Triangulating the USS Maine

On February 15, 1898 there was an explosion aboard the USS Maine which sank at her mooring in the mouth of Havana Bay. The battleship had been dispatched to Cuba the month before because of instability in the area caused by a war between Cuban revolutionaries fighting for independence and Spanish colonial occupiers. It was the Cubans' third revolt against Spain, and victory for the revolutionaries was by no means certain. The tragic loss of life and of the ship was a shock to the US, but the resulting American declaration of war surely shocked the Spaniards and led to an ignominious end to what was left of the Spanish colonial empire. Spain in rapid succession lost Puerto Rico, Cuba, and the Philippines. Several investigations, some as late as the 1990's, failed to fix the blame for the explosion. "Remember the Maine" was that era's equivalent of "Remember Pearl Harbor" a few decades later.

Well, from my history classes, I remembered the Maine, and when I got to Cuba the first time I wanted to see where this historic event happened. We had been out to Cojímar, Papa Hemingway's little fishing village east of Havana, and on our way back to town Nora directed the driver to see some places of interest.

We came to a little green park on a bluff overlooking Havana Bay and the city beyond it. We were at the feet of a 65 foot tall statue of Christ overlooking the city. A plaque at the foot of the statue told us it had been a gift of Dictator Fulgencio Batista to the people of Havana on December 25, 1958, just a week before Castro's Revolution was won and Batista high-tailed it out of the country. (See Cristo de la Habana, my blog of December 2011.)

Several teenagers patrolled the park offering to point out sights and answer any questions. They were after tips, of course, and one by one we were all approached. When a young man asked me if I had any questions, I did—I wanted to know where in the waters below us was the USS Maine when it exploded. He hesitated a minute and then told me it had happened in a part of the Bay not visible from this overlook. I wondered if he really knew and didn't put much stock in his answer.

Later at home, I got busy with my computer and found a photo of the wrecked man-of-war with only part of its superstructure, bent and broken, showing above the water. I was struck by the apparent point of view of the picture. The photo could only have been taken from the same overlook—the site of the future statue of Christ.


Well, this was getting interesting as a few landmarks were visible in the city beyond the submerged wreck. Practically in line with the ship and behind it was a distinctive mission church bell tower in Old Havana. Remember, there were few tall structures in Havana in the 1890's, and this church was one of the tallest structures visible in the sweeping photo of the Bay and city. With the help of my souvenir map of Havana (see last week's blog, Souvenir), and photos from my friend, Bob Skogland, I identified the San Francisco Plaza in Old Havana and the church with its distinctive bell tower.

I estimated the wreck was practically centered in the wide mouth of Havana Bay, and I then had all the coordinates I needed to pin down the spot where the Maine had sunk. I can locate the spot without doubt whenever I set foot in that little park.

The Spanish American War is now 114 years behind us and not well remembered by most Americans. But, it was a momentous occasion, as it ended Spanish rule which at one time had reigned in most of this hemisphere. Even though the US and Cuba don't see eye to eye on much these days, the war was the final step in changing Spain from an oppressive global colonial power to the quiet, charming tourist destination it is today.

Les Inglis

Souvenir 

The Plaza de las Armas is a little one block square park in Old Havana, surrounded by book stalls and booksellers in the style of Paris' Left Bank.  Most tourists in Havana eventually pass through the Plaza to browse through the books.  I had already decided what I wanted to find as a souvenir of my first trip to Cuba—a book or perhaps a map would be perfect.  This choice was aided by US government attitudes towards buying anything in Cuba and bringing it back to the US.  Basically they don't want you to buy anything or to bring it back unless it is printed material or works of art.  Books, magazines, maps, etc. are obvious choices as souvenirs, and the friendly merchants of the Plaza are there to help you find them.

The book stalls encircle the park nearly completely facing outward toward the square of sidewalks and streets.  I had thought about maps as they could be framed easily and displayed on a wall of my study at home.  Thus the first merchant who asked was told I had an interest in old maps.  "Just a minute," he said and disappeared behind his stall   He came back with a worn old Texaco road map of Cuba—the kind that years ago one could get free in a gas station.

I tried to explain that gas station maps weren't what I wanted, and he began another search behind the stalls.  This time we walked on, slowly perusing the books and magazines on display.  I hadn't yet come to the end of the block when he appeared and showed me his second choice.  I was surprised at how well he had chosen this time.

The map was produced by the Cuban Tourist Commission in 1951 for tourists.  It was 20 x 24 inches in size and was a perspective drawing of the entire city and all the major buildings.  The artist's (Rogelio L. Mirabal) viewpoint was about one mile above the Plaza de las Armas looking down on the city in a southwesterly direction.  Thus Havana Bay was in the lower left, and the airport was in the upper left.  The entrance to Havana Bay guarded by El Morro Castle was in the lower right, and the far-flung suburbs of Miramar and Playa were in the upper right.  Street and Parks were shown and tiny letters named all the streets.  Notable buildings were numbered and identified by a legend placed in the open waters of the Florida Straits.

The map was worn, but restorable, and I knew I could look all day and not find a better choice, as I rushed to find he 5 CUC (about $5.00) he was asking.  I couldn't believe my good luck.

Well, the booksellers at the Plaza seem to be a tight knit community, and it took no time at all for them to know what I had bought.  As we walked along the other three sides of the Plaza, several of them offered me maps as well.  One even had a 1953 edition of the same map, which I bought for 3 CUC.

At home I found a fine art restorer who was able to lay the map flat and mount it on a board that matched the color of the faded paper of the map in color.  This made practically invisible several worn holes at the fold lines.  His careful matting and framing created a finished product which now hangs at a focal point among the picture on my study wall.  The 1953 edition was passed on to my good Cuban friend, Dulce.

I've been in the Plaza de las Armas several times since then, but I don't spend much time browsing.  Instead, being a public place it is a gathering spot for stray dogs.  They seem to know that handouts of food are more likely to come from tourists.  Nora and I and my fellow travelers often have lunch in any one of several restaurants nearby, and, as is standard practice in Cuba, we always come away with delicious leftovers.  It is never hard to find a happy canine recipient of these scraps.

Bella, a sweet long haired Daschund mix, about which I have written in the past, was found there in the Plaza by a British Airways flight attendant, Angela.  Her prompt attention and search for help led to Nora and finding the sick little Bella, and today she is a beautiful, healthy resident of Aniplant's headquarters.  I might add, Angela has made two trips back to Cuba since Bella's rescue to see the lucky little dog.

I have several reasons for remembering the Plaza de las Armas.

Les Inglis

Les Inglis

Once More to Las Terrazas

I've written about Las Terrazas before in these blogs.  It's a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve about 50 miles west of Havana, high up in the Sierra Rosario Mountains.  On my first visit, Xenia Mathews and Bob Skogland, accomplished animal activists and good friends were my fellow travelers, and the second time, Nikki Kil and Marianne Meijer, animal activists and TAP supporters, were along with Nora and me.

The little mountain town is hardly typical of Cuba, having been built in the 1990's to cater to the many tourists the UNESCO Reserve attracts.  Formerly a coffee plantation, the terraced land was rapidly reclaimed by a dense tropical jungle parted by miles of hiking trails.  A beautiful hotel and a famous restaurant, El Romero, offering only locally grown vegetarian food are the two main businesses in town.  Nora's friend, Tito, who developed the restaurant for the Cuban government, was with us again for the second visit.

After a memorable meal, we all lingered at our balcony table, looking out over the neat little cabins of the town and the lake, all below us in a little valley, making a perfect picture of peace.  We talked about how idyllic it would be to live there, but we questioned if we soon would feel isolated from the music and bustle of the city. Chickens and a pheasant scratched around in the yard beneath our balcony, unafraid of the vegetarians in the restaurant.

Nikki and Marianne spotted a horse tethered in a yard far below us and decided to walk down to see it up close.  Not far past the horse was the center of town, hardly more than a general store and a few cabins.

Nikki returned to say there was a dog lying in the road in town and then left again to investigate.  I elected to stay with our paraphernalia—a tote bag, a sweater, and a camera, and to enjoy the mountain air and beautiful view.  I watched as the ladies circled around the dog, but they were way too far away from me to hear what was going on.

Perhaps half an hour passed before they came back one by one, and this time Nikki had a large shopping bag of stale bread from the general store.  They reported the dog was unhurt and capable of walking—it had merely been sleeping near the edge of the road.  Like most dogs in Cuba, he was hungry, and, like most Cuban strays, he had fleas.  Nora, who always has treatment for fleas and mange with her, administered some meds, and Nikki bought the bread and fed him all he wanted before they all climbed back up the hill to El Romero.  We busied ourselves feeding the bread to the birds patrolling the grass below the balcony.  While down with the dog, Nikki had found a young man in the town, given him money for more bread, and gotten him to promise to keep the dog fed.  Tito's friend, Carlos, who regularly visits Las Terrazas, was pressured to check up on the dog.  Nikki had arranged help for the dog long after she returned to Holland.

The quiet little town nestled with its lake in a mountain valley almost had a sedative effect on us.  We were in no hurry to get back to the big city.  The horse, the dog, the young man, the clerk in the general store surely retained memories of the two Dutch women and the Cuban lady with the medicine in her purse.  Otherwise we left Las Terrazas as we found it—sleeping by a lake in the mountains.

Les Inglis

Ladas I Have Known

Ladas I Have Known 

Old US made cars aren't the only cars on Cuba's highways and Havana's streets.  New taxis are Hyundais and Kias and the occasional Peugeot, and then there's the ubiquitous Lada.  The Lada 125, shown in the picture, is everywhere you look.  Made in Russia and exported to Cuba, the Lada was a natural choice for Cuba as it pivoted early on away from western imports to dependence on the Soviet Union. 

Really, it all began with Italy's giant Fiat Group Automobiles many years ago.  Fiat, it seemed, wanted to make cars everywhere in the world, and it succeeded in establishing car factories in Spain, Bulgaria, Turkey, South Korea, Egypt, India, and Russia, where Ladas, a poor man's edition of the Fiat, were made.  When Cuba fell out with the US and suffered an embargo of US goods, Russia was ready with the Lada—such as it was. 

Fiat's success in exporting its small cars around the world managed to create 15 million little slab-sided machines all over the world—a number in a class only with Volkswagen Beetles and Model T Fords.  But frankly, the Russian Ladas—at least those in Cuba—are hardly a standard of quality to wave before the world.  Still, they have survived in surprising numbers in Cuba thanks to several factors including—high car prices, low incomes, restrictions an buying new cars, and the prowess of Cuban shade tree mechanics.  Thus I have come to my theme: three Ladas I have known. 

1. The Doctor's Wheels 

On my first trip to Cuba, Christina (HSUS's Latin American Coordinator) and I met Dr. Gilbert Flietes and his charming wife.  They took us to dinner in their Lada, then about 30 years old.  It had a cracked windshield, but you could ignore the crack as it still parted the wind.  It had all of its paint and upholstery, but surely showed its age. 

Now Gilbert was one of the top thoracic surgeons in Cuba.  His American equivalent would have easily earned 1 million dollars a year and driven a Mercedes.  But in Cuba on a salary of perhaps $25 a month, even the best doctors make do with old Ladas.  The good doctor was affiliated with the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine, an important American animal protection group.  Gilbert and his wife had no companion animals at home, but every night, they fed two feral dogs who lived in a nearby park.  My kind of people. 

2. Taxi on a Shoestring 

I wrote about this Lada before.  We found it on a dark Old Havana street late at night after a music show we'd taken in.  The driver negotiated a 15 CUC fare to get us back to our hotel, and we set off on dark, unfamiliar streets.  The car was on its last legs—no upholstery on the doors, and a replacement diesel truck engine whooping up a racket under the hood. 

The driver stopped in a dark gas station and asked me to pay our fare, although we were nowhere near the hotel.  A little discussion revealed he was almost out of gas and needed our fare to pay for more gas and continue driving on.  Having little choice, I paid, and we eventually ended up at our hotel. 

3. Home from the Aquarium 

As we left the Havana Aquarium, there were two taxis waiting on a nearby street.  The first in line was a new Hyundai, and I thought, "We're in luck, as I told him where we wanted to go.  I was dismayed when he ushered us to the old Lada second in line.  A down and out looking young man sat at the wheel as we reluctantly filled all four empty seats.

If the car looked bad on the outside, it was worse on the inside.  The doors lacked upholstery, and the seats were recovered haphazardly in cracked old red leatherette.  The engine sounded like a bulldozer, and the driver told us to slam the doors to get them to stay shut.  He also warned us not to lean on the doors while in motion as they could fly open without warning.  To make matters worse, he didn't know where our hotel was, and I had to give him directions.

It was clear he was an illegal taxi operator.  He had no meter, no sign on the outside, and he explained he would stop and let us out a block away from the hotel just in case any police were there checking for the arrival of illegal taxis.  He did as he said, and we found ourselves on the sidewalk a block from the hotel.  As he drove past the hotel taxi stand, he looked like any other beat up old Lada private car clanking along Calzada Street. 

On a trip to Havana a traveler can hardly miss coming into contact with ancient Ladas—there are so many of them, but you'll soon learn to avoid them if at all possible. 

Les Inglis

Airport Adventure

Airport Adventure

You haven't really entered Cuba until you have cleared the exacting routines in the airport. In the newly remodeled, but still old terminal that US passengers use, you walk in from the apron where the planes stop, enter the building, and stop at a red line to wait for the next available immigration clerk. But the authorities are good and have provided plenty of clerks to move us opn through. My clerk was a nice young woman, who asked me to step back a pace for a camera to take my picture. As soon as that was finished, and with practically no questions, I was buzzed through to the security check and baggage area. The man waved me through the metal detector, and my sport jacket went through the x-ray in a plastic tub.

Again, there were no questions until I was suddenly free to find my two checked bags. I've always admired the way the British cue up for for lines at ticket counters, but I don't think they do it at baggage carrousels. There, and everywhere else, people get up next to the carrousel, and even if you are lucky enough to see your bag, you can't penetrate the forest of people crowded against the moving belt. Eventually through you get there, grab your bag, and turn to face more of the crowd to try to get out. There must be a better way.

And while there were plenty of immigration clerks in their little kiosks, there weren't enough baggage handlers. When the first truckload of bags from our flight was exhausted, there was a long wait while the crew went back to the plane and off-loaded more bags. As luck would have it, my second bag made the second truck with 10 minutes waiting between trucks.

You finally arrive in Cuba when your bags piled on a push cart pass by another clerk collecting baggage tags, and you're through the doors to the outside. The four of us traveling together had 14 bags on two carts, and we scanned the crowd of people meeting travelers for Nora, but could not find her. We progressed slowly to the curbside where the taxis stop without seeing her, and then it happened.

I lifted the front end of one cart and then the other in a little space at sidewalk level and turned to look back at the crowd, searching for Nora. I moved back toward most of the people. No Nora. I stepped down into a little wheelchair ramp, while looking at faces for Nora's. The next step did me in as my left foot swung forward and struck a rough spot in the pavement, pitching me forward in an uncontrolled fall toward the curb in front of me. My head hit the sidewalk and curb with a violent blow, and I felt sure I would not be able to get up again. But now the many people around was an advantage. Several grabbed my arms and body and righted me, and I felt a dizzying pain as I began to gather my bearings. Many asked if I was OK, and I said, "I think so."

An airport worker called the medics, and I was guided toward the building again, bleeding from my forehead, nose and lip. We went into a little nurse's office. Bob was with me, so I didn't worry about the bags or the others in my party. There in the nurses quarters, began 45 minutes of exams and treatment of my wounds. The pain subsided, my handkerchief was soaked with blood, and they convinced me to stop dabbing at the wounds so they could keep them sterile. The dizziness and disorientation subsided, and I eventually made my way back with a nurse guiding me to my fellow travelers. Bob was with me, and the others were still with the bags. Finally, Nora apparently had seen me but couldn't make her way through the crowd or make enough noise to catch our attention. We connected, and I was soon seated in her borrowed van, the bags were loaded, and we were off, hardly comprehending what had happened to me. I was wearing a bandage on the bridge of my nose to remind me of my airport adventure.

Les Inglis

I'll Stand By You

I'll Stand By You

It was 1996, and we were in Washington DC on the Mall in front of the Capitol taking part in the second national March for Animals. That event and another in 1990 was put on by the National Alliance for Animals. Washington DC is a long way to go for most Americans, but this was a very special cause for Charlene and me. It was all about moving the nation toward a more respectful attitude toward all animals. The assembled marchers were promoting the rights of animals and the protection of animals.

We were somewhat disappointed with the turnout for the march. Six years earlier the crowds were larger, their spirits a little higher. Estimating how many actually show up for a demonstration at the Capitol is a political game. If it's your demonstration, you see the attendance as higher, and if it's a group you don't like, your estimates are a little lower, so I didn't play the numbers for either march, but the first was clearly larger.

We were also concerned that another group had chosen the same day for a demonstration at the Capitol. It was a gay and lesbian group, although I can't remember the group's name. But I'll always remember what they did. It was one of those insufferably hot summer days with the temperature over 90, and humidity to match. The sun beat down on all the demonstrators as we milled around at the foot of the huge flights of Capitol steps on the west side of the building. The only drinking water around was a running garden hose laying in one of the closed off streets. I finally decided it couldn't be too dirty, having been running for more than an hour. I drank from it after a number of others had done so.

We wondered where the gay group was and worried a little that they might upstage our efforts for the animals, but we needn't have. Soon, we heard strong familiar piano chords introducing a beautiful female voice. "That's Chrissie Hynde," someone said. "I think she's here for the gays." Well, she was here for us too. At the top of the stairs, they appeared marching to the music single file down both sides of the central stairway. Leading the left side was Dan Mathews, a 6' 5" animal rights hero and Vice President of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. There was no question both groups were united that day, as Chrissie Hynde was sitting on Dan's shoulders belting out her megahit, "I'll Stand ByYou." The animal rights demonstrators were stricken with the friendly gesture and so moved by the soulful rock music. I wasn't the only one wiping a tear away from my eye.

When the night falls on you
Don't know what to do…

I'll stand by you.

The gays filed down the stairs and mixed in with our crowd until no one knew who was from what group. We were suddenly one big family. The haunting music was repeated until all the people were on the mall level, when Chrissie and the band found shade under one of the huge trees. Rejuvenated, invigorated, everyone knew both demonstrations had become wildly successful. I walked over by the tree and saw Chrissie there stretched out on the cool grass. I wanted to tell her how much her music meant to all of us, but, being a little shy, I stayed silent and moved on. After all, the value of her contribution was obvious.

You're standing at the crossroads
Don't know which path to choose…

I'll stand by you.

Ever since that day, whenever we hear Chrissie sing that song, Charlene and I have an emotional moment. I think that's what inspired Charlene to use "I'll Stand ByYou" for the background music for our new The Aniplant Project slideshow. It's a really artistic tribute to suffering animals everywhere. It is dedicated to World Stray Animals Day, today, April 4, 2012. To see it, if you are on our mailing list, you'll get an emailing from Charlene with a link to the slideshow. Be sure your sound is on and click the link.


Les Inglis

Taxi Ride on a Dark Night

Taxi Ride on a Dark Night

One night on my last trip to Havana, our little group decided to take in some Cuban music at a show at the Havana Club. We made a reservation and took a taxi to Old Havana where the Havana Club puts on nightly shows. One reason I like Cuban music events is because Nora is so well connected with the entertainers. She had been adopted as a girl by María Alvarez Rios, a famous author, singer, and songwriter. The other reason is I just like Cuban music.

I was a little worried about how we would get back to the hotel, as the shows end very late in a dark, older part of town. But I needn't have worried. It turned out the Havana Club is only two short blocks from the Central Park area where the cabs are plentiful at all hours.

When the show ended, we walked out, and right away we encountered an old taxi big enough for the five of us. The cabbie said it would be 10CUC, and I agreed, even though getting to the show had only cost 6CUC. I rationalized the difference because of the late hour.

When you get in an old cab in Cuba, you are dealing with a private businessman, not a cab company. Checking the fare ahead of time saves misunderstandings and swindles, although to be fair, I think swindles are no more common in Cuba than in the US. Anyway, we piled in and started off.

In a few blocks we were in unfamiliar territory, but I still had a sense we were going in the right direction. The cab driver turned into a gas station that almost looked unattended. The driver asked me to pay the 10CUC's now so he could use it for gas. Normally I like to pay for a taxi when I get where I'm going, but judging by the condition of the car I understood how he could have started out across town without enough gas to get there, and anyway we needed gas to get back. He took the money, pumped the gas, and we got on our way again.

We got to the hotel without further incident, and I gave the driver a tip, realizing his budget was a lot tighter than mine. On reflecting about our ride later, this was a private enterprise, budding and trying to grow in the midst of one of the last bastions of Communism. Here was a guy piloting an old wreck he had probably fixed while it was up on blocks in front of his house. And there he sat on a dark, deserted street, hoping to get the jump on some of the newer fleet cabs a couple of blocks away by being right there when the show let out. Competition,—one of the bugaboos of communism—was alive and well that night in Old Havana.

Our driver was a capitalist, an entrepreneur—living by his wits and managing his resources, in this case gas and money, as tightly as he could.

I had to admire his venturesome spirit.

Les Inglis