I dithered all night over it, but by morning I had decided that I would try to take a bus to Guanabo beach outside Havana, inspite of difficulties due to shortages of public transport. After breakfast I walked to the designated bus stop at Agramonte and Gloria, but couldn't find the private bus service so I went to the public bus stop. The protocol in Cuba is that when joining a queue, you ask loudly: ¿El ultimo? (Who is the last in the queue?). Somebody will respond, then you become the last in the queue and should respond likewise when you hear the question again. Some Habañeros grumbled about a tourist competing with them for a bus seat, but the lady in front of me defended me, saying: he is queuing like the rest of us so he has a right to take the bus.
In the village I found a sandwich, some pastry and a drink. I was pleased to spend pesos instead of dollars because it was incredibly cheaper paying in pesos.
Down to the beach again. There was a tourist couple taking their ease under a palm frond parasol. Some lifeguards were hovering about. A policeman passed by to check.
To return to Havana I walked to the last stop on the line to be sure of getting a seat. This was a smart move as the bus was packed again. In fact I had to stand for the first part of the journey until a seat became free. I sat next to some kids, one with a puppy. I gave them some candies. The trip back was uneventful. On the way back to the casa I stopped for a peso ice cream. The seller looked at me as if I had not paid enough so I checked by asking: ¿Cuesta un peso? She nodded. I wondered if she had hoped that I would pay a dollar by mistake.
I had sand on my face due to the wind and the sunscreen and my hair was all mussed up. I was glad to shower the sand off. I felt pleased that I had managed to get out of the city. It was good to get away from the city aggro caused by the lack of public services. The decrepitude was much less oppressive when diluted by space. The day before I had been revolted by the sight of a dead dog in the middle of a Havana street that looked like it had been there for a while.
The night before I had sensed that the landlady was miffed that I had chosen to dine out, probably because it meant a few dollars less for her. She made a fish dish for my last night. It was quite good too. When you see how few kitchen utensils the average Cuban kitchen has, you wonder how they manage to produce tasty home cooking and your heart goes out to them in their scarcity.
I looked inside more dollar shops, noting that prices were inflated (heavy tariffs I guess). Book stalls had a lot of propaganda and conspiracy literature.
I had a look inside the Havana Libre hotel which used to be the Hilton but was now managed by a Spanish chain. It had air conditioning and modern amenities but the toilets were a bit unclean and there were flies in the lobby. But nobody bothered me and I finished reading my book of Spanish short stories in one of the armchairs.
Lunch was taken in Trattoria Maraka's which was said to have the best Italian cuisine available in Havana. The anchovy pizza and Cristal beer weren't too bad actually.
After a nap, in the evening I headed out to the Malecón again. There was a strong wind whipping up seaspray and youths were taking advantage of that.
I had a look at the front of the Hotel Riviera whose construction dated back to the gangster days of the dictator Batista. It's one of the top hotels in Havana.
I decided to have a dinner outside the casa for a change. I had some difficulty locating La Complaciente, a paladar (a private restaurant tolerated and heavily taxed by the government). A young man offered to show me the way, protesting to my questions that he wasn't a tout and didn't want any recompense from me. I got a tasty and filling criolla dinner at the paladar only a little marred seeing my "guide" standing outside and waving cheerfully to me. So he was a tout after all, though perhaps an opportunistic rather than a habitual one. I'm certain the paladar must have paid him a dollar or two commission, which would have been built into the price of the meal. The things people have to do to earn a buck in this country.
The plan was to spend more time in Havana Vieja (Old Havana) and visit La Cabaña, the fort we glimpsed yesterday. Havana has enough sights for at least a couple of days. Once again, I walked to the centre, this time using avenues Salvador Allende and Simón Bolivar. Along the way I saw a collection of the old US cars for which Cuba is famous. I think these were awaiting hirers.
Outside Havana Vieja I found this attractive mural with its trompe l'œil palm tree.
Havana Vieja has been lovingly restored, probably with some UNESCO money as it's a World Heritage Site. The edifices and pavements are visibly in better condition than the rest of the city. It's an architectural glimpse into the colonial period of Havana. And of course it's a drawcard for tourists. I wouldn't have minded being able to afford to stay in a hotel there.
The maritime Terminal Sierra Maestra. Note the horse drawn carriage for tourists.
The building to the left of the terminal, and the same carriage. The clock on this building is not showing the right time, most likely stopped.
This mural was in a peaceful little garden just off a street, a space of repose.
A shop with a Chinese theme and some souvenir goods, somewhat bare and neat but not very authentic for that.
The cathedral, tourists snapping away or having a snack break, and some municipal workers. Notice the performers in costume. Most tourists were in groups or in pairs, probably with a tour, with a few backpackers and intrepid travellers.
A performance in full swing.
I had a criolla lunch of a very typical Cuban dish of pork, beans and rice at the Hanoi. After that I walked to the train station to have a look, although I was not planning to take a train in Cuba due to unpredictable service. It was crowded with many people waiting.
I had a serve of probably the cheapest ice cream in the world at 1 peso (about 4 cents). A beer at a local was 6 pesos.
A tunnel under the harbour leads to the fort and points east. There was a ciclobus for this. I found the terminal and asked a bystander whom I took to be another tourist about it. He turned out to be a Cuban who gave me 20 centavos which was the fixed fare. I gave him a Belgian candy by way of thanks. The bus went full, as did the next. I gave up on that and took a taxi for $3. At the other end there was a $1 entrance fee for the fort complex. Couldn't help getting nickelled and dimed in this country. In this picture you are looking back on the harbour with the Malecón stretching west.
Seeing (and overhearing) a bosomy Italian woman walk towards another building in the fort complex, I decided to investigate. The building that is, not the woman. There seemed to be many of her compatriots visiting the fort that day. Lest you think only the tourists were amply shaped, Cuban women were also ample.
The centre of Havana is in the distance in this shot.
Looking back towards the harbourside terminals.
These hadn't been used for quite a while I would say.
I took a taxi straight back to Vedado, where my casa was, to avoid walking back from the centre and napped away the rest of the afternoon.
Dinner at the casa consisted of pork, fries, salad, rice, bread, fruits and coffee. Quite filling. Then I took off to listen to some Cuban music at El Huón Azul, an artist union centre and performance venue in the area of Calle 23, which the locals call La Rampa, a name with more character. It was not easy to find because of poor street lighting and lack of signposts. Fortunately there was enough illumination to just make out the pavement, which was fortunate because it was broken and uneven. I found the venue after asking a couple of locals. The cover charge was $5, and then I had to order a drink to nurse as long as possible.
As far as I could see, aside from a couple at the next table who looked like tourists, the rest of the audience was Cuban. It seemed there were some local artist celebrities there from the audience's response. A crooner came on, followed by a poetry reading. Then what I had been expecting, boleros. The Cuban form is not related to the Spanish form but is an unabashedly lush and romantic musical form. When performed by a singer backed by an orchestra it sweeps you in with its sentimentality. The Cuban audience seemed to know the lyrics by heart and sang along. It was like a big family gathering. In the middle of the performance, a cat hopped onto my lap and went to sleep.
The event was still going strong when I left just after midnight. There were still many people around the La Rampa crossroads. I ignored the hustlers who hissed at me or tapped on their wrist to ask the time (a typical ploy). I hated being an object of curiosity in public. That and the poor street lighting irritated me. The problem with Havana was that one was paying first world prices and getting third world atmosphere, that is, a problem of expectations. I would have to make some adjustments.
This was the situation when I was there in 2004. A complication for the traveller to Cuba was that there were 3 currencies in use. Natives used the peso, but hard currency goods (those that had no price controls) were priced in US dollars. The rate of exchange was about 26 pesos to a dollar.
Practically all spending by tourists was in US dollars: accommodation, transportation, tours, entertainment, souvenirs, etc. In enclave resorts they would be used exclusively. You only get a chance to use pesos in places like produce markets and local buses. And ice cream stands. But you would have to face the paucity of choice and the long queues with many locals. That was why I changed only a few US dollars to pesos, I didn't anticipate using pesos often.
The third currency is the one that confuses; it's called the convertible peso. It's printed by the Cuban government and valued at par with the US dollar and could be used in place of the US dollar. Its purpose was to alleviate the shortage of US dollar bills. However it had no status outside Cuba and whenever I got any I tried to spend it as soon as possible. I hardly saw any though, but some convertible peso coins did pass through my hands.
And because US coins were harder to come by, prices were usually rounded to dollar amounts.
The effect of two currencies was to create a distorted dual economy where occupations that gleaned US dollars were sought after. That is why Cubans who once had good positions turned to renting rooms, and catering to tourists in one way or another. Anything for the almighty buck. The bellboy who got a dollar tip from me in the hotel would have been able to buy a fair bit of produce at the markets to feed his family with. Rather hypocritical kind of "socialism".
To add to the confusion, the Euro was starting to make inroads in resort enclaves due to the tourists from the EU.
As expected, I woke up early due to the jetlag. I munched a bit on müsli and nuts, watched a bit of CNN TV, and read a bit then went back to sleep. When I opened my eyes again, it was 0630. I took a picture of the dawn from the balcony, then went down for breakfast.
The dining room was overserviced. There were lots of waiters hanging around looking for something to do. The buffet offered omlette, potatoes, some kind of salad, and bread. Coffee and nice tropical fruit juices were available. It wasn't a memorable breakfast but at least ample.
My first order of business was to locate a casa particular, a home renting out a private room. The hotel room was costing me $50 per night, and my budget was $50 per day. According to guides and travellers who had been there, a private room costs $20 to $25, fairly invariant throughout Cuba, but slightly more in Havana, and the rest accounted for mostly by transport, food and sightseeing. The first place I tried on my list was full, but they told a neighbour who came around to collect me. This was to be a recurring pattern in Cuba: Cubans passing on business to acquaintances. The house was one block away from the hotel and the room was a private one containing its own bath.
Back at the casa, the owner was still not back so I went out sightseeing. Havana was an assault on the senses, after coming from neat Europe. There were potholes in the streets and dog shit on the pavements. Edifices were in disrepair. Money for spare parts and fuel was scarce so the government had developed long buses powered by truck engines, called camelos (camels) due to the humps, to transport many passengers at one go.
The streets were full of people. Many of them were looking for lifts. Fortunately it was not so hard to walk the whole distance from my casa to centro. Here I encountered these bright coco (coconut) taxis.
El Capitolio resembles the Washington one. This area was thick with touts trying to interest tourists in anything they could offer. They were quite pesky and persistent. Sometimes when sex services are involved, they are called jineteros, literally horse jockeys in standard Spanish, but Cuban slang for a tout or pimp.
I saw a couple of dollar shops selling hard currency goods and had a squiz out of curiosity. One has to leave any bags with the counter when going into stores.
This former Canadian schoolbus doing service as a public bus was a donation. I also saw buses donated by other countries, e.g. The Netherlands, amusingly often still displaying the original destination signs.
This is El Floridita, which was one of Hemmingway's favourite bars. He is supposed to have coined the famous line My mojito in La Bodeguita, My daiquiri in El Floridita which is displayed writ large for visitors. No, I didn't have a daiquiri there.
Reliable piped water was yet another one of Havana's problems.
Bacardi rum originated in Cuba, but after the Cuban revolution, they moved operations to the US. Bacardi is not a brand found in Cuba now, the major brand there is Havana Club. This historic building remains.
This museum houses the Granma, the yacht that brought Castro and his revolutionaries to the island. Surrounding it is a motley collection of other displays, including pieces of US warplanes that were shot down. Incidentally granma means exactly what you think, it was named by the yacht's original US owner after his grandmother. The name was also given to the newspaper of the Cuban communist party.
I ascended to the dining room of the Hotel Sevilla. From there one can look over the city. The view of these buildings in disrepair resembled to me photos of bombed out cities in Europe after WWII.
There is a view to the La Cabaña, the fortress on the eastern side of the harbour.
I walked a little along the Malecón, the seafront promenade that is a very recognisable emblem of Havana.
These crumbling buildings were a marked contrast to the new edifice further down the street, probably a tourist hotel, built with foreign investor funds.
Havana used to have a sizable Chinese community, and this gate is a memorial of that era. Many of them moved to the US after the revolution. I had eaten in a Cuban-Chinese restaurant in New York City back in the 80s. The fusion cusine was distinctive and meals in Cuba reminded me where I had eaten similar before. I also recalled a documentary I had seen about some remaining Chinese eking out their old age in Havana.
Fittingly I took my lunch in a restaurant that had been founded by Chinese, called El Flor Loto (Lotus Flower).
Dinner was taken in the casa. Nearly always Cuban casas can cook dinner for you because they can earn a few dollars more from that. It's usually good value. I chatted a bit with the family over pre-dinner drinks. The matriarch, the owner, used to work in the military but had retired.
The day of departure had arrived. I would fly on Martinair to Havana, spend 4 weeks on the island, travelling eastward, finishing up in the city of Holguin, where I would take another Martinair flight back to Amsterdam.
At the shopping centre I stocked up with nuts and dried fruits. I also had some Belgian chocolate. Chocolate is always good for an emergency. One of the Zuidtangent buses had disappeared into a black hole. Services are not always as reliable as you think for the Netherlands. No matter, I had safety margin and at the airport I discovered that the departure was delayed by an hour anyway.
The flight took 10 hours. As far as I could tell most of the passengers were Dutch with a handful of other nationalities, including Cuban. Service on Dutch airlines is restrained; portions are just big enough; no extravagance.
In Havana airport I sailed though immigration and customs though I got more than the usual questions. Perhaps an Aussie this far from home was a curiosity. I thought there might be cheaper Lada taxis outside the airport as mentioned in guides, but apparently not, they had newer European cars now. What a disappointment. Anyway I paid the US$18 for the trip. It's strange that they use the currency of their sworn enemy as hard currency here; that's one of the anomalies of Cuba, although the Euro is gaining a foothold. More on currency later.
The lady official at the taxi rank got a lift home into the city in my taxi, sitting in the front passenger seat. This was to be a recurring pattern in Cuba, people cadging lifts whenever possible due to the shortage of transport. In the taxi she struck up a conversation and professed admiration for Che. It was impossible to tell if it was sincere or for show. Cubans are cagey about their political views, if they have any, and probably with good reason. There were slogans everywhere, on billboards, on walls, for Castro, for Che, for the revolution. But the rustic surroundings looked more like rural Brazil rather than the outskirts of a capital. City buildings were severely dilapidated. It was like a time trip back to Malaysia in the 60s.
I had booked a first night in a hotel, so as to have an official hotel for the immigration form, and then for the rest of my time in Cuba I would seek out casas particulares, rented private rooms, which are tolerated by the state for the hard dollars they bring in via taxes, even though the idea of private enterprise is anathema to Cuban socialism. There was chaos at reception, but the receptionist was cool and dealt with it all deftly. She gave me small bills as change for my US$100 bill, so that I would be able to tip the bellboy.
The room was serviceable, though the fittings were worn and the outside railings were rusty. The air-conditioner worked. The bathroom was a little bare. The hotel directory on the table was very oddly phrased. It had obviously been translated to English by someone who had no knowledge but had a dictionary. I wish I had copied the text down.
Fortunately I had dinner on the flight so I didn't need to go look for a meal. The nuts and dried fruits were a handy snack. There was cable TV in the room so I caught up with the news and repacked my belongings to pass a bit of time. Then I had an early night as the jetlag meant that I was falling asleep in the early evening.
I woke up with a sore throat and a bit of a headache. Perhaps I might need for myself all the cold remedies I was taking to Cuba.
I bought some cheese and berry juice for breakfast the next day. The bakery where I bought a loaf of crusty white was closed later in the day. Here, unlike some other countries, shops open only the necessary hours and don't stay open just for the sake of making more money. At the Schalkwijk shopping centre I noted that not much had changed in the Netherlands I knew. It has always had an air of restraint due to Calvinist influences; no ostentatious displays of wealth.
Then I walked over to K and P's place to get my clothes washed and tumble dried. Her parents were there and her father was varnishing a table. I had a conversation with them in Dutch. It was not easy for me inspite of the two terms of Dutch lessons I had taken. I lacked enough vocabulary and my grammar was shaky. But they were pleased that I had made the effort.
In the evening I went to an Indonesian-Chinese restaurant for takeaway. I suspected that it was run by Chinese and the Indonesian items and menus were there because that's what the Dutch are familiar with. I had the Babi Pangang, stir-fried grilled pork in chili sauce. Pork is surely not a Muslim food. I took more tablets and had an early night for a change.
