My brain, thinking it was still living in a Birmingham cul-de-sac, woke me up at around 6 am, Cuban time. I knew the others would soon be awake thanks to this temporary neurological disadaptation. In the meanwhile I stepped out into the balcony to look down at calle Neptuno, now illuminated by the morning sun. Despite the earliness, the street was already quite busy with many people going about in summery clothes and school uniforms. It was a matter of minutes until the first yank tank drove past, then another one and another one.
Most buildings in the street were falling apart despite some poor attempts to fix them here and there. Right under the balcony where I stood was a building decorated with a Cuban flag. We would see many more of these apparently home-made patriotic demonstrations around the island. Half-sleeping, Rui appeared in the balcony and joined me in observing the street. We wondered why were people standing in specific points of the street, waiting for something. After a few minutes we realised they were requesting lifts from passing cars which, although not marked as taxis, seemed to be doing that job.
We sat in the living room waiting for Joana and Rocha to wake up. Ana walked in, now in an opaque dress, and told us to sit down in the sofas and turn on the TV while she prepared the breakfast. In the casas particulares it is common for the owners to prepare meals for their guests, charging extra for it.
Cuban TV was an interesting experience. The news were broadcast by a well presented woman dressed in what was possibly the most 1980's outfit I've seen in a long time, matching the retro studio background. Of course the term retro is wrongfully employed here since it implies a return to something past. This was clearly Cuban present. We tried to detect any form of news censorship or alternative interpretations of the outside world but the broadcast finished just a few minutes after we turned the TV on. After that came a program called Tele-escuela (tele-school) where viewers can learn a wide variety of topics. It reminded me of similar programs in one of the state-owned channels in Portugal. That day the topic was plant biology, las angiospermas. Rui found the word angiospermas somewhat amusing.
After Rocha and Joana came out of their room Ana called us for breakfast. On the table we found natural papaya juice, sliced melon, guava and watermelon, bread, butter, coffee, milk and eggs. A view of such meal in the early morning can elicit different reactions depending on the culture you come from. For the Portuguese the result is an incontinent smile, followed by compliments to the chef, followed by silence only broken by the sound of chewing and slurping. From our experience, the best meals in Cuba were usually at breakfast.
We left the house with a full-stomach, guide books and cameras and made our way through the streets of Havana. By this point the streets were packed with people waling to and fro, queuing outside shops, others just casually hanging around. A few weeks before Rui, Rocha and I had agreed to grow a beard thinking this would help us to fit in the Cuban streets. As it turns out Cuban men do not use beards, only the occasional moustache. This, plus the backpacks, the cameras and a not-so-dark skin tone exposed us immediately as tourists.
The first thing that Havana greets you with is magnificence. The closer you walk towards Habana Vieja (old Havana) the more impressive the buildings become with their ornamented architecture and spacious city layout. One can tell the city was planned for greatness, attempting to dwarf their European predecessors of Madrid or Barcelona but is now struggling to keep the walls standing. To their credit, there are several buildings surrounded by scaffolds and in apparent restauration but it seem like a drop of water in an ocean of decaying beauty. As in everything that relates to Cuba we can dissertate on what is the real cause of the problem: the embargo, the regime, the relaxed nature of the Caribbean people but, as one Cuban would tells us later on "Cuba's problems belong to the Cubans."
On the streets we were often approached by talkative elderly people. The conversations usually began with a question about where we were from, followed by some sort of story connecting the person to our country (or a nearby place, like... Spain) and would invariably finish in a request for money. Some people were very persistent. Also, at this point we did not know how to deal with them and engaged in long apologetic conversations that would end up with us slowly walking away leaving the person behind with a frowning expression. In more touristic parts of Havana it was jinetero domain offering taxis, cigars, food, rooms or inviting to "Buenavista Social Club" parties. Our ability to repel them improved greatly during this day. Also, the Lonely Planet and Wikitravel guides offer a series of suggestions on how to discourage the jineteros. I imagine that if we looked a bit more touristy the hassling would have been much more intense.
We walked past the Capitolio, then into the narrow streets toward Habana Vieja to see the Catedral. Nearby was La Bodeguita del Medio, a bar that Hemingway used to go and now part of the un-official Hemmngway trail. The place was packed with blonde and white-haired, pale-skinned north-european pensioners dressed in extravagant shirts. We naturally walked away from this.
From there we went to the Museum of the Revolution, housed in what used to be a presidential palace. The museum is a somewhat disconnected set of rooms filled with objects that took part on memorable events like the attack on Moncada barracks, where Fidel first attempted a revolution against the Batista regime and almost ended up dead, the Granma trip, the guerilla days in Sierra Maestra, fighting in Santiago de Cuba, Santa Clara and the triumph of the Revolution. The following years are also detailed, with special attention to the invasion on the Bahia de los Cochinos (Bay of Pigs), or a it is known in Cuba, the battle of playa Giron. The tour ends up with a lecture on how Cuban lifestyle improved under Socialism, with free education and health and re-distribution of farm land. The relevance of the objects shown in the museum is sometimes null, like the fork used by Fidel during this or that campaign. On the other hand the alleged original Che beret is in the museum and outside you can see the original Granma yacht. Other highlights of the museum are the creepy Madame Tussaud style wax statue of Che and Camilo Cienfuegos, a section dedicated to ridicule Baptista, Reagan and the Bush dynasty and a bar with over-priced cocktails.
After the museum we walked aimlessly for about an hour and eventually sat down in a park of a secluded square. A young afro-Cuban, carrying grocery bags came over and introduced himself. Unlike the people who had approached us earlier that day, he appeared genuinely interested in the fact that we were outsiders. We spoke for a while and he shared his dream to one day leave Cuba. Surprisingly, despite what we tend to hear in the news, the main problem of leaving the island seems to be the price of the tickets rather than the Castro government. After a while he politely stood up and left, asking us to meet him again so we could buy him a beer and talk, presumably, about the outside world. I kept his name and "address" in my diary (Cubans are very mysterious about giving directions and usually point you to a general location rather than a specific place).
We continued chatting until a few minutes later, another man approached. This one was a much older gentleman, well-mannered too, first standing and eventually asking to sit with us. Initially he asked us many questions, where we were from, what were our jobs, how long had we been in Cuba, what was our travel plan and other probing questions. When he felt a bit safer he started talking about himself. He had fought in Angola for several years when the Cubans supported MPLA against the US-backed UNITA after the country's independence from Portuguese colonialism. Whilst in Angola he had learned Portuguese and recognised it when we were chatting. We spoke for more than an hour with him, first about the wars in Africa, then about Cuba. He was an enthusiastic supporter of the Revolution and often spoke of a political conspiracy of the outside world against Cuba. "I know you think of us as terrorists back in Europe", he said. We tried to explain that this was not true, or that at least that it does not represent the general opinion of Europe about Cuba. I thought about George Orwell again, about propaganda and how one can never truly know, specially in this new globalised world, what the truth really is. He returned to his years in Angola and how he had lost contact with the family that took care of him while he was there. He asked us if we could deliver a letter to a Portuguese journalist he met in Havana a few months before that could contact his adoptive family in Benguela, Angola. We agreed to meet a few hours later near the Cathedral where he would bring us the letter and address. He reluctantly gave us his name when we asked for it.
A few hours later he appeared in the arranged location with a hand full of documents. He looked suspicious and asked us to go and chat in the middle of a nearby park. We sat on the grass and chatted for a while, again about Cuba, the Revolution and propaganda. He kept asking us if we were journalists, a thought that made him nervous. On top of that, every time I reached my bag he would ask "Is that a camera? Ate you recording me? I don't want my picture to be taken". Earlier on, when we first met him, he excused himself from being photographed by saying he doesn't like to see himself as an old man. He dictated the address and a letter for the Portuguese journalist, apologising for not writing earlier since he had lost her address (?) and asking her to contact the family in Benguela. Then he dictated the address of the family in Benguela (??) and a letter for them saying he had not forgotten them. He finished by giving his address and name, different from the one he gave us earlier. Why this man had not contacted the journalist in Portugal and the family in Angola himself we can only speculate. Later during our trip more people asked us similar favours suggesting they either don't have the money to send a letter or are afraid of contacting someone outside Cuba. At the moment I write this post we have not yet contacted the journalist.
He walked with us into the narrow streets nearby. It was not always easy to understand the Cuban accent where the last syllables are often omitted but we managed to understand most of what he said. We asked him to show us where we could use Cuban pesos rather than convertibles and so he took us to some street vendors and food-houses inhabited by Cubans only. We bought hamburgers of dubious meat origin and ice creams under the suspicious eyes of the locals, afterwards we parted ways with our Cuban friend and kept exploring the city.
Some parts of Havana are in an even more advanced state of decay. Shops are a rare sight, except for occasional ones that trade in Convertible Pesos. Recently, Raul Castro allowed the use of laptops and mobile phones. We walked past one shop that sold mobile phones and had a queue as long as the street. Even with the Castro regime still standing one can't help to feel it is a period of transition.
After a few hours we decided to return to calle Neptuno. Tired, sweaty and dirty from sitting on the floor and walking in unpaved streets we reached casa Ana ready for a shower and a proper sleep. Before we could indulge in any of that, Ana appeared in the room with a worried expression. Immigration services had called and were looking for us. Ana didn't know why because, according to her, she refused to pick up the phone and get us into trouble. We wondered if this had anything to do with Rui and I not having health insurance. We began to suspect that it was Ana who was in trouble as she later confessed not registering one of the rooms in the log book and, thanks to that, Rui and I had to move to another room in a nearby flat. Maybe it is me and my slow brain who can't keep up with the details of this story but all of it seemed very entangled, confusing and, in true honesty, filled with lies. Best thing was to accept our fate and not to worry, my brain told me.
Although my body was begging for a rest it was still fairly early in Cuba so we moved on to the next task. A German friend of Rocha and Joana had studied in Havana for a few months and stayed in a house of a Cuban family. Our mission was to bring a letter from him to the family. At this point I simply assumed the Cuban postal services are the worst in the world.
The family lived in the outskirts of Havana. To reach this area we jumped into a yank tank working as a taxi. The driver agreed to take us there for 8 CUC. I was sitting next to the driver holding the side door that seemed to be about to fall of at any moment. In the back seat Rocha and Joana analysed the maps while Rui began to doze off. Some 20 minutes later we arrived to the house and were charged 10 CUC instead of 8. We had not yet learned to negotiate.
We walked past the Capitolio, then into the narrow streets toward Habana Vieja to see the Catedral. Nearby was La Bodeguita del Medio, a bar that Hemingway used to go and now part of the un-official Hemmngway trail. The place was packed with blonde and white-haired, pale-skinned north-european pensioners dressed in extravagant shirts. We naturally walked away from this.
From there we went to the Museum of the Revolution, housed in what used to be a presidential palace. The museum is a somewhat disconnected set of rooms filled with objects that took part on memorable events like the attack on Moncada barracks, where Fidel first attempted a revolution against the Batista regime and almost ended up dead, the Granma trip, the guerilla days in Sierra Maestra, fighting in Santiago de Cuba, Santa Clara and the triumph of the Revolution. The following years are also detailed, with special attention to the invasion on the Bahia de los Cochinos (Bay of Pigs), or a it is known in Cuba, the battle of playa Giron. The tour ends up with a lecture on how Cuban lifestyle improved under Socialism, with free education and health and re-distribution of farm land. The relevance of the objects shown in the museum is sometimes null, like the fork used by Fidel during this or that campaign. On the other hand the alleged original Che beret is in the museum and outside you can see the original Granma yacht. Other highlights of the museum are the creepy Madame Tussaud style wax statue of Che and Camilo Cienfuegos, a section dedicated to ridicule Baptista, Reagan and the Bush dynasty and a bar with over-priced cocktails.
After the museum we walked aimlessly for about an hour and eventually sat down in a park of a secluded square. A young afro-Cuban, carrying grocery bags came over and introduced himself. Unlike the people who had approached us earlier that day, he appeared genuinely interested in the fact that we were outsiders. We spoke for a while and he shared his dream to one day leave Cuba. Surprisingly, despite what we tend to hear in the news, the main problem of leaving the island seems to be the price of the tickets rather than the Castro government. After a while he politely stood up and left, asking us to meet him again so we could buy him a beer and talk, presumably, about the outside world. I kept his name and "address" in my diary (Cubans are very mysterious about giving directions and usually point you to a general location rather than a specific place).
We continued chatting until a few minutes later, another man approached. This one was a much older gentleman, well-mannered too, first standing and eventually asking to sit with us. Initially he asked us many questions, where we were from, what were our jobs, how long had we been in Cuba, what was our travel plan and other probing questions. When he felt a bit safer he started talking about himself. He had fought in Angola for several years when the Cubans supported MPLA against the US-backed UNITA after the country's independence from Portuguese colonialism. Whilst in Angola he had learned Portuguese and recognised it when we were chatting. We spoke for more than an hour with him, first about the wars in Africa, then about Cuba. He was an enthusiastic supporter of the Revolution and often spoke of a political conspiracy of the outside world against Cuba. "I know you think of us as terrorists back in Europe", he said. We tried to explain that this was not true, or that at least that it does not represent the general opinion of Europe about Cuba. I thought about George Orwell again, about propaganda and how one can never truly know, specially in this new globalised world, what the truth really is. He returned to his years in Angola and how he had lost contact with the family that took care of him while he was there. He asked us if we could deliver a letter to a Portuguese journalist he met in Havana a few months before that could contact his adoptive family in Benguela, Angola. We agreed to meet a few hours later near the Cathedral where he would bring us the letter and address. He reluctantly gave us his name when we asked for it.
A few hours later he appeared in the arranged location with a hand full of documents. He looked suspicious and asked us to go and chat in the middle of a nearby park. We sat on the grass and chatted for a while, again about Cuba, the Revolution and propaganda. He kept asking us if we were journalists, a thought that made him nervous. On top of that, every time I reached my bag he would ask "Is that a camera? Ate you recording me? I don't want my picture to be taken". Earlier on, when we first met him, he excused himself from being photographed by saying he doesn't like to see himself as an old man. He dictated the address and a letter for the Portuguese journalist, apologising for not writing earlier since he had lost her address (?) and asking her to contact the family in Benguela. Then he dictated the address of the family in Benguela (??) and a letter for them saying he had not forgotten them. He finished by giving his address and name, different from the one he gave us earlier. Why this man had not contacted the journalist in Portugal and the family in Angola himself we can only speculate. Later during our trip more people asked us similar favours suggesting they either don't have the money to send a letter or are afraid of contacting someone outside Cuba. At the moment I write this post we have not yet contacted the journalist.
He walked with us into the narrow streets nearby. It was not always easy to understand the Cuban accent where the last syllables are often omitted but we managed to understand most of what he said. We asked him to show us where we could use Cuban pesos rather than convertibles and so he took us to some street vendors and food-houses inhabited by Cubans only. We bought hamburgers of dubious meat origin and ice creams under the suspicious eyes of the locals, afterwards we parted ways with our Cuban friend and kept exploring the city.
Some parts of Havana are in an even more advanced state of decay. Shops are a rare sight, except for occasional ones that trade in Convertible Pesos. Recently, Raul Castro allowed the use of laptops and mobile phones. We walked past one shop that sold mobile phones and had a queue as long as the street. Even with the Castro regime still standing one can't help to feel it is a period of transition.
After a few hours we decided to return to calle Neptuno. Tired, sweaty and dirty from sitting on the floor and walking in unpaved streets we reached casa Ana ready for a shower and a proper sleep. Before we could indulge in any of that, Ana appeared in the room with a worried expression. Immigration services had called and were looking for us. Ana didn't know why because, according to her, she refused to pick up the phone and get us into trouble. We wondered if this had anything to do with Rui and I not having health insurance. We began to suspect that it was Ana who was in trouble as she later confessed not registering one of the rooms in the log book and, thanks to that, Rui and I had to move to another room in a nearby flat. Maybe it is me and my slow brain who can't keep up with the details of this story but all of it seemed very entangled, confusing and, in true honesty, filled with lies. Best thing was to accept our fate and not to worry, my brain told me.
Although my body was begging for a rest it was still fairly early in Cuba so we moved on to the next task. A German friend of Rocha and Joana had studied in Havana for a few months and stayed in a house of a Cuban family. Our mission was to bring a letter from him to the family. At this point I simply assumed the Cuban postal services are the worst in the world.
The family lived in the outskirts of Havana. To reach this area we jumped into a yank tank working as a taxi. The driver agreed to take us there for 8 CUC. I was sitting next to the driver holding the side door that seemed to be about to fall of at any moment. In the back seat Rocha and Joana analysed the maps while Rui began to doze off. Some 20 minutes later we arrived to the house and were charged 10 CUC instead of 8. We had not yet learned to negotiate.
This area of Havana reminded of some rich uptown part of Los Angeles with broad streets with lined palm trees. The houses had that typical vanguardist architecture of the first half of the twentieth century, a front and a backyard and were well spaced between them. This was radically different from the cluttered blocs of flats in Central Havana. The elderly couple living inside was very happy to see us even though we had never met before. Their house was once a large mansion, probably belonging to a wealthy family, and was now divided in two in order to house two families. The couple seemed to have a strong bond with their German friend and, since we were representing him, the enthusiasm leaked to us. Joana gave them the letter and they gave us tea. I can't recall most of the conversation we had over tea because my brain was slowly shutting down due to tiredness. Rui was already in the fifth layer of sleep.
At around ten in the evening we left. The husband walked us to the nearest bus station, or as they call it there, the guagua station. The city buses charge in Cuban pesos and the trip back to central Havana cost something like 0.15 CUC. Much cheaper than the 10 CUC we payed before. On entering the bus I gave the money to the driver but, due to sleepiness, threw the coins in the wrong part of the device that spews the tickets. I may have broken the damn thing. The guagua was packed, but not as packed as we would find out the following day. Rui slept the whole time. I stood up and talked to keep myself awake. Joana and Rocha managed to stay awake without any tricks.
Once back in Central Havana we realised we hadn't eaten anything since the dodgy street hamburgers. On the way home we found the Barrio Chino (Chinatown), which will forever stay in my memory for not having a single Chinese in sight. We walked in the restaurant alley and began to harassed by waiters. One of them wanted us to promise her that we would eat there. Then another one came, then another. An old man, very drunk, spoke in unintelligible Spanish until another drunken man came and said "Do not listen to him, I am the boss". I walked away but they kept trying to drag us to their restaurant. This is when I snapped and lost all patience for this kind of situations. Turning back at the first drunkard I said: "No es no! Puedes regressar a tu casa!". This grammatically incorrect piece of Castillan, meaning "no is no, you can go home now", became a catch phrase for whenever we were approached by anyone with the intention of nagging.
Food in the "chinese" restaurant was rice with beans and other Cuban dishes. Rui bet with Rocha that he would be able to order a carrot cream soup in Cuba before the end of the trip. We also learned that when Cubans turn on the air-conditioned they like it to reach Arctic temperatures.
I thought to myself that if all days in Cuba are as eventful as this one then I probably will collapse before the return trip. I slept very well that night.
At around ten in the evening we left. The husband walked us to the nearest bus station, or as they call it there, the guagua station. The city buses charge in Cuban pesos and the trip back to central Havana cost something like 0.15 CUC. Much cheaper than the 10 CUC we payed before. On entering the bus I gave the money to the driver but, due to sleepiness, threw the coins in the wrong part of the device that spews the tickets. I may have broken the damn thing. The guagua was packed, but not as packed as we would find out the following day. Rui slept the whole time. I stood up and talked to keep myself awake. Joana and Rocha managed to stay awake without any tricks.
Once back in Central Havana we realised we hadn't eaten anything since the dodgy street hamburgers. On the way home we found the Barrio Chino (Chinatown), which will forever stay in my memory for not having a single Chinese in sight. We walked in the restaurant alley and began to harassed by waiters. One of them wanted us to promise her that we would eat there. Then another one came, then another. An old man, very drunk, spoke in unintelligible Spanish until another drunken man came and said "Do not listen to him, I am the boss". I walked away but they kept trying to drag us to their restaurant. This is when I snapped and lost all patience for this kind of situations. Turning back at the first drunkard I said: "No es no! Puedes regressar a tu casa!". This grammatically incorrect piece of Castillan, meaning "no is no, you can go home now", became a catch phrase for whenever we were approached by anyone with the intention of nagging.
Food in the "chinese" restaurant was rice with beans and other Cuban dishes. Rui bet with Rocha that he would be able to order a carrot cream soup in Cuba before the end of the trip. We also learned that when Cubans turn on the air-conditioned they like it to reach Arctic temperatures.
I thought to myself that if all days in Cuba are as eventful as this one then I probably will collapse before the return trip. I slept very well that night.
It would be more correct saying "No es no, COÑO! Puedes regressar a tu PUTA casa!"
ReplyDeleteAt least here in Spain it's how they speak...