Twilight 4. Cuban Impressions
No one comes to the Father except through Me.
(Gospel of John 14:6)
To paraphrase Jesus, no one gets to Cuba except through the Dominican Republic.
“Nobody” is a word too strong, unambiguous, so I’ll make a reservation: “most”.
No! Doesn't sound! To exacerbate the dramatic effect, after all: "no one".
Cuba is not a simple topic at all. There are no strangers here. Cuba is when people have already visited a lot of places, seen a lot of things, and at a certain moment decided for themselves: “Let me see the legacy of Uncle Fidel! ”.
There is a caste here, a caste of travelers. And their conversations are special:
- I don't remember where I ate the best turtle soup. Either to Goa, or to Bali... And I don’t go to the Maldives anymore! Boredom there! Well, yes, you yourself know (this is to the interlocutor) what I am telling you...
The contingent of the hotel is the same as in the Dominican Republic: Latinos, Canadians and Russians. Well, any small rabble: the Dutch, Serbs, Poles, Czechs, French and even one Turk for some reason. Zones of influence are demarcated: the first pool with a bar was occupied by Canadians; the second pool with a bar under the dictates of Latinos and Russians. But this is conditional.
The first pool is quiet and shallow, the second is filled with music, dances, performances, contests. It's clear - we belong here!
- Come on, mulatto, splash us "dos rum". Clean, no ice and no cola. Yes, you, mulatto, are doing everything right, you just need to “mucho”.
He indifferently gives a bottle, he, they say, pour as much as you need. And what do I see, I see the edges. Poured two full glasses. The mulatto already grunted, almost choked on his cigar.
In general, if briefly about Cuba, then this: Uncle Fidel is dead, but his work lives on!
The country is still in w. . . e. In Havana and in the resort of Varadero it’s still normal, they don’t live on a salary here. And on the ground - very bad. When I was going, I was worried that I would no longer find the spirit of that socialist Cuba, the Island of Freedom. Worried in vain. Retro cars, social stores with empty shelves, food stamps - it's all there. And it doesn't look like it's going anywhere in the coming years. But Cubans don't give a damn. The main thing for them is to sing and dance. And they do it masterfully. It seems that from birth to death, every Cuban received a powerful lifelong inoculation against depression and despondency. This helps them a lot to survive and not scatter. The air smells distinctly of the nineties, but the arrow of the crime rate in the country is hovering near zero.
There are no whites in the neighboring Dominican Republic, only blacks and mulattos. This is the result of the War of Independence. Here, in half, whites (descendants of the Spanish colonialists) and colored (descendants of slaves). They live together and, it seems, do not notice the difference in skin color. Everyone has equal opportunities. Cooley, socialism!
In general, it would be worthwhile for old man Fidel to pull his beard for such an experiment during his lifetime. Well, it is necessary to turn a prosperous, cheerful country into a poor slum.
He, Fidel, you see, wanted to free his native island from the dictatorship of the evil Batista. And being with brother Raul and friend Che in Mexico, they bought (for what money? ) an eight-seater yacht "Granma", invited an international a rabble of revolutionary enthusiasts, and consisting of 82 people came to Cuba on this very yacht to make a revolution.
And here the mysticism begins: 82 Marxist adventurers against an entire country with a population of 12 million. Evil Batista, of course, knew about the impending invasion. I prepared myself. He put forward an army with tanks, artillery, and aircraft against the poor, foolish dreamers. You know the result. No, some, of course, were killed, they are now heroes, but they seized power in the country. The hated tyrant and the American puppet Batista were overthrown and they began to rule themselves.
Official history, of course, explains this by the enthusiasm and widespread support of the masses, such as "the bottom does not want to. " But you need to know the Cubans. . . I think it looked like this:
An agitator walks around the village:
Ola, Pedro! We started a revolution here. Are you with us?
Will there be dancing? asks the unlucky Pedro.
- You, Pedro, reason in the highest degree unconsciously! I'm talking about the ideals of the party, about patriotism! You may even die a hero's death for the liberation of your native Cuba!
- No, well, you, there, this, call, if anything, when the dancing starts...
And the fact that the dances will begin in any case, be calm!
This is how they live to this day: revolutionary ideals and the poverty that accompanies them are on their own, and Cubans with dances are on their own.
However, in our long-suffering Sovka, things were even worse for many years. But this is a rotten Scoop, it’s always sour here, otherwise Cuba is an island of paradise!
In the noble cause of growing big asses, Cubans have succeeded no less than Dominicans (see Darkness 3. Dominican experience).
A good big well doesn't grow by itself, as you know. It needs to be nourished, cherished, nurtured. . . No, another well. . . pa, it happens, and it will develop itself to the standard level, without outside interference. With a narrow waist, she impresses the mulatto imagination with her proportions. But to such a stern, often, short legs are included. And this is unacceptable!
So it turns out that in order to grow a competitive ass from scratch, you need to work hard. Well, there, squat complexes, diet, etc.
I even admit that some especially untethered mulattos resort to doping prohibited by the IOC!
However, as a Slav, I am not a fan of luxury f. . . I would like something better. But mulatto countries have their own laws of the universe. Therefore, I treat their forms with respect and understanding.
Even at the registration in Boryspil, I noticed an interesting company: a grandfather, a kind of sturdy middle peasant farmer, with two grandmothers. Grandmas are large, you can see a galloping horse more than once in the past... Such grandmas early in the morning with checkered bags go somewhere in trams. All three look exclusively collective farm.
My wife and I began to whisper and poke our fingers: they say that they needed it in Varadero. And they finished off with a control shot, going to the business class check-in desk! They flew business class round trip! Then it turned out that their hotel was the best on the coast. Where is the world heading?!
Only away from the Motherland you notice how ugly our people are. Especially against the backdrop of beautiful Cubans. Slavic face can always be recognized in the crowd. It is wide like my native country and fast like domestic cooking. I do not want to offend anyone, this is me describing myself (see photo).
Slavic physiology is rarely touched by a smile, and if it does, it is some kind of alien, lost, misplaced smile. She is so foreign and out of place here. And it’s not a smile at all, but a grimace.
I don’t touch our women - they are always beautiful (fortunately, at least fill up with rum). And the men are all right: pot-bellied, boorish, drunk, in women's swimming trunks *¹ and slippers on the toe.
Even genetically close Poles or Czechs look much more preferable against our dull background!
Only Russians are capable of fighting over a sunbed on the beach or over a table in the lobby.
Only Russians are able to fly over 10.000 km with their portable speaker and phone full of Russian hits. They don't have enough music in Cuba! However, SUCH music is really not enough!
Incendiary Latin American hits rumble everywhere in the hotel, but Russians have a special way of becoming, far from their homeland, the soul asks for something of its own, dear. For example, "Turtle named Natashk. " Masterpiece! This song haunted us in the hotel.
At the beach, the animators entertain the holidaymakers with dances to the songs of Maluma, and next to it, two Russian heifers turned on their tritatushki-tritata. And my wife and I are between these two sources of sound. Chicks turned off, of course, when asked.
In general, I discovered a new law of physics*² : the louder the music, the worse it is (you can do the opposite, but it's better).
Russian pop music is an invention of the devil! She does not allow young people, and not only young people, to good music. A powerful cordon stops on the outskirts. lost souls, having no access to beauty, rush between pop and chanson, morally sink and become what they become.
Many European tour operators warn their customers in advance that this or that hotel is desecrated, there are Russians here. Such a hotel will not be washed off for a long time...
Do not rush to write in the comments about the evil crests. I am Russian. But I am an adult Russian, capable of self-criticism and self-irony. Yes, and “Russians” is a collective image.
One day, tired of staying at the hotel, the wife commanded: "I want a lobster. "
The Lord is with you, my love. Every time you want it and every time it's useless! Only in India was it tolerable (see Twilight 2. Indian Impressions).
I want it!
You can't argue with a woman. What a woman wants, God wants. On that day, God wanted a lobster.
- Here, dear, is the program of a sea excursion to the island of Cayo Blanco. The lunch menu includes lobster, aka lobster. Back and forth on a catamaran with an unlimited bar and disco, and swimming with dolphins on the way!
Everything was fine: the catamaran, the dolphins, and the bar, but it didn't get to the lobsters. We overate on king prawns, we didn’t leave a place. The seagulls were fed with two hefty lobsters.
It turns out that back in the last century, lobsters were served to prisoners in Caribbean prisons. It was considered rotten meat. Then it occurred to someone's bright head to pass off a lobster as a delicacy.
There, on the island, we met a family of Cuban Hutias. These are rats, the size of a dog. Very cute animals, only biting. Often they missed and, instead of the outstretched bread, they bit their finger.
Azur Air separate piston. I've flown many crappy budget airlines, but this one is unique in its harmonious ugliness. Harmonious because everything here is equally shitty. The crew is ugly (stewardesses), rude, unfriendly, unsmiling. Thank you, even though they don’t send mothers. The blankets were only enough for a quarter of the cabin. The rest - just shrugged.
The monitors are hanging, but they are turned off for the entire flight. No movies for you, no flight information for you.
A drunken Dutchman in a bar asked what route we were flying on. I could only answer that they were flying over the ocean.
Food is poor, like in Caribbean prisons.
I'm not talking about the distance between the chairs. This is normal for budget airlines.
Cuba is a beautiful place, blessed but offended by the dictatorship of the proletariat. I believe that she will soon recover from the wounds inflicted on her. I fell in love with this country, but I know one thing for sure: I don’t want to come here anymore!
We are flying away, but the imperishable "Turtle named Natashk" will sound over the Island of Freedom for a long time to come.
*¹ Men's beach fashion in the world includes knee-length shorts. Our men stubbornly adhere to the fashion of the 80s.
*² I consider myself the author of another law of physics: The worse the car, the louder the music. The second law, mentioned above, follows from this. But it is, by the way. It has nothing to do with Cuban impressions.
