Santa Clara

Santa Clara was a small, curiously hip city in the geographic center of Cuba. Known mostly for its large student population and vibrant gay scene, I was intrigued to check it out.

Cuba, depite being a very Catholic country, seemed to have a pretty breezy approach to homosexuality. Every city I'd been to seemed to have openly gay people wandering in the streets as well as the occasional rainbow flag. In Cienfuegos, all the people selling garlic in the streets were very flamboyant, young gay men. I asked around but no one seemed to know why.

My casa host Marsi was the polar opposite of Ms Odalys. She seemed to think that I was unaquainted with even the most basic human faculties. Treating me like one would a Martian. As we went through the room she explained, in minute detail, how to turn on a tap, lights, shower, flush a toilet, open a door, open a window, close a window.

After an eternity of explanation, she moved on to the map of the city. It's a very compact place, with few sights but this was also drawn out ad nauseum. I finally excused myself from the vice like grip of her well intentioned lecturing and darted into the city.

I was starving and looked around for food. There was a window serving cheese pizza for half a CUC, which was ideal. Practically doubling over with hunger, I joined the line of nattering Cubans. I must confess that if you you are a pizza afficionado then Cuba isn't for you. It tends to just be a stodgy, circular piece of bread with plastic cheese on top. I finally got to the window and was told, unapologetically, that there was none left.

I turned around and saw a giant sign saying 'Gracias Fidel.' I could think of two other, less friendly, words I wanted put in front of his name. I'm the worst version of myself when I'm hangry.

Thankfully this was a blessing in disguise as I stumbled accross a local restaurant that served me the best meal I'd had in Cuba thus far for only 5 CUC. Perfectly cooked lamb on the bone, marinaded in a tomato sauce that was spiced and oozing in actual flavor. A concept that Cuba is still struggling to get acquainted with.

As well as gays and students, this town is also famous for being the epicenter of the 1959 revolution. It was here that a plucky band of only eighteen poorly trained guerillas managed to detail a train containing two hundred troops and forced them to surrender after a fierce battle. This moment essentially lit the spark of the revolution and was the beginning of the end for the US backed Batista Regine.

They were led by the enigmatic Ernesto 'Che' Guevara. Cuba's best known political figure along side Fidel Castro. His face appears pretty much everywhere in this country along with various Communist revolutionary slogans. The site where this battle happened had become something of an interactive museum.

For 1 CUC you could wander around the actual carriages that were derailed, check out the bullet holes in the actual tractor they used to raise the tracks. They had managed to salvage just about anything they could get from that day; uniforms, soda bottes for Molotov cocktails, used hankies. It was a surreal place.

Next was the Che Guevara mausoleum. Situated on the edge of town, it sported a giant statue of the man himself on a plyth about fourty feet high. It seemed quite fitting for a man who is about as close to a God as you can get in Cuba.

Underneath the plynth was the Che museum and his final resting place. Although he was shot in Boliva (in front of US agents) in 1967 it took thirty years to get his remains back, thanks mostly to the US government.

The US also, famously, tried to kill Castro a multitude of times through various ridiculous means, including expolding cigars. You can see why the two countries aren't the best of friends.

The mausoleum itself was very tasteful in a tacky, Cuban sort of way. I had to ask the lady who was overseeing my reverence where he was. Each of the revolutions key figures' faces was carved into an identically sized clay plate, covering the walls from head to toe. There were about sixty of them. I learnt that Che requested to have everyone else involved in the revolution interred with him and to place no emphasis on his section of the wall. I thought it said a lot about the man. There was an eternal flame in the floor with a rather out of place looking garden at the end of the room. The lady couldn't seem to explain why there was an indoor garden, so it will have to remain a mystery. Like many things here.

That evening, I decided to check out Club Mejunje. According to the guidebook every Saturday night it hosted Cuba's only drag show. This sounded too good to miss.

I got talking to Elliel, the bartender. He was razor sharp, a chemistry graduate and spoke almost fluent English and Russian. Incedentally, Russia is one of the few places Cubans can travel to with relative ease. He had lived in Moscow for two years as part of a cultural exchange. I decided to take advantage of his English and get some answers to some of the burning questions I'd had on the trip.

Until 2014 you could neither legally buy property nor cars in Cuba. But that changed once Casto died. Almost Instantaneously, prices of both skyrocketed. Taxis and property were only a few thousand CUC back then and increased around 1000% overnight. Which must have been something of a shock to the system.

Taxis used to be passed down through families. Private taxis are owned by the driver. If someone wants to buy one they will need to scrape together the 60,000 or so CUC through family, friends and unofficial loans. Not an easy feat given that most Cubans make around 20-60 CUC a month.

I was told that the drag show was now on Sunday and every Saturday he had to constantly disappoint tourists who had blindly followed Lonely Planet. In any case, it had been replaced with Cuba's premiere gay and trans disco. So all wasn't lost.

I got talking with some locals, Rafael, Michel, Roberto and a lady called Ismaylay. Soon the place was bustling with many men of all shapes, sizes and persuasions. There was a black, muscular trans person in a tiny white dress who was about seven foot tall. It reminded me of a statue of a Nubian Eunuch I once saw in Istanbul. Except she was wearing a platinum blonde wig.

Outside I bumped into a portly gay man from San Francisco. He was on some kind of cultural exchange and was wearing a rainbow colored shellsuit and a rainbow stovepipe hat. He was very queer indeed.

Strangely, gay Cuban men are not particularly mercenary with straight men especially compared to other parts if the world. I was sort of hoping to be batting them away as all the gringo girls have been on the trip. But alas, I was not to be Belle of the ball.

The rest of the evening passed without much incident, except for a moment when a jealous lover smashed a beer bottle and attempted to shiv someone kissing his man. The whole thing was conducted in just about the campest manner ever so the threat didn't feel particularly genuine. Most of the club just ignored it. I noticed lots of broken glass about the place so this was probably a regular occurrence.