Havana
While there is little to see as a tourist in the backstreets of Central Havana, take time to wander its narrow, stuffy streets to get a taste and smell of ordinary life. The main sites are clustered around the Prado, the long, tree-lined boulevard that runs from Parque Central (with its Capitolio Nacional, a doppelganger to the original version in Washington) to the sea. Allow a couple of hours for the Museum of the Revolution. This was once the dictator Batista’s palace, and you can see bullet holes from a failed attempt on his life on the wall as you go up the stairs. Around back, get a taste of rebel humour by posing next to the truck used by those would-be assassins – in large letters, the sign on its side reads “Fast Delivery.” The Granma, the yacht Fidel Castro and his campaneros used to invade Cuba, is also housed here. Hop in a ’57 Chevy taxi and have the driver take you to Plaza de la Catedral. It’s not far, but well worth it for the ride. After the semi-ruins of Central Havana, the splendid opulence of Havana Vieja (Old Havana) will astound you. It’s like a before and after shot, although which is before and which is after depends on how things turn out for Cuba. Plaza de la Catedral is one of the finest squares in Cuba. The cathedral itself was described by the Cuban novelist Alejo Carpentier as “music set in stone,” which is fitting, as the Restuarante El Patio offers the most exuberant live music in the country. As you sip your mojito late into the evening, Chocolate Caliente will run through the classic songs made famous by the Buena Vista Social Club. I had the distinct impression that the double-bass player was adlibbing, because whatever he was singing had all the Spanish speakers in stitches and trying not to look at the tourists, who were smiling and looking bemused. If you’re a lone male traveller in Cuba, you will soon discover the bustling sex trade. Women will plonk themselves right down next to you, undeterred by linguistic limitations, and make their intentions perfectly clear in the international language of love. No matter how strongly you insist you are not interested, they will press their case, and many other things, until you actually get up and walk away. There is a sliding scale from straightforward chicas (prostitutes) to the hazy land of the Cuban girlfriend. Chicas are not generally working for drugs or out of desperation, but because they can earn a month’s salary in an hour. Peter, the lobster-red Torontonian sporting a tiny jogging suit whom I met while he was using his long-lens camera to take pictures of passing women, warned me about the perils of Cuban girlfriend. He’s got several Canadian pals who, like him, are retired, wealthy, fat and balding, and overjoyed to find that in Cuba, this translates into sex god. They meet a lovely young lady who, amazingly, falls in love with them, and the men come down a few times a year to visit, splashing out on drinks, feasts and pretty clothes. To make things easier, they buy a little house (in the girlfriend’s name of course, as Canadians can’t own property in Cuba), but then find that when they come to Cuba, “their girlfriend is always out visiting her sickly grandmother until 3 a.m.” I’ll leave it to you to decide who is using whom. First published in the Halifax Daily News on May 19, 2007
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Central Havana was destroyed by a war that never was. Crumbling buildings fall slowly into streets strewn with rubble and rubbish. The wind and the salt – and the odd hurricane – come in over the Malecon, the famous seawall, slowly eroding the face of the city, as nearly 50 years of American trade embargo have prevented Cuba from rebuilding its decaying beauty.