Anyone having spent any time in Havana would be forgiven for wondering what this city would have done had it not been for the revolution, or Ernest Hemingway.
To an extent this view is understandable in relation to the revolution, and the limited access that can go hand in hand with a Communist dictatorship (I can well remember my own visit to Russia in 1985). The romance of a place like Havana can conjure up thoughts of intrigue, fuelled by the likes of Graham Greene. It did after all seem appropriate to be sitting in a roof top bar, trying desperately to avoid the hoards of tourists and the wretched renditions of ‘Cuban’ music laid on for their entertainment, by reading Our Man in Havana. How clichéd is that?
In the case of Hemingway, there can barely be a bar or hotel in Havana that does not continue to trade on his custom, if not his reputation as a raging alcoholic. Mind you, given my own consumption of rum so far, I can hardly be expected to comment with any degree of rationality.
I landed (not me exactly, the plane) in Havana less than 24 hours ago, and what a day it’s been. Having got on board with hundreds of others some 11 hours previously, in my nightie, as I can never see the point in wearing the day clothes, I had not quite bargained for the fact that when I arrived the Cubans would want to scan us all on arrival. I tried hard to keep my coat on but was told firmly to remove it. I reckon there can be few people who have passed through their immigration control wearing just a rather unflattering, thin, but not skimpy, beige nightie, worn by a very tired rather overweight soon to be 61 year old. I had heard that Havana is considered to be the sex capital of the world for middle aged women, and were I in the mood to indulge, which in my younger days I might well have been, I feel certain that this little episode will have certainly blown my chances of attracting the attention of any one of the jineteros (hustlers rather than pimps). To be perfectly fair, of all of the places I have ever visited rarely have I felt quite so safe, or been less bothered either by beggars (there are very few and mainly in a very confined area around the key tourists sites) or touts.
Electricity, along with much else, is in short supply here so after dark it can be a bit like being in the twilight zone. Given the complete absence of any health and safety regs., which I heartily applaud, the only real danger is found in navigating one’s way along the road amidst heaps of freshly dug up concrete.
Awake at the crack of dawn I rather disturbed the security guard who sleeps in the hotel lobby by seeking to leave the premises for a little wander in the predawn light at about 5am.
A calm, but not eerie stillness pervaded the atmosphere of the empty streets as workers began to make the way, with doorways revealing security guards slumped at their posts, with no need to be watchful at this hour.
On leaving the building I soon caught the attention of a policeman loitering at the corner, who was surprised as I was by the encounter, hastily concealing his cigarette in his attempt to retain an air of officialdom. A lone jogger along El Prado took his time, where the only sound was the clink of bottles retrieved from the garbage skips prevalent on each corner.
Not for me the grand hotels populated by the masses. I had booked to stay in what, if one believes the reviews, is the hotel from hell. Yes, by most people’s standards it is a shit hole, but I have been comfortable in its shabby, not chic, surroundings. Those who flock here are clearIy not as well travelled or intrepid.
Rather unfairly I confess that I have come to despise my fellow travellers. On their package holidays, nannied through their visit, able to view the seedier side of life from the comfort and safety of their private transport, arriving en masse at all of the must-see sights, long enough to take a few pictures to prove to the world on Facebook just how daring they have been, and paying through the nose for the privilege.
Here, I have my own bathroom, if that is not too generous a term to use, which was entirely unexpected; although as it has only a shower and there is no likelihood of any hot water for the duration, I am planning to forego ablutions for the week. Submariners’ bath it shall have to be. Basic is probably the best description for the accommodation but the sheets are clean and I am pleased that I brought my own pillow to supplement the 1 inch thick specimen provided.
I also brought along my own travel kettle and loo roll as apparently there is a national shortage; of loo rolls, not kettles, although that may be the case also. As it was after 10pm by the time I had checked in, it seemed daft not to acquaint myself with the bar, so I partook of a large rum and then reflecting on the time in my home country, some five hours ahead, I came to the conclusion that as I had now indeed turned 61 there was nothing else to be done but to retire to my boudoir and consume the best part of a bottle of rosé Lanson, out of my enamel camping mug. I can confirm that as an inert substance it had no adverse effect on the taste, as far as I was able to discern. Having sampled Cuba’s best, I then spent a rather restless night, quite the norm for me, soothed by the hum of the of the air conditioner, akin to the sound of a plane taking off, and trying not to bash my head on the wall mounted TV (the remote control does not work) on my way to the loo. Prior to retiring I took the precaution of blocking up any orifices that would permit entry for any cockroaches lurking in the shadows; mice and spiders I can cope with but their scuttling, and the crunch of their carapaces under foot are all to reminiscent of Hong Kong days.
Breakfast the following morning, and for the whole of the following week consisted of a glass of juice of some unidentifiable description – papaya, mango, guava, whatever they had. I quickly learnt that no matter where I went, whether to some doorway paladar where you stood at the counter, or an upscale restaurant in a top hotel, it made absolutely no difference to either the quality of what I ate or drank, or whether or not, despite the length of the menu, anything was available. But I digress, breakfast each morning consisted of what might be described as an omelette but would perhaps be better served as competition for the thinnest crepe; always accompanied by two pieces of toast, with varying degrees of crispness, a small plastic portion of runny apricot jam, and barely enough ‘butter’ to scrape across its length. I gave up on ordering tea after the first morning, and gave praise for my portable travel kettle.
Thus began my six footsore days in Havana, exploring the culture, including my first ever puff of a cigar, and of course the rum.
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