Chapter 24: Matanzas Matanzes Matanzes

In the still dark early morning I got delivered to the Hershey Casablanca train station by a rather disorientated cab driver who claimed to have never taken a fair to this destination in the day time so how could I expect him to find his way in the dark. I waddled out to the train platform with my ten thousand bags and suddenly I had about a half dozen pairs of eyes on me as the only gringo at the station. After about twenty minutes it was time to board and after another 10 the creaky old electric train was chugging along as the guide wires above sent off showers of sparks that lit up snatches of the dark urban landscape slowly passing by outside. The day broke with palm trees silhouetted in front of a pale red sky, and soon misty fields were just barely visible through the very dirty train windows. With every tiny station we stopped at, more and more of the lush rural landscape came into view.

After boarding the train, it didn’t take long before the only under-30-year-old male passengers were sitting beside me chatting me up en espanol. One was a police officer and one was a conductor (formerly of the very train we happened to be on). Eventually the conductor went off to the other car of the train, so for the first few hours of the journey I was chatted up by the police officer who left me with his phone number and a love note written on the outside of the train window. About half way through the ride my motion sickness was starting to kick in as the train rocked from side to side more like it was a boat in rough water than a dinky little train on an electric track. The not faint enough odor of urine didn’t help matters in this department and the fact that the seats were entirely devoid of any padding made the rocking that much more painful – but despite all this it was a remarkably relaxing ride. There is something about train travel that is just so much better than a bus. For the second half of the ride I was joined by the former conductor who was far less chatty than his police officer friend and after trying unsuccessfully to get me to tell him exactly where I was staying, he left rather abruptly when we reached Matanzas (our final destination) without offering any kind of proposal or even a phone number.

The Hershey Train at Dawn

Declaration of love on a dirty train window

Cuban countryside in predawn mist out the Hershey train window

inside the train car

My massive pile of stuff (and the reason I didn't travel much in Cuba)

At the station in Matanzas there was nary a cab to be found – so the station master called my casa to see about getting me a ride. About 15 minutes later I was safely checked in and reading up on this lazy little town in my not so trusty lonely planet – which informed me that there was not much to do here – and especially not much shopping to speak of – but clearly whoever wrote this chapter of the book did not wander very far, because from what I could tell the only thing to do here is shop – there were more stores in a four block radius than I encountered in the whole of Havana. I popped into the first one I could find that didn’t require you to check in your bag, just to peruse and I came out with a charming 5 peso base ball hand made of recycled materials. Feeling absolutely at my wits end with respect to the constant male commentary on the street, and having been followed by a particularly persistent and pushy crazy man on a bicycle, I didn’t stay out for long. I went back to my casa for dinner and a bit of descansa and then I heard a symphony of drums coming from some unknown location. I ventured out again in search of the show – which of course was nowhere to be found – and so I went home to catch up on the sleep I’d lost the night before – serenaded by the occasional wave of sound blowing in from the drumming show – from who knows were.

Che mosaic in Matanzas

Elderly bicycle flower seller in front of a pink wall

The next day was Easter Sunday and I have to admit it is the most tranquil Easter Sunday I have ever experienced. I went to church in an ancient, very small and very simple wooden chapel next door to the ancient cathedral which, if it were open, would be depressingly empty since there don’t seem to be many Church goers in Cuba. I pondered what the contrast might be between Easter here and Easter in Nicaragua where nearly everyone is religious and Easter is the biggest event of the year. At any rate, I went to church – checked out a little craft market happening on the other side of the cathedral, bought some chicken-shaped pot holders, pondered buying some leather sandals, wandered down to the water in the wind, wandered back up through town, sat in the park, got chatted up by a young Santarian fellow all dressed in white who wanted to be my Spanish teacher and my salsa teacher and who hoped he would find a girlfriend just like me, I phoned home, bought some fiesta cola (cuba’s version of coke) in order to make a Cuba libre (rum and coke), bought six buns for 5 pesos, bought some water, and went back to my casa.

Easter Sunday Mass

At the present moment, I am “enjoying” the sounds of what is apparently the cheesiest Karaoke soundtrack ever made, complete with loud, obnoxious, obnoxiously drunk audience and very bad, very drunk vocalists. This concert, unlike the drumming show from last night, is very conveniently located right outside my window, and I hope since they started at about 5pm, they will finish by the time I want to go to bed. I have just finished my second Cuba libre and may have to go for a third if the music does not stop soon. Did I mention that Cuba had driven me to drink – and not just drink, but drink alone, not that I’ve developed an alcohol problem, I just haven’t met anyone here to drink with. It also helps that the rum is pretty good – though not as good as the Nicaraguan stuff.

In addition to the rum, I have developed several “bad” habits here that I will have to break when I go home including but not limited to: drinking a lot of coffee, consuming vast amounts of delicious tropical fruits, consuming vast amounts of fried foods, consuming vast amounts of very greasy foods, eating too much ice cream (though nowhere near as much as the Cubans eat) and last but not least listening to too much cheesy Latin American techno-pop (though that is entirely out of my control since it is just constantly going on somewhere in the background of my goings on – the problem is I’ve actually started to like it). It will be very hard to go back to my strictly oatmeal breakfasts and almost entirely grease, caffeine and alcohol free diet – hopefully I will be able to acquire a Daddy Yankee CD before I go home – and that will help alleviate the Latin American withdrawal symptoms.

And on that happy note, it looks like I have finally caught up with my travel blog – and hopefully very soon I will be uploading this for all my adoring readers to enjoy. Asta Luego