Cuba - A Journey in Time. Part 1 (Habana)

For me, Cuba began on the early morning Mexico City – Habana flight with Cuban national and only airline, Cubana. From the curt stewardesses without a trace of smile on their faces to bland yet tiny breakfast meal to grotesquely cheerful video clip about Cuba’s sightseeing on the TV-screens in flight, I knew right away that this was more than a 2 hour flight and a thousand miles distance. It was a journey in time.

I had nothing booked for Cuba, mostly from impossibility to make any bookings in Cuba from the States, and also because I don’t really like making advance reservations. The two Aussies in front of me in immigration queue didn’t book, either, and were promptly sent back to the conveniently located tourism booth to book their hotel. When my turn came, I just flashed my Belarusian passport, which didn’t even need a visa for Cuba, and put down a name of the first hotel I found in my Lonely Planet on the form. The immigration lady waved me through.

I already knew before my trip that it was a bad idea to bring US dollars into Cuba because of the draconian 20% commission they charge to change them, so back at SFO, I bought some Canadian dollars that yield a more palatable but still exuberant 10%. I got some Pesos Convertibles, went through the Cuban customs and was out in the wilderness of Cuba together with my huge backpack.

It proved easy enough to find accommodation. The first person at the airport information booth turned out to know somebody who knew somebody who had a casa particular (room for rent) in the Habana Centro, so I was given an address and was told they would expect me. Later I found out that there was hardly a Cuban that DID NOT know someone with a casa particular – something that proved to be handy on more than one occasion during my trip.

As with every country, the taxi ride from the airport into town is always memorable – it is the first glimpse you get to take beyond the duty-free glamour of the international airport. Funny how even the poorest countries maintain that same bling and glitter about their port of entry, yet only a kilometer away, you start to see the real deal and real life. Cuba’s exception was perhaps in that even its airport was actually not all that flashy at all. Immediately as we left the airport, I was seeing the cars and trucks from my youth which I have not seen in 20 years, and posters in an unfamiliar language yet with familiar exclamation points and leaders with raised fists, something I was so used to in my childhood. The time journey has begun.

My casa particular turned out to be surprisingly well located, right in the middle of Habana Centro, on the corner of pedestrian Amistad and San Rafael. The hostess, old Cuban grandma, was all sweetness and hospitability – all without a word in English. I quickly realized that my lack of Spanish was going to be a huge issue and that my phrasebook was going to be only marginally useful.

After a nap, I stepped outside and took a walk around the neighbourhood, with my camera on my wrist. That first step outside always seems like the biggest adventure – you actually leave the comfort zone of your hotel and venture into the real, strange world, where everybody knows you are not from around here and you have no idea what to expect. The streets were full of people – children playing ball, women with shopping bags and men smoking cigars in the doorways. There was almost no distinction between the sidewalks and streets themselves – everybody was an equal participant in the cacophony of the Habana traffic.

I quickly realized what a photographic paradise I was in. There was no trace of hostility towards me as a tourist, and I could safely snap away at children and passers-by. Some even smiled, and nobody seemed after me or my money, unlike in so many countries in the world. People were almost proud to be photographed, and didn’t seem to mind at all, even if I got a little too close.

But people, no matter how picturesque, were not the only interesting subject for photography and just general admiration. Habana is a city frozen in time. Its buildings are scruffy and dilapidated, but charming in their slow decay. What used to be, no doubt, imposing and flashy facades, are far more shabby and rugged now, yet more accessible and inviting. I like to compare Habana with an old, exquisite wine, with dust on bottles and a faded-out label. One more year, and it will turn into vinegar, but drink it now, and you’ll be left with nothing but an empty bottle.

Habana’s cars are the same. Ancient Buicks and Fords limp around the streets at snail pace, but most are just parked indefinitely on the sides of streets, with missing wheels, doors or sometimes the whole interiors. Cubans, unable to buy new cars due to American embargo and lack of funds, lovingly and ingeniously maintain these old codgers, but there is only so much that can be done 45 years after the last of them made their way to the island.

I was walking my way north up the grid of streets, and finally the shadows of streets and narrow alleys were behind me – I was on Malecon, Habana’s famous promenade. Here, cars drive non-stop for miles along what used to be Habana’s most prestigious row of houses, and once you made it across and turned your back on the city, there was nothing between Cuba and Florida except you and Caribbean waves, lashing violently at the speckled stones below.

The sun was setting, and all I needed was to absorb and ponder on my first day’s impressions at a glass of mojito in a nearby café.