Baracoa

We are headed east to Baracoa – as far as you can go, and still be in Cuba. Columbus landed here in 1492 and it soon became the first capital of the Spanish colony. I am in a comfortable bus, handled by Enrique, a calm gentleman who navigates the winding road well. A lunch stop is welcome, at a beach with one shade tree in the sweltering heat. We are immediately greeted by an old man who has miraculously set up a shop under our tree featuring coconuts, which he splits with a battered machete. He also has shell necklaces, for a dollar each and they sell like hotcakes – he makes his profit on volume, no doubt.  Some of us decide to jump in the surf to cool off. Actually, just three – our Cuban photographic hosts cannot resist the temptation. Carlos Otero is a young Havana resident who is our inside man for this trip to the rural areas at the eastern tip of the island. He is drawn to the simple lives of the people here and has scouted the area by bicycle, making friends with people we will see soon. Jorge Gavilando is a retired doctor who had specialized in research into cancer immunology before transferring his passions to photography.  Arien Chang is young up and coming photographer who has become highly respected in the Havana photographic community. We are extremely fortunate to have them as our guides. Talented, warm, and funny.

(Carlos with rugged central-casting Latin looks, Jorge with his warm smile, and Chang working into one of his goofy looks)

Our diverse group of 15 is led by Arthur Meyerson, from Houston, who does stunning work and is a helpful, inspiring hand to all. Our next stop is a photo op at a huge sign proclaiming the entry into Guantanamo town, still about twenty miles form the US military base, but a reminder of the relationship between our two countries.

It is now dawn, and I walk around Baracoa. It is a tropical town with a definite Caribbean feel. The town is waking up, and the first harsh sunlight makes for some wonderful photographs.

The main forms of transportation here    include walking, horse drawn carriages, and bicycle taxis. I see very few cars and even fewer old American classics. This is not Havana. Some tourists have been discovering the town recently but the   transportation is used by all. The only place you cannot get to easily is our hotel - at the top of 88 steps to the lobby (the rooms are higher still). I have three short sleeved shirts with me and I soon realize that I need to cycle them through a morning, afternoon, and evening change of shirts in the sweltering humidity. 

Outside of Baracoa the countryside is scattered with small communities that struggle to get by supporting the coconut crop and harvesting from the government owned groves. Housing was extremely basic, but we did see electricity almost everywhere. Today, Carlos leads us to visit a family he knows, and he is greeted with a warm embrace by the father, who welcomes us in. The two sons are sent up a tree to gather coconuts and split them for the guests. The fruit is young and full of sweet coconut water and the interior is coated with sweet paste.                         

Carlos is inside the house, helping someone pose a shot of the father through the window opening, and I am outside with the two sons, seeing if I can get him to break character for an unguarded moment, but he mostly maintains his serious demeanor. Away from the camera, he is gentle, with an occasional soft smile. His sons are quite taken by all the attention and are happy to pose for me in a more natural way. The dog (I think it is a dog) gets into the act too.

Kyoto

The van from Osaka airport to Kyoto takes about two hours. The driver has a sharp looking uniform and cap,  and wears white gloves. Seats are protected with white crochet covers and the van is spotless. Lisa and I are groggy from the 12 hour flight,  but I am peering out the window to get a sense of the surroundings, which right now is a huge highway and a mix of business signage in Japanese kanji characters, mixed with some unexpected English (Bowling!?!). It's Monday evening and the roads are full but the traffic is moving surprisingly smoothly, even in the light rain. When we get onto the streets of Kyoto, the rain picks up considerably and the people in the crosswalks are dashing, with umbrellas leaning forward into the rain. The driver who speaks a little English with a heavy accent, turns with a smile and says "catsanddogs".

 

Two weeks coming up in Japan and I have done a little flag study to get ready. Thankfully, his one is pretty easy; the flag represents the sun. Or, more specifically, the Sun Goddess Amaterasu, from whom the emperor traces his lineage. Oh, and the white background is representing purity. Simple.

- These are not quite so easy to interpret -

KYOTO

"The city emblem is composed of stylized kanji 京 KYO and an ancient style court carriage in gold and dull purple representing ancient capital of Japan." (I don't see the kanji character, no matter how hard I try.)

HIROSHIMA

"The city emblem was made to be inspired by the former Aki Clan lord’s flag design of three horizontal stripes and modified to wavy style. It represents river flow and the water city Hiroshima." (Nice graphic for a port city.)

OSAKA

 

"The main device of the emblem is a Miotsukushi used for a beacon in the shallows of Osaka. The prosperity of Osaka is greatly due to transportation by water. The Miotsukushi was chosen for the emblem as it is deeply connected with its port." (Makes sense if you know what it is. Otherwise...)

Carrizo

If you have ever wondered what might lie west of Bakersfield and east of the Pacific Ocean, the answer is “not much”, but I am on my way there now. Exiting off Interstate 5, the road is arrow straight through almond groves, over the California Aqueduct and past small signs posted by farmers urging politicians to “Solve the Water Crisis”. From a distance, the communities of Maricopa and Taft are green smudges on an otherwise arid landscape, peppered with oil wells. Oil is huge here, and the sign by the side of the road reminds me that I am on The Petroleum Highway. 

Soon, a left turn puts me on a delightfully curvy road, away from oil and through brown, hilly ranchlands, heading to Carrizo Plain National Monument. After a while, I pass a car headed the other direction, then one herd of cows, then two crows and twenty minutes later, another car. Carrizo Plain is an inland valley with a dry lakebed, little visited but well know to geologists for the interesting things the visible San Andreas Fault does as it skirts the valley. Here is also the community of California Valley, planned in the 1960's by optimistic real estate developers who didn't take water seriously into account. An extensive grid of roads and street signs never became the community that was envisioned. Today, the population is supposed to be 500, but as I drive in, I see a few lonely ranches, but no people until I reach the California Valley Lodge and the manager checks me in. Sixty five dollars in cash for the night, but he has to walk across the road to the auto repair garage to get change for me. I was prepared for a low key establishment – when I called a few months ago to reserve, I was advised to bring cash, as well as food (the restaurant has been closed for a while) and water (some people find the slightly alkaline well water objectionable).

I go for a short drive, scouting locations to photograph the full moon rise this evening and I see nobody on the road at all. I see an abandoned tractor, that has some promise as a photo foreground and find a small hill overlook that has a panoramic view of the whole valley. The sky is clear, and a little hazy which might make for a spectacular moonrise.

 After I walk to the top of the overlook and set up my gear, I photograph in solitude for about an hour an a half. The birds in the salt marsh have quieted down with the sunset and there is a coyote nearby who yips from time to time, but not one car drives by on the main road to spoil my shot.

Europe and a Coat of Arms

Tomorrow, I am off to southern France and then northern Italy.

Since the flags of Italy and France are pretty well known, I thought I would look a little deeper and investigate symbols of regional identity. Just about every town or region in Europe has adopted a coat of arms to reflect somehow on the region's identity. St. Saturnin les Apt, in southern France definitely has the least warlike identity of the places I will visit. A star and a cow and a cross? Turin's symbol is also bovine, but certainly a bit more aggressive. Torino="Little Bull". And for Nice, France - is that a Phoenix with a crown, sitting on three eggs in a nest? But a little research says that it is, in fact, a red eagle on three mountains, by the sea (got the crown right). 

The cow of St. Sat is going to take a little more research - perhaps when I get there, a visit to the tourist office or the town mairie will help me. I doubt that this is related, but I did discover that the martyrdom of the 3rd century Saint Satrunin of Gaul is depicted with a bull dragging his body. I'll have to dig deeper.

Maybe I should have stuck with talking about the flags.

Havana Vieja

The old colonial center of Havana is Havana Vieja, but in reality all of Havana is old. Much of the city is a tapestry of crumbled or soon to be crumbled structures. In other world capitals these neighborhoods would be candidates for urban renewal. Here, the problem is so vast and the government has such limited resources that the city crumbles one grain at a time, and the people can only endure. I am walking through a neighborhood that I would avoid if it were in New York or Los Angeles, but here there I no way to avoid and I find that I am very glad to get out of the small tourist center of the city and walk these incredible streets. Our guides are four Cuban photographers who know the city and help us find interesting locations for photography. I have a tendency to like building that show some "character" and search them out when I travel, but here I am overwhelmed by possibilities. I soon change my mindset and realize that this is also a trip to pay attention to people. 

 

Amid the decay and torn up streets (there is money to replace water pipes and electrical cables), people are going about their lives. Someone asks where I am from, and I mumble something about Estados Unidos - I get a big hug. Fruit vendors try to sell us something off their carts, a few men ask if I want to buy genuine (read: fake) Cohiba cigars; a barber works on a customer in a doorway facing the street; and old woman sells coffee from her window; cabinetmakers work on a project in a shell of a building that looks like it will fall on their heads any minute; a man on the street makes a living by refilling disposable butane lighters. Everywhere, there are the famous old American cars, in every color of the rainbow, except maybe black, white or gray. Some are for hire in front of the higher end hotels, but many are shared taxis that shuttle people to work and back. Lines of passengers wait at pickup points and coordinate who is going where. That, and the public transportation system, seems to handle most of the morning commute. No solo drivers here.

Miami to Havana

It is four days after US-Cuba policy changes have gone into effect and I am in a meeting room at the Miami Airport Marriott Courtyard with a group of photographers who are going to Havana tomorrow morning. Kip, our coordinator, is giving us the briefing – in summary: “It’s Cuba; it’s complicated”. Currency (two different national currencies), street manners (feel safe, but be mindful of your wallet), phone/internet prospects (minimal), daily itinerary (soon to change, more than once). Two main hazards to avoid – a) twisting an ankle on ancient sidewalks or falling into a hole, and b) getting hit by a car; it seems that Cubans are not inclined to stop for pedestrians unless in a marked crosswalk.

There is excitement about the changes and more than a little uncertainty about how they will affect us. We are each given us a license granting us permission by the US to visit the country, but it seems that this is no longer needed. Some rum and cigars may be brought back but nobody knows how picky US customs will be about receipts documenting total cost is under $100.

It is now morning and we huddle as a group to check in for our charter flight at the American Airlines counter. Our flight is an American Airlines plane and crew, Chartered by ABC charters which has a license to fly to Havana. The crew is bi-lingual and good natured with a lively sense of humor. After the 45 minute flight. we Land in Havana at a separate terminal dedicated to charter flights from the US and quickly get to customs. The young lady in a uniform notices on my passport that I have been to Africa and she asks if I have been recently or been in contact with friends or relatives from Africa recently – I can see where this is going and the answer fortunately, is no (Ebola is still a cause for concern – although there is none in Cuba). The baggage claim is a free for all, with bags arriving on both conveyors – A and B, with no hint which one will spit out my bag. I eventually come to think that identifying my bag can’t be so hard because 75 percent of the luggage is bundles of stuff in blue shrink wrap – brought in my Cubans and their relatives returning from the States. Mostly soft stuff like clothes, but I see boxes with big screen TV's, microwaves, and other electronics not available here. Among the piles of luggage, I also notice a neat pile of NBC News camera equipment and it is only now that I realize that the US Assistant Secretary of State, Roberta Jacobson, was on our flight – arriving for diplomatic talks with the Cuban Government along with Brian Williams and Andrea Mitchell of NBC. Later tonight, we will see our group on TV, boarding the plane – so that’s what the lady with the iPhone was filming!

After slight worries about finding my bag, I hand in paperwork declaring that I am not sick and am not bringing weapons, illegal drugs or pornography into the country and head out of the terminal into an uproar of relatives greeting arrivals (and their shrink wrapped bundles). The area outside the terminal has the sweet smell of cigar smoke and vintage Chevy cars cruse by looking for passengers, and I know I am here.

Tonight the city sparkles outside my hotel.

Prepping for Cuba

I am certainly fortunate to be traveling there at this time - Leaving Jan 17th with a few days in Florida first, then to Havana and returning on the 28th. I planned this trip about four months ago to travel with a group of photographers led by the Santa Fe Photo Workshops. In December, when I heard about the changes in the US / Cuba travel policies, I had no expectations that they would be in place by the time I traveled - I just couldn't imagine government moving that quickly, but now it looks like they will be put in place tomorrow! Four days before we land in Havana - that means that we will be one of the first groups of Americans to take advantage of the relaxed rules regarding personal purchases. I never liked cigars, so I don't expect to bring any back but I will have to try one when I am there. Rum, however, is a different story.

We will be a group of 12 plus our American photographer guide plus two Cuban photographers. I am feeling a bit of pressure to take perfect images, but I remind myself that the goal is to have fun and to learn something at the same time. No different than any other trip.
I will try to update with posts from there, but we will see how that goes. Our hotel has wifi, but you never know...

What Wikipedia has to say about the Cuban Flag–

The Cuban flag was created by Narciso López in June 25, 1848, and put together by Emilia Teurbe Tolón. The flag's origins date from 1848, when various movements to liberate Cuba from Spanish rule emerged, mainly among Cuban exiles in the United States. Anti-Spanish Cuban exiles under the leadership of Narciso López (a Venezuelan) adopted a flag suggested by the poet Miguel Teurbe Tolón (a Cuban). His design incorporates three blue stripes, representing the three parts that the country was divided during the independence wars, central, occidental, and oriental areas of the country, and two white stripes symbolizing the purity of the patriotic cause. The red triangle stands for the blood shed to free the nation, which is placed where the star is, symbolizing the sky turned red from the blood shed in battle. The white star in the triangle stands for independence. López carried this flag in battle at Cárdenas (1850) and Playitas (1851). Although López was not victorious, this was the first instance of the flag being raised in Cuba.

Here is my first recollection of the Cuban flag -
a Throwback Thursday thing:

When I was a Cub Scout, living in New York, our pack played a part in the ceremony that lights the Christmas trees which run the length of Park Avenue. One evening in early December we marched out of the Brick Presbyterian Church where our pack met, and circled the first tree at the north end of Park Avenue with the flags of the United Nations. The mayor said a few words and pressed a button, and TaDa! One year I remember wondering what flag I was carrying. Getting home, I looked up flags of the World in our fat Webster's Encyclopedia and, finding the Cuban flag, realized that it was slightly scandalous to be seen with it. So naturally I thought that was cool - this must have been 1959, or there about, when Cuba was first shunned by the US.

Photo thanks to Tommy Wolfson (sitting next to me) and Miss Bergan.

Davey Freidberg, on the far right was in my pack too.