We’re
on our way to la capital, the grand
old lady, la Habana. After an early
rise, breakfast, and tallying up with Magaley at our casa in Trinidad, we departed on foot to get to the bus station in
good time. After the chaotic scene at Varadero, we had decided to pre-book the
trip, though we would have to line up to pay with everyone else. Immediately on
arrival at the terminal, we were approached by a couple eager to convince us to
take a taxi for the same price as the bus that would take us direct to our casa
in Havana and
shave the travel time in half, from six hours to three. We decided to go for
this, thereby avoiding all the schlepping of luggage, scrambling for seats, and
dawdling through many towns for several stops en route. Our bags were bundled
into the trunk of a regular car; we were ushered into the back seats, and we
were assured that two more passengers would see us on our way. Something was amiss and the young guys were
shifty. A drive around the corner for a prospective customer was in vain. Two
young guys then drove us across town to two Americans – one still in bed – who
had booked a taxi for big money to take them, their baggage and two bicycles to
Havana, an hour
and a half hence. They were not best pleased to see us occupying half the
seats, and I demanded to be returned to the bus station, from which our bus had
already departed! It was our good fortune to discover a state taxi van just
departing to pick up two customers, with ample room for us to join them.
Thankfully we had not paid the hustlers, and off we drove to Havana. Our driver was friendly but very
frustrated to have worked 26 years for Fidel and Raul for very little pay, only
for these young entrepreneurs to threaten his livelihood. He had had enough and
was ready to quit, barely breaking even after his fuel and licensing costs.
The
journey was fast, breezy and enjoyable, spent ruminating on the beauty of the
Cuban countryside, the immense challenges the country faces, and the endless
potential for it to grow food, use renewable energy, and harness new investment
from outside at the appropriate scale. After two and a half hours we were
hurtling into Havana.
Pleasant approach highways were strewn with locals awaiting transportation into
the city by bus, taxi, or truck. No
sooner had we glimpsed the ocean than we dipped in the tunnel that delivers
traffic under the harbour and into the city. The Malecon, the Paseo del Prado,
Parque Central, El Capitolio, Teatro Nacional and the Hotel Inglaterra,
and then we entered a warren of narrow streets line by three- and four-storey
buildings in various stages of disrepair. People, people everywhere, going
about their regular business, trading, shopping, selling, snacking, guzzling,
chatting, hugging… Our driver delivered us to our casa particular and I gave him a good tip (not for Raul, I
stressed). He laughed and thanked me.
We
had chosen this casa because of the
rave reviews for Cary’s
home cooking and the affability of her husband Lazaro. These two lived up to
their reputation and we became enamoured of the whole family, including their
daughter and sweet grand-daughter, their maid, and Lazaro’s brothers. Outgoing
and supremely hospitable, they were always ready to laugh, joke, chat, and make
suggestions of places to visit. We shared our days here, first with a Swiss
family, not Robinson, but Freiburghaus, then with two lively German couples
from the Frankfurt area. Breakfast and dinner
were exuberant occasions thanks to the home cooking and infectious enthusiasm
of Cary and Lazaro. The house is approached via an unassuming door to the
street, Calle San Rafael. Our simple, clean, colourful
room was up the first flight of stairs. A second flight leads up to the
kitchen, office, dining room and rooftop terrace where the social interaction,
cooking and dining take place. A memorable evening was spent dining, sipping
rums, smoking Cohiba cigars, all the
while watching Cuba beat Venezuela at baseball in the Caribbean championship on
route to being crowned champions. Cuba! Cuba!
A
few short blocks thronging with locals ferreting around and socializing, and we
were at the Hotel Inglaterra and the Parque Centrale, with the expansive
streets bustling with traffic of every stripe – 1950s vintage Chevrolets and Chryslers,
electric three-wheeled egg-shaped taxis, bicycle taxis, oversized and
double-decker tourist buses and new Hyundais and Hondas. The park was animated
by young Havana
men arguing loudly (about baseball, not politics!). To the east of the park,
Calle Obispo is a narrow streak of a street jam-packed with tourists and
locals. Deals are going down and gullible turistas
led on wild goose-chases down side-streets to “best restaurant, cheap food, my
family, best mojito…”
Old
Havana’s narrow
streets protect from the stifling heat of summer. Now, in winter, the
atmosphere is vibrant and colourful. We are shocked by the volume of tourists,
especially at Plaza Vieja and Plaza de la Catedral onto which they
spill from the neighbouring thoroughfares and from their mega-buses and mega-cruise
ships moored at the adjacent harbour. The architecture is a mesmerizing mix of
styles. Plaza Vieja buildings have
been fully cleaned and renovated under grants from UNESCO and the EU. Just off
the square, the bare bones of a baroque building spill masonry and sprout
greenery; it is topped by a giant crane.
Some streets are upside down as they replace ancient corroded heavy
metal with new plastic sewer pipes. The odd bulldozer and track cart the debris
away, but heavy machinery is at a premium as in other layers of the economy.
Some buildings are mere shells, hollowed out and exposed to the elements;
others are at various stages of disrepair and salvation. And then, there are
ornate gems of great heritage that have been meticulously made over.
A
cultural highlight of our meanderings through old Havana was a visit to the expansive Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. Three
floors house a treasure trove of modern Cuban art. The works range from serene
to edgy, fiercely political to intensely personal. They share an intensity and
sensuality that are essentially Cuban. Particularly striking are works by
Wilfredo Lam, Carlos Enriquez, Amelia Peláez, and Raul Martinez. Photos were
prohibited, so the emotion the paintings convey needs to be inhaled. It is rare
for a collective body of work by many artists in a range of styles to pack such
a punch.
We
wander into open buildings revealing cool inner courtyards and rooms housing
displays of paintings, ceramics, sculpture, period furniture. Most are free of
charge, but often willing guides are hungry for a cash tip. Musicians in bars
and restaurants, guides, cigar-smoking women in traditional costume,
cigar-sellers, reciting poets tout their wares and services, all eager to make
a CUC, the cash that can feed them
and their families and enrich them way more than a state job can at the present
monthly pay of 25 – 30 CUCs.
Music
suffuses the air – at street corners, in bars and restaurants, in parks, solo
and ensemble. Styles run the gamut from campesino
to salsa to jazz to classical. The
sounds create a warm ambience and the playing is superb. Accompanying a good
dinner, we were aware that a band setting up could be the signal for
conversation to be drowned out and the tip basket to make an imminent
appearance.
Lunch
was enjoyed at Café Neruda, right on
the Malecón, looking out over the
choppy Caribbean Sea; also at Café Bohemia, tucked away in a courtyard
off Plaza Vieja. At night, we loved
eating outside at Santo Angel in the
balmy air of Plaza Vieja, and the
pasta at Dominico’s was superb. At Café Europa, half the menu had been
scratched and the offerings that remained were over-cooked and dried out. On
our last night in Havana,
we chose well. The fresh fish and camarones
al ajillo at the Club Nautico
Internacional were succulent. The exotic atmosphere perched above Havana harbour, with
regular Cuban guests for company, looking over the water to the Casa de Che, and back to the moored
German cruise ship ablaze in yellow light was, to us, quite magical. Our
nightcap was 7 años Havana Club rum on a balcony overlooking Plaza Vieja.
For
us rural Canadians parachuted from outdoor surroundings at home that are
drained of colour and in deep freeze at this time of year, Havana is an urban scene that is positively
intoxicating in its rich stimulations and seductive contrasts. Constantly,
senses are assaulted by an enchanting facial gesture or exuberant architectural
flourish. After several days of soaking up the atmosphere, eating and drinking
with abandon and walking our legs off, we were ready for another change of pace.
