People keep asking if I had fun in Cuba. It's hard to explain exactly what it was like for me. I've been calling it an interesting experience. It was fascinating, beautiful, exhausting, but not exactly the time of my life. I did all my research and reading before departure, but it was still not at all what I expected. It was much harder than I thought to travel as a woman alone there, and my lack of Spanish skills didn't make it any easier. It was one of those countries where every other block I was inundated with kissing noises, 'Hey baby', 'Hey lady', 'Listen to me!', etc. Everyone is really poor, so they treat all tourists like rich people, which of course, relatively, I was. This means that some guy would fall into step with me, start a conversation, something pleasant like, where are you from?, do you like my country?, how long are you here?. Then it goes one of a few ways, they'll ask where you're staying - this would always lead to them trying to get me to stay at one of their recommended houses. Another question would be, Where are you going? Innocent enough, but I learned at this point to not tell them, and just let them know that I didn't need help, because they would want to walk with me, point at a couple of buildings, or try and show me how to get to my destination, then ask for money when we got there. Another approach I got, usually from the Rastas, was do you like music? Which was followed by, I play in a band, or have a friend or roommate who plays in a band, and then there would be a invite to go to his house, go for a drink, go somewhere sketchy with him and his friends for a 'good time'. I mean, these guys were persistent, but only one became a little alarmingly aggressive. It wasn't even that they were trying so hard to get money that bothered me, it was the fact that I couldn't just meet and chat with any locals. I hated having to get rude with some of them. It was disappointing to have my real brushes with locals so greatly diminished. Of course, I can blame a lot of that on myself for not finding time to learn Spanish before arriving. This was really the only bad thing I can say about the whole trip, it's just because it was so constant, every moment I was out on the streets, that it made my exploration difficult. I could never stop moving, or risk being hassled by another tout, so I didn't even get to take as many pictures as I would have liked to. At least I have it all in my head. But I don't want to dwell on that! Because, well, it was actually incredible, I mean, so often I would silently exclaim to myself, I'm in Cuba! or I'm on a bus to Santiago de Cuba! And be just in awe of the whole thing. I've been back for nearly a week, and I still haven't had time to look at my pictures, so I have nothing to post yet. I'll get to it soon (although school starts this week), and then maybe add one later to this post. The basic outline of the journey was; arrive in Havana, leave by overnight bus (12 hrs.) the next night to Santiago de Cuba, stay there for two nights, take another overnight bus (16 hrs.) back to Havana, spend three nights there before returning home.
Day One
I arrived at the tiny Jose Marti airport in the early afternoon and made my way through customs. The customs officer didn't speak English, it was a sign of things to come. After I was cleared through, she buzzed me through a door, and on the other side you had to go through a security check. In order to leave the airport, you have to go through the whole x-ray and metal detector rigmarole. The couple in front of me was having trouble getting through because they had a piece of computer equipment (which she was saying was for personal use) that the security guards wanted to confiscate. Four guards were so busy with them, that I just walked through, picked up my bag and left, I don't even think anyone looked at the screen as my pack went through the machine. Now I was through to another dimly lit room, where deafening old carousels were displaying baggage, I had none checked, so I went directly to line up for currency. Then I noticed that many people were smoking. This is when I learned that you can smoke anywhere in Cuba, even in the international airport! Well, that meant I had to smoke while I was there, the rules were even better than Vegas! (For those who don't know, I was a smoker for about 10 years, when I moved back to BC, to the land of expensive smokes and awesome pot, from Ontario, I stopped smoking at started getting stoned again. I still have a cigarette from time to time, but generally only smoke when in America, or now, when in Cuba.) I got to the front of the line at the currency exchange and was told that I could only cash traveller's cheques in the city. Luckily I had a little airport food cash ($25) on me, which got me 19 convertible pesos. I knew it cost about $20 to get into town, so I was a little worried. I couldn't believe the system, if I couldn't change my cheques at the airport, how did they expect me to get to the city to change them? When I got a taxi, I told them I only had $19, and they said okay. Whew. It's about a half hour ride into Havana from the airport through rural land and city outskirts. The roads were packed with cars ranging from the classic 1950s American cars, to brand new European models, along side scooters, motorcycles, oxen and horse drawn carts. People were lining the roads hitchhiking to their destinations. Billboards touting the revolution and its heroes greeted traffic. My visit coincided with the 47th anniversary of the triumph of the revolution.
I discovered I was able to read most signs fairly well in Spanish, I just couldn't speak it or understand it with any skill. As we were entering the city, The Way You Look Tonight came on the radio in the taxi, I don't know why, but the driver and I ended up singing it together. The whole situation was surreal. I was staying in Casa Particulaires for this trip, they're private homes licensed by the government to rent out spare rooms to people. So I got to stay in the homes of locals and eat breakfast with them, a very cool experience. The Casa I stayed at in Havana had a custom built apartment on the roof for guests. It had two bedrooms with private baths, a kitchen, a covered patio and a sprawling uncovered patio - all on the roof of the building at about 5-6 floors up. It was located in Vieja (the old city) on a tiny street called Cristo. I spent the rest of my first day just wandering around the area, getting accustomed to the city. That night I met my roofmates, two young fellas from Ireland, and we went out for dinner and a drink. This would prove to be one of the last times I'd have an easy and spirited conversation for the next week. I was asleep by 1 a.m., didn't unpack anything, and was ready to leave in the morning.
The front doors of my Casa at No. 16 Calle Cristo.
Cristo Street from the balcony of the main living floor of my Casa.
My cell phone service in Cuba was provided by CU C_COM.
The view between drying laundry on the roof of the my Casa.
There are little dogs everywhere.
A little produce shop.
The Malecon, including my pack and foot.
An old motorcycle in front of a park in Vedado.
A tile in the courtyard of the Hotel Nacional de Cuba.
Urban volleyball, a block from my Casa.