Cuba - In Triplicate Republic

Day 1 in Cuba has enough experience of it's own to merit a page alone. Welcome to being a foreigner!

We sailed away from Ragged Island at night, under a full moon at 9 pm. Just about the time when my eyes usually droop and I need to go to bed. Not this night though, we were full of excitement as we said good-bye and headed off to the unknown. Maciek took the first watch and it was kind of pleasant down below speeding through the night, though impossible to get any sleep. Just when there was a chance that I could drop off, a voice called from above and it was my turn at the tiller.

It was one of my favorite experiences actually sailing. Imagine you're in a waterproof jacket, cozy and warm, with some ginger cookies in your pockets for awake-ness, holding hard to the smooth grain of the tiller as you guide your boat, by the light of the moon and the eye of the compass, through the night. It's a comfortable, but thrilling sort of experience, being in change of a body as large as the boat's, and there's nothing like sailing at night to improve your prayer life. Talking to the Almighty comes naturally, and I'm sure every sailor who was at home on the sea communed with God in their own way.

Anyway, after a sleepless night and 2 and 3 hour shifts, we arrived in sight of land at dawn and got our first glimpse of the mountains and coastline of Cuba. Approaching the Bahia de Vita where there was an “international marina” – designated port of entry, we passed by a few humble houses and the occupants looked at us as curiously as we looked at them. The marina was quite a way in-land and well protected from ocean swell, and as we approached a motorboat came out to escort us in. They want to make sure you get to where you're supposed to go, our first glimpse of the strenuous efforts at control by La Guarda and all government officials.

The Customs dude and the Harbormaster greeted us at their dock, and I was rapidly called out of my daydreaming wonder by the fact that they were speaking Spanish to us, without many recognizable words. Why do I always forget when entering other countries that they don't necessarily speak my language? However, the word for "hello" came back, and then "somos Canadienses" and then I cautiously tapped into some long-dormant phrases from my days and months in Mexico. They were delighted with the effort, and so began my sometimes torturous, sometimes comical and mostly fun adventure in translation.

The papers they brought on board with much gravity and seriousness confirmed our information that Cuba is a painstakingly-copied-in-triplicate paper-loving Republic. When these 2 officials left, we had 5 forms. When the doctor came some 2 hours later (pedaling across town from his mother's house on Mother's Day) we had another 2 papers. When the Minister of Agriculture and the Veterinarian came next day, we had another 4. And we had duly paid for each of the visits by these officials. Not only do the Cubans love paper, but they love to keep track of you, even if they don't understand what you're telling them or where you're going or even why you're going somewhere, as traveling for fun is as foreign a concept as Supermarkets and brand names. As we approached each port, or any part of the coast to anchor, we had to call into the nearest La Guarda and tell them where we were coming from, where going to, how many people on board, etc etc. If at all possible they boarded us, usually commandeering some poor fisherman's boat as they didn't appear to have any of their own, inspected the lockers, ask for guns and pornography (Maciek claims they always seemed disappointed when we told them there was no pornographia) and then carefully applied their stamp and signature to our papers. It got to be a comical routine in the end, as they would hail us again and again as we approached another light house, asking us: "Moto-velo AfterBlue, what is your name? Where, your course? What people on board?" If I had compassion at all and spoke Spanish to them, I was treated to a relieved torrent of unintelligible tongue, so I learned to keep quiet and play dumb. OK, so I never learned to be dumb, but I tried not to communicate, contrary to my nature.

Back to the story in de Vita. After we checked in we decided to stay a few days, since it was a rare treat for us to stay in a Marina, even one that imposes the restriction that we could not, must not ever bring any outside food into the compound. Ostensibly for health and safety reasons, they insisted that it should all be bought at their store in American dollars. Maciek saw the ruse at once and we were determined to circumvent the rules somehow and get our hands on some black market produce. Of course, with the Polish Scavenger on our side, how could we not succeed?

That night we met up with 2 other sail boats, just in from Dominican Republic, and all from British Columbia! Fellow tree-lovers to play with for Tobi! We made friends right away, and discussed with them the possibility of hiring a car together to go to Santiago de Cuba, one of the oldest and most historic towns just 3 hours south of us.

We spent the rest of the day using some translator software to cough up useful phrases for the tomorrow, and catching up on much needed sleep. The night of sailing and so much sensory overload had taken its toll. Exploration of the town would have to wait.

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