I flew into Havana, Cuba and my first thought was that it
was the most disorganised airport I had even seen. I later realised that there
was some kind of slow, lazy order to it all, but efficiency and professionalism
just don’t exist. I have since decided that the same can be said about the Cuba
itself.
Havana is the capital and looks as though stiff breeze could
flatten it. The buildings are crumbling where they stand. Having recently been
to Spain, Havana’s Spanish colonial
architecture looks particularly out of place in this tropical and heavily
polluted environment. The people crammed in this city have a culture that is
vibrant to say the least; their government, their history, their day to day –
even the cars they get around in, is quite different to anything I’ve
encountered.
The first thing I noticed, apart from the crumbling
buildings, was the 1950’s American cars. I knew I’d see a few here, but I didn’t
realise two thirds of the cars on the road would be something out of ‘Grease.’ Some
of polished and well preserved, some bounce around the road looking as though
they might fall apart to reveal nothing more than a man in a seat and the big
engine. Soviet lada’s are also in abundance. And this tells a story:
Cuba was once a USA satellite state – hence the cars…sick of
the blatant corruption of the officials and growing social inequality, the
revolution was began by Fidel Castro, who fought with Che Guevara… both famous revolutionaries
who can be seen on T-shirts all over the world (Fidel is the guy who never
takes off his military uniform, Che is the guy with the beard and the star on
his hat). They won, decided to scrap capitalism for socialism… right in the
middle of the cold war… so here comes Russia to help Cuba further free itself
from USA – hence the other cars… socialism becomes full blown communism, and it
sticks. 
This has led to 2014, where Cuba is famous for its education
and healthcare systems (1 in 18 people is a doctor), and where the monthly
salary paid by the government is $19 US. Everyone who speaks English here
complains it’s not enough, and I’m told that when Fidel Castro dies it is
inevitable that capitalism will be part of Cuba’s future. ‘It’s obligatory,’ my
friend Ransel told me.
The Cubans don’t like their close neighbours, the USA. In
the museum of the Revolution in Havana there are big paintings of several USA presidents
being labelled ‘cretin.’ One is George Bush (Jnr) wearing a nazi uniform. The
hate seems to be mutual. USA have blocked all trade and assistance, and it’s
technically illegal for USA citizens to travel to Cuba. If a Cuban gets an
offer to play baseball in the USA he must defect from Cuba and never return.
In Havana I rented a room from Ransel and his grandmother. He
took me around town, showed me the best street food (street pizza and bowls of
pasta are popular here, and go for less than 50cents each), showed me the extensive
waterfront where Cubans hang out, took me to a canon firing ceremony and a few
times to his favourite bar for Mojitos -
a Havana invention. One night we were joined by Ransels friend, a
guitarist who sang songs I couldn’t understand and talked about his sister
being too scared to fill her place on an illegal migrant boat headed for the
USA that was leaving later that night.
He was a great host, and the casa (house) was in a lively
neighbourhood. I sat out on the patio of an evening and watched the big cars
rumble past, the kids playing baseball and soccer in the street, and the men
whistling and calling out at the curvy senoritas. I have no idea why anyone
would want to inoculate themselves from this (and pay way more) by staying in a
western hotel.
Vinales was my next stop, and it proved to be a nice
contrast to the capital. It was a small town built off agriculture, and nice to
dwell for four nights taking it slow. I wandered around the countryside,
watched school kids playing baseball, and took photos of the cosy little houses
in the town and out in the fields. Here, every house has a rooster, there is
always a goat and a pig and a skinny dog in sight, buffalos work the paddocks,
and people get around in horse drawn carts. But there are the big 1950’s cars
out here as well, which seem to be as comfortable on the rural dirt backroads
as on the broken tarmac of the city. 
On the bus to Vinales a crooked toothed hooker sat next to
me and her pimp brother across the aisle. For the duration of the three hour
ride they tried to convince me to stay at their place, have all the food I
could eat, and have the girl whenever I wanted, all for the price of 25 bucks
per day. I continued to tell her no, or that I couldn’t understand what she was
saying (though I got the idea), refused to put my arm around her when she
grabbed it to drape over herself, and even put my earphones it to try and block
her out, only for her to take one and put in her ear. So there I sat, sharing
earphones and listening to The Killers with the persistent whore. I’ve been
propositioned by hookers with bad dentistry the world over now, and the idea of
it remains as appealing as putting my dick in a blender.
In Vinales I rented a room of an afro-cuban family and they
made me breakfast and dinner each night. It was a great experience and the food
blew my mind, both the quality and quantity of it. I didn’t finish a single
meal I had there. The final night I was given a plate of homemade chips, a
plate of salad, a big bowl of tomato and bean soup, bread, a side dish of some
vegetable I didn’t know (somewhere between potato and banana), a plate of
buttery rice, a whole lobster cooked in a tomato and onion broth, and a big
plate of fruit (including my new favourite, Wayawa). It was a ridiculous idea that
anyone could eat this on their own yet there I sat each night with mounds of
food in front of me.
Maybe I would have had better success if I wasn’t still
feeling the effects of the food poisoning I got in Havana. Having gone through
this too many times already, I went to the local pharmacy with my guide book,
pointed at my stomach and said the Spanish word for antibiotic (which happens
to be antibiotica). I didn’t realise how skinny I was until I got back into hot
climes and started wearing shorts and t-shirts – could see my ribs no problem.
The last thing I needed was to lose even more weight.
The landscape itself was amazing. I’ve seen these limestone
karst landscapes in a few different parts of the world now, but what made
Vinales especially cool was the cropping taking place in the fertile red soil
all around the jutting limestone mountains. There was maize, pineapples and
rice, but what the area is known for is its extensive tabacco plantations. This
is where Cuba’s, and the worlds, best cigars are made. The lady’s son from the
place I was staying at took me for a hike around the area, up into the karst
caves, around tabboco paddocks, and stopping in at farmers houses along the
way. Here I saw a man rolling the brown wilted and fermented leaves into a
binder and then again into the final skin. Then he lit it up and started
smoking it. I was told that these cigars aren’t bad for you. He said because
Cubans smoke them only when they are happy, and not when they are stressed like
how people in other countries smoke cigarettes, they are not bad for you. Sound
rationale?
Back to Havana for a night then on to Santa Clara, a town
where I stayed for three days and probably only needed three hours. The house
where I rented was directly across from a cigar making factory with rows and
rows of workers sitting in a big shed working under lamplight. I would sit and
eat my breakfast and look directly across the small street at a worker rolling
cigars. Here I also saw the Che memorial, a big Sunday market and I watched a
couple of games of baseball, the national sport.
Next was an overnight bus down to Santiago de Cuba, where I was meeting a friend to further explore Cuba.
