It was a summer experience like no other. From whacking golf balls in Cuba, to joining anti-austerity protests in Madrid and, finally testing the surf in my very own island of Samar. The Summer of 2012 was indeed like no other I have ever done before. The whole experience spanned three continents, whose common link is Spanish Colonialism.
My Summer of 2012 started with binge-golfing in Cuba’s only 18-hole golf course located in the resort town of Varadero. If you have never seen Varadero before, it’s your loss. It’s a pretty beach town that has attracted tourists and movers alike since the time of Al Capone. The infamous gangster had his own beach house there. And so do American blue bloods like the Du Pont family of chemical fame. Thanks to the Du Ponts, their beautiful beach house called Xanadu is now the club house of the Varadero Golf Club.
Perched in my discounted but comfortable lodgings at Melia Las Americas, I am but a few footsteps away from the Varadero Golf Course and its driving range. Every weekend since the start of the Summer of 2012, I have lugged by second-hand gold clubs to this pretty resort time to soak in sun and to hit the links. Varadero is but a cheap four-hour bus ride from Havana. I usually take the night bus on Fridays so that I can be comfortably lodged near the golf course by the next morning.
Feeling bored in Havana, I thought it was time for me to see Madre España. I have always been some sort of an aficionado of Spain and its culture despite the negative portrayal of the former colonial power in Philippine history books. So it was a letdown when I found the Spanish diplomats and the whole lot of the Spanish Embassy in Havana a bit arrogant.
I was off to an inauspicious start as I could only manage to obtain a short term entry visa (10 fucking days) to Spain. The Spanish Consul General, a guy named Pantoja, who, I was told was a former ambassador in Manila, only agreed to issue me a visa if I could show him a credit card as proof that I can afford my Spanish sojourn. This despite me having provided them with copies of my fully-paid itinerary in Spain, including my hotel accommodations. I couldn’t believe I was taking this shit from, all of people, a Spanish, whose country was on the brink of a financial bailout.
I perfectly understood the gravity of the events when I arrived there. It’s a bad time to be Spanish nowadays. Fifty percent of Spanish youths are jobless, while national joblessness rate is at a high of 25%. Hence, another creature from the Third World trying to enter Madre España is seen as a potential job-stealer.
While the Spanish are increasingly becoming xenophobic, many of them are now looking to leave to look for opportunities abroad. If Spaniards are trekking to, of all places, Venezuela by the thousands, then it must be that bad in Spain nowadays. Heck, I was just told that a number of them have even inquired from the Philippine Embassy in Madrid how to obtain residency permits in (taa-daa) the Philippines.
I was just walking along Puerta del Sol when I bumped into radical youth protesters. Their protest call was: “All austerity and no taxes on the rich is a surefire way to perdition.” These kids only want a referendum on the question of austerity. Spanish conservatives may have the upper hand at the moment, but these young progressives will prevail in the long-run. I am sure of it.
My visit to Madrid coincided with a massive anti-austerity protest led by disaffected miners from Aragon, who were protesting the closure of their mines. What better way to immerse one’s self in a country’s inner workings than by joining a protest rally! The left-wing denizens of Madrid were anticipating a massive protest and I was determined to be there.
I was sufficiently “primed” after downing the five beer bottles in less than an hour. I then moved to a tapas bar, right on Plaza del Sol itself to be on top of things when they heat up. I squeezed myself into the bar which was packed by red-clad revelers, obviously anti-austerity radicals. I got a few more drinks with them, and I later joined them when they filed out of the bar when the rally commenced.
“You’re already red-faced,” they told me. I’m naturally red-skinned,” I quipped back. The bar reeked of cigarette and marijuana smoke. I haven’t inhaled as much second-hand pot smoke since I visited the al-fresco bars of Cancun in 2011. The mood was happy, not angry, pretty much like any other fiesta except that it was amidst a protest rally.
Madrid’s left-wing denizens were on hand to receive the miners. Name it,they were all there: idealistic young communists, frustrated old communists, socialists, anarchists, and plain non-conformists. Also present were the ubiquitous, nosy tourist (like me) who was just on hand to photograph the event. I was expecting a violent encounter with the policia (having seen the same protests in Greece) which has a station right on Plaza del Sol itself. To my surprise, it was more like a party, with slogan-chanting sprinkled in.
A speaker boarded the makeshift stage when the miners arrived and were greeted by an adoring crowd. Nobody could really hear what he was mumbling about because the sound system was terrible. A few couples were smooching, a number of them apparently involved miners (those lucky bastards), who apparently received much more than just moral support. It was not the confrontation that I expected. The crowd disintegrated peacefully a few hours after without any incident, and I was off to my hostel to nurse an ugly hang-over.
I still love Spain despite the perceived arrogance I see from its crop of diplomats. The ordinary Spanish are really freindly folks; and fiery when it comes to defending their convictions. I wish to return one day, probably to run with the bulls in Pamplona or to throw tomatoes at the Tomatina Festival in Valencia. There’s so much to see and experience in Spain. Perhaps Consul General Rodriguez Pantoja was right to demand if I could really afford the trip. Spain totally charms you to make you want to stay more. If I had not bought onward tickets to the Philippines to visit my family, I probably would have stayed on a bit longer.
I was still thinking of Spain even when I was already wading the flooded streets of Manila amid a monstrous traffic gridlock (some things never change in Manila). I should have known better than to come during monsoon season. With the typhoons come big waves, thus surfing was an unexpected treat that such an ugly weather brings with it. Two hours away from my hometown lies Calicoan and ABCD Beach, best known for its surf. Of all people, I found two young Catalans (along with the ubiquitous Australian surfers) who managed to get themselves there despite its remote location.