I awoke knowing the day was mine and mine alone. No Barbara, no Hector, no bus. I knew the rest of the group was up there devouring their last guava, rolls and questionable coffee though so up to the rooftop terrace I went for the goodbye desayuno (breakfast).
Brij, a nice Irish girl, kindly donated one of her wifi cards to me, as I was trying to negotiate the hotel shuttle pickup in Cancun, the next phase of my trip. I was sad to leave Cuba as I had learnt a lot and wanted to learn more revolutionary stuff but I missed Mexico, which is really at the heart of the childlike wonder and excitement of HockTales after all. Jungles, temples, glyphs and Mayan history beckoned. It was like coming home. But first, I had to double check the pick up. The hotel had been stuffing me around, putting me onto the transport company who were supposed to send me a transit voucher. So complex. Unnecessarily so.
Anyway, with the usual exchanges of emails and promises to be safe, it was time to say goodbye to the others and strike out on my own for one last day in Havana. I packed like the Girl Guide I was in my youth. Snacks, rain jacket, hat – all eventualities covered. After that initial downpour on day 1, Havana was simply not to be trusted!! Wet pants are bad!!
Today’s plan was to hit the Military Parque Historico – two big old forts on the other side of the island. No camino. Accessible only via the underpass with a vehicle, a few hours of dedicated swimming or the ferry. Barbara recommended a cab for ease but I was hesitant to pay a taxi driver to sit there for God knew how long while I took my time through the forts. After brief confirmation on the ferry at the tourist centre which I had discovered by the waterfront the previous day, I headed for the terminal.
The ferry was public transport for the locals. Sardines and dogs packed into a transport with dangling hand holds like a bus. So cheap though – 1 CUC which is pretty much a buck – and well-timed as I managed to walk straight on. The ferry was full of teenagers. I didn’t think anything of this at the time. Good on those kids. Interested in maritime history. Forts are cool. The boat bounced on the waves, crossing to the other side in maybe 15 minutes.
The ferry spat me out at a gauntlet of nasty looking food vendors and some stairs. The throng of teenagers knew where they were going. I followed them to a very badly signposted ticket booth. How much would this cost me? Who knew but I had another Camillo to break. I thrust a $20 under ticket lady’s nose. ‘No senorita, CUP.’ CUP?????
Time for a money lesson. There are two currencies in Cuba. CUC – pronounced Cook -is for white chicks from overseas like me. It stands for Cuban convertibles. Like a car. It has pictures of monuments on it. It’s pretty. It’s tourist money, although I think people who live there can use it. Most things in shops and restaurants are priced in CUC.
The other currency is the CUP – Cuban Peso. Locals use this in bodegas or in places I guess that are less touristy.Theoretically, I shouldn’t have been in possession of any CUP as all my transactions were in CUC but I noticed that somebody had pulled a swifty and given me change in useless CUP that had been pointlessly clinking around my wallet. That act of dodginess now transformed into an act of fortuitousness as it exactly paid for my entry into the park complex. Hahahahaha! Take that, fate!!!
I clearly entered the fort via the back door with the ferry entrance rather than the underpass. I emerged from the ticket booth into what looked a bit like the fort moat with no obvious way up and out. With huge stone walls all around me, I trudged through grass and weeds. I started to feel a bit of a weird vibe – like I was in the wrong place – but there was nowhere else to be so I clomped on in my Kathmandu walking shoes. I rounded a corner into a wider, flatter part of the moat – right into the path of two boys galloping horses at full speed right at me!!! They reacted first, seizing their bridles to avoid a collision with the random Aussie girl who just popped up in their path before bolting back the way they cane.
This was now officially weird. What was going on??? I saw people lined up for horse riding, trampolining, snack vendors. It was a festival. Over there! Steps!! I could escape this deadly moat hell!!!!
I climbed to ground level into a mad throng of people entering the old fort. It was a sea of bodies I hadn’t encountered in a long time. It was insane. Reminded me of the showbag pavilion at the Royal Adelaide Show when I was a kid one year and Mum was grabbing us. (I was more afraid of losing my Sunnyboy and Freddo showbags than myself at that point!)
Then I saw the sign that shattered my illusions about any teenage love for military history. Expo libris. It was a giant book fair!! I remembered Barbara saying this was on. But my god, I didn’t expect every single Cuban under the age of 20 to be here!
Like an archaeologist searching for evidence
of the original fort under bright yellow educational signs and directional arrows, I scoured the walls and hallways. Nothing. Not one caption. I entered a room marked ‘Mexican comics’. $2 find a words, Disney princesses, packed to the gunnels with people. This was a way worse than spam. I hadn’t seen any bookstores the whole trip, come to think of it. Was this it??? Fidel ensures everybody could read but what were they reading? Havana Club bottles? There was surely a library around – that’s a very communist concept. But I guess cheap books was the next best thing.
But at the high price of removing all the trace of information about the historic fort? I was lost, literally and figuratively. I wandered past educational DVDs in otherwise empty rooms. This 16th century fort was listed as Lonely Planet’s number 2 thing to do in Cuba. I couldn’t help but think a staff member had spent hours the previous night with a screwdriver and a shopping trolley removing all evidence of historical information to dump information panels in a massive pile in a staff room somewhere. I walked around enjoying the view over as best I could, dodging the teenagers with their Bluetooth speakers and litter.
At one point, I entered Che Guevara’s house only to find all the exhibition stripped or sections closed. Oh, Che. I apologise for the betrayal of the Cubanos. You fought and died for the freedoms of people you barely knew, and now the military base you commanded is overrun by weird cheezels and groping teenagers in skinny jeans draped over cannons that used to protect the city from pirates. I had so been looking forward to z big morning of history; it was easily the most disappointing moment of the trip.
With heavy heart, I trudged out of the fort. Maybe I would have better luck at the fort at the other side of the complex if I could shake the heaving wave of humanity dogging me. Plus I was getting hungry. As I exited the main fort complex, I encountered a car park of food vendors hawking a variety of expensive carnival prices death mystery meats. It was an expensive recipe for diarrhoea. I purchased a cheap jam roll looking thing, hoping its little spirals harboured minimal bacterial threats to my digestive tract.
The second fort was much smaller. The first one contained multiple rooms and houses. I saw a passageway but no bueno from the security guard. Enter from the bottom. My access point was the ground level of the fortress as opposed to the lower ground where I could see steps leading up through the first. Ok so I would first circumnavigate this level. But I didn’t get too far. This was only a small fort. I could only walk maybe a hundred metres around the moat. I glimpsed Havana on the other side of the Caribbean between two big rocky pieces of fortress.
Then I felt the first few drops of rain. Uh oh. The sky was the colour of a Russian blue cat just before the clouds tore open. With roughly the same speed, I tore open the zip on my raincoat. (Take that, Havana! Prepared!!!) I felt so smug as I hid in my little bolthole of fortress for five minutes, as the worst of the downpour subsided. I emerged after a little bit, not wanting to waste too long hiding away. I wanted to see if I could get inside the fort by descending the hill and climbing the stairs. So I followed a larg around, taking maybe ten minutes as I passed a ham and cheese roll vendor. (Death by spam??) I glimpsed three things in quick succession – the entrance, a sign for a ticket fee and the dreaded book fair symbol. Here too!!! Even the last bastion was filled with activity kits and Spanish romance novels! No bueno!!!! In disgust, I turned around and climbed back up the hill again.
I just couldn’t face walking all the way back to the ferry. It was so far away and there was definite risk to my life with those horses. Fort number 2 was good for something though – a taxi rank. As the rain started a steady drizzle, I stride over. A bunch of guys were clearly waiting for white chicks fed up with their crappy book fair and dismal weather. I hopped a blue cab that was probably a 50s car but not one of the beautiful specimens for rent. This was a bit more used on the inside but fine. I asked the driver to take me to the revolutionary museum as I knew it was back on the main side of the island but quite close to the underpass. For a tenner, thy will be done!! It was time to finally visit Granma’s House!!!
I was hoping there would be food near the Revolutionary Museum, but no death spam vendors or cafes in sight. A hunger pacification expedition would have to occur before cultural and political enlightenment. I walked along the nearest main drag, which incidentally had the Capitolino building on it in the far end. This end of town was classic car central. Chevies everywhere!!! I didn’t have time to be choosy. I found a hotel that looked abierto (open). As I entered through the doors, an English guy in his 60s happened to exit at the same time and informed me I was entering Paradise. A five star write-up indeed. I was dubious of this review as I absorbed the wide variety of soccer bar towels and other paraphernalia. Oh well. Literally every place served grilled pork, rice and beans. It was the most staple and hard to stuff up lunch around. It was quick, ok, relatively cheap and there was a toilet. Standards for Paradise were low. All requirements met. I exited, half expecting to perform the same informative function but nobody was coming in as I left. I backtracked to the Revolutionary Museum without incident.
A huge army tank was parked out the front with an information panel letting the gringos know that Fidel used it to bring down planes at the Bay of Pigs invasion. (Presumably so the pilots could then go snorkelling and drink the national beer at the kiosk?)
A piece of the original city wall protecting Havana from rum-soaked pirates (although those are within the city these days) sits proudly out the front too. The Revolutionary Museum is housed in the spectacular former Presidential Palace, which I would have expected the revolutionaries to have destroyed upon taking Havana but they didn’t so much as scratch the paint. The building is a real symbol of conspicuous consumption and the opulence of the Batista years. Fancy state dinners, ceiling frescoes, gold filigree work, massive high ceilings and glitzy chandeliers. Much of it was under restoration during my visit but at least three of the rooms I could enter or view were 18th century French influence. Think Marie Antoinette frou-frou. I couldn’t imagine Fidel, Che, Raul and Camille going from jungle dentistry to this.
The plainer rooms housed two displays of revolutionary memorabilia. It wasn’t really a history of the revolution- more of a ‘here’s Che Guevara’s radio’ – on the top floor.The ground floor told the post-revolution story of Fidel holding onto power a bit better – Patria o muertre. Homeland or death. It went all the way through today the 80s with a strong military focus. I found it interesting that Castro also kept the title of Prime Minister for a few years before ditching it as the farce it obviously was and then holding elections.
I was starting to vague out in the last few rooms. Coffee needed. I headed for the back where I noticed there was a little on-house coffee shop. And it was a cracker. The counter was a beautiful carved wood, more suited to La Bodeguita than the back of the museum, although I reminded myself it was the former presidential palace. I ordered an espresso shot. This was not the place for an Americano! The young barista, eager to please, tried to talk to me but it was a stilted conversation with his limited English and my limited Spanish. But he understood I was Australian. Suddenly, he grabbed a pen and scrawled a note on a piece of paper. I opened it, nearly spraying my espresso everywhere, as I read the words, ‘Air Supply is a good band.’ Cuba – what a timewarp!!!!! Loved it! Had to order another espresso just to hang there for another minute!
After I was All Out of Love and coffee, I headed out the back of the museum to check out the display of vehicles used in the revolution. But first, Granma!!!!!
The small boat is housed in a glass shed, guarded by two soldiers wielding machine guns on either side. That’s some serious protection for the old duck Granma. I peered through the glass. Granma was green and reminded me of a slightly larger version of my Dad’s fishing boat. 83 revolutionaries must have been hanging off the edges with arms and legs everywhere. I’m surprised they weren’t towing a few of them on banana lounges or inner tubes – it would have been packed to the gunnels. I walked around the perimeter, stepping back onto the grass to survey the impressive spray of bulletholes on a delivery van when a harsh whistle blew. A soldier barked something to the gist of ‘don’t step on the grass’ in my general direction. Jeez. I hastily made my re-acquaintance with the pavement. The rest of the vehicles included an impressive array of small planes, cars, the tail of an American plane shot down over the Bay of Pigs and another army tank that Castro used to shoot down planes. Did they have moulds of the original tank? Did he tank hop? That was unclear, but the pride in everything was crystal clear!
On the way out, I was particularly struck by this small statue of the three leaders of the Revolution. Very simple but very moving.
With my revolutionary appetite satisfied, it was time for my tour in one of Havana’s famous convertible cars! The meeting point was close to the museum – maybe 19 minutes walk.
The car was beautiful. A 1955 red Chevy. All these old cars have modern engines so that they can actually run. (Well, given you can’t buy anything other than Pringles or rum, you’ve got to cut them some slack with sourcing 1950s original car parts!) Two other girls joined me – very young Chinese Americans from New York – and we piled into the back seat. The guide for the next few hours was Raphael, who narrated while Guilliam chauffeured us in his chrome beast.
We drove through different neighbourhoods and Chinatown to our first stop, Revolutionary Plaza. This had three famous landmarks on it. Two huge iron artworks in the shape of Che Guevara and Camille Cienfuegos, and a tower that was previously Cuba’s tallest building with a statue of Jose Martí on it. Revolutionary Plaza is the location for huge public events such as the visit of the Pope. Prior to the revolution, it was called something suitably civic that I can’t remember but it has always been the place for big crowds to gather. It’s also ringed by a series of soul crushingly depressing structures such as the communications building (that one should have been the worst – for shame!), and government administration offices. As for the Martí tower, that’s purely ornamental.
One of the New York girls said, “Che Guevara? Maybe I have heard of him?” Then proceeded to spend the next ten minutes draping herself over the car for Insta photos, barely holding her precariously loose décolletage in as she posed. Dear God.
Our next stop was the Havana forest, a green oasis of trees and a river in the dilapidated opulence of the city. This natural park was a photographic hotspot for weddings and girls celebrating their fifteenth birthdays – a huge thing in Cuba and Mexico too. It was also a prime location for practitioners of the Santeria religion to leave offerings whenever they were essentially after something like a new job, good fortune etc. However, the offerings were sacrifices of chickens. There were literally more chicken bones down there than the dumpster behind a KFC. It was beautiful but a bit creepy – a bit of an Ivan Milat vibe. (He was a notorious Australian serial killer who murdered backpackers in a forest.) As I walked along the tranquil banks of the beautiful rushing river and absorbed the green trees like photosynthesis through my own skin (badly needed in Havana), I dodged fly-ridden headless carcasses and clouds of feathers. The girls whirled the hems of their dresses for slow-mo Insta movies. I despaired for humanity.
We cruised the Malencon and the wealthy neighbourhoods on the way to the Hotel Nacional de Cuba. It was perfect weather for cruising in the convertible. The wind whipped my hair into a tangled frenzy that my nasty, broken $2 shop hairbrush had no chance of combatting but no rain and a pleasant temperature made for a fun ride!
Guilliam dropped us at the front and we we walked through to the back to eyeball the waterfront and back end of the hotel. The hotel was beautiful. It was built in 1930 by the Americans during a time when Prohibition hampered enterprise at home. So the enterprising Mafia and other wealthy Americanos set up a string of casinos, hotels, brothels and generally fancy places for a good time in the pleasure backyard of Cuba for rich Americans. It was basically a weekend away in Vegas. Cubanos were very poor at this point in time – there was no trickle down economics happening here. The money went into the hands of Mafia dons and men like Myer Lansky who ran all the dodgy casinos here but also in Vegas. It was exploitation like this that fired up the revolutionaries to begin with – although that was maybe 25 years away.
The National was the jewel in the Americano hotel crown. Frank Sinatra played here. In fact, he was the headliner for the biggest Mafia convention in the world when hundreds of representatives from the Mafia families convened at the hotel to decide how to divide Cuba up amongst themselves. Miraculously nobody got shot. The Sopranos has led me to believe that half the men should have been whacked in the car park.
Raphael led us to their famous bar for our free drink, the Mafia mojito. Not more mojitos, no!!! At least this was different. It was a normal mojito with an extra shot of dark rum in it. Well, ok then. It was even better! That Cuban dark rum is magical!!!
The hotel is very proud of its history. The bar has photos of every recent famous person (2000s onwards) who has played or turned up at the hotel. Raphael led us to their memorabilia room filled with full-length wall photos of d as mould people who rocked up decade by decade.
Walt Disney was here in the 50s. Raphael reported that Trump was here in the 80s during his dodgy entrepreneurial bankrupt deal making days. Oddly enough, no physical evidence of this survives on a wall. Maybe they covered him with Kevin Costner. Then I turned back to the bar and glimpsed something red out of the corner of my eye. A slab of Coke cans!!! I was floored!!! Shocked!!! I had not seen a single bottle or can of Coke in Cuba. It was the national cola or it was nothing. I guess with the blockade and the lack of supplies, Cuba was living in an enforced kind of Prohibition on general everyday groceries. (Obviously not a rumless Prohibition.) I smiled at the thought of the Nacional still selling bootlegged beverages to rich people staying there nearly 100 years later.
It was time to go. We slipped Guilliam some extra cash to drive us back to the centre of town in style. When we arrived, I walked with the two girls into one of the tourist shops on the Main Street where I bought two t-shirts and then said goodbye to them. Surely they had a big night of editing and uploading their videos ahead of them.
Realising I was now a little short on cash for dinner (no EFTPOS facilities for dinner – always cash only), I hit an ATM to withdraw minimal funds to see me through until my flight at lunchtime tomorrow. I flipped through my wallet for my card. Not there. Flipped again. Oh shit. Adrenaline spiked one way while my heart sank the other way. Mad rifling through wallet. The card was most definitely, 100% not there. Ok, think. Money needed. I used my backup card to another account to extract funds.
The last time I used the card was at the ATM last night to withdraw money for dinner. Had it been stolen? Had I left it in the machine??? Did it matter??? It was gone and I had to a) see the damage b) stop any further damage immediately. I remembered the wifi card Brij gave me that morning. I just needed a hotspot. And a toilet. I was about to puss myself. Why did it all have to happen at once??? I desperately strode Obispo Street (a big street) with my legs half crossed looking for a place with a wifi signal, a toilet and food – the purchase of which would justify my access to the first two things. Most of the places were too small to have a wifi. I needed something bigger.
Then on the corner! The Hotel Floridita Restaurant! I remembered the scrawled board from La Bodeguita del Medio – “ my daiquiri at La Floridita”. This was clearly the restaurant arm of the daiquiri bar – but I needed food and hated daiquiris. Perfect. I was the easiest customer of the night for the tout on the corner. At his confirmation that there was wifi, I barrelled in and barged straight through to the toilet. Thank God.
I ordered something and ate it, but I have no idea what it tasted like. I was far too concerned about my missing card. La Floridita’s signal sucked. I had to log in three times due to the flakiness of the network that went in and out on me every few minutes. The most I got out of the hour was maybe 10 minutes of constant connection before the signal faded out and then kicked back in again. My banking app revealed that I had indeed been cleaned out of all funds in that account – approximately $1000 USD. My email revealed that the card had been cancelled due to suspicious activity and to please contact Qantas Travel Money at my earliest convenience. The best I could do was send a message via my account on the app. With all the Internet flakiness, that was literally the best I could do in the hour of internet access I had. The app provided a number to call in case of emergency card theft for any country in the world. I would have happily paid top dollar for piece of mind with that phone call. Evidently, every country in the world does not include Cuba because the number didn’t work. I don’t think Cuba’s phone infrastructure can handle international calls.
Cuba – the timewarp is fascinating but it all goes pear-shaped when something goes wrong and access to modern infrastructure is needed. I was so on edge about it all and so frustrated that there was literally nothing I could do about it. I did manage to achieve one final goal though. I hopped a coco taxi to drive me home!
Fearless readers – return for the next post as HockTales returns to the big smoke of Mexico for new adventures on the Yucatan Peninsula.
HockTales: a Central American Adventure 