August 20, 2005
La Boda de Claudia y Ulises
“¡Qué padre sería si vuelvan ustedes para la boda!” said Claudia on our last night in Guanajuato over an intense game of Mexican Monopoly and a few beers. Maybe she was just trying to distract me strategically as I was winning the game, but when she said it again, that was all it took to convince Peter and I to backtrack through central Mexico the following weekend to attend her and Ulises’ wedding. Right away, we knew we wouldn’t miss it for the world. While at our language school, we had spent a lively and fun two weeks living with the Prado family. We were thrilled at the notion of coming back to see this wonderful family and touched that they would give us such a special reason to do so.
The head of the household Maria Elena, her three daughters, Claudia, Myra, and Haydeé, and her son Alex kept us well fed and speaking Spanish and always laughing. Their house never stops flowing with activity and people. The four siblings, all university students, would zip off to class all in different directions at different times driving their car or on Claudia´s scooter through the winding streets and tunnels of town. When we arrived to stay with them, the family was hosting another student Ryan from Alaska who had just begun his year-long stay in Guanajuato with the family. Eldest sister Flavia would visit from Leon with the little star of the family, four-year-old Jorge Alexander. Neighbors/siblings/comedians Barbara and Fernando would drop by almost everyday for a laugh. Sam, novia de Alex, Reynaldo, novio de Maria Elena, and Ulisis, novio and fiancé de Claudia would stay for long evenings of comida and conversation. The family had made great friends (¿amigos o amigovios, Haydeé?) with former students Sebastián and Jamie, who were in town visiting for the wedding. It was amazing that amid all of this melee, and with a wedding about to take place, they still had room for us and made us feel at home. We felt incredibly lucky.
The following Saturday with much anticipation, we returned to our new hometown of Guanajuato, dressed ourselves up as best we could, and caught a taxi up to the Templo La Valenciana, a dazzling ancient church perched on a hill overlooking the city. Claudia had told us that the ceremony was to start at 1:30 in the afternoon even though 1 pm was printed on the invitations. We arrived at 1:15, and to our dismay, a ceremony was already occurring inside. We snuck into the church, and after scrutinizing the bride and groom for a few minutes, we realized that this was not Claudia and Ulises’ wedding. Hoping that we had our information right, we quietly tip-toed out of the church to look for someone we knew. With relief, we spotted Ulises outside looking sharp in his tails and shiny new shoes from León. Happy and ready to be married, he gave us hugs and began to greet his other guests that had begun to arrive. We saw the sisters and Alex, and ran over to see them. Their little cousins and nephew Jorge Alexander arrived all dressed up and full of energy. The courtyard outside the church was full of guests. It was to be expected that pastors in especially important churches would perform more than one wedding in a day, and so we waited. Claudia and her entourage arrived in the polished Escalade that Ulises had borrowed from GM, but she stayed out of sight. Suddenly the church emptied, we entered, and the ceremony began. Claudia, looking fabulous and happy, walked up the aisle with her uncle. The golden façade of the church glimmered in the candlelight throughout the ceremony and mass.
Templo La Valenciana is named for La Mina Valenciana, a famous colonial mine of Guanajuato. After the ceremony, we made our way down the street to the grounds of La Mina for the reception, and were greeted with tequila shots served in roma tomatoes. The party had begun! Bright colors swirled (maybe an effect of the tequila), little kids ran around on the grass in their nice clothes and threw themselves onto the inflatable trampoline that was set up for them, a lively band began to play, and Ulisis and Claudia entered in the Escalade to cheers and toasts. Dinner was served, and the dancing began.
The newlyweds danced the first dance. As Ulises skillfully swung her around the dance floor, I remembered that Claudia had mentioned that Ulises and his family loved loved loved to dance salsa. Next the couples danced with their parents and then the rest of their family joined them. Las solteras (single ladies) were called to the dance floor for the legendary bouquet toss, but first they joined hands and danced around the newlyweds and then around the entire reception. It began to rain and thunder, but under the tent no one seemed to notice. Everyone got up to dance. As the night went on, the music changed from salsa to ranchero to brazilian carnival to popular latin music. The band played their last song, a line dance, said goodbye and left the reception.
By this time it was around 9 pm, and Peter and I were convinced that the night must be coming to an end. But…nobody got up to leave. Everyone mingled and kept on talking in the candlelight. The newlyweds circled the room laughing and talking. The bar was still serving drinks. And suddenly, out of the darkness a full mariachi band entered. The dancing and serenading continued. Beautiful and exhausting, exhilarating and drunkenly happy, the wedding continued after midnight. Claudia and Ulisis visited and talked with guests until everyone but the families had left—unbelievable, because they had a five o’clock A.M. flight to New York to catch to begin their honeymoon. At the night´s end, we thanked them and said our goodbyes to the fun-loving, generous and kind Prado family. Alex and Fernando dropped us off at our little hotel, and we said goodnight to Guanajuato and the gorgeous night.
Querida familia:
Muchísimas gracias para todos. ¡Qué familia y boda increíble! Ojalá que le disfruten las fotos. Nos vemos. Muchas felicidades y mucha suerte,
Peter y Emily
Posted by Emily Marie Stremel Mork at 4:21 PM | Comments | TrackBack
August 15, 2005
En Fuego
I am trying to make peace with our experience in Cuba. A month later, as I read over my thoughts and look at our photos of Havana, I try to find a compromise between the serene images of the city and my fiery words. Why did I react so strongly?
Why can’t I be more like my Spanish conversation teacher, Miguel, (Joe Cool, as Peter and I call him secretly), a Mexico City native with long flowing curly hair and a swagger; he’s a student of literature and a bartender, and every morning, I question whether his heart is really into leading a group of four foreigners in discussion. But he’s a well-read, brooding, thoughtful fellow, and he perked up one day when our discussion turned to Cuba, and I described our visit a bit. Upon my description of how the poverty surprised me: “The poverty is as bad if not worse here in Mexico, on the outskirts of the cities, in the south,” he said quietly. A fellow student, an ESL teacher from North Carolina piped in with the anticipated: “And at least in Cuba, everyone is given food, shelter, and an education.” I asked Miguel if he’d visited Cuba, yes he had. “What do you think?” He responded again by comparing Cuba to Mexico… shrugging his shoulders. He had not reacted the way I had. And I quickly realized that my reaction was limited to Cuba. Not to excuse or ignore the problems in Mexico by any means, but what I see in Mexico has not disturbed me in the same way. Why?
In the streets of Havana, I looked for the culture I had gotten a glimpse of in Cuban communities in other countries and had loved: the music, the flavor, the love for life. Being foreigners in Havana, it elluded us. It was like looking for something that seemed to always be just around the next corner, but never was. We weren’t lucky enough to meet a person our own age willing to show us how happy they were, and what it was that made them love life. And we refused to simply be tourists: we only could observe and listen and absorb. We’ve been called super-libertarians in a super-socialist country by another American blogger, our age, who spent about the same amount of time in Cuba as we did. He feels like we aren’t representing Cuba fairly. He met a Mexican student and her circle of Cuban friends, and loved it. He even became chummy with a police officer. How different than our experience!
How can you argue with such a wonderful ideal, such an incredible end: equality? Food for everyone, healthcare for everyone, shelter, employment and an opportunity of a free university education for everyone: all noble goals. For forty years, these ideals have taken the driver´s seat in Cuba, at the expense of some very important liberties which I personally hold dear but often take for granted.
What made me livid was this: despite this incredible Cuban sacrifice of basic freedoms (to associate, to speak freely, to own property, to elect government representatives) in order to sustain a system of providing for everyone, it was clear that everyone does not live equally. I saw people living in poverty who were completely disallusioned and I saw others who were much more comfortable. We spoke with people in both situations. I was seeing a great deal of support for scholarship for those that got the grades and excelled in sciences or in the arts. For the rest, I only saw people in basic jobs without much else to live for. Their hands are tied.
I suppose Miguel would argue that you see this same lack of hope in Mexico but without the noble goals.
However, in Mexico, at the very least, I see both loud and subtle public displays of criticism of President Vicente Fox and of the deeds of the Mexican and foreign governments. Mexican teachers are comfortable teaching their students to be critical of everything. I see an incredibly vibrant informal economy in which those who are struggling can be a part of. I see a plethora of cheap internet access allowing ideas to be exchanged without restriction. And despite the difficult political realities of the past and present, I see enthusiasm for the upcoming 2006 presidential election. These basic interactions, alive in Mexico, are seemingly absent in Cuba.
The Cuban government with one hand provides, at inexpensive prices, the bare necessities to live, yet with the same powerful hand, sweeps away any interactions that would allow people to help themselves. We spent time with Cubans who wished to show us what a great life the system has provided for them and others. They have lived full lives, have raised children (who are now in Canada and the U.S.), consider themselves to be lifetime scholars, loved their jobs, have a wonderful apartment in a beautiful part of town, and now are lucky enough to have a license to make extra income by renting out part of their home to foreigners. Yet in the same breath, they are critical of their system. They have lived on the fortunate end of the socialist stick, while there are many who have not. Those that express their discontent publicly are quickly silenced. The same people that freely march and hang banners in the Plaza de Armas in Guadalajara, Mexico declaring Fox and Bush imbeciles or the G8 a gang of mafiosos, if they happened to be Cuban in Cuba criticizing Fidel Castro in this way, they would be strung up as contra-revolucionarios.
To me it seems that there is a wide held belief in the U.S. and elsewhere that people in Cuba are content with their form of socialism. Cubans have been denied a voice in their political system as long as Castro has been in power. How can we just shrug our shoulders assuming that Cubans must not have the same kind criticism of their government as we do of ours, when they are silenced by force from speaking publicly about it? Or worse, how can we excuse the Cuban government for forcing its citizens into a kind of numb silence?
As noble as the goals may be and as complicated as the situation has become, I refuse to simply shrug my shoulders. All I can do is try to give something of a voice to those we spoke with in Cuba who are miserable, because while publicly numb, privately they are full of life and about to explode.
Serene, peaceful and compromising this entry is not. But at least I can now look at the photos I took and realize that we were exposed to a wonderful, vibrant, and inspiring part of la cultura Cubana: the inextinguishable fire.
Posted by Emily Marie Stremel Mork at 10:37 AM | Comments | TrackBack
July 11, 2005
Romeo y Julieta
No photos are allowed at the cigar factory Romeo y Julieta. We chose to go to this particular factory because the Romeo y Julieta cigars are my dad’s favorite. Cigars in Cuba sell for between $5 and $25 apiece officially. They are exported everywhere (except the U.S.). Peter and I were very interested in getting a glimpse of an industry famously Cuban. The family that began Romeo y Julieta had fled to the Dominican Republic after the revolution in 1959, and continues to make and sell them from the DR. On our tour, the guide told us, “This factory has been in operation since 1865.” She did not mention that the original business was seized by the government and that all cigar factories were nationalized after the revolution. This was the situation of nearly all businesses in Cuba after 1960.
Today, all of the famously Cuban cigar brands (Cohiba, Romeo y Julieta, Montecristo, Joya de Monterrey) are rolled and processed in all of the state-run factories, but packaged as they always have been. What make each brand different from one another are 1) the mold of the cigar and 2) the blend of different varietals of tobacco leaves. It reminds me of the wine industry. Imagine if all the great wineries in the Napa Valley were seized and nationalized. The creativity required to fill little niches in the marketplace would be snuffed. It would be a narrow, unchanging, expensive world for people who enjoy wine. Cuba’s motto seems to be “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”. Rows and rows of cubanos roll cigar after cigar by hand. There is an earthy, sepia-filtered feel to the massive rooms. The leaves stain the workbenches, and the lighting is an amber-glow. There is a buzz; a hum of worker bees. Nothing has changed in 50 years, it seems. I can hardly see straight because of all the irony. How strange that the Cuban government, founded on the abolition of private enterprise for “moral” reasons, so heavily relies economically on the original ideas and methods of those entrepreneurs it ran out of the country. It’s because private enterprise is the only thing that seems to keep an economy afloat; the only thing that keeps people fed; the only thing that gives people hope.
(All the names of Cubans in these posts have been changed as a precautionary measure)
Posted by Emily Marie Stremel Mork at 11:59 PM | Comments | TrackBack
July 9, 2005
Los Suecos
We walked everywhere to see what had happened last night to the city. It was storming. The streets were drenched. The electricity was out for most of the city, and many people, tourists and cubanos, were wandering about during the sporadic pauses in the storm. We noticed a few interesting characters: an innocent-looking old man in green in Plaza de Catedral. I asked if I could take his photo; he smiled and said yes. After I took it and thanked him, he asked for 5 pesos convertibles ($5 US)! I shook my said and said no, offering him 1, which he took. Another character was a humongous woman: she was at least 6’3, was in a skimpy dress and was water-drenched. She walked along with the tide of tourists and approached us and everyone else—a huge toothy smile, and arm outreaching to our shoulders, lurching, “Take my photo,” she said again and again in English.
In the late afternoon, we witnessed the back streets of Havana come alive. Without electricity, cubanos built small fires at their doorsteps to cook. The atmosphere was festive with laughter and loud voices.. For the first time, we felt as though eyes were not watching us.
We were lucky that we stopped to have a café con leche at the cathedral because that is where we ran into our wonderful Swedish friends Josephin and Calle. They joined us for drinks and we spent hours and then days, talking and walking and eating together. Ironically, while we were on our first, they were on the very last stop of their own around-the-world trip. It was refreshing to connect with other outsiders. We were having similar experiences and similar impressions of this place. Josephin—a student of journalism and sociology—was especially disturbed. Of all the places she had traveled, she had never experienced anything like the situation in Cuba. The poverty weighed down on us. Even inside the pristine hotels where Cuba for the tourists was very much alive, beautiful and fun—it was all contrived—all a necessary performance, so that the government could continue to scantily provide for its people and keep the façade, all the while shackling them. We agreed that there were key principles missing: the freedoms of association and speech, the tools to make one’s dream a reality (basic education, healthcare and nourishment are not enough, as demonstrated), and the freedom to get the hell out.
(All the names of Cubans in these posts have been changed as a precautionary measure)
Posted by Emily Marie Stremel Mork at 11:53 PM | Comments | TrackBack
July 8, 2005
El Huracan
All day we’ve been waiting for the hurricane. Fidel and the Weather Channel have been warning us for hours, but honestly everyone is calm. All the windows in Havana are taped. In the afternoon, we went to the shwanky hotel down the street from ours to quickly get a few sandwiches para llevar before the madness began. The lobby was full of tourists, lounging and drinking mojitos. As the wind roared and the rain began, a band started to play. It was a strange scene; Titanic-like.
We waited a few hours in our hotel room on the top floor…a man who had chickens in a little coop on the rooftop next to us has completely boarded it up. The loud roaring wind has been shaking and banging the plastic balcony cover. The electricity suddenly goes out all over the city … and all at once, Fidel’s voice is silenced and it is completely dark. We make our way in the dark down to the lobby, candlelit. Calm, soft voices fill the air and it is a cozy scene…domino players, hushed Spanish, employees and guests together. A crowd is huddled outside under the hotel awning, and police with loudspeakers go by announcing that the worst of the hurricane is expected to pass at 11 pm and to get inside their houses. The door opens and closes letting in cool gusts of air into the humid sweltering room. Employees are gathered around the radio listening to quick streams of the latest updates about the hurricane.
It is a unique atmosphere. We’ve noticed that the employees of the hotel and at the state-run bars and restaurants have been rather reserved and silent towards us. Many of them are our age. Maybe they are discouraged from fraternizing with tourists in general, yet it seems uniformly and excessively so. We would love nothing more than to get to know these Cubans…to learn what their lives are like.
As we were all together hunched around the radio, Peter struck up a conversation with the young doorman and the woman who sits at the front desk. Friendly and warm and curious, they asked us where we were from, how we had skirted the embargo to get here, what we thought of Cuba. The doorman was eager to practice his English. It was interesting to note how well the jineteros spoke English, while the employees struggled. It seemed that the jineteros had everything to gain by getting close to the tourists, while the employees could possibly lose their jobs.
The hurricane hits at 11:05. I hope that Havana holds together…
(All the names of Cubans in these posts have been changed as a precautionary measure)
Posted by Emily Marie Stremel Mork at 11:51 PM | Comments | TrackBack
July 7, 2005
Los Jineteros
Our first day began with trust and some risks. Not finding the restaurant we were looking for, we let a young cubano Raul lead us to another. We wished to avoid the state-run restaurants and hoped to find a paladar, a small independently run restaurant run out of a private home. We followed Raul to a hidden paladar around the corner from our hotel on the Prado. The Prado, a bustling main street leading in one direction to the sea and malecon, and in the other, to the Capitolio, was in sharp contrast to the streets just one block away. It was difficult at first to place the difference because both streets had the same smells, the same old, once beautiful but now seriously dilapitaded buildings, the same people hanging around watching us. But as the days went by it became clearer that the police presence was much much less on the back streets than in the tourist areas and by just turning a corner, the local cubanos on the street seemed to relax and were much more in their element.
We entered a small apartment and before we knew it we were seated, a hearty plate of fried chicken, rice, sweet potatoes and cucumbers in front of us. An older senora and a younger duena prepared the food while a few other cubanos and Raul spoke together in quick heavily accented Spanish. At first no one spoke directly to us. Peter found a bayleaf on his plate, used to flavor the rice, and to make conversation mentioned that trees of bay leaves grew near his home in California. Instantly it struck a nerve with a young man next to us, an enfermero. He exclaimed how these leaves were incredibly expensive for Cubans to purchase, three for 1 peso convertible (equivalent to $1 US). He explained that his monthly salary was only 14 pesos convertibles. What followed was a frustrated tirade against the way of life for ordinary Cubans under Castro’s system. We quickly realized that while we were paying 5 pesos convertibles each for our meals, the price for the Cubans next to us were much lower—they had to be. And that it did not go unnoticed what tourists were willing and could afford to pay for such meals. The conversation continued between the customers, while we sat trying to understand every word. It was emphasized how certain rights that were afforded to tourists were off-limits to regular cubanos. It was clear to these Cubans that something was wrong with their system. This became clearer to us too, as the day went on.
We repaid Raul by treating him to a few mojitos at a tourist bar. He invited us later to the malecon, the sea wall, for drinks with his friends that night. We were happy to accept. However, after the first few drinks, we soon realized that we were expected to pay for all, as they would never be able to afford tourist prices for this kind of entertainment. It became clear that it wasn’t easy, or even legal, for Cubans to interact with tourists unofficially. Selling goods and services independantly is tightly tightly controlled, and so, save having an official job at a hotel or restaurant, it seemed there was no other way to benefit from the tourist industry except to sell themselves and to scam. Jintaneros, these scammers are called. They are everywhere. They are your best buddy, showing you around town and all the while milking you for all they can get.
Our experiences of the first day were typical and atypical all at the same time. Typical that we were targeted by jintaneros and spent a lot of money as a result…mojitos, cuba libres, bottle of rum, bucaneros (the local beer), taxi rides and much more, and in the end felt a bit cheated and were wary of those types the rest of the week. Atypical because we were fortunate to drop in on a real conversation in a real apartment with Cubans who are of a younger generation. These Cubans don’t fit comfortably or willingly into the system. Stuck in a crumbling situation between communism and the tourist industry. Free to see the fruits of capitalism but not allowed the basic tools to partake or attempt to better their lives. Thought to be criminals before committing a crime; living in poverty while others around them are able to benefit from the few choice jobs available as a result of the tourist industry.
My impressions of the backstreets of Havana: devastatingly hot; colorful; uneven, torn-up pavement; narrow mazes; roaring car from another eras; refuse in the street; stagnant sewer water; buildings with beautiful decorative terraces crumbling; clothes drying; dark entrances leading into the unknown; Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” blasting; no visible local businesses—I suspect that they are there hidden behind the dark entrances. No tourists, but lots of Cubanos—all shapes, ages, colors—all keep an eye on us. We walk quickly behind Raul who greets everyone. These streets in Centro y Habana Viejo are crammed with Cubanos in slum like conditions—they all are guaranteed housing, but the housing is falling apart. With Raul, no one propositions us. Without him, it’s a constant: “Cigar?” “Somewhere to eat?” “Where you from?” “Casa particular?”. All jintaneros. Dogs everywhere. My heart aches for these people. Oppressive but real.
Interspersed between these streets are the tourist areas of old Havana. Connecting Prado with Havana Vieja is Calle Obispo—a neat thoroughfare paved with cobblestones. No cars allowed. Lined with businesses for the tourists. State-run restaurants and bars in renovated beautiful buildings. Hotels owned by Europeans. Young police hanging at every corner. Tourists everywhere. Hemingway this, Hemingway that. We step into a hotel courtyard bar to have a drink and cool off. It is beautiful and lush and bright. Peacocks and parakeets; clean and fresh. A duo begins to play festive Cuban music—wonderful and perfectly placed. We buy a CD. One song is entitled Comandante Hasta Siempre (Forever Comandante), referring to Fidel. We continue walking the perfectly maintained Havana Vieja cobblestone streets to touristy Plaza de Armas, known for its bookstalls. The center of the plaza is green and lush. The bookstalls contain old encyclopedias, lots of Hemingway, and overwhelmingly, out-of-print books written by and highlighting Fidel Castro, Che Guevara, CIA conspiracy theories, Marx’s Das Kapital, volumes 1, 2 and 3. Tons and tons of books of these types: Fidel, Che, Marx, Lenin, the Imperialist U.S., over and over and over again. All have a weathered quality to them—as if attempting to keep an old, overworked idea/fantasy alive. All quaintly surround the square. All are there for tourists—and only tourists—to buy. La Revolucion for sale. Fidel’s no fool; he knows that tourists can’t get enough of it. An old man was selling the Cuban newspaper “Granma” in all languages for 1 peso convertible each. I bought an English version. On the back page was a huge spread with the headline “The Truth about the So-called Independent Libraries”. I’d heard about this…Fidel had proclaimed to the world, “No books are banned in Cuba.” Several casa particulares had started libraries in their homes, materials collected from visitors between 2001 and 2003. In 2003, the state cracked down on them and those who had housed the collections were arrested. “Granma” claimed that these materials were all brought in by Miami US-Cuban Interests groups intent on causing terrorism in Cuba. It claimed that no Cubans had admitted using these collections. (Why would they?) Elsewhere, I had seen a Cuban government poster with the slogan “Las ideas son armas poderosas” (Ideas are powerful weapons). It was no coincidence that here we were in Plaza de Armas, known for its books, and apparently, for its ideas.. However, to me, it seemed as though only one kind of idea was present and sold in the Plaza. And other ideas, other powerful and possible ideas, were being stifled.
(All the names of Cubans in these posts have been changed as a precautionary measure)
Posted by Emily Marie Stremel Mork at 11:47 PM | Comments | TrackBack
July 6, 2005
La Entrada
Our most complicated destination is our first, it seems. Waiting in Cancun for hours until our 8 pm flight to Habana we grappled with how we would change our money and where we would stay in Cuba, as well as actually purchase our plane tickets for which we only have reservations. On top of it all, we were nervous… I have conflicting expectations about Cuba, some that soar with possibilities and some fearful of finding only dead ends. We counted the hurdles we had to clear in order to actually sleep tonight. First, had to hand over sealed envelopes with payments enclosed to a strange Mexican travel agent without an official office in Cancun for our tickets to Havana. After purchasing tourist visas, landing in Cuba, warily going through customs, waiting hours (literally) for our bags, Peter getting searched for the electronics he was carrying (we thought it was the book “Human Action” hidden deep in his bag), changing Mexican pesos to Cuban pesos convertibles rather than being hit by the huge US dollar conversion charge, talking a taxi driver into helping us find a hotel with available and cheap rooms, we finally were in Cuba. In the taxi from the airport to Centro Habana at 2:30 por la manana, we caught a glimpse of a few details: old Chevies and small Russian cars, police pulling over other taxis, billboards with slogans like “Viva la Revolucion” but no advertisements, only government propaganda, absolutely no graffiti—only painted murals with more government slogans.
As we entered Havana, the haunting faded old buildings with grand architecture were lit up by streetlamps. The streets were empty. It was an eery scene.
Posted by Emily Marie Stremel Mork at 11:42 PM | Comments | TrackBack
July 5, 2005
La Salida
Believe it or not, we’ve finally launched into the beginning of our wild journey. After weeks of narrowing down our belongings, we’ve slung huge backpacks, a camera bag, and computer bag over our shoulders and hopped the Mexican border. Thanks to Paige and Pat for the unique goodbye: a u-turn in front of the dark, deserted Otay Mesa border-crossing, stopping quickly so that we could jump out. With a wave goodbye, we bolted across the empty freeway and passed through the clanging gate into Tijuana…
Posted by Emily Marie Stremel Mork at 11:39 PM | Comments | TrackBack
And We're Off...
Here is a very rough itinerary to give people an idea where we'll be over the next year.
United States
Our starting and ending point. Our official departure date will be July 6th, while we'll return the summer of 2006.
[July 2005 throught mid-August 2005]
After starting our trip in Cuba, we will return to Northern Mexico to travel south through the country by bus. After Spanish classes in Guanajuato we will continue to make our way towards Central America, with a quick return to the Caribbean to visit the Dominican Republic.
[Mid-August 2005 through September 2005]
Here we'll make our way through Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica.
[September 2005 through December 2005]
Caracas, Venezuela to Quito, Ecuador will be our first South American leg. From there we will continue down the Pacific coastline, eventually making our way across the continent to both Argentina and Brazil. We'll depart from Buenos Aires destined for Auckland, New Zealand in early January 2006.
[Jaunary 2006]
After arriving January 4th in Auckland, we'll spend a few weeks in New Zealand. Next we depart for Sydney, where we'll spend another few weeks.
[February 2006 through March 2006]
We arrive in Bankok, Thailand on February 2nd and at that point will assess the rest of our trip. Ideally, China, Japan, Vietnam, and Malaysia are all on our wish list of places to see.
[April 2006]
We hope to spend a month traveling through India.
[May 2006]
Very tentative but we are hoping to visit friends in South Africa.
[June 2006 through July 2006]
We´ll fly into Barcelona and will see a bit of Europe before we head home. Tentative plans include Sweden and Germany.
[Summer 2006?]
A possible destination at the end of our trip.