Advice for the Average Depressed Millennial

millennials and depressionIn Berlin’s infuriating glitterscape I know three entire people who have written their own manifestos. Three: Annie, Emily, Dave. I like that; set down on wax who you are, what you are for, how you justify your existence, and what specific pains and lessons the earth has wrought upon you to fashion you into the sentient rib-eye steak you are today. The attempted manifestation of the blueprint of an individual’s soul; after being inspired by my friends, here is my own, about a subject very close to my heart; the sickness of my generation.
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Cuba Day 12 – Havana Good Time (I’m not sorry)

Day 12 in Cuba, and I’d fallen in love with the country. The rough ride at the start of the trip was kind of necessary in order to properly appreciate the second half. Just because I was no longer getting robbed and/or electrocuted doesn’t mean there wasn’t an adventure or two left, though…

Very disturbing thing happened last night. Was woken up by a woman shouting in the street at maybe 4am. She was shouting in Spanish, the same thing over and over. I could hear her as she came up the street and as she got nearer, I could hear something in her cries that was chilling. Her voice sounded desperate and fearful, repeating the Spanish phrase over and over, louder and louder, echoing around the silent street. A couple of voices called back to her at one point. I wish I knew what she was saying. It sounded like cries for help – or possibly the wails of a mad woman. Either way, it was horrible and I lay awake in bed long after her screams had faded away into the distance.

At 5am, I was woken again by hammering on the front door, over and over, and then the doorbell ringing frantically. I heard my casa owner answer the door, but heard no conversation. It truly is an intimidating country when you are unable to speak the language. My number one piece of advice to any traveller wanting to visit would be to learn at least basic Spanish, and not to travel alone. Really underestimated the difficulties I would face here, alone and unable to communicate.

I got up for breakfast at 7, moron that I am, because my casa owner speaks no English at all and refuses to slow down her rapid Spanish, meaning I agreed to eat at the crack of dawn by accident in garbled Spanglish. Woke up still hammered again and was subjected to breakfast that was merely huge, rather than the usual gargantuan offering. Consistency is not a concept that exists in Cuba.

After a joyous 30 minute fiesta of a toilet session, which is becoming part of my daily routine as my stomach slowly packs in, I shoved my things in my backpack and left quickly, with the casa owner waxing lyrical about something that I hope wasn’t important because I stared blankly and left.

Went to the bank, asked for 30 cuc, she tried to withdraw 300, took some explaining but got there eventually. Some old guy flogged me a cigar for a cuc which I sat and smoked in the town square as various stray dogs asked for food and stray Cubans asked for my sunglasses. The dogs were considerably less persistent.

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The town square. Filled with shuffling priests by day and gyrating prostitutes by night.

Found a taxi to Havana for 15cuc – very cheap, like a 2 hour journey for a tenner. Joining me in the knackered old classic car was a German girl called Hannah who has been here for a month. She is visiting Cuba in memory of her late father, who listened to salsa music all his life, sharing his passion with her. He never got to visit the country. Really touching. Silver lining – he never got electrocuted and impaled in the shower, either.

We had a great conversation about Cuba, music, politics, films and sociology – it’s her degree. She was impressed by my media production degree – I was reluctant to shatter her illusion of it having any practical use. She asked me my three favourite films. Not necessarily favourites, but I recommended Scott Pilgrim, Airplane and American Beauty. Hopefully she’ll enjoy at least one of those!

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At one point our driver pulled over in the middle of the motorway. The gentleman pictured wandered over across the six lane motorway and sold him a string of garlic. They argued about the price for a while. To this day I am yet draw a satisfactory conclusion as to what the hell anyone would need that much garlic for.

Back at Casa De Ania now, Martin and Sanya are exploring the city somewhere. Will no doubt see them later and then it will be party time.

Part 2

Went out and grabbed something to eat from a street stall and had a beer walking through the city. Didn’t hang about as the heat was fierce.

Met a Canadian guy called Sammy at the casa who had just arrived after fleeing the unfathomable dullness of his all inclusive week at Varadero.

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A street. Marvel at it.

Two familiar bronzed German faces arrived back at the casa. Was great to see them again. Martin has a sunburned lip that has become infected. Looks a mess. He’s mortified. Hilarious.

Writing this two days later. Past two days have been a rum soaked blur. Met more people as Ania’s – a 38 year old Chilean woman called Fransisca who visits Cuba all the time, and an English artist called Joe who’s 22 and has been funded to go to Cuba to draw the country – pretty epic.

Fransisca told us about some local place by the seafront and we all piled in a taxi there, four of us crammed in the back on top of each other. Was a cool salsa bar overlooking the ocean with a large dancefloor. As soon as we arrived we grabbed some beers and were dragged onto the dancefloor by Fransisca, where a group salsa lesson was being led by a yelling Cuban man. Failed miserably to keep up with the locals and soon sacked it off and slumped on a wall nursing my beer, watching the Cubans flinging each other about.

Got pretty smashed pretty quickly and somehow lost everyone in a bar about the size of a tennis court. Assumed they’d gone home for some reason and got a taxi back by myself. Driver tried to rip me off by pretending he had no change. Refused to hand over the fiver he was asking for and he soon miraculously found a couple of Cucs in his pocket.

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This photo isn’t relevant to anything. It’s the national ballet theatre or something. It’s a nice photo though. Shame not to include it somewhere. Pretty lights.

Drunkenly woke a homeless man while stumbling past and handed him five Cucs. He was still bleary from his sleep and held the money up to a light to see if it was real. Seemed grateful and confused.

Everyone else got back around 12 and angrily told me they had spent 30 minutes trying to find me. Whoops.

BED

Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 13 – Malecon Wankers

“Cuban police do not fuck about.”

Cuba Day 10 – Viñales Vagabonds

Day 10 in Cuba, and after more than a week of having my ego constantly buggered, things started to look up. More or less. Enjoy!

Was woken at 2am by voices and music next door. Heard a familiar drum beat – someone was playing Alt J! Nearly wept with joy and went to find whoever it was, but alas, their door was closed. Could hear multiple people speaking in English. Was desperate to speak to them but didn’t dare knock and enter their room for fear of looking like a lonely maniac. As I got back into bed, Arctic Monkeys came on. Hearing that familiarity, my favourite band, and with potential friends so close but so far, was probably the lowest point of my trip.

Got up early as I farted in bed and nearly shit my pants. Turns out I have diarrhoea now, to add to my top trumps card of various ailments, maladies and inconveniences.

Paid the casa girl and left. Couldn’t find anywhere open selling food or water, so didn’t drink or eat. Went to Casa de Ania to wait for the taxi. Met a German girl and a girl from Nottingham who were very friendly, on a five month world trip.

Taxi arrived – a big old brown Chevrolet. Picked up six other passengers – two girls and a guy from Isreal, a German guy, and a Dutch couple. Starting to notice a theme here.

We all got chatting as we sped down the deserted motorway, banging our heads on the roof as we bounced over various potholes and being flung to either side as we skidded around trotting wild dogs. We all got on well. Stopped for a break and the Israeli guy went for a shit in a bush.

Waiting for the Isreai guy to poo.

Drove on to a tobacco farm just outside Vinales. Saw the owner roll a cigar in front of us which we passed around amid much photograph taking. Had rum and coffee in his house and bought five cigars for a cuc each – bargain, and very high quality. Not that I would know.

Tobacco farm.

We each got dropped at our casas, mine has a great mountain view in a quiet street. Sat in a rocking chair on the porch and aged 50 years. Was meant to meet the others but I’m bloody knackered.

Part 2

Heaved myself out of bed. Went to find the Dutch couple, Marie Claire and Sina, who is originally Iranian. They’re both doctors. Sky was thundering and lightning but not a drop of rain. They arrived late after getting lost, and had already been on the mojitos, so were pretty relaxed.

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Bumped into the German engineer, called Martin, in the street. We all went for a cerveza or three. Met another German couple whose names escape me. Went to a restaurant but didn’t bother eating, partially due to lack of funds.

Everyone, especially Sina, got hammered. Had a fascinating talk with our Cuban waiter. He used to be a high school teacher but left to become a waiter as the pay is better, enabling him to support his family. He works long hours and lives miles and miles away in the city, as does his wife. He doesn’t think Cuba will change when the Americans arrive – although he hopes it will. He told us that Vinales, Trinidad, Veradero are not real Cuba – this is just what tourists see.

After the waiter's warnings, the sight of these 30 police officers standing stoic on a street corner in the middle of the night was made all the more eerie.

The nation is the most contradictory and enigmatic I have ever visited. The more we talked, the more his frustrations with the country came out. He isn’t supposed to voice his opinions, and kept checking around as he spoke for authoritative ears. He doesn’t like Castro. He said school aren’t incentivised, poverty is rampant and the system doesn’t work. Something in the way he spoke – secretive, passionate, desperate, made me uncomfortable. Every Cuban says something different. I want to see behind the curtain.

As Sina put it when we left the restaurant, ‘A look into the eyes of real Cuba’.

After, we headed to the casa de la musica for drinks. Was forced to have a mojito by the barmaid despite asking for a beer. Meh. Was a good mojito. Spoke extensively with one of the German guys about immigration and Syria, which I pretended to know far more about than I actually do.

When the music started up I heard English accents at the bar and met two English girls. Had a brief chat before the music got too loud and they were whisked away to salsa. Having an extended conversation with a female at any casa de la musica is nigh impossible.

I can't dance Salsa, but I can sing the first few lines of Justin Timberlake's Senorita, which is basically the same thing.

Got pretty smashed with Sina and Martin. Girls don’t ask guys to dance, so if you lack the confidence to ask a girl or the know-how to salsa, you ain’t gonna salsa. The three of us guys stood at the side of the dancing, acting like we didn’t want to dance anyway. Eventually we just said fuck it and got in amongst it.

Booze started to turn on me and we thankfully left just as I was reaching my well documented monging stage. Sat outside with Martin for a bit and were solicited by prostitutes – which Martin turned down because they were too expensive.

Said goodnight and staggered off home, only getting lost briefly in the sleepy streets of the small mountain town. A good day.

BED

Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 11 – Tanning with Belgian Riot Police

“We were a real motley crew, with three or four languages criss crossing the table constantly and me nodding sagely, smiling knowingly, and pretending I had a clue what anybody was on about.”