Havana - Part 1

As the days began to draw near to my departure for Cuba, a sense of unease began to grow gently inside me. I had every reason to be nervous. The last two adventurous trips I’d taken had journeys that were near disasters. On my way to Colombia in 2014, I collapsed in the Orlando Airport arrivals area in a limp, vomiting heap and had to be taken to a hospital by ambulance. To add insult to injury the doctors were convinced that I was overdosing on opioids. Turns out it’s hard to defend yourself if you can’t form complete sentences. Thankfully it cleared up and I made my connection (I had severe vertigo caused by an ear infection, in case you were wondering).

Whilst traveling to Iran I got to Heathrow Airport and discovered that I had no tickets about two hours before my flight. The travel agent had cancelled on me but Gmail, in an overzealous attempt to protect me from spam, decided I didn’t need to know this. Thankfully that too was remedied by some good luck and submitting my poor credit card to what I can only describe as a severe fisting.

Would it be third time lucky, I wondered? In an effort to avoid this I was gripped by a small fit of due diligence. I had procured the visa for Cuba in advance of the flight, even though I was told by a friend that I could get one on arrival in Havana. When I got to Heathrow Airport, I was told in no uncertain terms that I would not have been let on the plane without one. I wondered if perhaps the curse had finally been lifted.

The only airline that I could find to get me to Havana was Alitalia, the Italian national airline. National airlines seem to have an uncanny ability to reflect just about all the stereotypes of their respective countries. In the case of Alitalia, this was no different. The food and wine on board were, of course, spot on. In all other respects, chaos reigned. After the food was served about fifteen minutes into the flight, the air stewards (curiously all men above the age of 40) disappeared like a frightened spectre.

My antique in flight ‘entertainment system’ didn’t work and I wandered about for some assistance. After some puzzle searching, I discovered the entire plane’s crew huddling at the back of the plane, clasping steamy espressos in little ceramic cups and saucers. They were all gesticulating wildly, as though they had ants in their knickers. I tried in vain to get their attention but their caffeine infused forcefield was too strong. I decided to pilfer the snack shelf in revenge and scuttled off to my seat.

Landing in Havana, I was struck at just how little light there was near the city. It reminded me of looking at the night sky (or lack thereof) in London. No cars either, save for a pair of lonely looking headlights in the distance. They airport itself was a bleak and charmless building with all the style and panache of a Soviet municipal gymnasium. It felt very reminiscent of Tehran airport, a place designed with the sole purpose of eliciting a deep state of malaise. Like Tehran, it also substituted all advertising with pretty pictures of various sites in Cuba. They were by far the nicest thing in the airport.

I had made advanced arrangements through my fiend Jorge, a Miami based Cuban. He had a buddy called Ernesto who could pick me up at the airport and house me for as long as I needed. True to his word, he was there on arrival. Sporting a broad, toothy grin and proudly holding up a sign with my name on it. I had tried to learn some Spanish before the trip using the power of the internet. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken much purchase and I was quickly reduced to the level of ‘gesticulating moron’.

We walked over to his car. As expected, it was a real treasure of automotive history.

‘Lada. 1985!’ He beamed with a sweeping arm gesture.

I hadn’t seen a Lada since I was in St Petersburg ten years ago. They were a parting gift from The USSR before the fall of communism. It looked like a car designed by a child with only a ruler and pencil to hand. However, it did have remote locking, which I imagine wasn’t an original feature. The incredibly noisy diesel engine was taken from a Peugeot that I’m quite sure had been for a tractor in its former life.

Ernesto was a very amiable fellow in his mid-40s and, like many Cubans I had met, was somewhat obsessed with the fairer sex.

‘Cuban chicas is best in world my friend. Better dan French, Italy, Espain… Is chicas good in England?’

‘They are very nice. But probably not as good as your chicas.’

‘Si si, no no is as good as Cuban Chica.’ he beamed and pointed out a particularly short and rotund lady waiting to cross the street.

‘Bery nice chicas...si si’ He crooned

I would come to learn very quickly that having a pair of tits and a vagina here means you are pretty much going to be cat called at all hours of the day and night. Although as far as I’ve heard from the people I’ve spoken to here, it’s generally quite benign and the chances of being assaulted are fairly low. Personally, I’ve never quite understood cat calling as nothing ever comes from it, save maybe for a look of veiled frustration and the occasional request to go fuck yourself.

His apartment was in a soviet era building in a residential neighbourhood west of the centre of town. I had a room, a bed, a view of a neighbour’s wall and a shared bathroom. The place was immaculately clean and, importantly, it had free (but fairly restricted) Wi-Fi. I would soon discover that Wi-Fi here is still a rare and expensive luxury that is both unreliable and mostly only available in designated public spaces.

His girlfriend and her daughter were at home and had prepared a meal of pork, rice with fresh cucumber and tomatoes. It may not sound like much but for most getting hold of fresh, decent ingredients is still not that that easy or cheap for most people here.

After many thankyous and delighted pats of my belly, I was out of the door in search of a bar. I’d only given myself two nights in Havana, so I needed to make the most of it, in spite of my slight state of jetlagged delirium. He recommended a spot called Fabrica Del Arte, a restaurant with a bar next to an old factory. It had only recently been opened and was apparently a hip hangout.

The streets were eerily quiet and so dark that on several occasions I nearly ran into a few rather frightened pedestrians. The place itself was an impressive sight, set over three floors with an effortlessly styled décor with hanging fairly lights. It was clearly a spot for boujis Cubans and tourists. Disappointingly most of the people there were English. I departed hastily after a much needed beer and wandered into the dark street of Havana.

There were a few more options that I’d pre-loaded on Google maps but as I trundled through the humid evening air, repeatedly tripping over potholes, it became apparent that many of them either did not exist or were not correctly addressed. I would soon discover that frustration and disappointment were two feelings that one would have to get well acquainted with here.  

Eventually I stumbled across a decent spot in an old colonial home bristling with happy, chattering locals. The décor was gorgeous and the drinks were strong and well made. Old radios and record payers were fixed to exposed, high ceilinged brick walls and giant painted canvases of Marylyn Monroe covered walls from top to bottom. Not a gringo in sight.

After a little more bar hopping, I bumped into some folks who looked about as lost as me. They were from Holland but one of them was born and raised in Cuba which was music to my ears. After a few false starts we found a great little music joint replete with gyrating Cubans and live music. I made a rather pathetic attempt at dancing, but my limbs were stiff as boards from the journey and I looked alarmingly like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Soon I called it a night and flopped into a taxi. It was 3am and I had squeezed all I could from my first night. Flopping into bed like a rag doll, I fell into a deep and luxurious sleep.