rant-in-ireland

CUBA

We landed in Habana after 12 hours travelling with our knees up our noses.   But that’s long haul for you.   We eat the vile airline food, you try to sleep.    We breathe in.   We breathe out.   And finally… we arrived, crumpled, sweaty, our bodies in Habana, our spirits still hovering somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean.

            We found the baggage carousel and waited …and waited… and waited… and waited.   Three-quarters of an hour later our cases arrived.   We joined the line for passport control and waited…and waited…and waited… and waited.   Cuban passport Control involves a lot of writing on forms, a lot of stamping of things, a lot of scrutinising and comparing between your face and your passport photo.   Then they command you to stand back, take off your glasses and look into the camera and click… you’re on their computer.   They compare that, with your passport and you several times….   And finally … we were free.    That took an hour!  

We headed for Currency Exchange.   The queue was even longer here.   Fortunately a friend had advised us to slip upstairs to Departures where the queue was short.   Otherwise, who knows how long we might have waited.

Okay, so Cuba is a poor nation.   It’s often like this in poor nations and besides, they inherited their bureaucracy from the Russians.   And no one loves Byzantine complexity more than the Russians. 

            Outside the airport all was chaos.   It was already dark, the temperature was in the high 20’sC and there were only a few dim bulbs.   There are no airport busses in Cuba.   Hotels do not send coaches and Casas Particulares ( Cuban B+Bs) are not allowed to send taxis to pick you up.   Taxis were coming at us from all directions but none were available.   Newly-arrived passengers milled about like bewildered koalas.   Men in yellow shirts bustled about shouting at taxi-men and chivvying people into vehicles, apparently at random.   Men, assuring us that they had a friend with a taxi, dashed into the dark. Finally somebody asked if we’d mind sharing a taxi and off we shot into the night.

            The taxi-man did not know how to get to the first address.    We hurtled into the city, down a couple of lit streets and then plunged into streets with no lighting.   The taxi driver kept stopping to ask for directions.   At one of these stops, in particularly dark street, a door opposite opened and inside there was a blue light.   Latin music throbbed and a crowd of people ranging from grannies to infants were inside dancing  shaking their booties.   Finally we found our address and discovered that both groups of passengers had to pay the full price!   Well it’s a poor country… 

            We arrived at our Casa Particular where we were met by Armando.   The front door had a piece of scarred metal tacked over it.   Armando hauled our suitcases up two flights of dimly lit stairs.   Cracked steps, peeling paint, a broken window…   Welcome to Havana!

Inside the apartment was neat and clean and we met Armando’s grandmother Luisa, an old lady of 84 who was running the B+B with his help.   He did the required form-signing and passport-examination.   She made us coffee.    Our bedroom was simple, clean and comfortable and we had our own bathroom.

In the morning Armando helped with the huge breakfast of fruit, fried eggs and chips, bread, honey, coffee and fruit juice.   Once he’d established that we were, in his words, “very good people. Muy simpaticos.” And that I could speak Spanish, he  left us to his granny.   We never saw him again instead she was joined by a friend, Coralia who helped.

Our place was so close to the seafront, the Malecon, that we decided to start there.    Just as we went to cross a large junction, a long white 1950’s American car swung round the corner.  

“Wow, look at that!” we exclaimed in delight. “One of the famous fifties cars.   Oh wow!”

And immediately the front wheel fell off!   The driver jumped out.   The passengers staggered out.   Men appeared from nowhere to help and advise.   They got the wheel back on,  they opened the bonnet, and there… my abiding image of Cuba.   Four men, tón san aer. (arse in the air) heads deep in the innards, repairing the car.   Car breakdowns become so commonplace that you stop noticing.

            Havana is stunningly beautiful.    Like a combination of all the best bits of beautiful Spanish towns with a Caribbean flavour.   Beautiful 18^th C and 19^th C buildings both public and private with pillars and porticos and decoration.   But they look like they’ve suffered some earth-shattering catastrophe.   All of them are  crumbling .    Lovely detached houses with porticoed balconies, plaster decoration, have peeling paint, washing hanging outside and three or four families living inside.  

Parts of the old city have been restored, courtesy of private foundations in Europe and Japan.   The restored buildings are glorious and all you want to do is take photos.   The squares in that old part attract lots of women dressed up in the old Cuban style.   Bright scarves tied on top of their heads at the front, multicoloured tiered skirts and baskets of fake flowers.   Every time a group of tourists arrive they swoop on as many of the men as they can and kiss then on the cheek for the camera and a tip.     Then there’s the peanut vendors, the cigarette lighter vendors, the cake vendors.  The guys that call “Pssssst" from doorways.

"You want cigars?   Very cheap.”

I was even approached one day by a teenager selling his school text books.

Not to mention the music.   Every bar, hotel and restaurant has a band and, as you seldom hear the same one twice, I assume there must be some kind of official rota.    But these bands are good and you can hear great Cuban music everywhere.   However, after three or four songs, they come to flog their CDs and collect tips.  The music also attracts dancers who perform for tips.  

Cuban people are incredibly friendly and thrilled when you speak a bit of Spanish.      However there are problems,

            They have two currencies, one for locals (Peso Nacional, PN) and one for tourists (Peso Convertible CUC.)    1 CUC = 24 Pns.    Restaurants and bars are priced for tourists so you pay for a meal what a Cuban doctor gets in a month!   Naturally Cubans think tourists are incredibly rich and, apart from the photograph ladies etc., almost everyone  you speak to asks for money… for the children.   And then there was the problem of getting information.

            We wanted to see the Cuban National Ballet which has world wide reputation.    Someone said Carlos Acosta might be in town, or was that next week?   Or next month?  We decided to ask at the National Theatre.   The Security man sent us to two ladies sitting inside the hall at a desk.   They didn’t know anything about Carlos Acosta.   Will there be any ballet performance this week end?   They shrugged and pointed to another lady sitting on a chair on the other side of the hall.   She knew nothing about nothing either. We tried several more doors and more employees of the National Theatre… Nada.   Someone suggested the Tourist Office.  

The tourist office official was all spit and polish and spoke English.   She tapped efficiently on a computer, pressed return and sat back.   Nothing.   She shrugged and she suggested we ask at the office of Cultural Affairs which was within walking distance.   

At the office of Cultural Affairs we passed the security person and headed straight for the two ladies behind a desk ( it’s a rule - every office and public building has to have them!).   They looked taken aback at our questions and informed us, in no uncertain manner, that they only dealt with paintings and sculpture and we should try a travel agency.  

We tried several, nobody knew nothing.   

            Finally we did get information but only because Coralia, our B and B lady, had been a dancer in her day and had contacts.   Even then we could only book tickets on a Thursday between 2 and 3 pm!   But we did get tickets and it was fabulous… you feared for the scenery but the dancing was top class.   And the orchestra kept missing out notes which made you fear that they would put the dancers out of time… but the dancers were fabulous.

           

            Car hire was prohibitively expensive so that scuppered our plan to drive to Santiago.  Besides, we could not get maps, the roads are poor, the driving dangerous and the signposting very desultory.   We went instead to Varadero where we were in an all-in hotel.   Varadero is a beach with hotels full of Canadians and Russians.   The Canadians were making comments like,

“I can’t understand why they wanted a revolution, they were doing fantastically well with the Americans in charge.”

The Russians were avoiding all eye contact with everyone and being unspeakably rude to the staff.

There is nothing more to be said about Varadero.

We returned to Havana and stayed in the Hotel Nacional.    It is the Hotel where all the Hollywood stars stayed pre-revolution.   It is advertised as a 5 star and it has a great location overlooking the sea with a fabulous terrace above the Malecon  (seafront).   But we’ve stayed in better three star hotels in China and Peru.   One of the things that made it uncomfortable was the sense that every time the staff did anything for you they were looking for money while believing that they were working in one of the world's most luxurious hotels.

            The all over impression we had was that Cuban people are fabulous, friendly, funny and warm.    That they haven’t a notion how the rest of the world operates because their media is so censured.    Food is very poor and even fruit, which in the tropics you’d expect to be good, was of the poorest quality.  The music and dancing are first class.   

With honourable exceptions Cubans do not understand what it is to work.    They keep telling you that everyone has a job but, the sense you get in the streets is of a lot of people hanging around smoking and talking with their friends.   It seemed to us that many of the “jobs” are nominal.   Besides, as everyone gets paid more or less the same, i.e. really badly, why on earth would you bother killing yourself working? 

            They have a lot to learn about tourism.   Clearly they are only geared for all-in group tourists… and even then they seem unaware of  mass tourism standards elsewhere.   They are entirely unable to cope with independent tourists.   Whether that is the plan or not I’ve no idea Perhaps they do not really want us.   I kept thinking, why don’t you ask the Chinese for tourist information, or the Peruvians or the Africans?   Neither my husband nor I have any problem with basic services but the lack of information was the killer.  

A curious thing happened towards the end of our stay.   We were looking for cards in envelopes for Luisa and Coralia ( our B+B ladies)   We found the cards but  could not find any envelopes anywhere.   We tried every conceivable shop and I kept asking,

“Why is it so difficult to find envelopes?”

“The post.” Said some, “there are problems.”

“Do Cubans never write to one another?”

“No never.”

“Why not?”

“The post is only for foreigners!”

That says something about the state of information.

All that said every Cuban professes to love Fidel Castro, and I quote

“He has made mistakes but he is only human.   Mostly he is very wise.”

But they seem a lot less keen on Raul.    They have no answer to what might happen when both of the Castro boys have snuffed it.   They assured me that  they will stick to their anti –imperialist, socialist principles.   At the same time the queue for visas outside the American Trade legation every day  is very long indeed.

           

           

           

The Queen made me Cry

I've just seen Queen lay a wreath in the Garden of Rememberance and, to my total surprise, I burst into tears.

When I first heard that Queen Elizabeth the Second of England was coming to Ireland on a State Visit I didn't think much about it. I was happy that she had been invited, it suggested that as a nation we were growing up and , in view of the history between the two countries I knew it was significant but I wasn't going to be standing on the streets hoping for a glimpse. Personally I find the whole idea of royalty a hint medieval but, if other countries want it, fair dues. I hoped there would be no trouble from republican hot-heads who enjoy hurling insults and petrol bombs. Then I thought no more about it.

I had a late lunch to-day and I turned on the t.v. for a little distraction and there was the Garden of Remembrance and a voice was telling me that the Queen was expected in minutes so I stayed for a look. She arrived with Mary McAleese and stood in front of the sculpture of the Children of Lir. I though Mary looked a bit sober in black but the Queen looked her usual neat self in a pretty coat cutaway coat and signature hat. The army officer gave commands, the soldiers presented arms, the band played God Save the Queen. God love her I thought she must be bored out of her tree. But the Queen is an old hand at memorials and military events i knew she'd be fine.

Then she took a wreath and laid in in front of the memorial sculpture and that's when it hit me. She was laying a wreath for the men and women who had opposed her predecessors. I was watching history, the good kind , where people get reconciled. I remembered than that the sculpture of the chjildren of Lir is about transformation and that the mosaic in the memorial pond is of arms abandoned forever. Then they played our national anthem. I had been reared on the "seven hundred years of slavery", "the glories of 1916" and the "evils" of the British Crown and there, in front of my eyes was the English Queen standing for our national Anthem. It felt to me like a balm, a blessing and a resolution.

EVEN LE CORBUSIER NODS.

When I was in Primary School, there was one year when, due to renovations, the school day finished early.     Because my mother was working and there would be nobody at home, I went to an aunt's house until she was home from work.  

My cousin Colm had just started studying Architecture and he took it upon himself to instruct me on the wonders of modern design.    He told me all about Bauhaus, Walter Gropius, Mies Van der Rohe, Frank Loyd Wright and Le Corbusier which made me feel terribly sophisticated.    I longed for an opportunity to show off my new-found knowledge but, ten-year old girls have little interest in whether function should dictate form or not.   It was many years before I had to chance to fling "Bauhaus" into a conversation in the hope of impressing people with my knowledge.

Colm showed me pictures in Architectural magazines of cutting-edge buildings including the Dominican Couvent de Saint Marie de la Tourette in Eveux in France, designed by Le Corbusier.   He'd said that Le Corbusier was one of the great geniuses of the twentieth century and I was more than happy to believe this.    So, recently, when we were in Lyon and La Tourette was nearby, I couldn't wait to visit it.

You take the train from Lyon to L'Arbresle and then walk up a hill and keep on walking.   The walk took  the best part of an hour but it was a lovely day, the views were delightful and we stopped frequently to admire the scenery... well that was my excuse.   Finally we got there and I couldn't believe my eyes.

It was hideous.   It is made entirely of concrete and concrete doesn't weather well.   The outside walls were badly stained and the bell tower looked as though a particularly clumsy child had stuck it on in the wrong place.   The entrance was puddled and muddy and they had put wooden boxes down to keep your feet dry but I still had high hopes for the interior.   I remembered photographs of light beaming down through coloured shafts.  

The interior is a huge, rectangular, concrete box with a high concrete ceiling.   The concrete is dirty and stained.  I kept thinking "gas chamber, gas chamber, gas chamber".   Yes, the light does come in through coloured shafts which are painted red and yellow and blue but the paint is cracked and bubbling, the windows are spiderwebbed and leaking and there is a terrible air of neglect.    Curiously though, some sections still photograph well.   The building induced a great sense of unease and agitation in me.   This is in contrast to the cathedral and basilica in Lyon, neither of which are particularly outstanding but both are peadceful, calm spaces.

The rest of the monastery buildings  have also worn badly and the entire complex had the air of a sink estate built in the sixties.    Having held the name of Le Corbusier in high esteem all my life I felt terribly let down and yet, and yet, I have to admit to a certain pleasurable schadenfreude.    Finally I had serious a word with myself and reminded myself that, geniuses too have their off days.  

Revolution isn't pretty close up.

Life, that old joker, took me and stopped me from doing several things that I wanted to do including blogging.  

We went to visit Girona recently and while there we visited several of the surrounding towns.   In one particular place we were in a shop selling local foods. 
Where are you from?"  the shop owner asked.
"Ireland."
He got very excited  and started to tell us of his great admiration for the I.R.A.  who had so recently liberated the Irish nation from the hands of the evil British.    While I was trying to formulate a reply he went on to say that he wished the I.R.A. would come to Catalunya and help the Catalans to liberate themselves from the clutches of the evil Spaniards.

I burst his bubble by telling him that the I.R.A. had not liberated anyone from anything but had started thirty years of bloodshed which had caused the deaths of thousands of innocent people and sown fear and distrust in the province of Ulster.   He didn't like what I was saying.   He wanted a free Catalunya.

He reminded me of the people you meet here in the Republic who support all that the I.R.A. do and have done.   But it's easy to talk that kind of dangerous nonsense when you are safe and snug in your home ,when you can sleep easy.   When you're not the one who is going to the morgue to pick up the body of your friend or your mother or brother who's been shot.   When you haven't been forced to drive a car that is carrying a bomb to the centre of town.  When your sister has not had her legs blown off and your brother has not disappeared without trace.   When your home has not been burnt to the ground and no one you know has been knee-capped.   

Not long after we got back from Spain we heard the tragic news of the car bomb that killed young Ronan Kerr.    Twenty-five years old and only three weeks out of police training.   It doesn't bear thinking about.   I can only hope that it doesn't herald a return to the terrible times.   And I hope that the people of Catalynya have more sense and humanity than to bring the curse of the bomb and the gun on themselves and on their compatriots.  

Revolutions are neither romantic nor idealistic .   It is only distance that lets them appear so.    Up close they are vicious and bloody and ugly and vile and should be avoided, except in extremis.   And even then, only if all else has failed.   They cause such high levels of fear and mistrust that it takes generations to heal the damage.   And, however lofty the ideals of some, you can bet your last farthing that the chance of wreaking havoc will attract every criminal and freak in the land and give them carte blanche .

ELIXIR

I've been reading James Lee Burke.   What a writer!   I feel jealous every time I read him.   But I'm not here to critique him, I want to quote him.   No better man for the arresting insight but, this one knocked me for six.   It's from his novel RAIN GODS.

• "Theologians claimed that anger was a cancer and that hatred was one of the seven deadly sins......   They were wrong.... anger was an elexir that cauterized sorrow and passivity and victimhood from the metabolism; it lit fires in the belly; it provided you with that deadening of the conscience that allowed you to lock down on someone with iron sights and forget that he descended from the same tree in a Mesopotamian savannah that you did." 

Is that an insight or what?   Anger as an elixir.   Especially righteous anger.   Especially victim anger.   Doesn't it feel soooooooo good?   So much better that that dreepy old, weepy old, soul-sucking sorrow.   It makes you want to get up and do things, be in charge.

But then comes the deadening of conscience.   That brings us to the bomb on the bus, the bullet in a neighbour's head, the daughter gang-raped, the tyre necklace, the gas chamber, the trench filled with quicklime. 

Surely there's somewhere in between?   Some border we don't have to cross?   Can we use the fire in the belly for good?   Can we still keep our conscience alive?  

GOK WAN IS A WALKING SAINT

Gok Wan is a walking saint.   Put him up there with Nelson Mandela.    I can hear the superior sneers coming from people who have either never watched him or do not understand what he's doing.   They think that he's just about fashion and sparkly handbags.

Soooooooooo wrong.

He's all about lovin the skin that you're in and if you think that's irrelevant then you know nothing about how most women see themselves.   And even less about how the media and the fashion industry terrorize women.  Nor how women terrorize each other.

Take me for example.   I'm big.   I'm not gigantic,   I'm not overweight.    I eat healthily, I exercise regularly but I still need to buy extra large clothes.   I find it difficult  find gloves, shoes, hats, bracelets or rings in my size.   When I need an outfit for that special occasion I have to start looking several months in advance to ensure that I get something that isn't black or navy or grey and  shaped like something the circus puts up in a field outside the town.   But the problem of finding flattering clothes in my size is as nothing compared with the attitudes that big women have to deal with.

If, in the course of a conversation, I mention the fact that I'm big, other women rush to assure me that I'm not fat, that I'm attractive really and they implore me to stop putting myself down!    Hang on a moment.   I didn't say I was ugly.   I didn't say I was overwweight.   I'm not putting myself down.  I'm merely stating a fact.  I am big.   But clearly for most women the word "big" is just too hideous an idea to contemplate.

And then there's the shopping itself.   Many assistants are delightful but there is a leathel breed that waits till you're in your underwear, trapped in a dressingroom with three mirrors and a harsh light.
"Why don't you go on a diet?" they coo.
"Have you  thought of "proper" foundation garments?"
"Would you not think of taking up jogging?"
"Someone your size can not wear a dress!"
"You should try black, it's kinder to the fuller figure"
I've been listening to those kind of comments since I was fourteen.   It grinds you down.   Besides, standing in your underwear  is not conducive to being assertive.
"I'm not exactly an elephant," I once snapped to one of these harridens.
She smiled pityingly.
"Not quite." she replied.
Ouch!
But my favourite of all was the assistant who looked me up and down when I asked for my size and replied without batting an eyelid,
"People of your size can't afford our clothes!"
Nowadays I smile sweetly and tell them that I've just lost four stone.   That shuts them up.

Which brings me back to Gok Wan.   He dismisses the diets and dictates of fashion and shows people how best to dress for the body they have.     He points out their good features, shows them how to flatter their shape, how to choose colours that enhance, necklines that suit , hemlines and trousers that make the most of their legs.   He dismisses the size on the label and attends to the fit.   And when he's finished the people are transformed.   Their confidence rises and they feel good about themselves.    Surely that alone is enough to canonize Gok because, when people feel good they are nicer to others, they work more effectively and they make the world a better place.

ALL THAT GLISTERS

I'm in stunned mullet mode. The non-stop radio and tv discussion of the State of the Nation is turning my brain into polystyrene!   Let's talk about glitter.

My motto is "All that glisters may not be gold but who cares?   Just as long as it glisters."   For this reason I've been a great fan of "Strictly Come Dancing".   Any programme with that many sequins has to be good.   For Christmas, my own personal Santa gave me tickets to see the live show in the O2.   I would never have considered buying them myself.    As far as I am concerned what happens on the box stays in the box but, hey, I wasn't going to throw them back in his face.

Now I know that there are people out there, curling their lip with distain as they read this.   People who think that programmes like "Strictly" are too far beneath them to even mention.   People who despise "popular " entertainment because it is "mere" entertainment, bread and circuses for the ignorant masses .   People who believe that, if you have more than two brain cells to rub together, you should only engage with Literature, Theatre, Opera, Ballet, Classical Music, and the artistic pursuits best suited to people of refinement and education.

What a lot of old cobblers!

Why not enjoy both?

What exactly is wrong with enjoying both Strictly and Coppelia?   Don Giovanni and Tinie Tempah?   Stephen King and Dostoyevsky?   For me the criteria are simple.   Does it do what it set out to do?   How well does it do it?    And if the answer is:   "Yes, it does what it set out to do." and  "It does it superbly well". then I'm in.   Quality is quality whether it is mere entertainment or Art.

Yes, yes. I know - there's some hideously bad mass entertainment out there but, let's face it, there's some hideously bad stuff masquerading as Art as well.

Now that that 's off my chest, back to the "Strictly" live show.    Was it great Art?   No.  Was it great entertainment?   Yes, yes and yes  again.    There were enough sequins to satisfy my innermost Diva.   There was cheering and booing and laughter and voting, just like on the tele, and some fabulous dancing as well.   Even my personal Santa, who has no time for "Strictly" on tele, enjoyed it.   He went  in to the O2 out of duty, prepared to suffer for my sake and came out with a huge, happy grin on his face.   

That's the thing about good entertainment.   It may not reflect on the meaning of life, the state of the world, nor the morality of venture capitalism but, it does lift the spirit.   It gives your mind a break from the everyday world, a mini mental holiday.   A mini holiday that makes you better able to deal with the world and, if the big questions are your thing, better able to address them.