there on holiday. Later in the evening I return to Café Neruda. Wayne is there alone out the front looking very red in the face – possibly sunburn. He doesn’t recognise me from yesterday, so I go in and find a table in the shade. Travelling alone, I’ve become a watcher of people – their body language tells a story. A very beautiful young man, tanned and skinny comes in with a pretty blond girl. She gently caresses his forearm as they wait for their food. There are a couple of young English guys who have come out smelling of soap in crisp shirts, shorts and loafers. I can tell they are English by the shapes their mouths make when they speak. English public school I think. They have a relaxed familiarity in close proximity, but not quite touching. They may be a couple, but more likely to be school chums. The taller one is fair with slightly curly hair and an ironic, hard – to amuse – air about him. He’s not handsome, a bit like a younger Jeremy Paxman. The shorter one has dark-brown hair, olive skin and a charming smile. He looks up somewhat adoringly at his friend as they flick through their Cuba guide-book.

A family is near the entrance steps. She’s pretty and breast feeding her son. He’s tall, skinny, bearded wears glasses and anxiously looks after his urchin-like daughter. They are eating dinner and the wife is having a glass of red wine. They are Spanish-speaking and are fully engaged in entertaining and comforting their children. Suddenly I’m aware that he has fingers and parts of fingers missing from both hands.  I imagine some sort of accident as a child. Amongst  this diverse clientele the middle aged waiters saunter, balancing three or four bottles of beer in one hand. Traffic passes on the Malecón and the sun goes down. Back on the b&b roof terrace yet another couple from New York have arrived. He’s a red-head and she’s originally from Venezuela. They are having money problems. They are used to travelling with credit and debit cards and hadn’t imagined that there would be so few opportunities here. American express, which they use, is not accepted here at all. She’s talking to Barbara about the problem but the b&b can’t do credit cards – the bookings are all done from abroad, somehow. Suddenly he shouts out that he’s got his magic money and flips out 5 £100 bills. ‘I’ve got the money from my magic trick.’ He’s a magician. ‘I thought that was fake money,’ she says. ‘I recon the audience would want to check it out.’ I add. He nods in agreement.

Wednesday

I think I’ve just about exhausted Habana’s treasures and set out back to the arts centre for more t-shirts and decide this time to stick to the water-front known as the Bay of Habana,

I look at random artist’s studios as I go and pass a statue of Cervantes. There’s a modern building with an up-stairs café where locals gather. It’s patronised by women in Department of Customs uniforms on a break. I get a coffee and watch. Along the bay is a huge wharf which is in need of restoration and I can spot a gold onion dome of what must be a Russian Orthodox Church. The ferries also dock here, ancient vessels that chug across the bay to the other side. I take some time to look at the embarkation of passengers, not dissimilar to the Waiheke Ferry – bikes, shopping and people.

There’s a disappointing collection of garbage collected in the water around the ferry building. Making my way along the road, I find the Russian church is open and, more because Phillip would have had a look, I go in. Further on I discover another plaza restored for the tourists, with the colourful black cigar women and I find a statue of the father of Cuba – de Cespedes in Plaza de Armas.   This also contains the Castillo de La Real Fuerza, which I‘d failed to find yesterday. It’s full of Spanish history revolving around the Amada. There are models of Spanish ships, samples of gold and treasure plus some good views from the battlements. On one side of the Plaza is the palace of the Governors of Habana – the Cassa de Gobierno Palacio Municipal from 1791 – 1898.

Later it becomes the municipal offices of Habana to 1959.It’s got carriages and guns on the ground floor. On the upper floor surrounding a peaceful courtyard are the state rooms.  A female attendant  wants to point everything out to me.

There’s a green room, a smoking room etc with French china vases, Italian marble and so on. It is beautifully presented and of course she gets her tip – in support of the Cuban people. There is also art and a collection of marble busts from the Roman era.

I notice an impressive building once belonging to the Bank of Nova Scotia and think of my cousin there who loves this country.

My last images of Cuba have to be this street art on the walls Banksie style.

Cuba Post Script

Just as I’m leaving the USA 16 June 2017, I post on Facebook.

‘Sitting here eating empanadas and trying not to throw-up. Trump is live on CNN revoking Obama’s deal with Cuba. Using the most disgustingly patronising propaganda. Backed by a cheering clapping crowd he manipulates with emotive language and the Star Spangled Banner on a single violin. Think I might have been to Cuba just in time.’

He’s talking about human rights abuses and his ‘concern’ for the best interests of the Cuban people who have been repressed. I didn’t see any of that though they probably exist. I also haven’t seen the overcrowded US prisons with thousands on death row. Cuba is about ordinary people making the best of what they’ve got. As my driver, Maria, said on the first day ‘It’s complicated’ and listening to the President on the television, he clearly has no idea.

Monday:

Finally it’s the day to check out the Museum of Revolution, housed in the magnificent and almost-restored former presidential palace. Most museums charge 5 or 3 cuc but this is a hefty 8 cuc so I hope it’s worth it. I tend to look into corners – places around the back. A personal exhibition by a Cuban artist catches my eye, but it’s overtly reverential to the current government. It does, however lead me around a corner to see a set of four cartoon characters. Starting with Batista, the last president of Cuba, then three US presidents: Reagan, Bush Snr and Bush Jnr. Each are thanked (ironically) for ensuring the continuation of the revolution. It’s vicious propaganda – on the edge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is the case that history is always written by the victors and in the case of Cuba, they have not yet lost their struggle. They can still claim to be the victors of this fifty-year war, particularly since Obama’s decision to end the travel prohibition. I’m expecting to find out their story as to date the US has not told their side. It is as I expected, except there is no mention of the so-called Cuban missile crisis presided over by JFK. Did the know about it? Surely Fidel would have known about the Russian installations?

We have to go back to Carloss de Céspedes, the ‘Father’ of Cuba. He was a wealthy land-owner who freed his slaves, inspired by Abraham Lincoln. Cuba’s struggle for independence from the Spanish Empire shadows the American war of independence. He was in fact killed by the Spanish.

Even more important is José Martí, he was imprisoned in Isla de Pinos but escaped to found the Cuban Revolutionary Party. His writings are said to be hugely influential. He also was killed in 1895 in the struggle against Spain. There are statues and monuments to him everywhere. Somehow, with a period as a colony of the US and a series of ‘Dictators’ ending with Batista, the Revolution continues in the late 50’s. The Museum doesn’t start at the beginning of the story, choosing to jump right into a ‘History of Improvements’ post revolution. Raúl is put in charge of the armed forces; teachers and doctors are trained and sent to rural areas to improve health and education. Former army barracks and mansions abandoned by the rich (who left thinking the revolution wouldn’t last long) were converted into schools which you can still in Havana.

Foreign enterprises were nationalised ‘in the face of US economic aggression.’ Renters suddenly became home owners and peasants acquired land. It’s the usual story for newly established communist governments. The narrative continues with the lowering of phone charges – communication is affordable – explaining Alicia’s family calls from Cuba. Beaches are free to all – a situation much prized by New Zealanders. A revolutionary tribunal is set up to deal with the ‘crimes of Batista’s henchmen.’ Details of what happened to them are not mentioned.  By now the US has banned all imports from Cuba so the huge sugar cane harvest goes to the USSR in return for oil.

Who take the cigars is not mentioned, but they continue to be the best in the world – so they say.

On the third of January 1961, diplomatic relations are broken off, although Guantánamo air base will remain from which to mount ‘US aggression.’ A large section of the exhibition is devoted to the so-called crimes of the CIA. Now as the CIA never admits to anything and the US has never told their part of the story, none of this can be proved. There is an astonishing list: Operation ‘Peter Pan’ where 14,000 Cuban children were kidnapped to the US put in institutions and re-educated; The blowing up of a French ship carrying arms to Cuba from Belgian; the largest department store in Habana deliberately torched, with great loss of life. By now there are stories of bandits or counter revolutionaries supported by the CIA.

These are apparently eliminated by the Cuban Army by 1965, but the claims continue until ’69.  By 1975, if anyone remembers, Cuban troops are involved in Angola. Sugar production is booming until 1990 and the collapse of the Soviet Union. Unlikely CIA attacks in the 80’s, to my mind, include: The introduction of dengue fever, pig fever, blue moss – mould on the tobacco crops and mildew on sugar cane. Maybe some of these things happened and you can easily imagine the young jocks in the CIA sitting around thinking up dastardly schemes. On the other hand, it’s always convenient to have an enemy who can be blamed for any disaster that occurs. The US psyche also requires villains. Russia, Korea, China and Iran are currently in favourite positions for the Trump administration.

Evidence is presented for the intimidation of Cuban athletes travelling to the Central American Games. I skim over the black & white photographs of the war. Fidel Raúl and Ché figure prominently. There are also biographies and photographs of other heroes of the revolution, the women, who later became politicians with portfolios, the ones who didn’t make it.

It’s the way the language is used which is interesting.  One photograph is captioned ‘the forces of tyranny captured’. It sounds very heroic as indeed it is meant to be. I’m about to collect my bag from the coat-check when the woman indicates the memorial building outside. Here is to be found the mystery of Ganma which has been worrying me for days. Without internet and trusty Google to fact check I feel I’m picking up pieces of the jigsaw in the wrong order. Granma is a province in the south named after the yacht of the same name. Castro sailed with 82 men in this dilapidated luxury yacht built for 20 passengers to re-start the revolution.

It’s confusing because the replica of the yacht has ‘Granma’ on the stern. Whatever the story, it’s a wonderful piece of subterfuge. Who would suspect such a vessel to be harbouring a revolutionary army? There are also relics of planes captured or used in the fight, along with remnants of a US bomber shot down.

The pilot’s body remained in Cuba for 19 years as officially there was no US action taken and the body was not requested until 1979, then the body was returned. I have to admit that as moving as the Cuban story is, it’s not well told, with huge gaps to be filled in. I move on towards the old part of town passing a seminary on the river bank with a cool courtyard.

I find the Cathedral and a trendy modern bar for a cheese and tomato salad. I’ve found one of those streets which have been restored and painted for the tourists.  It’s time to return to Cassa Densil for siesta but an image of Trump pasted onto a corrugated iron fence surrounding a building site catches my eye.

 

My routine, after siesta is to go to the roof and write, then walk around the corner to La Neruda for a beer.

There’s a band playing and for some reason I’m ushered to a table outside on the pavement where I sit watching a young man fishing from the pavement of Malecon.  He has no rod, just a circular plastic roll of line. He baits up and, checking that there are no pedestrians, swings the line, lasso-like into the sea, holding his roll of line to the sea as it reels out. Quickly, he makes a catch and elegantly pulls in his line, laying it carefully on the pavement to avoid tangles. His catch dealt with, he wipes his hands and baits up again. A white haired man with a, slim Cuban woman in her late 30’s or 40’s,dressed in white, in tow, asks if he can share my table. Wayne is from Niagara, the Canadian side. Taking the opportunity, I ask him why Canadians come to Cuba. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he says. ‘It’s three and a half hours flight from Toronto.’ He then goes on to tell me that he comes around three times a year, since his mother died. He’s seventy and has found a gym he can go to here. He hasn’t really answered my question, but does introduce me to his companion, who seems disinterested in him and listens to her phone via earphones. Wayne and I chat about travel and agree that this is a good time of life, the Epicurean time. I take my leave noting that the young man is still fishing and give Castropolo, along the road another try for dinner. It’s still not fantastic food, though there is enough of it.

Jean Paul is on the roof again wanting to talk. Barbara, turns on a huge fan to keep us cool. I tell him about me and he confesses that he hated his mother when she was alive, telling her that he would spit on her grave. Only when she was dead did his suddenly realise what an amazing woman she was. We agree it’s a classic case.  I show him the cartoon of Trump on the prickly pear and he loves it.