Havana: A Visual Diary 2/4

Marc Nair
23 Dec 2019

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I walk into a hotel to ask for WiFi spots in the city and also manage to change more money, since it’s a government joint. The rate is about three Cuc less than the airport. Ouch. But I don’t have a choice. Tourist prices here means that my convertible pesos drive away faster than the convertible cars that ply the streets.

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I can’t find the internet square so I walk down Habana street in the direction of the artist market, ducking through a real market selling fruit, vegetables and meat. There’s a guy at the entrance looking ominous, but I motion that I’m here just to take photos. I think he wanted to give me a sanctioned plastic bag. I can’t figure out why, though.

Passing by a church, I see lots of people going in. Looks like mass is about to start. I take a seat at the back. It’s in Spanish, of course, but the rhythms are similar, if a lot more truncated. The priest seems to do most of the talking, while the congregation mutters an amen every now and then. People wander in and out during the mass, particularly to light a candle in front of an embalmed looking effigy of Mary dressed like a bride, holding baby Jesus. The priest launches into his homily after five minutes of preamble. The church is a lovely space to breathe, collect my thoughts and slow down for a second. The priests walks down the aisle to pray for some people who are sat at specific positions. People here really do dress up for church. I leave when people start to go up for communion.

The Rafael Trejo boxing gym is just down the road. Tourists seem to be going in so I follow. It’s both a school and a place to perform. Stands flank both sides of the main ring. Kids punch on cue. The place is heaving with young boys trying to throw jabs in a straight line.

I’ve been walking around the whole time with my camera in my backpack. And it means that I haven’t once been harassed today. Nothing screams tourist more than a large camera.

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There’s an art market in the south of the city. It’s supposed to be artisanal but nine out of ten shops are hawking the same souvenirs; little drums and percussion instruments, t-shirts, figurines of Santeria, cigar boxes and magnets. I buy small hand-carved animals and a ceramic reproduction of a house in the old city. Both of these were unique. I didn’t see any other shops selling them. And from my questions, it seems that these are family businesses. The husband being the artisan and the wife the businesswoman. Prices were very reasonable for something that’s quasi-touristy but still obviously artisanal. I mostly got the animals because I miss Armila. The turtles were a bit too ugly, though. But I did score a manatee. I have always been fascinated by them. I mean, how could you not be?

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The wall of a market has a pair of smiling veggies next to a mural of Che and his compatriot. Green revolutionaries?

The paladar I spotted earlier in the morning is open! But when I walk up the stairs it is absolutely empty. Kind of a bummer, so I decide to head to El Cafe, which was on a recommended list.

Bootleg VCDs still have a life here in Havana, where expensive internet makes it impossible to stream anything. And they are still sold as shadily as ever.

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It’s seriously hard to take a bad photo here in the old city. The combination of light with the colour-strewn facades and the constant foot traffic makes the streets one of the most vibrant I have ever seen in any city.

El Cafe does sandwiches and drinks. My dark and stormy cocktail is excellent, though a little too strong for a daytime drink! Nothing makes you feel more like you’re on holiday than a triple shot with ginger juice. On the second floor, the railings are being painted green. The coffee and bread is very good here.

Rasta man lopes down Obispa, flaunting his dreads tied up in a bandanna. He is tall and weathered and wears himself with ease. A few guys call out to him from a rooftop bar. “Rasta, Rasta” beckoning him to join them. And he does. It’s a beautiful thing to be able to wear your identity as culture, dress code and faith.

There is an Internet spot at Hotel Ingla Terre. I sit on cushioned sofas and get online, trying to figure out a way to Fusterlandia. The middle way (between taxis and two local buses) seems to be the hop-on, hop-off bus for 10 cuc. I reckon it’s worth half a day trip. Plus, the bus ticket is good for the whole day. Why not.

There’s a queue outside a local paladar, which doesn’t yet seem to be open. The menu is on an illuminated light-box and prices seem very reasonable.

The afternoon transitions into evening and the light softens, turns sunflower gold. The sky is seaside blue. Balconies are so important here.

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As I’m chasing the light down a series of lovely buildings with columns and five-foot ways, a man taps me on the back. Here we go again, I think. He’s taken a photo of me taking a photo. He proceeds to show me a bunch of photos on his phone. I murmur bueno politely. But he’s not pushy. He’s an older gentleman, bespectacled and with a paunch. He tells me his son works in the nearby Partagas cigar factory and he can sell me Pyramides cigars for 1 cuc each. That’s tempting, although I have no idea about their quality. I follow him to his house, where his brother and mother are watching Espana’s Got Talent. His son comes home and shows me his cigar factory ID. I buy three cigars.

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I think I’m beginning to understand the Cuban side gig. But how does it work for the cigar factory workers though? Do they get paid in cigars? It’s almost insulting to be paid in pesos versus cuc. A neopolitan pizza costs 50 pesos, about 2 cuc. So the difference is pretty stark. In a way, I’m helping these guys, but they are also helping me. And there’s a kind of negotiation that’s acceptable. Here, they aren’t touts or hustlers, more like friends with drink benefits. Another cigar factory, another man asking me to see cigars. I swear these factories exist as a kind of siren, drawing people to them but they never actually make it inside, being lured away to houses where bootleg cigars are sold.

I’m walking back to the old city via Figuras. It is a wide street, far wider than the old city streets. But it’s far smellier. A few drops prickle the road. Can I get to a cafe in time? It’s a residential street, though. Mothers yell for the children. The storm is sweeping in, I can see it racing down a side street. It’s on me in seconds. I duck into the nearest building I can find. It opens to a narrow alley that leads to a few houses. Three heavyset women welcome me in. We wait out the rain together. The rain eases a bit and the women ask me if I want a beer. I say no, I have agua. Then they ask me for a dollar. Time to leave.

Havana doesn’t deal too well with rain. The shallow gutters overflow. Sewage mixes with mud and rain to create smelly puddles. Splashing through them is inevitable.

Maximo Gomez Street gets me closer back to Damas Street and my hostel. The street is full of nail shops and party favors. I guess this is the perfect time to get your nails done.

The rain pelts down full tilt. I’m forced to a stop. The old city has no shelter and this is underwear soaking rain.

I change tack, try to head for a paladar. There’s none around. Desperate, I duck into a bar for a beer and to pee. As I am finishing my beer, the rain starts to ease. Storms don’t last for too long here.

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The old photos in the bar show the city as it was maybe thirty or forty years ago. I’ve seen similar photos in capital cities the world over. These photos become sentimental, tinged with history and desire for another age. The cars, the buildings, the way people dress. Except that here in Cuba, NOTHING HAS CHANGED. Yes, facades are crumbling, some buildings are being restored. But those same damned cars in the photographs are still running. It is nothing short of incredible. Maybe it is a consequence of the 1959 revolution, but I don’t know of any other country where socialism has stopped time.

Sexuality is normalised at a very young age. I pass a little girl dancing suggestively to music from a trishaw. Older girls around egg her on, gyrating with her. The men look on appreciatively. Young girls onwards are always in tight dresses. Crop tops seem to be the norm, even when the body begins to spill over.

I get drenched by a gutter, spewing water all the way onto the middle of the road. So much for waiting out the rain! After a refreshing shower, I head back to the paladar I tried to have lunch at earlier. It’s open this time, though just as empty. It is tucked away on the second floor, away from the tourist area, so perhaps this is a good thing. I try the ropa vieja, a traditional Cuban dish of pulled pork with rice, plantain chips and salad. It’s good, hearty food for a cold, drippy night, if a bit overpriced. Still, you do need a frame of reference to figure out relative prices.

Just a little way down the street, a real life Santeria celebration is going on inside the house. The Chango figurine is the centrepiece of the altar. I speak to a lady who is visiting from Canada. This is her mother’s house. The drums are a polyphony of voices. Making more than a beat, they speak with the singer, who enacts a kind of call and response with the crowd. They all speak in Yoruba. Neighbours come and go, some have clearly been here for hours. A woman pulls me in from where I stand outside, watching. Inside, the atmosphere is electric, alive with a different presence. A young man, his face painted white, is in a trance-like state, moving and contorting his body in strange positions. But he breaks from that to talk to people in very loud, animated terms. Almost berating them. A large woman talks to two tourists, a French mother and daughter, asking the mother if she experiences pain in her stomach. The mother says yes, sometimes, and she says, “Be careful.” This is the tail-end of the celebration. It’s been going on for close to four hours now. I am grateful to be able to have a partial audio recording.

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A lone couple dance by themselves in a studio. I think the girl is getting a dance lesson.

I end up walking from one end of the old city to hunt for an internet signal. It’s ridiculous.

I decide that this calls for ice cream. There’s a place on Aguiar that I remember. As I walk in, the rain pelts down again. I have my rain jacket but everything else is going to be soaked. There’s a bar or club just across from the ice cream joint. I was given a flyer to enter. Apparently, artists gather there every night. It sounds promising. And I need a place to wait out the rain. There’s a five dollar cover charge with a drink included. But inside, it’s just another club. Everyone is an animal when it comes down to it. I sit in a corner with my drink and watch. People either crowd around the middle showing off their moves or just sway. I guess it helps if you came with people. Or if you’re a trained dancer. The people in the middle are doing hip-hop salsa ballet. Or something incredible. It’s a spectacle. And there clearly aren’t any artists here.

It’s time to call it a night.

Havana: A Visual Diary 1/4

Havana: A Visual Diary 3/4