Day 25 – Exile from Cuba

I awoke on tenterhooks. Well, awoke was a pretty loose term as it implied sleep. Anxiety ran high; I was on edge about my missing ATM card and my account that was cleaner than a unit before a landlord inspection.

My flight to Cancun was in the afternoon. I was Castro fleeing Cuba for Mexico, feeling that bad things had happened but relieved I was in one piece. But I couldn’t sit around in my room all morning. I would go bananas (or platanos???). Plus such egregious arse sitting directly contravened the cram-it-all- in spirit of HockTales. I was certainly rattled, but I couldn’t let it stop me experiencing Havana to the max. (Could I be more 90s???)

I left the room for one final desayuno on my own, getting up at least half an hour earlier than breakfast time. I could happily sit on the terrace, enjoying the view, writing my blog and waiting for the inevitable arrival of guava-based products to the table. However, the staff were up and about and quite happy to start the breakfast service early. I chatted with the young chap to see if he could offer advice with my stolen card. No bueno. He told me to speak to Hector (not the bus driver – the guesthouse owner was named Hector too).

Half an hour later, I found Hector who was sympathetic but could offer zero assistance. International phone calls? Not possible. Internet on his PC? No way. He could at least free my passport from its prison of the safety deposit box on my room. Thanks. My anxiety was still through the roof, aided by the full thermos of coffee I downed on my own. I had to get out of there.

I headed for the Plaza de Armas. I had just enough time to check out the Governor’s Palace, return to the guesthouse, checkout and be ready for the transport to the airport. Two hours. Solid plan. I headed off via the waterfront walk again.

The Governor’s Palace was another no habla Espanol mystery. Truthfully, not a lot of captions in Espanol either but at least no book fair. Despite the huge exterior, it was quite small on the inside – the size of a large house with a big garden atrium in the middle which was a Spanish fashion statement at the time.

The rooms were numbered and I started with 1 – the coach house. Two women sat on chairs between the rooms. This is a common sight in museums as guards typically just observe from a strategic vantage point. One was a uniformed guard and the other a civilian. What happened next was absolutely surreal. The civilian grabbed my elbow and started leading me through the coaches, taking pictures of me with my camera in the coach doors as if I was a fashion model. The uniformed guard was her accomplice, aiding her in this operation by opening doors or holding bags. The woman whirled me behind ornamental gates, fixed my hair, posed my arms, told me I was beautiful. Evidence of photo spread below.

The entire time, I could see what was coming like a big fat elephant trying to hide its fat rolls behind a lamp post. My Espanol was good enough to make out a greatest hits of reasons why I should pay the woman for this unprompted Vogue photographic spread – it was her birthday, she had many grandchildren, possibly it was her grandchild’s birthday, she needed the money for all of the above. Regardless, it was all crap because she was a seasoned professional but it was easier to throw her a few CUC that I had to get rid of anyway than risk her trailing me throughout the building for the next half hour. It was pretty unbelievable that the guard was in on it. Whatever. At least she hasn’t stolen my ATM card to make a buck. Standards were low at that point, as was my mood as it was clear I would have to leave the country before I could take action about my missing card and bare-ass account.

Upstairs were more fancy rooms with nice vases and chandeliers but no explanation. Who was the Governor? Not Ben that was explained. He had a nice rug, some nice statues, big guns, amazing dinner sets, the obligatory dead animal heads and portraits of famous Cubanos on his walls. I may never know what it was all about. I left feeling mystified and a tad disappointed.

I headed back to the hotel but first – espresso! The others told me about a hipster pirate themed café with smoothies and organic products. This had to be seen to be believed. Wow! The booty included organic beet bread and banana bread, lots of vegetarian options, and excellent espresso. This was modern, entrepreneurial Havana!

I had been trying to log in on yesterday’s wifi card as I was unsure whether I had maxed out the 1 hour access or the signal was just too flaky the previous night. All my attempts now indicated the former and it was too late to buy another card. I would have to wait until Cancun to deal with my ATM card issues. I headed back to the guesthouse, settled the breakfast bill and travelled back to the airport with my original driver, Junior! I informed him about all my adventures during the week!

So much had happened that I had forgotten the horror of waiting an hour in the Interjet queue in Cancun to get into Cuba. I was really not in the mood but yep – I faced the sequel. This time, an hour and a half in a queue with no indication it was the correct place. No Interjet employees or screens. Just a bunch of customers turning up three hours prior to departure as requested. Seemed familiar. With a huge seething mass of bags and people, no staff and an hour and a half before scheduled departure time, I knew I was flying straight into another Interjet shitstorm. Plus I was hungry. It was 2pm and I needed to eat!!!! The floor started to move in unnatural ways.

Eventually the staff sauntered on up with no inclination towards urgency or apology. On Australia, the passengers would be verbally beating them to a pulp and then posting all over social media about the inconvenience. Nobody said a word. Not one complaint about the hour and a half wait in line seated on our bags like refugees. Was Interjet’s strategy to deliver such consistently awful service that passengers expected it, behaving with calm resignation and mentally factoring that hour and a half into their plans? “I know it says 5pm on the boarding pass dear but it’s Interjet – you can continue watching your show and I will text you when I land.”

After checking my bag in with the expressionless clerk, it was time for a supermarket sweep! CUCs were useless outside Cuba. Dead money nobody would exchange. I had to spend my leftovers in the airport hall before I crossed the security threshold because the guy next to me in the Interjet line told me they couldn’t be used after passport control. I didn’t have much. Could I spend it on food? I scoured the vendors. Clearly the blockade rules didn’t apply here – wow Kit Kats, Hershey bars – disgusting American chocolate at disgusting, exploitative prices. I literally didn’t have enough money for a bag of Kit Kats which had a going rate of around twenty US or the like!! I threw my CUC away on a bag and an Havana Club t-shirt that probably won’t fit my brother upon further re-examination before heading for passport control.

The international departures area was a complete schmozzle. Three food vendors with huuuuuge lines snaking out of their shops and clearly running on Cubano time with the staff not overly concerned that most of the people waiting would board their flights before their food was ready. The Interjet gate or staff gave no indication as to when the flight would leave. I was forced to purchase the most dismal lunch of all time – salted crumbly crackers for $1 US – in case they announced boarding and I had to abandon a cooked plate of food. Naturally they did not announce said boarding for another hour and a half.

The airport was a lawless Wild West frontier land – planes came and went without an aeronautical regard for passengers, currency and economic blockade laws did not apply, service and courtesy out the window, the unique flavour of beer at the airport bar was alcohol-free malt, humans had to scavenge any food to survive. This was not the real Cuba. It was not a question of where’s the beef but where’s the spam???

Eventually, the flight was called and I left the land of cigar smoke for the big smoke. The flight was uneventful. Quite short. It’s only an hour or so from Havana to Cuba. By the time, I exited Customs my transfer guy was entirely not amused as he loudly announced Thats he had been waiting all that time. Well mate – you had access to phone, Internet and probably more communicative staff at your end than mine. There was no way I could have notified him about being late so I apologised profusely, hung the appropriate amount of shit on Interjet and hoped we could all move forward. He was cool.

The van drove me to the Royal Islander Resort, a place I booked based on its proximity to the Mayan museum of Cancun and the tour desk’s daytrips to Mayan ruins. No spring break for me, friends. Sorry to disappoint.

The first thing I did upon dumping my bags was to call the Qantas travel card emergency number. My phone worked! Hooray!!! The process was relatively simple. Fill in a form, scan and send. Fraud squad will get on it, refunding anything they believe was not you. In the meantime, the card was well and truly cancelled. I would just have to keep using my backup account because there was no way Qantas could send me another card to Cancun in time before I left. Interesting point though. The money was all stolen through ATM transactions. How did the man get my PIN number???? There was nobody behind me in the queue but a man was lurking in the vicinity. Was I filmed with an overhead camera???? Mystery for the ages.

I checked out the hotel room. Palatial! I had four rooms? A bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and hidey hole cupboard with a safety deposit box. After my pokey monk’s cell, this was a revelation. Coconut in the fridge, lots of toiletries, hair dryer!!! Wow! Real discovery of note – the toilet flushed with amazing force. I marvelled at this modern miracle of plumbing. But where was the bin I threw toilet paper into? This is what you do in Central America and Cuba. Toilet paper in bin. No bin. What? In toilet? No!!! This was the first sign that I was, in fact, in an international satellite city of the United States in all but passport control.

The second sign was dinner. I descended downstairs to the resort restaurant. Let me explain the geography of my situation. The resort was located on a spit on the beach. The city was at least 30 minutes away on foot- it was late, dark, and I was essentially a captive audience to the only food still being served … the taco buffet. The good news was that one type was the al pastor taco – the famous taco from Mexico City which is kebab meat served with pineapple. The taco dispensing dude seemed impressed that I knew that when I asked for al pastor. But where was the big vertical kebab spit that the meat cooked on??? I suspect it was reheated from freezer bags out the back. Every other person in the restaurant loudly asked for chicken in brash, grating US accents. It’s pollo in Mexico, numbskulls. You’re in their country. I realised I was the only one attempting to ask for food in Spanish. Every American was literally in another country using their own language and expecting ‘the help’ to serve them as if they were in their own living rooms. Sure, it was a restaurant and service is expected but there’s service and then there’s treating people like they’re less than you which is what I believe I witnessed. I looked around at them drinking their giant margaritas. Their experience of the real Mexico was as hollow as a Dunkin Donut. I hoped – and suspected – that their margaritas were watered down. I heard one lady complain about how sweet it was. It’s a margarita! If you want something bitter, have a Campari. If you want something sour, suck on a sour gummy!

I was more outraged that I was lumped in with these clueless Yanks when I knew my way around a good street taco and how cheap they really were. 24 pesos for two delicious tacos and a free soup in Mexico City. I ended up paying 300 pesos for 4 average tacos and some salad in Cancun. Then there was the mezcal at the bar. After a week of solid rum and weak mojitos, it was time for a joyful reunion with my one true love – mezcal. I remember a fancy, artisan shot of mezcal going for 45 pesos in Playa del Carmen and thinking that was high. The hotel bar in Cancun slugged me 100 for bog standard normal, middle of the road mezcal! Oh, the horror!!! In contrast to Cuba where I had been legitimately robbed, Cancun was applying a financial shakedown to my wallet as a member of a captive audience. Oh well. I did only have myself to blame. I could have eaten the leftover crumbly crackers after all …

Tune in next time vigilant readers, as the HockTales juggernaut returns to my (May?) happy place, riding bikes in the jungle and climbing Central America’s tallest pyramid!!!