Island that Dared by Dervla Murphy Read Free Book Online Page A

he’d been scribbling a list – most couldn’t afford essentials like cosmetics, detergents, deodorants, nappies, vitamin supplements, shampoo, hair dryers, toasters, electric kettles, cell phones, computers. He loved Cubans, was upset by all those missing essentials, was keen to promote the tourist industry. At the end of a very hot day I had no energy to spare for argument – beyond asking why, given Caribbean sunshine, Cubans should need hair-dryers? (Come to think of it, why should anybody, apart from the manufacturers? For millennia we’ve been drying our hair without technological assistance.)
    Later I reproved myself for not having tried to educate that young man. He had been commissioned to write a series of articles on ‘Cuba in Transition’ and, as climate change works its way up the political agenda, journalists should be emphasising Cuba’s energy-saving habits. Little things do count. When one buys a homemade fruit juice from a pavementseller it comes in a glass to be handed back – not in a ‘disposable’ mug to be tossed into a litter-bin (or on to the verge). The sheer enormity of ‘climate change’ deters us from thinking about such minutiae although, cumulatively, they’re at the core of the problem.
    Throughout the long night I envied my sleeping companions. As greyness replaced blackness, low humps replaced flatness – the Sierra Maestra foothills. Now the Trio were awake and hungry and thirsty. Promptly their ever-ready mother provided oranges, nuts and water while I furtively opened a tin of Buccanero – but not furtively enough to avoid Zea’s informing the general public, ‘Nyanya’s having beer for breakfast!’
    An extravagant sunrise celebrated our arrival, all gold and crimson, surging upwards from the horizon to fill half the sky. In Santiago’s suburbs tropical vegetation almost overwhelmed the solid little tiled houses. Fiacres drawn by smartly trotting horses were taking people to work – or towards work, because these vehicles are excluded from the narrow Old City streets.
    A dozen taxis, parked at random outside the lucrative Viazul terminus, competed for emerging passengers by playing jolly tunes on their horns. Most were government-registered, their takings therefore taxed quite heavily. We chose an unregistered veteran, bright red where it wasn’t rusty. ‘Cadillac 1954!’ boasted its beaming black owner as he packed our rucksacks into the boot where chicken-wire replaced the lost floor.
    As we drove uphill Rachel, pointing left, exclaimed, ‘There’s the Moncada barracks!’ Moments later Rose, pointing right, exclaimed, ‘They’ve a Coppelia here, in that park!’ Beyond this wide, busy boulevard one descends to the quiet, sloping streets and alleyways of the Old City.
    Discreet logos mark casas particulares and No. 197 San Pedro was easy to find, a single-storey late eighteenth-century home, washed pale blue, its finely carved double door opening off the street and protected by an elaborate wrought-iron grill. We were welcomed by Candida’s friend Irma – sixtyish, blessed by the sort of bone-structured beauty that changes but never fades, looking elegant in a house-coat. She hugged us on first sight, as is the Cuban way, then led us through a short hallway into a spacious drawing-room, rarely used, where the burnished mahogany furniture was nineteenth-century imperial and the high ceiling, of collar-and-beam trusses, had been copied, we later realised, from Casa Diego Velasquez. Here dozens of frighteningly valuable china ornaments were displayed on window ledges, in wall niches and corner cabinets, on numerous frail occasional tables. They ranged from tiny figurines of courting couples to ornate jugs, tall slim vases, dogs sitting and lying, transparent coffee sets,delicate floral bouquets, birds perched on branches and angels perched on clouds. Urgently I warned the Trio – ‘Never run through this room!’  
    In the patio, cooled by much potted