Havana: A Visual Diary 3/4
12 Jan 2020
by Marc Nair
I head to Parque Central to get on the T1 hop-on hop-off tourist bus to Fusterlandia. It doesn’t take me there directly, though. I have to head to La Cecilia Restaurant, at the end of the line, and jump on T2 to get to Marina Hemingway. From there it’s a short walk to Casa del Fuster.
The regular road for the bus is closed because of the Cuba Marathon, but the tourist bus stop is easily found.
We pass by Floridita Bar. Apparently, its an icon for daiquiris. I haven’t yet seen any other bar that makes them, so maybe it’s time to try one later.
It’s refreshing to be driven around after wearing my feet out the past two days. The bus goes through neighbourhoods I haven’t seen before. San López Street runs parallel to the malecón, with its well-kept houses. A lot of the casas that are preserved have become cultural centers, theatres or restaurants.
The bus isn’t following the route map I have been given. But I don’t mind. It gives me a far wider sense of the city. But some of the more residential streets are not built for double decker buses. Branches regularly sweep through the upper deck and I have to duck every time one comes around, like I’m in a computer game.
Public buses seem to be in short supply here. There are crowds of people at every single bus stop. I muse upon the irony of seeing a sign marked ‘Vía Libre’ (freeway) in Cuba. Cuba Libre on the other hand is rum and coke, not the most liberating combination, I think.
The T1 bus drops me at La Cecilia Restaurant. Waiting in the T2 bus, there’s another Simon Cowell talent show. This one highlights various contortionists. A 14 year old ends her set by shooting a target with a bow and arrow. Using her feet.
One other tourist gets on just as we are about to leave. I have either 30 mins or 3 and a half hours to spend. It takes me the better part of two hours to get here, so I’m going to take my time.
The bus goes to Marina Hemingway, which is quite a distance from Fusterlandia. I notice the Marina offers sport fishing and seafari. I imagine people with spears stalking through sea grass for lone marlin. The bus goes through the entire complex, past low blocks of holiday apartments that look unoccupied. A few people laze around in the pool. The bus stops. I ask the bus conductor if I have to walk to Fusterlandia from here and she groans because they missed my stop. There were TWO people on the bus. She had one job.
Eventually they give in and drive me to Jaimanitas, where Fusterlandia is meant to be.
I walk down a street where almost every house has its exterior walls and even the roof done up in mosaic. It’s pretty intense, though it doesn’t even begin to prepare you for Fusterlandia itself. Jose Fuster is either mad, or a genius. Or both. He’s clearly obsessive though, and the house is the visual equivalent of eating an entire cheesecake at once. It’s too much!
Apparently there’s a beach around here, but it’s behind an ominous looking fence and security. I walk for a while to find another beach. It’s a kind of bay bound by a rectangular stone breakwater. A couple of people are kite surfing. Across the white capped sea, modern Havana rises up. The sun is warm on my back. I sit in front of an abandoned building. There’s hardly anyone around. But the need for water drives me back in search of a cafe and a place to chill. Given the number of tourists here, one would imagine a cafe or two. But no, Fusterlandia is the only place to get a bottle of water around here. It’s kind of telling how what seems so natural to the rest of the world is completely disregarded by the Cubans.
I will go mad just sitting around so I decide to screw the bus and walk the 4km back to La Cecilia and try to get an earlier bus. I head down a surprisingly leafy and shaded central boulevard. This neighbourhood is called Náutico. On my left, a tantalising glimpse of the sea between swaying palm trees, flanked by residential houses. I go closer to the sea and then realise that the difference between beauty and brokenness is all in the frame. To my right are trash mounds, hidden by the aforesaid palm trees. But I guess we always see what we want to see.
The Náutico supermarket has no water. But they do sell crates of Hollandia beer.
The Havana Yacht Club is here. It looks derelict, but there are cars parked in a building. Maybe it’s a car park. It’s a scene from Martin Cruz Smith’s novel, Havana Bay. In fact, a key photograph in the plot was taken there. It is somewhat surreal to be going by places that are in the book, as if I am attesting to the veracity of Smith’s Cuba.
I pass a naked man bathing in yesterday’s rain pooled in an old stadium. His penis dangles like a pendulum.
There’s an abandoned children’s park with its retinue of rides. A child in a passing car sticks his hand out at the park. In that hand is all the potential for joy and wonder, for frustration and loss, for laughter and candy floss. The car does not stop.
Tea break back at the central Havana is at Cafeteria Prado No. 12. Very socialist, but the prices are good. And there’s a working jukebox, although that should not come as a surprise in this city.
