The sun was low in the sky as we roared away from the airport in a taxi. Soon we were darting through traffic in the streets of Havana. Decrepit vehicles from a bygone era belched toxic fumes through the open windows. The roar of ancient motorcycle engines filled our ears. Everywhere we looked, images of Che Guevara gazed contemplatively back—from buildings, billboards, posters and street art. We had arrived in Cuba.
Cuba, the almost mythical time-capsule of an island we had long dreamed of visiting. Daydreaming of our PanAmerican journey from our desks at home, very few places had provided the same attraction. Now our dreams were finally a reality.
Sure, there had been a minor hiccup due to a time change in the state of Quintana Roo that was not reflected by the time and date settings on our phones, computers, GPS, Google or otherwise. We might have nearly missed our flight, but we had made it. Just.
Thus began what was supposed to be a break from our trip. A holiday from our travels if you will.
We had contacted an owner of a Casa Particular (A private home that rents out rooms to travellers—the preferred form of holiday accommodation in Cuba) He told us that his rooms were full, but that he had a friend with a room available. He suggested we stop by at his house first. Greeted at the door by a butler (really, the guy appeared to be an actual butler…posh) we were given seats in a room filled with antiquities and knickknacks while we awaited the owner’s return. The Casa owner was almost the perfect caricature of a business tycoon, bold, loud and dramatic. He gestured broadly as he spoke, waving a cartoon-sized cigar this way and that to punctuate his sentences.
Over a refreshing beer, in a room thick with the pungent aroma of cigars, he introduced us to the owner of the Casa where we would be staying. He was a friendly chap, although the conversation was brief as he spoke no English and we soon realised that we were struggling to understand the Cuban accent. Really struggling.
As far as we can tell Cuba has done to Spanish what New Zealand has done to English. A mumbled garble of missing consonants, blurred vowel sounds and jumbled syllables greeted our ears. All this was delivered at a rapid pace—and was quite a contrast to the now familiar Mexican accent. We would ask a simple question and the response would be completely incomprehensible.
So what’s that guy singing about? Who knows. I’m pretty sure I no longer understand any Spanish. But it’s catchy.
Many of our attempts at speaking Spanish appeared to be no easier for the locals to comprehend. A couple of Kiwis butchering Spanish with a Mexican twang probably did sound pretty horrific to the Cuban ear. We we back to square one with our communications—hand gestures and elaborate miming.
We settled in to the rented room of our Casa, a good price for what we were getting, but still far more brutal on the wallet than what we had been used to on our camping trip through Mexico.
The roof top view from the shared patio, an added bonus for guests at this particular Casa.
We knew Cuba was going to be a big hit to the budget, but we hoped it would be worth it. An opportunity to explore a fascinating country on the cusp of huge changes. A chance to get in and see the ‘old Cuba’ before this little island time capsule was again swept into the fast-paced, changing world around it.
Of course, this was just a dream, change has been afoot in Cuba for years. The classic cars that ply the streets of downtown Havana these days are mostly taxis, glammed up for the benefit of tourists. There are more Ladas and Korean cars on the road than ancient US classics, there were plenty of late-model European cars in the mix too. Not quite the island that time forgot that the brochures promise…
There are still enough classics on the road to keep a traveller interested though.
Havana itself, despite the changes. retains much of its historic character. Architecturally amazing, we immediately fell in love with our decaying neighbourhood in Havana Centro.
An aerial view of the streets below.
An impromptu street soccer game.
The neighbourhood might be built among the hodgepodge remnants of crumbling buildings, but the streets were truly alive. Everybody lived there lives with open doorways. Everyday happenings were constantly spilling out onto the streets. Friends and neighbours would call out to one another as they passed. The greetings were always hearty handshakes and jovial laughs. People ate their meals on their doorsteps, gathered together to gamble, talk, play laugh and converse, it was a much more social and lively neighbourhood than anything we are used to at home.
By day, the streets of Havana Centro were a tapestry of worn out buildings around which Cubanos wove their daily lives. Swirls of colour, movement and action.
As the sun sank in the sky, the greying facades of the buildings would we be kissed by the sun’s golden glow. During this magic hour it was a pleasure to wander the streets of the neighbourhood. Locals darted backwards and forwards finishing their business for the day and returning home. The golden light of sunset would pick out the details of the crumbling buildings adding a magic to the backdrop that we wondered if those living there even saw any more.
Once the sun went down, the streets really came alive, everyone was done for the day and it was time to relax. Walking down the street, it was necessary to wind around groups of friends, families and neighbours engaged in intense conversations or enjoying a shared evening meal. All this was happening bathed in the warm golden glow of streetlights. The walls of crumbling buildings behind were broken up by the blank staring windows and crumbling doorways. It was at once unnerving and welcoming. Like a friendly local bar relocated into the set of a film noir murder suspense.
Not all of the neighbourhood interactions were friendly, we watched from our rooftop perch as a fight broke out between two gangs of youths, the action disappeared around a corner. Then a kid ran back and hid a machete under a car, soon an ambulance and police cars arrived to clear the crowds and retrieve the machete. But it wasn’t long before the streets resumed their usual rhythm. Families and children spilled back out onto the street from open doorways and the quiet hubbub of every day life started anew.
Roadside maintenance on one of the classics still plying the streets of Havana.
We enjoyed our time in Havana Centro. The neighbours were friendly, our ‘good mornings’ were always returned as were smiles and waves. Although our poor grasp of the Cuban accent meant any longer conversations were completely out of the question.
What we couldn’t find much love for was the tourist trap of Havana Vieja.