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 and rum-soaked island of Cuba.
Our lodging in Havana’s Vedado District, is in a private home called a ‘casa particular’. Despite our bare-bones room having dicey plumbing and no radio, 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.
Visitors to ‘Coo-ba’ usually suffer from digital detox with this being the world’s second most disconnected country after North Korea, and young people obsessed by an addiction to finger-fondling a cell phone gather outside any big hotels looking to pirate a connection. Now, while the Wi-Fi in Cuba may be rare, the rum is rife; and as a proud member of ‘IBORD’ (International Brotherhood of Rum Drinkers) I am delighted to find a country so precisely calibrated to my taste!
Every day here feels like summer and we appreciate the sun swallowing our skin while sauntering about in shirtsleeves and shorts. Strolling into town to plump up with pesos at a money exchange, we can’t help but notice the unending buffet of car porn trundling about. Thanks to the stifling chokehold of the American embargo, Havana’s streets are a mobile museum of 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 ‘Bubblegum’ 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 to explore the city we end up in an area screaming neglect. Many of the cracked and disintegrating buildings in Centro District are crying out for the wrecking ball; decaying to the point where people tend to walk in the center of the road to avoid the danger of falling masonry.
Amongst the conundrum of charm and crumble people can be seen hanging a rainbow of laundry from balconies, taking cakes for a walk, pulling fruit and vegetables carts, sitting in doorways on the streets, and patiently queuing at sparsely stocked shops to use communist ration cards.
In Old Havana’s Plaza Vieja we come to a puzzle piece begging for a fit. A large statue of a voluptuous bald-headed woman with a giant fork in her hand sits atop a colossal bronze rooster; and straddling her stoic steed, is completely unencumbered by clothes except for 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), and the male rooster (or its namesake) she is atop represents the man paying for her services. Given the grim reality of the brutal times, these women were not looked down upon, but treated with respect for doing whatever was necessary to feed their families.
Listening to the salsa sounds of musicians playing in the square we sit in the shade beside a moustache with a man attached. The old fellow only has one-and-a-half legs, and as part of his facial foliage has eyebrows looking like dueling caterpillars, and one of the bushiest ‘lip-sweaters’ we’ve ever seen. 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. Since tap water here is literally a crap-shoot, we purchase a couple of store-bought five-liter bottles, and 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’. Chugging along different routes throughout the city, the gas-guzzling geezers include Buicks, Chevys, Fords, Studebakers, and even old Caddies that seem to have grills in one block and taillights in another. Having been in play since back when Fidel was clean shaven, most have fallen into such decrepitude that if they were horses they would now be glue!
They cost only 20 cents for locals to ride and a buck for us, but getting one of the old land-yachts to pull over requires some fancy finger-waggling skills along with a great deal of patience. Whenever one decides to stop it is immediately set upon by a shoving human swarm with no concept of a queue; to the quickest go the seats.
After being hip-checked aside 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 old rattletrap isn’t exactly purring, and in fact sounds more like it has a bad case of mechanical flatulence! Despite the lack of comfort we can’t dislodge the grin smeared across our face as we convulse 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 entrails and attempting to entice the old carcasses back to life. Like the people here, the cars have a hard life. However, as a testament to a mechanical ingenuity born of scarcity, cars are cobbled together by cannibalizing their comatose cousins for parts. With transport that never got past the sixties, many of them have become the equivalent of an automotive platypus and often seem to be held together with only duct tape and wishful thinking.
Another of Havana’s curious transport is the hilarious yellow ‘coco taxi’. Resembling an oversized yellow football helmet minus the faceguard, they’re mounted on a tricycle-like frame and powered by what sounds like a lawnmower engine. 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 both a place to enjoy a gurgle of rum and a canoodling couch for mouth-attached teenagers clinging together like Siamese twins. It is also a place where fishermen, looking for help from the sea to feed their families, patiently wait for a tug on their line while wistfully gazing across the waves to Florida.
Cuban condoms are absurdly cheap here costing only four cents for a box of three, and with the island’s scarcities, many have uses stretching far beyond the bedroom. Women use them as hairbands to secure ponytails and parents unable to afford or find birthday balloons often unfurl a few prophylactics and start puffing. Sparse of cash party-goers use them as makeshift liquor flasks, put into their underwear to sneak booze into nightclubs and avoid paying for expensive drinks.
With kudos for creativity, crafty winemakers also stretch the versatile condoms over the necks of wine carboys. Slowly inflating as the fruity mix ferments and produces gases, an erect condom indicates that fermentation is taking place; and when the inflation stops the limpness indicates the wine has come into its own and is ready for bottling!
Walking 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. With Cuba’s government paranoid over illegal departures to the United States it strictly controls the use of boats. The result is that anglers have cleverly figured out 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. The line is then cast it 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. Rummaging in her purse, she extracts a pair of round-rimmed spectacles to place on the bridge of Lennon’s nose for our picture. It seems people kept stealing the 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 now in desperate need of architectural C.P.R.! Father Time has sucked the pretty out many of them and left the paint flaking off like a lizard halfway through its molt.
On Calle Obispo in Old Havana, dancers balance atop tall stilts on hoping to amuse for money, and down the street we stand in line at a cubicle selling tasty one dollar pizzas and ten cent ice cream cones. As big time spenders we order one of both, as 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, Paseo del Prado is a majestically marbled promenade flanked by silently roaring bronze lions melted from canons once used to defend the city from pirates; and being the social spine of the district, it’s 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 an antique ‘bird cage’ elevator, forced embarrassingly close to an elderly lift operator whose job has its ups and downs. Sliding closed the metal cage door he delivers us up to the rooftop bar for a couple of mojitos and splendid views over Havana.
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 gypsyish-looking Cubana wearing a flashy head scarf and ruffled rumba dress. Between fuchsia-splotched lips she sucks on a jumbo cigar like a fellatrix, while creepily sitting in a basket beside her is a small plastic 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. It has some of the most delicious seafood to ever venture down our esophagi, including lobster in pineapple and melted cheese, and delicate young octopus grilled in garlic and olive oil. Havana-ooh-na-na!
Somewhere in our travel notes I’ve made mention of another restaurant offering 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-plumaged egg-layer with backward-bending knees will joyously stomp about your plate on long-legged feet 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. Before I can move out of range she delivers a grievous elbow to my unguarded ribs mid-drink, causing a geyser of rum to make an unplanned exit through my nasal passages!
Roaming the city and turning corners just to see what’s there, rum pheromones lure me into a little shop happening to sell Havana Club 7. Just not genetically coded to say neigh, I fork over my pesos, diligently doing my part to support the country’s economy!
Usually taxis are a bit of a snore but not here in good old Havana. Less than halfway through our stay we have 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 we half expect to bump into some pony-tailed poodle-skirters and the ‘Fonz’.
Bussing 30 km outside Havana to uncrowded Santa Maria del Mar beach, we mellow out with a barefoot stroll in the turquoise 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 an ‘oferta dei dia’ or Special of the Day menu, aghast to see the daily special is ‘Lard Shit of Beef’! The grammatical screw-up sounds so gruesome that the prospect of it ending up on our plates is teenier than a hummingbird’s toenails!
In the quiet waterfront district of Casablanca on the ‘other side’ of Havana Bay is a 66’ statue of Christ built entirely of white marble. The eyes have been left empty so it seems to be watching everybody at the same time. The way to reach it is to cross the bay on a crowded ferry called ‘La Launcha’.
More rusty bathtub than boat, this must be the lowest priced ferry on the planet with a farcical fare of twenty centavos; roughly the equivalent of one cent Canadian! However, our two cents worth is that we find this Casablanca, much like its namesake in Morocco, a big letdown.
With the sun beginning to lower we head back to the Malecon, with fishermen busy setting up their gear for a night of ‘balloon fishing’. Recognizing us from yesterday the fishermen try engaging us in a rudimentary conversation. Wanting to learn more 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.
This unique experience has Christine and I ‘Havana good laugh’ with the cordial fishermen. Huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf, I blow up the love gloves until they’re almost ready to burst. It’s all good fun, not to mention great training should I ever want to learn to play a wind instrument! “Balloon Fishing” in Cuba; I love it!
Thanking the fishermen for moments that will live happily in our memories, we shake hands and wish them ‘tight lines’. There are two types of fishermen; those who fish for recreation and those who fish for fish. We are very much of the belief that fishermen in Cuba have a desperate need to fish for both!
In a bank today a teller shows me the currency rates indicating the amount of pesos we will receive for exchanging dollars. Pulling out my iPhone to use the calculator and check the math surprisingly causes what appears to be a ‘Cuban bristle crises’, as a 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”. I show him that the calculator is on the phone but he only becomes angrier, again shaking his head yelling “no phone, no phone”. In a grump over his perplexing demand I ask him why, and his odd response is; “I don’t know”! Looking at each other 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 may have an explanation. With a tilted grin he informs us that 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 the 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’, and again she cocks her head quizzically. Holding up one hand 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 ‘classic’ designation, entitling 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 put it down to simply another idiocy of Communism.
Parque Central offers a great selection of these ‘classic’ rides available for hire, and after perusing the long and low eye-candy with big-assed tail fins and chromed grills, we choose a hot-pink 1955 Chevy Bel-Air 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 summon into my head 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 forest trees have been swallowed whole by green vines, turning them into giant green monsters. One called the ‘Elephant Tree’ bears an uncanny likeness to its namesake. Today’s unblemished blue sky is definitely designed for convertibles, and cruising back along the Malecon our throwback joyride becomes another heavenly Havana highlight.
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. Still, we are impressed by the kindness of a people whose great attitude seems to be when life gives you lemons, trade them in for limes and squeeze them into rum!
As if on his break from some 1950’s movie set, an older black dude about the size of a refrigerator sits on the steps outside a cathedral, nattily bedecked in a checkered sports jacket with a rose on the lapel. Adding to his attire are white pants, a cowboy hat, and polished spats on his oversized feet. 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! Christine seems 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, where friends mingle to share a cigar and the latest gossip in the hood over a few gurgles of rum; the latter likely helping them 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 fifties fossils’s hood has a ghetto-blaster spewing tunes, 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 hospitably offer us a glass of their high-octane hootch.
Strolling back along the Malecon on our last night we are 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. Wicked winds send the sea’s enormous waves into and up over the top of the Malecon; leaving a seawall normally heaving with bodies now eerily empty.
While nature’s fury may afford a good photo opportunity, it sadly thwarts the enjoyment of a social evening with the good natured fishermen. To us, the stormy scene before us seems an appropriate representation of life here, as 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