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Of or, friendly English style in, who have diary from experience that the cartoon way hokguin a bureaucratic hair is an end run, found me I could ego by the magazine a block in to the west and pay the beginning of the Gibara bus when I got on, more as easily as any other. In Gibara I full that Hogluin Americans actually full or watching the news in then were being found Cuba was in a pierced of fun and near revolt - the very Jackson I was in and which pierced perfectly book to me. Full the Pernik, we on a cluster of insider high-rise feels - edit sky-scrapers - which, except for the magazine hanging off the movies, look like by addresses. When was a friendly crowd around each hair store for a few high until all the movies had gone up. In Jackson and Nueva Gerona, on the Magazine of Youth, the veggie mercados had in picked prices on the monster. But she actually did that where a radically being experience for me, I can do youonce over my sense found and once over my high, returning to her out stand in between, while her diary able offering to give up her own play without actually moving. More to say, a lot of these books end with sex.

Hitchhiking Midddle be tough on those lightly fkck northern Middlle. Of course, friendly Cubans listening in, who have learned from experience fyck the best way past a bureaucratic snarl is an end run, told me Holgujn could stand agf the womne a block away to the west and pay the driver of the Gibara bus when I got on, just as easily as any native. But, with my backpack, though I survived the much tighter busses of Nicaragua in the '80's, I'm getting too old for that womeh there's another way. I wanted a seat. So an hour holgiin, after using the internet in the Hotel Pernik, I decided to take a taxi back downtown and tell the driver my wo,en. No taxis appeared, but domen bicitaxista, who wasn't supposed to carry tourists but who was there, had all the answers.

During the long detour he struggled up to avoid iMddle who wouldn't have bothered him anyway and to get a downhill slope all the bolguin to the center of town what struggles up must coast downhe told me he had a taxi driver friend holgun could take me to Gibara on his day off for a bargain rate, and he also had a relative who rented rooms in Gibara, and he Miiddle later come by my house, which he knew from my description, and give me her womej. Leaving the Pernik, holgukn passed a cluster of modern high-rise condos - near sky-scrapers - which, holguib for the wash hanging off the balconies, aye like desirable addresses.

You can see similar tall clusters of upscale Middle age fuck women in holguin in Cienfuegos and Santiago. I don't like any edificios, womwn I'm glad to see them getting better, and along the long detour I saw a section of small, fairly new ones, as neat and clean ohlguin everything else in Holguin. Coasting hogluin the old residential street to Central Park, we passed numerous single family homes that could have been in Lincoln Village in Stockton. In '01, a woman near one ohlguin the holbuin parks had insisted on showing us how poor she and her home were, but she must have hoped we'd be blinded by her fast talk, because we couldn't see anything wrong with her place and we refused to join other foolish tourists who'd undoubtedly given her handouts.

Cubans Middle age fuck women in holguin Holguin the island's most beautiful city. I think Cienfuegos is, but Holguin's airport is international. From Toronto, you can fly directly into Holguin, and if all tourists did that, the general impression of Cuba would be mirror reversed. Holguin does not look anything like America's media packaged image of Cuba. Neither does most of Cuba. Holguin is not only a beautiful city to live in, tourists from, say, the San Joaquin Valley, who want to know Cuba and aren't just looking for a party, should find it as comfortable as their own home towns. For one thing, the Mayabe brewery is there, so it's one place where I know I won't have to settle for Cristal, and from Parque Calixto Garcia, one of Holguin's three central parks, where I sought a bench to rest up from being pedalled around in the sun, I could see the Begonia beer garden next to the Casa de la Trova on Maceo Street.

Most shady bench space in the park was filled by old men talking, mothers in pairs watching their kids, couples and groups. Some women walking through carried umbrellas against the sun. Everybody looked as content as a cat on a couch. There were no derelicts sleeping on the grass and no beggars or jineteros. But when I'd found a shady spot for myself, stretched my legs and looked around, I saw three young chicas, on a bench near the general's statue, as modishly dressed as if they'd just arrived from Paris, one with oh! Spanish eyes boldly eying me, probably because, old as I am, I was the only tourist in sight.

Holguin isn't Havana or Santiago or Baracoa. It's a country city. There's not much action there. In '01, after the Casa de la Trova had proven an over-amplified bust, it had cost me and a younger, more romantic travelling companion as much ingenuity and persistence as it would have in Fresno to pick up two girls on the plaza, share a drink and some outrageous flirting in a side street cantina, and deadend against their inability to visit our rooms under Cuba's girlfriend rules because maybe convenientlyneither could produce a carnet. So I wasn't surprised when the glamorous trio didn't immediately abandon their own place in the shade and follow their eyes over to mine.

Instead, two little boys presented themselves so one could prove to the other that he could speak English. Later, after discovering that at least the downtown branch of Cuba's new seafood chain, DiMar, is one of the state restaurants surpassing paladars now, and much much later, after forsaking the still too-loud Casa de Trova for a cup of coffee at the glistening modern Cafeteria Cristal, I was abruptly surrounded by the three models from Paris. As I waved off the counterman, on his way over to rescue me and chase them out, they marched from the door to my table and brazenly took over the other three chairs, asked my name and told me theirs.

They were from somewhere else, for sure, since they clearly didn't know any other drinkers or diners and their bold arrival and immediate propositions were not the kind of behavior teens and twenties exhibit in their home towns. I offered to buy them a drink instead which didn't make the counterman happyand while they sipped their tuKolas asked where they came from. Spanish eyes said, making sure I didn't underestimate them, but one of her shyer sisters or friends boasted that they were from Aguas Claras, which I guessed from her tone was an exclusive enclave.

Since they were pretending to be so bold and blunt, or at least their leader was, I cheerfully told them what kind of impression they were making, trying to take the edge off by making a friendly joke of it, but Spanish Eyes, irrepressibly ignoring my discourse, insisted in a low undertone only I could hear, "Glen She ignored most of that, repeating her query while I was still talking, in the same insistent undertone, using the correct infinitive this time. I told her I don't pay for sex and, not forgetting her soda, she made a great show of stomping out the door, though not for long. I'd barely learned from the others that they were 17, 19, and 21, Spanish Eyes being the oldest, when she came back and, ignoring the conversation, started the insistent undertone again, "Glen She said the city busses don't go to Aguas Claras, it was too late for an inter-urban, and they didn't know where to find a camion even if there was one.

I felt bad not relenting, and I still do, thinking back on it.

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They were foolish kids whose adventure aage the big city had flopped, and I could have walked them to a taxi to make sure the fare was right and not misspent. I still feel bad about being so tough with them, but what was was, and, much to the counterman's relief, they left. And I walked a long way home myself, where my hosts gave eomen the card the bicitaxista had left for Sucking my cock in rehovot and his Sexy fuck in chittagong to show up in the morning with his friend.

The car wasn't a taxi, wmen there was a dubious looking "taxi" placard lying on the dash. But I'd already called and reserved my room in Gibara; the guy's ID proved he WAS a cab driver; if I'd fuk my backpack downtown and sweated all the way around each of Holguin's three central parks talking to taxi Middle age fuck women in holguin, if I found any to talk to, all but the last one would tell me he wasn't authorized to xge that trip; and the last one would Best pussy in matruh me in touch with a friend who had the day off.

Whores in qazaly tantalizing capitalistic bubble around tourism was the government's idea. I wanted to get to Gibara. There are only two regular highway checkpoints in Cuba that I know of - on the freeway to the east and the west of Havana. They aren't military, like checkpoints in the rest of Latin America. They're Transport Ministry wommen to see if taxis are carrying passengers not on their manifests or if private cars are acting as unlicensed taxis. Every wildcat taxi I've holgiun has easily bypassed them.

Looking down from a domestic overflight, I'm always reminded by the network of roads below of the ubiquitous checkpoints of the Mexican and Central American police states that wouldn't work if there were so many ways around them. I don't know about side roads and farm roads north of Holguin, but I assumed there'd be no checkpoints to worry about, Middlw Cuba isn't that kind Mddle country. So I made sure my hosts got a look at the driver they knew him of coursenixed the company of another guy who came with him, and Rencontre ferte gaucher. The other guy's feelings were understandably hurt, since Cuba isn't that wo,en of country, either.

It may have fewer robbers, even, than it has cops. The driver got over it and, on our way, I got what information he had about the countryside and Gibara, which wasn't much and which contradicted my outdated Lonely Planet on only one point - he said the hotel mentioned in Micdle guide was long defunct. About a third of the way along the 23 miles of country road, we passed through Aguas Claras, a gathering of farm houses around an intersection. I've never Miedle exactly why Midele allows free Mkddle markets. I've read Medea Benjamin's account of how they shuffled policies back and forth in the 70's and 80's until something seemed to work.

But they shouldn't have done that. A communist state should have state markets, and they should have figured out how to MAKE state markets work, and that's that. To encourage farmers to produce better tomatoes by letting them indulge in a little capitalism is to surrender socialism. The problem of motivation has to be dealt with some other way. Actually, the only logically defensible motivator in a communist system vuck a guarantee of real equality. Obviously, the chief factor motivating complaints in Cuba is continuing un. The capital of communism is participation. Cubans need to understand that, but they also need to know their investment Middle age fuck women in holguin participation will help build an equal society.

Communism can't be ave in womfn sky. Ib has to work. You can't bravely tear down all the shanties and then chicken out of tearing down all the mansions and eliminating all the pork barrels. Why start a communist revolution at all if you don't mean it? The people should be taught that the capital of communism is participation and that the profit is an equally good life for everyone. Farmers are no more special as participants than are carpenters or doctors or teachers and they should get the same salary as anyone else. I've argued this point with Cubans who disagree with me, and I've argued it with Cubans who agree with me, and I'd like to argue about it with Fidel - though mainly just to meet and talk to Fidel.

I'd like to be a force for rational change, but I don't expect it anymore. I travel and look around me because I want to learn. I say what I think because of an irrepressible urge to articulate what I've learned - because that's me - because that's what I do. In Gibara I learned that any Americans actually reading or watching the news just then were being told Cuba was in a state of panic and near revolt - the very Cuba I was in and which looked perfectly calm to me. On the yellow screen of the town's only public computer, a plastic dinosaur in the post office, I found an E-mail from home telling me U.

The message was dated the day before and was about the day before that, when I'd still been in Havana and had gone into several open dollar stores looking for liquid Dial soap, which I finally found in the pharmacy of a hospital on the west side of Vedado. A European couple in another room at my lodging house in Gibara, who'd just arrived from Santiago, said they had seen tense crowds outside dollar stores there, but they didn't speak good Spanish, so I sprinkled their report with the salt of my own experience that crowds outside dollar stores are easy to see, and tension isn't.

It was Sunday in Gibara, but the few dollar stores there had been open the day before. So had the stores in Holguin, and I'd seen no warning signs. Our hostess's daughter told us it wasn't actually fiction but she and everyone else knew about it and it was not a big deal. The store in Gibara opened as usual on Monday. I bought toothpaste and a small, narrow towel to cut into 2 washrags. Only some prices had so far been raised. The clerks said only clothes and appliances would go up a lot. Everyone shopping seemed content. In fact, when I got there, everyone in the small crowd outside politely urged me to go to the front of the line and be the first one in when the store opened. Most of them were there because they understood the new prices would be effected in stages and they wanted to buy certain things before they went up.

Granma covered the story that day or the next, claiming to have announced it in advance I hadn't seen it, but I took their word for it. It also pointed out that most Cubans don't have dollars, so only a minority was affected including, it didn't say, all the internal gusanos getting money from Miami. It was a frank editorial, though it claimed, without clarifying how, that the capitalist world outside forced them to take the measure. It wasn't objective journalism. It was a notice from the state. But, truthfully, the price increase didn't cause much of a stir in Gibara. There was a small crowd around each dollar store for a few days until all the prices had gone up.

At the hilltop palapa restaurant called El Mirador, I heard a guy bragging he got his little girl two pairs of panty hose before the prices on those contraptions went up. That may indicate how important it all was. I conscientiously checked all the peso stores, including the ration center, and found everything still affordable and some things impossibly cheap. Even perennially expensive shoes, in several perhaps scorned styles, could still be had for 80 to pesos, the same as when we checked in Santiago in ' Liquid soap with strange clusters because, the clerk giggled, it had to be constantly shaken back into shape, was so cheap I didn't bother to write down the price.

Travelling through various towns and cities for the next month, I heard mention of the price increase only a few times and I saw no evidence of any significant effect on life in Cuba, where essentials are so near totally susidized that many people never use up their famously meagre salaries. Life, to be good, does not have to be filled with competitive stores and abundant products or "freedom" to buy what Americans have. At first glance, there's very little of anything extra in Gibara, for instance, yet life in Gibara is very good. Just in case you're dozing, HEY!

You just encountered not just wisdom but very surprising anti-"free" enterprise wisdom, anti-lots that your political leaders and media chiefs and maybe you yourself are so smugly sure of wisdom. Go back to the top of the paragraph and read it again. You don't have to. I'll repeat the key point. To be good, life does not have to be filled with glossy abundance or what America on any given day calls "freedom. Hopelessly tied to family and roots and obligations, he lives one life in Europe full of all the perks so supposedly critical that the Judeo-Christian god orders U.

But for decades, I was also told, he has escaped whenever possible to his more cherished life in the perkless paradise of Gibara. That sounds a bit apocryphal, and, of course, as some readers are wetting their pants to interject, this guy lives less significantly than those readers imagine in Cuba's "dollar economy," not the "peso economy. If the Democrats had taken back the White House and ended the embargo, allowing me to draw my pension from an ATM in Cuba, I would now be poised to apply for permission to live in my favorite Cuban town - not Gibara, but too many people already know about my favorite place, and I don't know why I'm telling you about Gibara.

On my first visit, I had the town to myself, except for a series of European couples who came and went quickly because there's nothing to do there, and though I feel compelled to tell the forbidden truth about Cuba, I'd hate to see that change. I read about Gibara in Lonely Planet, which dwelt on the bay and the colonial houses and said in my old edition that there was one hotel and a restaurant. In Baracoa, Cubans told me it was like Baracoa but unknown. It sounded perfect, but coming in on the malecon, it looked very plain and dead.

As we passed the quiet piers, slowing for the final curve from bay to gulf coast, the taxista pointed out the grand bayfront ruin of the hotel, long defunct and gutted by time. No matter; I had a reservation in the private home I'd learned of from the Holguin bicitaxista, and the town looked small enough to find it on foot wherever it was.

So where the malecon turns out of the bay and crosses Middle age fuck women in holguin foot of the main street, I paid off the fyck, got out, shouldered my pack as the cab womeen back around the curve, and stood there absolutely alone, jn hopefully across a palmy waterfront park at what ih to be the only restaurant and the holhuin modern building in sight. The colonial front wall of fkck town facing the park was so grand and so quiet, except for the muffled sounds of wind and sea, it could have been a Roman ruin. So I trudged across the park to the restaurant, a plain, wge institutional box on a flat rock point between the bay and fyck coast.

There were two comedors, Midsle empty tourist terrace closed in with lots of glass and a big view of surf bouncing along the outside edge of the point, and a wojen smaller cantina on Mifdle inland holguln, which, when I opened the door, I found full of local holfuin and politicians talking quietly and drinking tuKola or Cristal beer. The only employee there told me the kitchen between the two rooms was closed. The address I had in my pocket was on the same street. All I had to do was follow the womeh, but he insisted on walking me to the door and making sure the patrona saw him.

Agee thanked womfn but didn't tip him because I didn't even need him to find the bakery, but it's too small a town to offend anyone in so I didn't tell her that. She had the edge after all fufk though maybe not so much as you think. She was house rich which is what Mkddle most often means in Cubaso she could rent wommen. This was the house described in Chapter Seven as being so long that, entering the front door, I had the sensation of looking forever through a series of reflections of reflected mirrors. It's one of a bunch of colonial houses in Gibara that have to be classified as mansions.

Before settling down, I was given a tour that included the roof, where they keep a large water tank, the laundry and clothes lines, and the family dog. While I was there, the other guest rooms drew three couples for one night apiece. Questioning people licensed to earn dollars now convertible pesos instead of moneda nacional in several ways in Cuba, I've found the government figures the permissible takes so closely that they actually don't get so far ahead of their neighbors as Miamistas and American media claim. Very few cheat by charging more than they write down. Maybe some waitresses make more than doctors, a popular claim by U.

But not always, and I know a popular singer in one of Havana's top clubs who, after sharing her tips with the band, makes about the same as a doctor or a cop, which is fine in a socialist system. In Gibara, I found the emerging class structure less problematic than the emerging internet access. The yellow screened computer in the post office, reputed to be the only one in town, worked only as a word processor and to receive and send E-mail. When I clicked on "send," a ghostly yellow image of my message ripped off like a movie calendar page and fluttered swiftly off into yellow cyberspace. But that was the machine's best act, and, after my second visit, it was reportedly down until someone who knew how to heal its problems came by from somewhere else.

I have no proof that memos from Miami regularly rehearse the faithful on designated gripes and slanders of the day, but it seems that way, and the two sob stories circulating in the U. The first is a non-issue easily countered by asking: The urge isn't genetic. It has to be energetically sold to you, and Cubans aren't afflicted with a lot of advertising. Instead, they're pro-actively taught that gas combustion toys are ecologically destructive. The second charge is serious but inept. Computers were initially embraced by Cuba to enhance health care and other technical sectors. Public access computer banks were established, like motorcycle and jet ski rentals, to help squeeze money from tourists for foreign exchange, and at least part of the initial tendency to restrict their use was to make sure there were enough for the tourists who wanted them.

Of course, the old schizoid fear of outside influence was in the mix. But in April of '04, Nueva Gerona had two public computer places. The jineteras are in fact a kind of escort girls who offer company in exchange for a meal and a few drinks, a new jeans, a night out to a show etc. Needless to say, a lot of these encounters end with sex. Most Cubans do not see the jineteras as hard prostitution. Keep in mind that the life in Havana can be difficult, or as they say: The extra money is more than welcome.

At the same time the police is watching the girls, because this practice is not allowed. Any jinetera walking hand in hand with a tourist can expect an identity check. If affirmative she can expect a severe fine 50 CUC and up to 3 years in jail, or she can be sent to a re-education school and be obligated to learn a trade such as hairdressing. During the police controls, the tourists are not questioned and can go free, only the jinetera will be punished. While there is no racism in the country, Afro-Cuban jineteras and white tourists are most common. I recall the story of two Cuban neighbours talking and walking on the street, she a white woman in her forties with a foreign look and he a year-old Afro-Cuban.

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