Taxi!
It's a fine car.
- Is it yours? - Yes, it's my car.
- Car is Dodge. - Dodge.
- What year? - '51.
- 1951. - Yeah.
- (HORN HONKS) - Look out.
When my taxi was new, Hemingway might have been fishing offshore.
My latest destination is the place he called home for almost 20 years - Havana, Cuba.
Before Fidel Castro and Che Guevara, Cuba was virtually an American colony.
Today the country is Communist and Uncle Sam is the bogeyman.
It would be hard for Hemingway to work here now,
but the Cubans hold him in great affection.
His favourite hotel, the Ambos Mondos, remains proud of its most famous guest.
Hello. Mr Palin. There we are.
I did ask if I could have the room in which Ernest Hemingway stayed and wrote.
- Is that possible? - No, sir. His room is a museum now.
- A museum? - A Hemingway museum.
So it's not possible for me to sleep in the museum.
They can offer me the next best thing - the room next door.
Actually, I'm much keener to see his room than mine.
Hemingway always took room 511 on his boys-only trips to Havana in the 1930s.
Having no luck with the museum, I set off for my first walk on the streets of Havana.
Hemingway would have made his way through crowds like these on his way to his favourite bar,
which appears in his novel "Islands in the Stream".
"Thomas Hudson had been ashore about four days when he got really drunk.
"It had started at noon at the Floridita."
This is Hemingway's chair?
Is it possible to? No? I thought not.
Oh, well.
Close as I can get. May I have a Papa-doble?
- Si. - Papa Hemingway?
The Papa-doble was Hemingway's own name which he gave the speciality here, the daiquiri,
which is basically rum, lemon and sugar over crushed ice.
Hemingway made his own with no sugar and twice the rum.
This is it. Papa-doble. Twice the kick. Cheers.
This was the place where Hemingway would bring all his famous friends.
Film-star friends like Gary Cooper, Ingrid Bergman, Errol Flynn, Ava Gardner.
Thank you.
Since 1954 this place has been air conditioned and they've put walls up.
Before that it was open round the side.
Hemingway used to like to sit with his back to the wall
and if he picked a fight - and he was always arguing -
he'd take them out on the street and give them a punch-up...
Ah, thank you.
Hemingway had a prodigious appetite for these daiquiris he'd invented.
There's a bit in this book, "Hemingway in Cuba" by Fuentes.
"Antonio Meilán, a barman recognised as an authority on the daiquiri,
"says Hemingway could drink a dozen in one afternoon.
"He'd carry one of the specials home in a large, chilled glass,
"filled with ice and wrapped in a napkin.
"Hemingway called this 'one for the road'."
Thank you.
In Havana, every road seems to lead either to a band or a bar - usually both.
(LATIN MUSIC)
The Bodeguita is another spot where Hemingway got his creative juices flowing.
Their speciality is the "mojito", a rum cocktail guaranteed to break down inhibitions.
It comes with an official endorsement.
(SINGS IN SPANISH)
That's my drink.
That's not mine.
Gracias. Gracias. Wonderful evening. Wonderful evening. Thank you.
Hemingway once said, "Liquor is my best friend and my severest critic."
I think I'll get a good telling-off tonight.
Next morning I have a vision that may be mojito induced.
That's not bad. Dead 38 years and he can still get a lady in his room.
I have the feeling that Cuba is a place where opportunities have to be seized.
- Hello? - Hello.
I'm from England. Michael. May I come in?
- Yes. - Thank you. It's open.
This is quite something.
I know this room in my mind. I've read about it.
So it's really exciting to be here. It's quite small.
I was just reading in this book,
which is some of his writings, about the view.
Can I have a look? He describes it rather well.
"If you sleep with your feet to the east,
"the sun, coming up over the Casablanca side, will shine on your face
"and wake you up no matter where you were the night before."
So this is where he'd be with his feet pointing to the east.
- It's quite a small bed. - Yeah, but is original bed.
- Original bed? Can I just? - No, no, you can't.
OK. That's too much to hope. Um... That's it.
He would have written at this typewriter. He would have had to take this off.
All those things he shot. He shot a couple of trunks - weren't even moving.
That's from Africa. We've been to Africa to see his journeys.
- No. This is Finca Vigia. - Oh. That's his house here.
It's outside Havana. About 12 kilometres.
- That's where most of his things are? - Yeah.
- That's a museum too? - Yeah.
I should go there. This is more exciting 'cause I've got the room next to it,
but I'll go to the museum and have a look.
- Thank you very much. - You're welcome.
I might come in again. Thank you. Very inspirational.
Havana is not short of transport alternatives,
from the buses they call camels to the taxis of the Humphrey Bogart era.
But I can't visit Cuba without trying out my favourite way of getting around - the railway.
I've been told there's a rail line running from Havana
almost to the village where Hemingway lived.
Una ticketa para Vivola. La Vivola?
Buying a ticket isn't easy, and all negotiations are strictly in Spanish.
OK. Whatever.
I lose the gist and have to rely on the all-purpose, uncomprehending grin.
This is not the last of the problems.
There follows an unscheduled two-hour wait while the train is welded together.
By the time we do pull out, I could probably have walked there and back.
It's getting on by now, so I opt for a bar lunch.
A bar of what I'm not quite sure.
An hour later, the train reaches its destination. Unfortunately, it's not mine.
The branch line's closed, which is probably what the ticket lady was trying to tell me.
San Francisco de Paula is not a smart suburb.
The road to Hemingway's house is the same as in his day -
full of modest houses and local characters.
Hemingway first walked through the gates of his new home in the summer of 1939.
Buenos dias. Uno billete. Ah...
- Cuánto es? - Three dollars.
The house is called Finca Vigiía - Look-0ut Farm.
Like so much of Hemingway's life, it's now a tourist attraction.
But here the contents are deemed so valuable, no one is allowed inside.
We're left to peer through the windows like nosy neighbours.
- Do you like this place? - Yes, very much.
- It's amazing, everything kept as it was. - You can feel the spirit of Hemingway.
And, indeed, the spirits of Hemingway.
(WOMAN) Isn't it a lovely floor? (WOMAN) It is beautiful.
(WOMAN) I like his books. Just as tatty as mine. Real old friends. Each one's an old friend.
My favourite room in the house is the bathroom.
It contains an unpublished work of Hemingway's...
the back wall on which he kept daily records of his weight,
plus occasional excuses like "with slippers and pyjamas".
- (WOMAN) That looks like a frog or a lizard. - It's a lizard.
- A lizard, I think, that his cats caught. - Oh, right.
- And what's in the other side? - It's his teeth, I think!
Every object is cleaned religiously.
Including his record collection,
which can never be played as they've run out of needles.
The holy relics are not confined to the house.
In the garden, moored in a sea of concrete, is a very famous boat.
If you're a Hemingway aficionado, this is sacred ground.
I've taken my shoes off because Hemingway never wore shoes on deck.
And he never wore underpants.
I'm on the Pilar - Hemingway's boat he bought in 1934 in New York.
Brought it to Cuba and sailed it almost to the end of his life.
It also gives you some... Sshh!
...gives you some idea of why he spent so much of his life in Cuba - the fishing.
The fishing on the Gulf Stream north of Havana is some of the best in the world.
He was probably as happy here as anywhere.
During the war he armed the boat with grenades and tried to find German U-boats
until his wife told him to stop being silly.
It's here. It's sad that it's ten miles away from the sea,
but at least it's looked after by the Cuban authorities.
Now I'm going to do something I've always wanted to do.
Actually sit in the chair that Hemingway's ample and un-underpanted bottom...
- No, señor, por favor. - Oh. Sorry.
Cuba works on an unbeatable combination of "Don't do thatl"
and "I couldn't care less."
I've been to Hemingway's house
and, wonderful though it was, I felt it was Hemingway in aspic.
I'd like to find someone who actually did meet Hemingway and, apparently, Castro did.
They met once here in Havana.
I'm going to try and get an appointment to talk to Castro about Hemingway.
And here are some photos for you to look at which prove my point.
Well, Castro wasn't in there, of course. He's very busy.
They said he's rushing around. Maybe there's a chance.
They'll pass the message on. So I've left my phone number and we'll keep in touch.
So who knows?
President Castro has been the central figure in the lives of Cubans for 40 years.
If I do get the chance to meet him, I should like to take him a gift.
I nip into the Corona factory, which makes some most exclusive items.
(WOMAN SPEAKS SPANISH OVER TANNOY)
Ironically, it's a Communist country that produces the ultimate symbol of capitalism.
Improving literature is read to the workforce
as they toil away producing 160 million cigars a year.
What kind of cigar are you making now?
- I making Palma. - Palma, yeah.
- They're good? - Pretty nice.
Yeah. Expensive.
How long did it take you to learn to make cigars?
I working here since 1995.
Since 1995. And how long does it take you to train to actually make the cigar?
- Five months. - I'm expected to do it in a day.
- Do you smoke yourself? - Cigar, no.
I don't. I gave up. The reason was I could never really get a decent cigar.
Tie a ribbon round, no one will notice.
0n the way out I take the chance to use their phone.
Hello? Yeah.
Hello. Si. Michael Palin about interview with President Castro.
Palin. Castro.
Si, si.
Sheffield, England.
Mm? Er, green.
OK. No?
I see. Not...
Try again tomorrow. OK.
Si. Gracias, gracias.
Tomorrow's already a busy day.
I'm paying a visit to the fishing village of Cojimar.
From this harbour, Hemingway set out on fishing trips aboard the Pilar.
He loved the skills of the local fishermen
and they loved him enough to raise hard-earned cash for this memorial.
Something about Hemingway seems to defy the sculptor's art.
I've yet to find a bust that looks anything like him.
This one looks like a cross between George V and Lenin.
Hemingway didn't like being sculpted anyway and maybe that's it.
This was the first Hemingway Plaza anywhere in the world.
But for true aficionados, there is a more important shrine in Cojimar.
The person who lives here knows more about Hemingway in Cuba than anyone alive.
His name's Gregorio Fuentes. He's 101.
Hello. I wonder if it's possible to speak to Gregorio for a while.
My grandfather is not here now. Go to the boat yard.
- That way? - That way. The boat yard.
Thanks very much.
It seems entirely right that I catch up with Gregorio amongst fishing boats.
It's been his world for over 80 years, 26 of them as mate, then captain, of the Pilar.
For a man born before Hemingway, he's remarkably fit and still smokes.
But where do I start? I suppose it's obvious, really.
I read in a book by a guy called Norberto Fuentes
that Hemingway never wore underpants on board ship. Is this true?
(SPEAKS SPANISH)
(TRANSLAT0R) It's all just blah-blah-blah, ugly rumours.
How would he know Hemingway didn't wear underwear without seeing him? Eh?
If Norberto Fuentes had seen him, then 0K, but he never did.
He never watched Hemingway getting dressed or saw him without underwear.
What did Hemingway think about Castro?
(TRANSLAT0R) They got on very well. I only heard them talking.
I wasn't about to join in their conversation, but they got on really well.
What do you think about the political future? Will things change with America?
(TRANSLAT0R) I tell you, I heard Hemingway say there was going to be a big war
where the entire world was going to defeat the United States,
and then the USA would be less powerful than the little island of Cuba.
- Do you believe that? - Si. Si.
Hemingway said, "You could never fight a fish with a bottle in your hand."
- Did he ever drink and fish? - No.
(TRANSLAT0R) No, it's not true. He always drank.
But many people saw him from afar and started talking rubbish.
They saw him with a glass in his hand and they started saying he's a drunk.
How do they know he's a drunk? Because they saw him with a glass in his hand.
They can all go to hell.
(PALIN) Before I leave, Gregorio gives me a card which he says might be useful.
Marina Hemingway. A sister I've never heard of?
Yet another wife? Intriguing.
Back in Havana, I decide to follow up this new lead.
Her address is out of town and, not trusting the railways, I hail a taxi in the square.
Taxi!
As so often in Cuba, I don't get quite what I expected.
Still, it's very comfortable.
It reminds me of growing up in Sheffield where you were nobody without a sidecar.
Marina Hemingway is very different from my vision of her.
She turns out to be a tourist resort with three hotels, 500 yacht moorings and a disco.
The good news is that she has a fishing tournament currently underway.
After checking out the various boats, I'm helped by one of the American crews.
The US government allows them to compete
as long as they don't spend any money here.
The Gulf Stream off Cuba has the best marlin fishing in the world.
For Hemingway, catching marlin was the ultimate thrill.
Less than half an hour out, we hit the Gulf Stream -
a warm and fertile current 60 miles across and a mile deep.
Terry and the crew call me down.
- So we're ready now? We've got the lines out. - I feel ready.
How do you know when there's a bite?
How do you know when you're in a car wreck?
When a fish pulls, it drives the hook in,
there's a lot of noise and he's on the reel ready to fight.
- What do I do then? What is that? - This is called a gimbal belt.
It's like being strapped to a urinal!
- Will you stop filming? - Did you eat a big meal?
- It's beginning to feel like I did. - Are you pushing that out?
- Basically, this holds the butt of the rod. - Makes me feel better, certainly.
See how the rod is grooved? Has to be placed into there.
Reach as high as you can with your left hand.
Is this what Hemingway would have done? I have this picture. This is my ideal.
(TERRY) This is what we're looking for. Those are large fish.
Back in the days of Ernest, those were plentiful.
Fish of that size, 700-800 pounds.
A lot of his fish were from the chair. His original chair was a wicker chair.
This locks in like it locked into your gimbal. Hand on the handle grip.
The feeling of the fish is gonna be somewhat like that.
So what do I do then?
- At the beginning you just hold on. - (WHIRRING)
- That's the sound you wanna hear. - Thank you. I'd like it just there.
About 600 pounds. OK?
No one seems that concerned about slowing down.
Apparently, Marlin are attracted by the speed of the bait.
0r in this case, not attracted by the speed of the bait.
0r anything else for that matter.
The day wears on.
Come on, you marlin.
I know you're down there.
Just for me. Marlin! Marli-marli-marlin!
Marlin!
Swordfish?
Shark? Shrimp? Come on, shrimps!
Whitebait?
Goldfish?
All right, a polystyrene cup. Anything. Please. I'm going mad.
Well, the light's coming down, the sea's coming up, it's the end of the day,
and it looks like I'm not destined to meet any marlin after all.
But I'm here and I must keep reminding myself that I'm not Hemingway.
Hemingway fished this for maybe 20-25 years
and not every day was special.
Most of the days were ordinary - like today.
And as Terry said earlier, that's why they call it "fishing" not "catching".
I'll remember that.
As we head for home, I take comfort from the fact
that Hemingway's book, "The 0ld Man and the Sea",
was about a fisherman who'd gone 84 days without catching anything.
At least I managed it in one.
Cheers, Terry. Good fishing next time.
You too, Mike. Enjoyed having you. Michael?
- Yeah? - The gimbal.
- I'll get you one for Christmas. - Good fashion item.
The boat behind us has struck lucky.
You get more points for tagging and releasing a fish than you do for killing it,
but there's no doubt what impresses the crowd.
I've missed out. Again.
Typical. I mean, typical.
At least I know what a marlin looks like.
Just as I'm becoming irrationally fond of Havana's rich and unpredictable street life,
I must think of leaving.
I've exhausted all my Hemingway leads - except one.
You said to ring again about the interview with President Castro. Yes.
Not today. Tomorrow maybe.
Yeah. We leave fairly soon. OK, yes. I'll ring. I'll ring.
Yes. All right. Thank you.
All right. I'll give them one more day.
Well, it's tomorrow.
There's no answer to my call and no call from them. Time's run out.
I leave Cuba, as Hemingway did, reluctantly.
Because of the Communist revolution,
he felt he had to get out of a country that was closing the door on the world he knew.
(SPEAKS SPANISH)
40 years later, it's a country opening up again.
But I'll always envy Hemingway one thing - he got to meet Fidel Castro.
Señor Palin! The president say he can see you at four o'clock this afternoon!
After leaving Cuba, Hemingway lived in the American West.
The Big Country had attracted him since the 1920s
when he first came here to write and hunt.
The Rocky Mountain states are being colonised by the Hollywood crowd,
but not all the backwoods character has gone.
Like Hemingway, I've booked into a dude ranch.
(COW-LIKE MOOING)
I've an awful feeling this is for me.
This for the ranch?
The horned limousine speeding me through Montana is the brainchild of Ellen Hargrave.
(PALIN) What is a dude?
Basically, I'd say somebody that is not from the country
that wants to come to the country,
get their fingernails a little bit dirty and learn about the real ways of the West.
They wanna live the legend.
The legend doesn't involve any more limousines.
From now on, I will be in the saddle - a prospect which, quite frankly, terrifies me.
And I'm not the only one. Most of us are from way out east.
Many have rarely seen a live horse, let alone ridden one.
Everyone's allotted their own mount for the duration of the stay.
This is mine. He's a distinctive colour. What do you call this?
- Palomino. - A palomino?
- A palomino stallion. God. - His name's Pal.
Have you got anything smaller?
There's a rumour we're going to be moving cattle. I haven't even got on yet.
Ooh. It's a long way up and a long way down.
OK, Pal.
They're understanding? If they feel someone up there is not really...
These horses are used to beginner riders, so they'll be pretty quiet.
When you move cattle, do you gallop along going, "Ye-up!"
- We do that, yup. - He heard that.
You have to whoop at 'em to make 'em move.
Not much use for that in London, but I might get addicted to this.
Maybe it's thanks to our laid-back instructors, but we all seem to learn the basics quickly.
Pretty soon we're let loose.
I'd expected to be confronted with a rebellious dust-stomping herd of steers.
In fact, it's much more gentlemanly than that.
I say, you cows, out of the way.
Instead of recalcitrant critters,
we're up against half a dozen fluffy calves and some nursing mothers.
This is hardly a round-up, more like chasing a crèche.
But a few hollers later, we've turned into the Wild Bunch.
I don't know what this does for the cattle, but it scares the hell out of me.
Wrist and elbow. Wrist and elbow. Wrist and elbow.
What you got here is a good, wide-open loop
and you can feel when it's right, it's in your wrist and elbow.
Wrist and elbow. Then you just throw it at what you're roping.
- Did you learn to do this? - When I was young.
- Really? How old were you? - I was four.
Really?
Amazingly enough, for the first time on this trip, I actually catch something.
All right! Take the slack out.
Got you, Nige. Got you where I want you.
(BANGING)
Don't hit my finger. Hit that. Hit that bugger.
- Hit that what? - The bugger.
- You didn't say that. - Is that bad?
Say what you feel.
There we go. That'll last for a thousand minutes.
One done, three miles to go.
Ellen's husband, Leo, teaches fence mending
which, like the ranch as a whole, seems to attract a lot more women than men.
Fantastic. Where did you learn to do that?
Chasing my husband!
- Where did you come here from? - Massachusetts.
A long way away. Quiet Massachusetts. Why did you come out here?
Ride horses and escape.
- What is it attracts women here? - Cowboys. Men!
- At the end of it, when you go back... - We cry.
- We cry at the airport. - Do you?
- Yup. - We do. They're not kidding.
It's not just due to a ticketing problem?
(SOFT GUITAR)
# Where the cattle are prowling, the coyotes are howling
# Out where the dawgies bawl
# Where the spurs are a-jingling
# The cowboy is singing his lonesome cattle call #
(YODELS)
The last lesson is campfire skills, where we learn to listen to the singing cowboy.
I fail this one miserably.
# For hours he would ride o'er the range far and wife
# The night wind blows up a squall
# His heart is a feather... #
Hemingway came here to get away from people.
He discovered the West when he was about 30,
and it became a refuge where he could get away,
write, do a bit of hunting and shooting.
He really couldn't stand all this phoney cowboy business.
To him it was serious what cowboys did.
He used to come to cabins and write.
Here's a picture of him looking very gritty, working on a novel or two.
So, in the spirit of Ernest, I'm going to do a little bit of writing myself.
18th.
(YODELLING CONTINUES)
(COWBOY HOLDS HIGH NOTE)
(PALIN) Aaagh!
(SONG: "PAPA WAS A ROLLING STONE" BY THE TEMPTATIONS)
When he discovered the Rockies, Hemingway wrote,
"This is cockeyed, wonderful country."
He kept coming back, driving hundreds of miles in search of good air and good hunting.
# Papa was a rolling stone
# Wherever he laid his hat was his home
# And when he died
# All he left us was alone... #
(RADl0) The fresh scent of a mountain morning, the bugle of a majestic elk
and the misery of cold, wet feet.
Treat your feet right with the elk hunter boot, available exclusively...
(PALIN) Hunting still goes on, though now it's controlled with permits and seasons.
Today is the start of the elk hunting season.
I wonder if the kind of hunting Hemingway celebrated hasn't -
like many aspects of traditional life - lost out to environmental correctness.
Is there a place left for the devil-may-care mavericks of the past?
I asked the folks at a local pull-in if the old West hasn't just gone soft.
(SMASHING AND GROANING)
I asked again, further up the road, but this time phrased it a little differently.
It's certainly clear that modern hunting is not without a few risks.
We got in between two cubs and a grizzly sow and she charged us.
Greg got up a tree. My buddy Mike got bit on the thigh.
- He played dead. - He put his hands over his head.
She came after me and I went up the tree
and she stood up on her hind legs and grabbed my left foot
and tried to pull me out of the tree and I was hanging on.
I kicked her in the face and she let go.
I had a couple of holes through my boot.
- What sort of bear was this? - Grizzly.
The big kind.
Have you ever regretted killing an animal? You've thought, "I wish I'd not done that"?
Sure. That's the saddest part of the hunt when it dies.
Brings a tear to your eye.
- Why do you do it, then? - It's a real personal thing.
It's here and I can't explain.
I hunt 'cause I kinda depend on the meat.
Anything I hunt, I eat. I don't like bear meat, so I don't hunt bear. My dad taught me how to hunt.
- So you've lived here all your? - I've been here 24 years.
- What about you? - I was his neighbour in California.
You're old Californian hippies. Oh, I've discovered this.
- We went to high school together. - I thought you were wild men of Montana.
- We are now. - You're from California!
As the hunters kick off a new season by wading through icy river water,
I want to find out what happens to the animals they bring back.
Most of the animal kingdom ended up on Hemingway's wall,
and at the local taxidermist business is still booming.
- What's this one, Jerry? A moose? - It's a Shiras moose.
So size holds no terrors for you?
It doesn't really matter. I've done elephants down to baboons.
We try and bring 'em back as close as we can to what they were. Sometimes we improve 'em.
- What's the hardest animal you've stuffed? - An elephant.
It was just a tremendous amount of hours and skin arrangement and just work.
- May I ask how much you charged? - $42,000.
What's the strangest animal you've done?
(MACHINERY WHIRRS AND MICHAEL SQUEALS)
As I pass the hot springs of Yellowstone National Park,
I'm on the last lap of the Hemingway trail.
The road winds through the landscape he loved,
out of Montana and deep into Idaho, towards the old mining town of Ketchum.
Beside the Big Wood River, I come to the last place Hemingway ever lived.
I've been allowed to spend a night here in the Hemingway house.
It's slightly disturbing 'cause there are so many of Hemingway's possessions and one feels...
you know, sort of treading on memories.
By the time he came here, Hemingway - only 61 - was a shadow of his former self.
Plagued by paranoia and depression,
no longer able to write, hunt or do any of the things he valued,
Hemingway went downstairs one July morning and put a shotgun to his head.
(GUNSHOT)
I've followed him round the world and now I've come to the end of the trail,
it's a curious feeling of emptiness - like a party after the host's gone.
He's been a good travelling companion - done some pretty stupid things,
but he's shown me a different way of looking at the world.
It's odd, but though he's been dead almost 40 years,
I find myself wanting to seek his approval for the journey I've just done.
A nod of acknowledgement from him
for keeping alive the adventure he started a hundred years ago.
(HEMINGWAY) Bullshit.