Traffic is heavy in Morón. Anywhere else, this would be rush hour, but it's only 10 a.m. It takes several long seconds to cross the road; and only then with a sudden dash, gripping the arm of my mother. We arrive laughing beside the craft boutique. Beside us, a local couple are watching with amusement. One of them briefly pats my back, in a gesture of welcome and an acknowledgement of that small accomplishment. He says nothing, just snorts a quiet laugh and stands back. They must be used to it. None of the Cubans seem to have such trouble knowing when to cross.
There's something different about this traffic, that wrong-foots us Europeans. At least 90% of it is bicycles, some singular and some towing passengers in a carriage behind them. There is such proficiency here. A lady, five feet away, is being handed a fully iced birthday cake by the baker and she balances it in the palm of her hand with the icing board apparently steady with its cargo of confectionary. It doesn't even rock as she cycles, one handed, down the road. We watch with some astonishment and a lot of respect. We can't even judge the speed of the on-coming bikes, let alone shop like that.
Morón's People and Busy Street Life
Much of life in Morón appears to happen in its broad streets. There is an ease and friendliness which pervades the atmosphere. The locals zig-zag from one side of the avenue to the other, clasping the hands of people they recognize and then drawing them into a hug. All around the demonstrative nature of Cuban affection is apparent. They blow kisses into the air beside each other's cheeks, then remain touching a bicep, back or hand throughout their conversations. To an observer, it would seem that not only does the entire population know each other, but they are thrilled with each random meeting.
The feeling is infectious. When a tall man hurries out of the crowd to eagerly introduce himself as the chef from our hotel, both my mother and I immediately hug him. Neither of us actually recognize him, because we haven't been in the kitchens, but that was beside the point. He babbled out his excitement at becoming a new father that morning and being en route to buy flowers for his wife. We ended up making a donation towards the gift, then stood a little shell-shocked after he had gone. Had we just been scammed for 10 Cuban pesos?
Will You Be Attacked by the Locals in Morón?
This was the great concern before we left the sanctified bubble of the hotel zone. All around the pool, fearful, white-faced Europeans had expressed their unease and issued dire warnings about venturing into Communist Cuba. "You will be mobbed!" cried one, while another shook her head. "Don't come crying to me when you've been kidnapped and beheaded." Prejudice and tabloid fueled preconceptions kept them huddled away from the mainland. It didn't matter that the vast majority of the staff at the hotels actually came from Morón. They were known and safe.
The reality, of course, was nothing like the imagined nightmare of ignorance. We were stopped by beggars twice. The first was a middle-aged lady, who followed us down the street, muttering incoherent words about her bambino. We ignored her and she went away. We were later told that she does that to the Cubans too, as she's an alcoholic. The second was a teenager, who appeared better fed and dressed than we were. He asked for money in English, then French, then German, then Spanish. I told him in Welsh that I was sorry, I didn't speak Spanish. He went away. That was all.
Education, Culture and Revolutionary Monuments in Morón
Morón has a population of nearly 61,000 people, many of whom appear to be engaged in cultural or educational pursuits. One of the most dominant buildings in the city is the public library, while a street stall opposite sells a variety of Spanish language books. Artists cloister in the square, painting for the tourists. An open-air mercado (market) displays handicrafts.
There is also music and dancing, in the bars and restaurants. We watched the band Parsec play, as we sipped a Blue River cocktail. They energetically introduced us not to the old Cuban staples, but to their contemporary music. It was so good that I bought their CD.
A university stands near to the central plaza, while the School of Tourism is on the outskirts. It is from here where every person working in the hotel zone has to graduate. They have to be fluent in at least one European language, other than Spanish, including all of the maintenance and cleaning staff.
Monuments and statues are everywhere beneath the leafy trees - two of José Martí, another of Che Guevara and other heroes of the Revolution, and a large rooster too. The latter being the mascot of the city. The rest were simply glimpsed without a chance to register what they were. A single large billboard displays a slogan from Castro's Communist government. I asked what it said and was told, "Forget that, it's just politics."
Cheap Shopping in Morón
It goes without saying that goods and souvenirs would be cheaper in Morón than those sold in the hotel zone of Cayo Coco. However, the surprise was precisely how much was saved by shopping here. As well as the plaza mercado, there were occasional stalls set up in the streets with a large variety of bargains.
There was one supermarket, but the rest of the shops felt like stepping back in time to my British sensibilities. Grocers, bakers, a fashion boutique, a blacksmith's, these were the stuff of my grandparents' nostalgia and quite wonderful to step within.
The architecture of Morón smacks of faded colonialism, but the people and shopping make a visit very worthwhile.
Jo Harrington - Jo has a BA (Hons) in History and Philosophy and a MA in History. She has a book published on the history of Wicca.
Join the Conversation