Saturday, 22 October 2022: My Introduction to the Facts of Life in Havana

The morning after my mother-out-law’s 90^th birthday party in Boca Raton, Florida, my alarm went off very early so I could catch my 6:00AM ride to the Fort Lauderdale airport.  My driver, Mikey Henry, was a Jamaican-born musician and song writer who has a side hustle driving old shits like me around God’s Waiting Room (aka South Florida).  Mikey and I talked about the Rastafarian way of life and the Rasta concept of I and I, which roughly means that two people are one because we all have Jah (God) within us.  Not my religion but as an agnostic pantheist, I can identify. 

Lots of people I’ve talked to still think that Americans have to go through Mexico to get to Cuba.  Not true anymore.  Even a relatively small airport like Ft. Lauderdale – Hollywood International has three direct flights per day to and from Havana on both Jet Blue and Southwest.   It’s a bit pricy ($300+ round trip) for a 1¼ hour flight because of both US and Cuban taxes.  My $306 round trip ticket included $66 in US taxes and another $81 for the Cuban government.    

Southwest has a separate area in the lower level of the terminal for Havana check-in.  And they do need mucho space for passengers on these flights.  While I was waiting to check one of my bags, I noticed that most of the other passengers in the long line appeared to be Cuban.  Many had huge bundles of stuff which had been shrink wrapped.  The bundles appeared to include clothes, shoes, packaged food, electronics, small kitchen appliances, tools…you name it.  It occurred to me that these passengers were probably Cuban-Americans taking stuff unavailable in Cuba to family and friends on the island.  There was a delay in our departure because, as the flight attendant explained, they had a large number of shrink-wrapped bundles that were difficult to load.  The bundles were roundish and didn’t stay in place very well in the baggage compartment.

Havana-bound passengers in the Southwest check-in line with large, shrink-wrapped bundles

Although the flight appeared nearly full, I had an empty middle seat next to me enabling me to stretch out my legs.  However, that wasn’t much of an issue as it seemed like we were starting our descent not very long after reaching cruising altitude for the short flight.  As we were approaching Havana from the western end of the island, I noticed that most of the area was divided into agricultural fields interspersed with forests.  

Rural western Cuba landscape on our approach to Havana’s José Martí International Airport. 

Once on the ground, I breezed through immigration where an agent took my photo and stamped the visa I’d purchased in advance.  My two important bags with all my travel stuff were carry-ons.  However, I had checked a practically empty little Wilson gym bag which was destined for Cuban books, music CDs, and any other souvenirs I acquired in Cuba.  I waited and waited for it to appear.  Finally, after all the bags from the flight were on the carousel, I went to the lost and found area where someone sent me to a Southwest office upstairs.  A Cuban Southwest employee interrupted her lunch to track down my bag.  Her computer showed the bag had arrived but where?  After hitting a couple dead ends, she led me through baggage claim to the oversized bag area.  And there it was.  They had put my little bag with the oversized bags – go figure.

The customs agents did not make me to open my bags and I headed out to the taxi area.  I asked one of the few cabbies still there (most of the cabs had been taken by passengers without lost bags) about the fare to La Habana Vieja (Old Havana).  It was US$30.  What about $25, I asked (the price quoted in last year’s Lonely Planet Guide).  Nope, 30 was the standard rate.  I shrugged my shoulders and got in figuring that maybe inflation had found its way to Havana.  The ten mile trip took more than ½ hour with all the traffic lights and two stops by taxi authorities asking to see the driver’s paperwork.  Along the way, we rode along a 4-lane boulevard with poorly-maintained pavement through poorly-maintained residential and commercial neighborhoods.  I was surprised that the drivers seemed relatively orderly and not speeding as excessively as I’d been used to in other developing countries. 

The driver slowly headed up the rough, narrow, old brick-paved, one-way San Ignacio Street in Old Havana as we looked for numbers.  There it was:  454 with a sign reading Hostal Balcones in front.  The driver quickly dropped me off as there was really no place to park in front of the door.  I rang the buzzer and was led up a steep, narrow, disheveled stairway with marginally-useful handrails to a second floor door that opened into a lovely, large lounge/reception area with 15-foot ceilings and chandeliers.  A smiling young woman who appeared to be about 8.9 months pregnant, took my passport in order to fill out the requisite government form for casa particular guests, and showed me my small, slightly stylish, and very adequate room.  A double bed and sink were in the bedroom.  It had a large, attractive chandelier right over my bed which, later that night, I envisioned crashing down on my chest and killing me during an earthquake (“Silly boy”, I reminded myself.  “Cuba doesn’t have earthquakes.”).  The room also had a small key- or combination-opened safe where I immediately stashed most of the $1100+ in U.S. cash which I had stored in various pouches and pockets on my body, large day pack, and soft brief case.  Having just arrived I was still highly paranoid about carrying all that cash.  After a few days of feeling relatively safe in Cuba, I lightened up a little.  

The large bath had a toilet at one end, a shower at the other.  In between, French doors opened on to a little balcony that had a small table and two wrought-iron chairs.  It was a great spot for people-watching so I pulled out my little Canon, and sat there for the next 15 minutes shooting people in the street who were mostly oblivious to the photo-voyeur looking down on them.  I was immediately struck by the great racial diversity among the Cubans I saw in the street.  Everything from people who resembled southern Europeans to others who could have just stepped off a flight from Nairobi as well as various shades in between.

Watching Cuban women of all shapes and sizes from my balcony in La Habana Vieja (Old Havana)

 

I went back out to the lobby to retrieve my passport from the woman who had filled out the registration form.  There I ran into three friendly young British chaps who had been staying for several days at Balcones (there appeared to be five or six rooms).  They needed help with translation in their conversation with the woman who had checked me in.  The one fellow wanted me to ask the woman to please stop working so hard (she had been sweeping and scrubbing) given her very pregnant condition.  I steered clear of that one figuring the woman’s pregnancy and work ethic were none of his fucking business nor mine. 

There was also some issue about a US$100 bill that the B&B manager wanted to exchange with the Brits for Cuban pesos.  I don’t remember the details but it led to one of the more important conversations I had in Cuba.  These guys told me that the current exchange rate on the black market was around 150 to 165 pesos to the dollar.  It seemed to vary daily.  They said that restaurants and other business were good places to exchange money.  You could pay your bill in dollars and receive pesos in change and some restaurants were happy to change larger amounts.  Their only warning was to avoid changing money on the street.  I learned that Cubans would frequently approach foreigners on the street wanting to change money – not a good idea because of the potential for counterfeit bills, getting short changed, or getting robbed.    

Wow, 165 to 1, eh?  And not from street hustlers but restaurants and other legit businesses.  Did I ever get misled by my new Lonely Planet Guide which says that pesos are officially pegged at 24 to the dollar.  They note that there is a black market but on page 511, my guide says, “We do not recommend changing money on the black market.”   Bull shit.  The following day, a restaurant was happy to give me 8000 pesos for my $50 bill (160 to 1).  So, the 24 to 1 exchange rate is meaningless and one could really get ripped off not knowing this.

Afternoon drinkers and diners at La Vitrola with Plaza Vieja in the background

 

By now it was about 2:00PM and I was starving, so I walked one block to La Vitrola, a music-themed restaurant next to the Plaza Vieja with a lively salsa band and tables on San Ignacio which was closed to vehicles here.  An avocado with rice and vegetables plus a fruit drink filled me up and I was off for a photo tour of old Havana:  north and east through the plaza to Havana Harbor with views to the east across the water of a big white Jesus Christ statue and to the northeast of the expansive San Carlos Fort.  The narrow streets built with bricks and historic buildings were very charming. 

Plaza Vieja in the center of La Habana Vieja on a quiet Saturday afternoon.

 

View across Havana Harbor toward Forteleza de San Carlos de la Cabaña, a huge 18^th Century Spanish colonial fort

 

While walking west on Obispo, I passed the Plaza de Armas and stopped to look in the windows of the Natural History Museum.  A friendly, smartly dressed, pretty young Cuban woman stopped to tell me the museum was closed but would reopen the following morning.  I told her the museum would be of great interest to me as an environmental scientist.  We introduced ourselves.  She was Lola – not her real name for reasons that will become obvious later in this little story.  We continued the conversation in a combination of English and Spanish as I walked with her west on Obispo.  When I learned that she was a librarian, I was eager to get her recommendations on Cuban authors and their best stuff.  I also told her of my plan to stage a photo of me sucking on a cigar while wearing a Che Guevara-style beret and sitting behind the wheel of a classic 1950s convertible.  I didn’t need an expensive cigar, just one that would serve as a photo prop.  She had a friend with a store who could get me the hat and cigar and the two of them could probably find me a driver willing to let me sit in his car for a few minutes for photos.  Lola called her friend and told him what I needed.  She seemed warm and genuine and I offered to buy her a drink. 

Looking across the Plaza de Armas at toward the Palacio de Los Condes de Santovenia, an 18^th Century palace which is now a 5-star hotel

 

Lola and I turned down a side street where she led me to a hole-in-the-wall bar.  She ordered a mojito, a favorite with Cubans and, of course, with rum as the main ingredient.  I ordered the non-alcoholic version (Very reluctantly, I no longer drink alcohol on orders from my electro-cardiologist.)  Her friend, a big Cuban guy probably in his 30s, soon arrived and I bought him a drink as well.  

Here’s where the story starts to take a negative turn.  Lola's friend pulled out the cigar and hat.  First of all, it was a hat, not a beret.  It had a Che emblem on the front but I really wanted a beret.  Having just arrived in Cuba, I didn’t have a good handle on what stuff like this cost but he wanted $10 for it which I though excessive (in fact, I found a beret a couple weeks later in a market which cost me $4).  His price for the cigar was also $10.  It looked like a good, hand-rolled cigar but what did I know?  I hadn’t smoked a cigar in more than 20 years.  He didn’t want to bargain so I reluctantly handed him a 20.  I figured he had taken the time to bring me the items which saved me time trying to find them (I hate shopping because I never seem to easily find what I want except for underwear).  

I also didn’t want the evening to turn sour with Lola because I was enjoying her company.  I liked it when she touched my arm, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and put her leg against mine under our table.  Hmm, was she a……?  After all, librarians likely make peanuts at their 9 to 5 jobs in Cuba, and she probably needed a side business.  I might have been interested but as a 76-year-old fossil, I didn’t feel like making a fool of myself with a 30-something.  I also figured I would have probably gotten ripped off for a lot more than the 20 bucks I’d just parted with.  Still, I was curious about the price:  $100, or maybe more like $200?  My biggest concern was on the home front.  I couldn’t really write about the experience or some of my friends reading my blog would consider me a braggart and a sleaze.  And if my partner Judy found out, she’d probably cut me off, both figuratively and literally.   

I decided to protect the identity of “Lola” for reasons that are obvious if you read the story.  I loved her hair, smile, and out-going personality.

 

Lola didn’t pop the question and neither did I.  If she was a member of the world’s oldest profession, she probably had to be very careful.  Castro had come down hard on U.S. Mafia-run vice after his ascent to power in 1959 and I suspect that paid hanky-panky is still very clandestine in Cuba.    

What I really wanted was a pretty young Cuban friend, not a roll in the hay.  What Lola seemed to want was money.  After her friend left, she asked if I could give her $10 to buy a special formula she needed for her twin babies.  She hadn’t mentioned children before – maybe she did have twins and they had health problems.  I believed about 30% of her story so I gave her 3 bucks but I’d had enough.  As we got up to leave, I was handed the bar tab.  Now, I knew I’d been had: US$20 for 3 drinks, one of which was a Shirley Temple.  I complained.  Well that includes a 10% service charge, the barmaid explained.  I handed her another one of my 20s while saying something in a disgusted tone about New York City prices in a Havana dive.  I wondered if Linda would get a kick back for bringing me there.  We quickly parted and I continued down Obisbo to a used bookstore where I found a copy of a Cuban history book dealing with the period from the Spanish-American War (1899) to the triumph of Castro’s forces in 1959.  

Later that night as I lay in my bed at Balcones, I fumed a bit about how I’d been conned.  But it wasn’t so much that I’d been ripped off as it was a disappointment – a disappointment that someone who had acted like she wanted to be a friend was only interested in getting into my wallet.  I suppose people who are struggling financially have different priorities.  I understood that and sympathized with their plight but it sure put me on guard with Cubans from that point on.  It wasn’t a very good way to start my Cuban travels.       

 

© Will Mahoney 2022

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