Day 17 – The Revolutionary Road to Havana

Have you ever heard of Interjet? No? Aussies – this is our Jetstar. Instructions state to be there three hours before an international flight, presumably so you can enjoy the pre-flight entertainment of sitting on your rucksack for an hour in the queue with no sign of Interjet staff or even logos on screens. The only indication I was in the right place was the $25 US fee I had paid for a tourist card as an Australian citizen. It was pretty much my visa.

With an entire plane not yet checked in and now an hour and a half before scheduled departure time, there wasn’t a snowballs chance in hell it would leave on time. But nobody was going to admit that. A sentence on the boarding pass even stated that Interjet did not make announcements about departure times over the speakers- it was your responsibility to get there on time. Helpful when you don’t know the gate or the revised time. The gate had in fact changed too. Luckily I just happened to see it on a screen walking past the specific gate – not the departures board which took half an hour to update. Had no idea when the plane was going to actually leave – spent some of my last pesos on a Starchucks espresso shot because I had no idea whether I had to swig or sip!

When on board, a delightful snack of cheese Ruffles awaits you about halfway. If you request a Pepsi, you get a 600ml bottle. If you request juice, you get a 600ml bottle. If you request water, you get a tiny cup with as much liquid that you spit out at the dentist. WTF?!?! Dehydrate and die, passengers!!!

From the start, Havana airport was a scrum. No clear signage and only two x ray machines going for an entire plane. I got told I didn’t need a customs form because I was a tourist and then of course I did after I queued 20 minutes, then they sent me right to the back again.

With the delayed flight and all this stuffing around, I was not surprised there was no sign of my prepaid guesthouse transfer. Three laps of the arrivals lounge and no name. Crap. Cuba is a no phone, no internet black hole. I had no idea of the name or location of the guesthouse. There was literally nothing I could do. Then I heard a mighty sleet of rain pelting the pavement. I turned to look outside. The palm trees tilted like botanical leaning towers of Pisa. It was pouring down in almost horizontal sheets. Ma, the rains are in!!! And this was dry season!!!

Eventually I recognised another lady from the plane waiting for transport and went over to her. Turned out my name was on a list according to a driver who wasn’t mine but he was now mine. Along with a random Indian couple, we hopped in his cab. The young dude who resembled Pitbull identified himself as Junior and proceeded to deliver a brief lesson in money, telling me that the nearby artisan market and weather. He explained that this rain was part of the cold front that happened occasionally in dry season. This was my first brief taste of what a pain in the arse it would be to not have instant access to weather forecasts. Junior drove past Revolutionary Plaza where a big famous artwork of Che Guevara decorates the outside of a building. Wow! I was sure I would be back!

Junior drove along the waterfront. An enormous cruise liner dwarfed the terminal. I later learnt that it was European because Trump has barred all American liners from docking in Cuba. Apparently Obama was very popular for trying to mend relations. Cheetolino is less so.

Havana is famous for its 50s cars and they are everywhere. Tomato red, hot pink, Ribena purple and orange orange Chevrolets, Dodges and Buicks all cruise the street like predatory autos in search of their latest pickup. I didn’t know about the horse and carts, tuk tuks or coco taxis though. The coco taxis look like bubbles, kinda yellow and round like they are cut out of a coconut. Sit three people in the back. All these are taxis for hire which I found surprising. Not private hot rods like I thought. But I guess that’s why they are all immaculate. Get closer and you see they are all stickered with taxi logos. The engines are not original in many cases but they do have to run 70 years later so who can blame the cabbies or the owners for keeping them roadworthy??? The horse and carts are not as pretty as the Merida carts – more like rattle traps. But they would have been fun.

Junior dropped me off at La Vista Mar on Paula Street, around the corner from the very boringly named Cuba Street. The heavy rain had stopped but it was bleak and drizzling. A Cuban guesthouse is a bit like a bed and breakfast where the owner lives and/or staff make you breakfast. This one was a three storey townhouse with a rooftop terrace for breakfast. The living room was a merging of Jesus pictures with Victorian style furniture, pink walls, glassware, and a small framed photo of Fidel Castro.

The young chap who clearly worked there showed me to my room. It was palatial!!! Nobody was sharing the wealth here in room 7. I was a fat capitalist pig hogging it all for myself. And a minibar!! I hadn’t seen a fridge since I left Australia. Loaded with water, beer and soft drink. This was my first observation of the national beverages. In Cuba, there is only the Ciego Montero brand of water. No Evian, no Mount Franklin, no black and gold. This is what you are getting if you order an agua. Ciego Montego. Your only choice is what size – big or small – and whether it’s sparkling or still. That con or sin gas to you. (Remember con, sin and tan angles from school – not sure about tan – but con and sin are useful here – maybe Trump took all the tan.) Soft drinks are Ciego Montero lemonade, cola and orange. Only once did I see Coke or Fanta in a week. Same with the national beer – Cristal is the lager and Bucanero the slightly darker version.

So the nice young chap took my passport details and informed me that if I wanted to exchange money, I had about five minutes to haul butt down to the artisan market before the exchange shut. Raincoat on, lock room and go!

Extensive research and interviews with subjects yielded a clear result – US dollars were not accepted. In fact, they only exchange pounds, Canadian and Euros. I had carried 300 euros on me from Australia for exactly this moment and it was their time to shine (aka get the hell out of my wallet). I hotfooted it over to a bright yellow building in the drizzling rain past the Cubans who like to hang out on the street. The market was full of routers. “Bag, lady? You like T-shirt?” No, gracias. Found the exchange and a nice lady exchanged my cash into big inconvenient notes – mostly 50s and 20s that I would find a pain in the arse to break. At that point in time I had no way of knowing how much stuff cost or whether a 20 was a lot.

I quickly collected myself at this moment of vulnerability. Foreign country, passport in one hand (needed for currency exchange) , wallet in the other, keys to the room in pocket, in the middle of a market of touts. I was a tasty severed arm dropped into a shark tank!

I briefly checked out the market. I had a group meeting at 6 in that pink dining room and didn’t want to be late. My enduring memory of that market that I will carry to heaven in my head handbag (see previous post) is a sea of cream coloured canvas bags with Havana club rum logos on them. Stall after stall after stall. It was my very first experience of how deeply rum was soaked into the very fabric of the culture. Markets reflect popular culture to make mucho dineros. So it was the highly distilled upchuck of the very essence of Cuba if you will. I wish I had a photo to show but too vulnerable with all my stuff!!! I have other market photos to show in later posts. I did buy a bag to bust my first note though. Figured it would roll up. Couldn’t go eying with a canvas bag with a cool car and palm trees on it! Weirdly, in all my travels, I never saw another bag exactly the same. Same design, but mine also had some tassels on the top that I never saw in the hundreds of other tourist tat shops. I wasn’t too keen on them at first but now that I have circumnavigated the island (well half of it) I think they represent more of Cuba than just the cars and Havana rum – the tassels remind me of the twirling of salsa dancing and the Caribbean-ness of a culture created on the backs of slaves from the sugar refineries. A good buy for 8 CUC (pronounced Cook by the way).

Back to the hotel to meet the group. Tour leader, Barbara, was from Trinidad, where we would later visit. Supremely organised, informative and a walking encyclopaedia. I loved her. Long nails, glittery shoes. I was the baby of the group. The others were from Ireland, UK, Switzerland and one Aussie. Barbara took us for the welcome dinner to a restaurant around the corner, although three had other plans. The streets of Havana look very similar at night and are not well lit. I was pretty glad she was taking us!

I ate this!

I also had a mojito. Then I began to realise something as the Boomers around me dipped on their mojitos that tasted a bit weak to me. I take my coffee strong and black, and my mezcal straight and hard. I couldn’t drink this lolly water. It was Bickfords cordial for grown ups that went straight to the thighs with no buzz.

I had seen the canvas bags. I knew what I had to do. The young waiter was particularly obliging that night, paying me a little bit of extra attention over the other ageing Boomer half of the table perhaps. I shot him the HockTales eye, which sparkles like an elusive gem in Uncle Scrooge’s treasure quests if I want something, and he gave me his off-the-menu personal rum recommendation for the same price as Havana Club. I sipped it slowly like a refined old billionaire McDuck. It was smooth and delicious. Ron de Santiago which I later learned is owned by Bacardi.

And thus began my education in rum or ron as it is known in Cuba. I now have the first prerequisite skill to become a pirate.

Vigilant friends, return for the next post as I hit the mean streets of Havana during the day and it doesn’t rain! (I promise better pictures too – sorry – travel day pictures are a bit el crappo.)