You Can Leave Your Hat On (The Bus) - Tragedy in Trinidad, Cuba

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You Can Leave Your Hat On (The Bus) - Tragedy in Trinidad, Cuba

Sun 01/06 - 05/06/08

I leave the hotel Paradisus just before 1pm, and arrive at the main coach terminal. I'm headed for Trinidad, a small town South East of Varadero. The terminal is crowded and noisy, and I attract unwanted attention from a pair of fat, bad-manned guys, who find me interesting because I'm English and alone. I can't work out whether these pigs are local or tourists like me. One is ginger-haired and covered in vile, greasy boils, skin like a carrot-topped pizza. He stands opposite me, sweaty and rank. The other is darker and balder, and sat down next to me. I suspect he has inclinations to molest me, and I make plans to strike first should he get too close.

The ginger one keeps saying something, mumbled and incoherent. He's clearly under the influence of some form of intoxicant. "Wenon carty." He repeats this over and over, pointing at me. What the fuck is he saying? Is he trying to provoke me? Put on a curse? "Feebles, yes?" I narrow my eyes and fix up for fighting. I'll give you feebles, motherfucker. Now, the other one is joining in: "Hennon carty. Liverpool."

I'm feeling tired and anxious. I wish these savages would leave me be. I'm not feeling especially good about the journey ahead. Having sheltered in safety in five star luxury, I'm alone again, vulnerable, exposed. "Hennon carty. Beebles." Beebles? Wha - Beatles? Are you trying to say Beatles, you primeval piece of shit? Lennon and MCartney, the Beatles? Jesus Christ, that was a struggle. I nod irritably. Yes, the Beatles are from Liverpool, England. Congratulations. We're united through common knowledge of rock and roll. Now will you promise not to fucking violate me?

Eventually, I manage to escape. I move through into another waiting room, and purchase my ticket. I share the bus with three other people, who all get off in Cienfuegos, leaving me alone with the two drivers all the way to Trinidad. When I arrive, I can see a large crowd of taxi drivers and Jineterismos, all eager to shunter me off to whatever hostel is paying them commission. I've lost my taste for this shit completely. I'm so tired and worn. I'm sick of being treated as a tourist - a commodity, a means to an end. The glamour has been sucked out of travelling, and now the familiarity is breeding contempt.

I wearily pick up my bags, and step off the bus. I ask someone to point me in the direction of my hostel, and as I expected, they start to lead me there instead. I can't be bothered to argue. When we arrive I put down my things and speak to the owner. My guide hangs around at the front door, and I keep my back to her, hoping she'll lose interest and leave without me having to provide any kind of pavement. Sure enough, I get my wish. The hostel manger tells me his bathroom is completely fucked, and says he has another place nearby. He takes me there and introduces me to his two daughters, who live in the casa.

As they show me to the guest room at the back of the house, I fail to properly negotiate a step, catching my foot. The weight of two bags unbalances me and sends me sprawling flat on my face. I try to regain my cool as several people rush to my aid, insisting I'm okay. My smile is a broken one. I can't even see the funny side any more. The room is comfortable enough. I go for a wander to get my bearings, as usual failing completely and getting lost in the network of streets, eventually finding my way home just as night closes in. I eat dinner in the casa, and then sleep.


I wake. Immediately, I know something is wrong. Immediately, I know what it is. Jesus fucking Christ. A black wave of horror washes over me, and I feel the colour drain from my face like blood from a carcass. The Magic Man Hat. Before I even look, I know it isn't here. A quick rummage through my things confirms my worst fears. What did I do? What the fuck did I do? A flashback, to yesterday, as I get on the bus. I put my main bag on a seat across from me, and my smaller one at my side. I stand, and reach up to place the hat on the storage shelf above my seat. Oh god. What the fuck was I thinking? How could I be so fucking dumb?

I want to tear down the walls I'm so angry. I wanna crush myself into a tiny ball, and rip my eyes from their sockets. There are times in everyone's life when you cross a line, and you suddenly realise that you can never go back and undo what has just occurred. Sometimes, these moments are relatively insignificant; you're trying to take off a favourite necklace and in frustration you pull too hard and break it; you tell somebody's secret and they never trust you again; you take off your wedding ring to wash up and don't grip it hard enough and it disappears down the drain. Other times, the result is more destructive. You take your eyes off the road for a split second to tune the radio, and somebody loses the ability to walk. That shocking sinking feeling that crawls all over your body as your realise your mistake, and digest the sickening, unshakeable finality of what you have done. No going back. No mulligans. You live or die by it but it can't be erased. Be it decision, indecision or simple lapse in concentration, you don't get to roll again.

Damn it, haven't I been punished enough? Are my sins that great? I don't believe it's by design, though, no matter have comforting it is to pass the buck. This is my own doing. My own incredible stupidity has caused this unbelievable tragedy. The Magic Man Hat was my life blood. I loved it like a brother. I wore it and held it close in so many tender and unforgettable moments, and I repay my dearest companion with abandonment. I feel physically sick.

I try to get it together. It might not be too late. I rush down to the coach station, and try to explain to the woman in the ticket office. Sombrero. I left my sombrero on the bus. She shakes her head. Nothing has been handed in, and the bus has gone back to Varadero, apparently not to return until the weekend, by which time I will be gone. I ask if she can phone the office back in Varadero. She shakes her head again. Why the fuck not? Just pick up the phone and tell the two drivers I want my hat back. I try to explain that it's not just any old hat. I try to convey the sentimental attachment. She is unmoved. I consider making up some story - telling her my dying wife gave me the hat as a present, but the woman before me is a hard faced bitch and I'm not going to indulge in any further moral corruption unless I have a good chance of a positive pay-off. Fuck it, then.

I return to the room, before briefly going out. I find an internet cafe, and surf at unbelievably slow rates. I send an email to my travel agent. I want to bring my flight home forward. My mind has snapped. I'm an empty husk. Pretty vacant, drowning in sorrow, howling at the cruel moon. Bring me home, Scotty. Warp factor five, full ahead, and on and on. The rain begins to pour at 6pm, and I walk back to the casa, not afraid of a drenching. I take off my wet clothes and get into bed. This day is over. There is nothing more to be done other than sleep and hope for better things to come. No dinner tonight. No drinks, no nothing. The Magic Man Hat is out there somewhere, enduring unbearable suffering. Lost, lonely, confused and abandoned. Forced to adorn a new head. Forced to adapt to new styles. I won't ever forget my dear friend, and I won't ever forget what I've done.

Tuesday. I get up in a mildly more positive state. I have to let go. I have to accept that the hat is gone, and I will never see it again. I walk around the town, taking in the various sights. Trinidad is a strange place. An old colonial town full of historic buildings, I none the less find it hard to work out exactly why there are so many tourists walking its cobbled streets. They stalk in packs, clustered together tightly while the locals look on from their doorways and street corners.

Sure, Trinidad has a quaint charm. Sitting in the Casa de la Musica, sipping Crystal and listening to live bands is a healthy way to pass the time, and I like just wondering aimlessly, down lonely alleys and empty streets, away from the Plaza Mayor, where the foreign contingent huddle. I just think that taken into context and compared with all the places I've been, it seems a little underwhelming.

Trinidad is high on the list of places you're meant to visit in Cuba, alongside Havana and Santiago, but aside from a small cluster of buildings in the centre, there isn't much here. That doesn't mean I don't like it. It just doesn't quite compute when you walk down a street smeared street baking under the harsh sun, and bump into thirty pale Europeans, clutching maps, dressed in white and wearing panama hats. Shouldn't they be somewhere cleaner? Should they even know that this place exists?

Wednesday. I'm up early, having booked an excursion to the Topes de Collantes, an area 800m above sea level full of tropical forests and natural beauty. My latests instalment of money should be cleared and ready for withdrawal today. The bank opens at 8am and closes at 3pm, so I need to get down there before I leave for the trip. As usual, I'm running low on cash and at the mercy of the complications of my financial logistics.

I approach the counter (there are no ATMs in Trinidad), handing over my passport and bank card. I request 200cucs. The cashier swipes my card, and his machine beeps and prints out a ticket. He looks up at me and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. You have no funds." That old familiar feeling I know so well. I close my eyes. How much more of this before I buy a gun and kill a lot of people? Stay calm. Maybe the money hasn't come through yet. Maybe, it will take one more day.

I walk to the tourist office and meet up with my tour guide. There are seven of us altogether in the party - two couples, and two other single guys, all of us roughly the same age. Our guide is called Pepe, and looks like a retired army Colonel. We drive up the steep hillside, sat in the back of large truck. We stop briefly at the top, where an anti-stress centre is located, before driving on to a coffee plantation and then the start of our hike.

We walk through the forest, down a steep, rocky path. The views out over the valley and across the tree tops are amazing, and I feel my troubles washing away, at home again in the jungle. After almost two hours walking we reach a waterfall and a murky brown pool, where the Argentinian couple decide to take a swim. We rest for a while, and then walk back up.

The Argentinians are slow walkers, and Pepe hangs back with them while the rest of us march on ahead. The humidity is unbelievable, worse than in any other jungle I've been in, and the sweat pours off me. I thought I was pretty fit, but we're being led at a mad pace by a Moroccan girl, and when we finally stop for a break after an hour of non stop climbing, I can't hide my relief. We crack on again, and emerge at the top, conveniently right next to a bar. Cold beer never tasted so good.

Pepe and the others arrive 45 minutes later, and we get picked up, and taken to a restaurant for lunch. I get back into town after 3.30, and head to the internet cafe, to check the balance on my Barclaycard and find out why my money was unavailable this morning. When I eventually log on, I can see that the money is there. So, what does this mean? I try to get my head around time zones and what constitutes a full working day, and as far as I can tell, there's no reason why my money would be there this afternoon, but not this morning.

I'm so used to banks fucking me, I can only assume that this is what has happened again. I use a phone in the cafe to make an international call, but before I even get through the automated service, my credit runs out. I spend 20 of my last 35cucs on a new phone card. I watch, panicked, pouring with sweat, as the credit drips rapidly away as I negotiate my way through the fucking numbered options. This is supposed to be a fucking emergency number! I'm on hold. My phone card is down to 13cucs. I'm still on hold. I'm down to less than ten. There's no way, even if I get through, that I'll have time to prove who I am and get any problem ironed out. With 13cucs of credit eaten away in less than four minutes, and still on hold, I hang up the phone in disgust.

This is unbelievable. I sit down in the cafe, a broken man. Outside, the rain pours down and thunder rumbles. My t-shirt is drenched with sweat. Adrenaline is flooding my body, the muscles in my head tense and heavy; my heart pounding, capillaries popping and arteries pulled tight, aching under the strain. If this goes on, the damage will be permanent. The coroner will scratch his head and wonder how the hell a fit, healthy young man ended up with a hole in his chest the size of a football, dead from an explosive multiple-cardiac eruption.

I stare vacantly as outside, the carnage continues. It's only been raining for a few minutes, but with such relentless ferocity that now the streets are flooded. Water pours in a deluge down the incline of the main street, spilling out of the drains, covering the pavements and carrying with it a mass of debris, rubbish and filth. This is biblical shit. Finally, they're coming for me. People are running for shelter, dashing into the cafes and shops. Dogs yelp and whine, as they fight to keep their heads above water, and several brave souls rush to help them, pulling them free of the swirling currents.

Several times, the patrons of the cafe ask if I'd like a drink. I just shake my head slowly, eyes glazed, the fixed, dead expression of resigned despair clinging to my face like fresh surgery. I'd say my situation was pretty grim. Rational, with sleep, familiar surroundings and a friend or two, it'd be no big deal. We'd laugh about it, raise our eyebrows and give it the ol' "what are you like" heave ho. Alone, in a communication black hole, with sparse facilities and no friends in ear shot, I can see no easy way out of the rabbit hole. The earth is caving in, and we're choking for lack of solid ground.

Having wasted money on a useless phone card, I'm got about twelve pestos left. I need to leave Trinidad tomorrow, and pay my hotel bill. If my bank card is blocked, I will need at least 20cucs to make the phone call to get it sorted, meaning I need to raise 10cucs somehow. The only way I can see to do it is to ask the owners of my casa if I can borrow the money. Although a seemingly simple task, it fills me with dread and despair. Taking into account the language barriers, will they understand my predicament? Will they take offence? Will they be angry or upset? I don't take social disapproval well, and asking poor people for money just seems inherently wrong, even if I pay it back with interest. Even worse, what if I don't get through to the bank, or the problem can't be fixed so easily? Will I have to ask for more?

Eventually, the rain subsides and the water levels lower enough for me to return home. I pack all my shit up. I try to remain positive and focused. Plan A, go back to the bank, try to get money again. If this fails, take one of two options: Run away, or beg, borrow or steal.

Morning breaks. The sun is out. All my things are packed, ready for a quick getaway should it be required. I take a deep breath. It's ten to eight, but it feels more like high noon. I walk out into the street, and begin the slow march down to the bank. I feel like a gunslinger, heading off for a showdown, a gentle funeral beat and the hushed whispers of townsfolk ushering me towards me fate.

As I walk, my eye is caught by movement in the gutter. I look down, and see two new born kittens. One is motionless, dead before it even had the chance to open its eyes. The other still struggles, helpless and abandoned. I walk on. Over and over in my head, I repeat the words: "Please, let me have money." Am I praying? Begging? Willing the world to love me? I have no idea, but I don't stop, not for a second, until I reach the counter and hand over my card to the same cashier as yesterday.

Silently, he takes the card. I places it into a machine, and turns to his computer, and types something. The machine makes a noise. "Please, let me have money, please...." The machine prints something out. The cashier frowns. My heart may have stopped for a second, but my pathetic pleads continue. "Please...." The machine continues to print. The man continues to type. I'm slowly daring to believe. A draw is opened, and the cashier takes out a pile of fresh notes. I still won't celebrate. Not until I'm certain. He counts out 250cucs, and places them on the counter. He looks up at me, stoic. "Have a nice day."

My face is stony. This could be a test. I nod, turn slowly, and walk, placing the notes in my wallet as I do so. I exit the bank. I will not celebrate. I will not crack a smile. I begged, and somehow, I got what I asked for. I'm off the hook, and I'll maintain a bit of dignity. I'm so fucking tired anyway, I don't think I could summon the energy for any kind of outburst. I walk back to the casa. I pay my bill. I hang around town for a while, and at three, I get on another bus, and drift out of town, enemies vanquished.

Destination, Havana. Back to the start. I need civilisation and modern amenities. I need the internet. I need time and space to recharge and make plans. Maybe I'll go home early, maybe I won't. It will all depend on the next few days. If things lighten up and start to go my way, I'll see it through to the end. I close my eyes, and think of the Magic Man Hat. Rest easy, old friend. May you find happiness, a head less full of stupidity and something better than dumb, fucking luck.




*This blog is dedicated to the Magic Man Hat; the best thing I ever put on my head.

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