Taxiing through the black of night to our lodging after a midnight arrival, a knackering knuckle-knocking eventually succeeds in getting the attention of the bleary-eyed owner who lets us in. Christine and I have just arrived on the time-locked island of Cuba.
In Havana’s Vedado District we’re staying in a private home called a ‘casa particular’, and despite it being a bare-bones room with dicey plumbing and no TV or internet, the location is great. After a few vital hours of slumber, the sun’s gentle ascent has us anxious to introduce the soles of our shoes to the streets of Havana and get a feel for the place.
Visitors to ‘Coo-ba’ usually suffer from digital detox with it being the world’s second most disconnected country after North Korea, and those fortunate enough to own a cell phone gather outside hotels looking to pirate a connection. However, though Wi-Fi may be rare, the rum is rife, and as a proud member of ‘IBORD’ (International Brotherhood of Rum Drinkers) I’m elated to holiday in a country so precisely calibrated to my taste!
Every day feels like summer, and we appreciate the sun swallowing our skin while sauntering about in shirtsleeves and shorts. In Cuba the past is everywhere and we can’t help but notice the unending buffet of car porn trundling about. Thanks to a stifling chokehold of the American embargo, Havana’s streets are a blast from the past with so many nostalgically delicious Yank Tanks from a vintage back when the Dead Sea was only sick!
Even though the conspicuously chromed classic’s health may require palliative care, they are vibrantly painted in every color of the rainbow, with ‘Pepto Bismol’ pink seemingly at the top of the list! The relics are part of the vast evidence of Cuba being trapped in its Castro-induced coma for the past sixty years!
Taking random lefts and rights on our walkabouts we end up in the Centro District’s landscape of decay. Disintegrating buildings cry out for the wrecking ball, and amongst the conundrum of charm and crumble people can be seen hanging out rainbow of laundry from balconies, taking cakes for a walk, towing fruit or vegetables carts, patiently queuing at sparsely stocked shops to use communist ration cards, and sitting in doorways on the street perhaps reminiscing of better times in Cuba.
Public coin-operated telephones referred to as ‘The Publics’ are also a common presence on the streets with so many unable to even dream of owning a cell phone. Clinging to paint-needing walls, the still in use dinosaurs have the look of a gigantic old hairdryer and cost roughly a nickel per minute to use; a cost most can manage in the event of an emergency.
At Plaza Vieja in ‘Old Havana’ we come to a puzzle piece begging for a fit. A large statue of a voluptuous bald-headed woman holding a giant fork in her hand while riding a colossal bronze rooster, and straddling her stoic steed she is completely unencumbered by clothes except for her high-heeled shoes.
Apparently the sculpture was created as a tribute to Havana’s history of prostitution. When abandoned by Russia, Cuba became an economic basket case, and in order to feed (fork) her children a women often had to resort to selling herself (nakedness/heels). The rooster she sits atop represents the man paying for her services. Given the grim reality of the brutal times these women were not looked down upon, but instead treated with respect for doing whatever was necessary to feed their families.
Listening to the salsa sounds of musicians playing in the square we find ourselves sitting in the shade beside a moustache with a one-and-a-half legged man attached. As part of his facial foliage the guy has eyebrows that look like dueling caterpillars, and an incredibly bushy ‘lip-sweater’. And of course this being Cuba, poking out from somewhere in the unruly forest of hair is the ever-present cigar.
After walking over 30,000 steps today we need water, and with tap water literally a crap-shoot, we purchase a couple of store-bought five-liter bottles. Schlepping the heavy liquid for a couple of arm-lengthening miles back to the room I have a ‘hunch’ I look like Quasimodo!
With Christine’s foot blistered from all yesterday’s wayfaring we take a mulligan on the long walk into town and hail one of the old shared taxis called ‘collectivos’. Wheezing along different routes throughout the city, the gas-guzzling geezers include Buicks, Chevys, Fords, Studebakers, and even old Caddies that seem to have their grills in one block and taillights in another. In play since back when Fidel was still clean shaven, most have fallen into such decrepitude that if they were horses they’d now be glue!
The rides cost only 20 cents for locals and a buck for us, but getting one of the land-yachts to pull over requires some fancy finger-waggling skills and a bit of brawn. Whenever one decides to stop it is immediately set upon by a shoving human swarm with no concept of a queue, and to the quickest go the seats.
After being shoulder-barged out of the way and having our ride intercepted a few times, we manage to muscle ourselves into a robin’s egg blue 1947 Hudson with suicide doors. The engine of the beat-to-hell rattletrap isn’t exactly purring, and in fact sounds more like it has a bad case of mechanical flatulence! Despite the lack of comfort from being squished tightly together, we can’t dislodge the grin smeared across our face while convulsing over pot-holed roads in what feels like a 71 year old refrigerator on wheels!
It’s common to see Cubanos with heads under hoods tinkering with car entrails and trying to entice the old carcasses back to life. Like the people here the cars have a hard life, but as a testament to a mechanical ingenuity born of scarcity, many are cobbled together by cannibalizing their comatose cousins for parts. With transport that never got past the sixties many have become the equivalent of an automotive platypus and are held together with little more than duct tape and wishful thinking.
Another of Havana’s curious transport are the teeny yellow ‘coco taxis’. Mounted on a tricycle-like frame they resemble an oversized yellow football helmet minus the faceguard, and fart about sounding like a stepped-on duck! The comical carriages would likely never survive a collision with anything larger than a cricket, and the ‘meep-meep’ sound of their horn is so roadrunner-perfect it’s a natural reaction to glance behind the Looney Tune transport to see if Wile E. Coyote is giving chase!
Separating Havana from the sea is the Malecon; an 8 km seawall known as ‘Havana’s Living Room’ where the inspiration comes in waves. During soothing papaya sunsets it functions as a place to enjoy a gurgle of rum as well as a canoodling couch for mouth-attached teenagers clinging together like Siamese twins. It’s also a place where fishermen looking for a gift from the sea to help feed their families patiently wait for a tug on their line while wistfully gazing across the waves to Florida.
Condoms are absurdly cheap at only four cents for a box of three, and with the island’s scarcities many have uses stretching far beyond the bedroom. Women will use them as hairbands to secure ponytails, and parents unable to afford or find birthday balloons will often unfurl a few and start puffing. Sparse of cash party-goers use them as makeshift liquor flasks that they put into their underwear to sneak booze into nightclubs and prevent their wallets from shedding tears over punishingly expensive drinks.
With kudos for creativity, crafty winemakers stretch the versatile condoms over the necks of wine carboys. Slowly inflating as the fruity mix ferments and produces gases, an erect condom indicates fermentation is taking place, and when inflation stops the limpness indicates the wine has come into its own and is ready for bottling!
Along the Malecon we notice sections of ground littered with dozens of empty condom packages; evidence of perhaps the condom’s most ingenious use of all. Paranoid over illegal departures to the U.S., Cuba’s government enforces strict control over the use of boats, and the innovation of anglers has led to them learning how to hunt their slippery prey using a method called ‘balloon fishing’.
Fishermen inflate four of the condoms to the size of balloons, then tie them all together and attach them to a baited fishing line that’s cast into the sea, where currents sail the bait out into deeper waters for a chance at the bigger fish. Who knew condoms could be so damn versatile? Forget talking about the condemnation of Cuba – we should be talking about the condom nation of Cuba!
Mindful of tree roots puckering the sidewalks on Vedado’s leafy streets, we leg it to John Lennon Park and find John contemplating his surroundings from a bench. As Christine parks her sit-upon next to the bronzed Beatles legend, a woman scurries out from under the shade of a nearby tree, and rummaging in her purse, extracts a pair of round-rimmed glasses to place on the bridge of Lennon’s nose for our picture. It seems people kept stealing John’s glasses as a souvenir, so this woman now has one of the most unusual jobs in Cuba. She is the official keeper of John Lennon’s spectacles!
Letting a mental toss of the coin dictate our path we ramble past once opulent buildings with paint now flaking off like a lizard halfway through its molt. With Father Time sucking the pretty out of them, many are in desperate need of architectural C.P.R. due to the country’s ugly economic crises.
On bustling Calle Obispo, dancers precariously balanced atop on stilts look taller than a giraffe in platform shoes while hoping to amuse for money. We line up at a shop selling tasty one dollar pizzas and ten cent ice cream cones, and as big time spenders, order two of each. Averaging 25,000 sole-slaps a day I reckon we can handle the calories from a mouthful of mozzarella and a little frozen moo juice.
Dividing Old and Central Havana, the majestically marbled Paseo del Prado promenade is flanked by silently roaring bronze lions, melted from canons once used to defend the city from pirates. As the social spine of the district this is a great spot to park a bum on a bench and ingest the local sights.
Curiosity leads us into the pastel-pink Hotel Ambos Mundos; famous for being one of Hemmingway’s old haunts. In a blast from the past we enter it’s ‘bird cage’ elevator, and forced embarrassingly close to an elderly operator whose job has its ups and downs, are delivered to the rooftop bar for splendid views over Havana and a couple of mojitos.
The plump rumps of most Cuban women are fearlessly sausaged into Spandex stretched to within an inch of its life, but leaving the hotel we spot a Cubana clad in a bright traditional dress and matching head scarf. Sucking on a jumbo cigar like a fellatrix, the woman has basket beside her that creepily contains a small doll with a mini stogie of its own wedged into its mouth. Picture? Yes please!
If you’re a ‘foodie’, the island of Cuba may not be the perfect place to capture your bliss, but ‘Restaurante El Idilio’ certainly does its best. Some of the most lip-smacking seafood to ever venture down our esophagi includes lobster mixed with melted cheese in pineapple, and delicate young octopus in garlic and olive oil grilled to perfection. Havana-ooh-na-na!
Somewhere in our travel notes I’ve made mention of another restaurant that offers Flamenco on the menu as entertainment. But misreading this during a happy hour, or rum-o’clock as we prefer to call it here, Christine turns to me and warily exclaims “they have Flamingo on the menu?” Having a little fun with my Hon my reply is; “why yes my darling, and the gangly pink egg-layer will joyously stomp about your plate with its graceful neck and bent beak high in the air”.
Quickly wising to my deadpan sarcasm over her fowl faux pas, my bride is not exactly tickled pink with my unbridled guffaws, and delivers a grievous elbow to my unguarded ribs mid-drink, causing a geyser of rum to make an unplanned exit through my nasal passages!
Wandering about the city and turning corners just to see what is there, rum pheromones lure me into a little shop selling Havana Club 7, and just not genetically coded to say neigh I fork over my pesos as I diligently do my part to support the country’s failing economy!
Usually taxis are a bit of a snore, but not here in good old Havana. Less than halfway through our stay we’ve already limped about town in a 47 Hudson, 48 Ford, 52 Ford, 41 Chevy, 53 Chevy, 55 Chevy, and a rare 1951 hearse-sized Chevy Saloon wagon! The city has such an old school vibe going on that we half expect to bump into some pony-tailed poodle-skirters and the ‘Fonz’.
Bussing from Havana to uncrowded Santa Maria del Mar beach we relax with a barefoot stroll in the peacock-blue sea, listening to the hypnotic rhythm of the waves frothing up onto sands as white as a surrender flag. Back in town at Artechef Café we unfold the Special of the Day menu, aghast to see that today’s daily special is ‘Lard Shit of Beef’! The grammatical screw-up sounds so repugnant that the prospect of it ending up on our plates is teenier than a hummingbird’s toenails!
Venturing to the worn-out district of Casablanca on the other side of Havana Bay we use a crowded ferry called ‘La Launcha’. More rust-eaten bathtub than boat, this must surely be the lowest priced ferry on the planet with a farcical fare of only twenty centavos; roughly the equivalent of one cent Canadian! However, for our two cents, we find this Casablanca, much like its namesake in Morocco, a large letdown.
With the sun beginning to lower we return to the Malecon where fishermen are busy setting up their gear for a night of ‘balloon fishing’. Recognizing us from yesterday they try engaging us in a rudimentary conversation, and wanting to learn about my new amigo’s angling methods, I offer to lend a hand in setting up their gear. They eagerly agree and grinningly hand me a package of condoms to inflate.
‘Havana good laugh’ with the cordial fishermen I huff and puff like the big bad wolf while blowing up the love gloves until they’re about ready to burst. It’s all good fun, and also great training should I ever decide to learn to play a wind instrument! “Balloon Fishing” in Cuba; I love it!
Thanking the fishermen for a unique experience that will live happily in our memories, we shake hands and wish them ‘tight lines’. There are two types of fishermen in the world; those who fish for recreation, and those who fish for fish. We believe that fishermen in Cuba have a desperate need to fish for both!
Cuba’s official currency is the CUP (Peso Cubano), and inside a bank today a teller shows me the currency exchange rates. Pulling out my iPhone to use the calculator and check the math surprisingly causes what appears to be a ‘Cuban bristle crises’.
A neurotic security guard races over shouting “no phone, no phone”! I tell him to relax, and that I have no intent to partake in a bank heist, I simply want to ensure I’m receiving the correct funds. His reply is “Calculator OK – no phone”. Showing him the calculator on the phone he only becomes angrier, again shaking his head and yelling “no phone, no phone”. Perplexed by his demand I ask why, and his odd response is “I don’t know”! Christine and I simply shrug our shoulders and walk out the door.
Recounting the befuddling behavior to the English speaking owner of a nearby café, I ask if he might have an explanation as to calculator caper. But with a tilted grin he informs us there is a saying in Cuba, “Never ask question beginning with ‘why’, as trying to close one door will simply open up four more”.
During our conversation a lovely young waitress approaches, and with an unhurried fluttering of her richly lashed eyes, asks how we would like our breakfast eggs cooked. ‘Easy-over’ draws a blank look, so I say ‘medium’, again causing puzzlement. Holding up one hand and saying ‘no cooked’, and the other saying ‘hard’, I then point between my hands and say ‘me-di-um’. With a light the world smile that blossoms easily, she replies ‘Ah jess, I know meester – eggs in dee meedle’. Bingo, mission accomplished!
Of all Havana’s vintage cars only a few hundred are good enough to qualify for a license with a ‘classic’ designation that entitles owners to charge tourists $45 – $50 per hour; a rate about 40 times higher than the normal taxis, and twice the average monthly salaries of Cubans doctors! Again, this makes about as much sense as an ashtray on a motorcycle, but knowing better than to ask ‘why’ we simply put it down to another idiocy of Communism.
Parque Central offers a great selection of these ‘classic’ rides for hire, and perusing the eye-candy with big- assed tail fins and chromed grills we choose a hot-pink 1955 Chevy ragtop as our choice of chariot.
Cruising down the road with wind whooshing over our face feels fantastic, and time folds back on itself as I unlock memories of a time when as a spirited teenager I rumbled about the streets of Victoria in a 55 Chevy of my own. And though that reckless youth is now leaning more towards a youthless wreck, it still feels very cool to be reunited with such a classic set of wheels!
On our request the driver takes a detour into El Bosque, a forest known as ‘the lungs of Havana’. Many of the forest trees have been swallowed whole by vines and turned into giant green monsters, with one called the ‘Elephant Tree’ bearing an uncanny likeness to its namesake. Today’s unblemished sky is definitely designed for convertibles, and cruising back along the Malecon our throwback joyride becomes yet another heavenly Havana highlight.
Sitting on the steps outside a cathedral is an older black dude about the size of a refrigerator, nattily bedecked in a checkered sports jacket, white pants, cowboy hat, and polished spats. Holding a polished cane in one hand and a cigar the size of a presto log in the other, the old guy definitely has pizazz and looks as if he’s on a break from some 1950’s movie set! Christine is smitten, and cannot resist plopping herself down to snuggle up with him for a photo.
One of Cuba’s passions is the game of dominoes. Friends mingle to share a cigar over a few gurgles of rum that likely helps to manage the unmanageable in a nation of frustration looking for probation from a crime called Castro.
Parked on a gritty stretch of road in old Havana one of the old fifties fossils is spewing tunes from a ghetto-blaster sitting on its hood, and beside it some dudes are playing dominoes with fervor. At the uncommon sight of tourists in the area they stop clacking down their tiles and offer to share a no-label bottle of high-octane hootch. However, thinking of our stomach lining we thank them, but politely decline their kind hospitality.
Cuba’s book of luxuries is whippet-thin on content, and the country appears to be in grave need of the Heimlich maneuver to stop it from choking on an embargo put in place almost six decades ago. Throughout our stay we cannot help but be impressed by the kindness of a people whose great attitude seems to be when life gives you lemons, you just trade them in for limes, and squeeze them into a glass of rum!
As the sky darkens on our last Havana night we stroll back along the Malecon accompanied by a choice bottle of rum to share among the fishermen. Unfortunately, for the second time in as many nights a violent weather system puts the kibosh on our plan with wicked winds sending the sea’s enormous waves into and overtop of the Malecon, leaving a seawall normally heaving with bodies now eerily empty.
While nature’s fury may afford a good photo opportunity, it disappointingly thwarts the enjoyment of a spending a social evening with the good natured fishermen. To us, the stormy scene before us sadly seems an appropriate representation of life here, because for half a century Cubans have been flailing about in a storm-tossed sea just trying to stay afloat. Let’s hope for the sake of these fine folks that somebody tosses them a lifeline soon. Nobody is more deserving.
Mark Colegrave 2018