Tuesday, 25 October 2022: Coping with Cuban Transportation Nightmares

When I first started researching options for travel in Cuba a couple months ago, I learned that they had daily passenger trains which went from Havana all the way to the eastern end of the island.  Being a train buff, I thought this would be a great way to see a chunk of Cuba.    One website, “A beginner's guide to train travel in Cuba” (https://www.seat61.com/Cuba.htm) as well as the Lonely Planet Guide to Cuba made it sound easy and cheap to get tickets at the La Coubre station in Havana.  It appeared that payment could be made in cash with dollars or pesos.   

Initially, I had thought of taking the train all the way to Santiago de Cuba on the island’s east end but it’s an overnight trip and there are no sleeping cars.  So instead, I decided to take the train to Santa Clara in the west central part of the island, 278 km (172 miles) east of Havana.  The trip was supposed to take a little less than 5 hrs.  I planned my Cuban trip around the train ride and had booked a room through Airbnb in Santa Clara for Tuesday, the 25^th. 

On Sunday, I had been told at the La Coubre station that I would need to buy my ticket on the morning of my trip.  They also said the ticket window would open at 8:00AM.  So I rush over to the station on Tuesday morning and arrive at 8:05 only to be greeted with a sign in the door which says they open at 8:30.  The sign also says the train will leave at 6:25PM even though I had been told 5:00 two days earlier.  Oh well, what the hell else do I have to do but sit on the concrete ramp in front of the station for ½ hour in the morning sun which is already getting hot? 

At 8:25, an official-looking, thin, dark olive-skinned, 50ish guy in a dress shirt unlocks and comes out of the station door.  I’m standing right in front of the door and he barks at me to move down to the bottom of the entrance ramp.  A crowd has assembled at the bottom of the ramp and I appear to be the only non-Cuban in this mob.  He starts yelling out orders to form two lines.  I tell him I’m, going to Santa Clara and he tells me stand at the head of the line on the left.  The much longer line on the right is apparently for an earlier train to somewhere else.  I ask him what time the train for Santa Clara leaves and he curtly says “diez” (10).  I assume that means 10:00PM.  I try to get clarification because the sign in the window says 6:25 but he ignores me.  I had nicer drill sergeants in Army basic training than this pendejo.  Every few minutes, he tells about 10 people at a time from the line on the right to file into the ticket office / waiting room.  After about 50 have gone inside, he leaves and there is still a long line to my right.

With the asshole not in sight, I tiptoe up to the door and peek in.  There are more than 30 people waiting and only one ticket window open.  Shit, at this rate, I could be here a couple hours.  As disorganized as their system appears to be, I may not even get a seat.  And if the train doesn’t leave until 10 that means I won’t get to Santa Clara until 3:00AM, assuming the train doesn’t get delayed or break down.  I don’t need this bullshit – fuck them and their goddamn train.  I’ll try to get a bus to Santa Clara.  But I’m bummed because I really wanted to experience a Cuban train.

But now, it’s time for breakfast.  I walk a few blocks to where I expect to find “Oasis Nelva” touted by my Lonely Planet Guide for its crepes.  No luck – it’s apparently out of business and there is construction going on inside.  So I walk a few more blocks to the café where I ate yesterday.  I have an order of pancakes with fruit.  The nice waitress remembers me and shows me the location of the Viazul bus station on my Lonely Planet Map of Havana.  It’s too far to walk. 

I have no idea of the bus schedule to Santa Cruz but figure I better get my ass to the station if I expect to get a bus today.  So, I hoof it back to my room, pack up, and the host at the B&B walks down to the street with me to help me find a bicicab (pedi-cab).  The guy wants $20 because he really doesn’t want to pedal me and my two bags all the way to the station on a hot day.  OK, can he take me to the Capitola which is about a mile away?  I know I can get a regular taxi there.  He wants $10 just to go that short distance.  Bull shit – I walk away.  But I guess business is slow as he follow me and agrees to take me for 400 pesos ($2.50).  That’s more like it.    

The bicicabista drops me off a block from the Capitola and I walk over to the Avenida Simón Bolivar where I know there will be taxis.  It’s about a 2-mile, straight shot to the bus station so the fare shouldn’t be very much.  The first cabbie I flag down wants $10 – no way.  He settles for 5, still too much but I’m not going to stand here for 15 minutes trying to get a better price.  He starts off in the right direction but after a few minutes, it’s obvious to me that he’s taken a wrong turn.  “¿Dónde estamos?” [Where are we?] I finally ask.  He’s lost – where he thinks the station is located is wrong and says they’ve moved it.  I tell him it’s on Calle 19 and we make our way back to the station.  Jesús, María y José, you’d think a cab driver would know where the friggin’ bus station is located!    

A lady in the clean and modern station directs me to the office for late reservations.  I notice on a bus departures board that there is a Viazul bus leaving for Santa Clara at 2:30PM.  Perfect – it’s now 12:15 and I can’t imagine all the seats would already be taken.   There are two people ahead of me in the late reservations office.  A young Asian woman is having some problems with her credit card and the transaction takes about 20 minutes.  In the meantime, the clerk takes care of a Cuban guy in front of me, but there are also problems with his credit card.  Both he and the Asian woman are checking their phones to try to work it out with their credit card companies.  I stand there stoically biting my lip but wanting to shout out, “Doesn’t anything ever work in this goddamned banana republic?”  

Finally after cooling my heels for ½ hour, it’s my turn.  The clerk is ready to sell me the one-way ticket to Santa Clara.  “¿Tarjeta de crédito?” she asks.  I tell her I can pay in efectivo (cash) – dollars or pesos.  No, they only take credit cards.  What the fuck!  My voice starts getting a panicked tone.  I explain that I am an American.  I have a credit card but it won’t work in Cuba.  Isn’t there anything she can do?  No, credit cards only.  Now my voice has become desperate.  Well, how can I get to Santa Cruz?  You’ll have to take a taxi.  They’re outside on Calle 19. 

With visions of defeat, I head out the door.  A Cuban guy sees me with my bags and asks what I need.  I tell him I’m looking for a colectivo (group taxi) to Santa Clara.  Might as well try to get a colectivo, I reason, as a private taxi for a 280km trip is going to bust my wallet.  This guy is actually very helpful.  He leads me over to Calle 19 where there is a line of taxis, cars, minivans, etc. and talks to a couple drivers.  Finally, my luck takes a turn for the better.  There is a guy pulling a small trailer with a car who is leaving right away for Santa Clara.  He already has one passenger and only has room for one more.  The price is good:  3000 pesos (less than $20) but I only have 900.  I have plenty of dollars but he wants $40.  I argue about the exchange rate.  The guy who led me to him pulls out his cell phone and runs the numbers.  I’m right but the driver still wants 30.  Finally, we settle on $25.  Serves me right for not having changed more dollars into pesos!   But my transport problem is solved for about ½ the price of a first class train ticket. 

As we head a couple miles to another neighborhood to pick up food to put in the trailer, I realize that I would have probably been screwed trying to buy a train ticket without a credit card.  Of course, both the train and the bus are Cuban government services and technically illegal for me to use under the U.S. Department of Treasury regs.  I figured the feds would never figure out what form of transport I’d used but hadn’t counted on having to use a credit card (which I knew in advance, would not work in Cuba).  It really pisses me off that Lonely Planet says nothing about Cuban government services requiring credit cards.  That makes travel in Cuba much more difficult for an American and they damn well should have pointed that out to their readers.  Of course, maybe it’s a new Cuban government policy.

Now, we’re off with me cramped in the back seat with several boxes of canned goods.  It takes about 20 minutes to get past Old Havana and the port to the Carretara Central, the highway which runs the length of Cuba.  Initially, it’s 8 lanes and then 6 lanes after a few miles.  We are sharing the divided highway with a mélange of newer foreign cars, older American classics, taxis, big trucks, pick-ups, buses, motorcycles, three-wheeled moto-taxis, bicycles, and horse-drawn wagons.  The bikes and wagons stay near the right shoulder.  The further we get from Havana, the less the traffic.  After about 50 km, it is relatively light.  There are no potholes on the carretara but the surface is irregular – it’s in bad need of resurfacing and our driving keeps changing lanes to avoid the bad stuff.  He manages 60-65mph in his +/-20 year old Asian car pulling the little trailer.  And he knows where to slow down.  A good thing as I notice cops pulling people over.  

We drive through forest and savanna and I follow our progress on my National Geographic Cuba Adventure Travel Map. The Carretara Central (Route A1) bypasses all the towns but I note the exits:  San José de las Lajas, Güínes, Nueva Paz, Alacranes, then a rural 50km stretch to Jagüey Grande.  The topography is mostly flat to slightly undulating most of the way.  There is some agricultural land – especially sugar cane fields.   I notice a few goats and cattle.  At one point, our driver has to slow way down to avoid a cow.  He is making good time, eating up the kilometers (there are kilometer posts in the median), and not stopping for nada (good I didn’t have to pee!).  As we pass the exit for Aguada de Pasajeros, I see that we have less than 100km to go and figure we’ll make to Santa Clara in under 4 hours.  Great, because my legs are feeling very cramped in the small space allotted them in the bag seat.  I have had to stretch out one leg at a time on top of the pile of canned goods to my right to keep the circulation going. 

About 10km west of Santa Clara, our driver turns off the carretara and heads north on a 2-lane highway to the town of Esperanza.  He pulls into a back street of a residential area and is met by a couple of guys at a small but nice house.  Now I see why he was hauling ass to get here.  It’s a warm day and the cargo in the trailer includes packaged chicken and weenies.  It was packed in ice in plastic buckets but now all that’s left is water that has spilled out into the bottom of the trailer.  Better get that stuff in the fridge fast before it spoils.  Why would someone pay to have this stuff driven 270 km from Havana?  Aren’t there local sources of meat?  Damned if I know.

I tell the driver that my lodging is near the Parque Vidal in the center of Santa Clara.  He looks at the address and the city map in my Lonely Planet Guide and acts like he knows where it is.  Along the way into Santa Clara, he drops off the other passenger.  He pulls into a side street and points me down a trashy alley.  Huh?  I take his word for it but as I’m walking down the alley, I ask some people about the address.  Turns out that it’s at least another dozen blocks.  So the driver either didn’t know shit about Santa Clara or he did want to bother taking me all the way to the Hostal Amalia.  Or maybe he was screwing me because he was mad that he had been talked down from $40 to $25 for the trip.  Thank Dog, I’m in great shape for walking with a pack and briefcase but Jesús, it’s been a long day and el hijo de puta (the son of a whore) could have had the decency to schlep me another mile.     

 

As I’m approaching the main square, an older lady approaches me.  I tell her I’m headed to a hostal on Calle Lorda.  Oh yes, she know where it is and insists on walking the five blocks with me.  Her name is Bárbara and she is very nice.  The Hostal Amalia, like most of the places where I stayed in Cuba, doesn’t look like much on the outside but remember that you can’t judge a book by its cover.  When no one answers the door, Bárbara yells to get someone’s attention.

Soon, a smiling fellow of about 30 with black hair and olive skin answers the door.  His name is Pedro and he runs the hostal along with his father and brother.  We climb the narrow stairs to the 2^nd floor.  The place looks straight out of the 1930s.  It has old light fixtures, antique furniture and an art deco air.  I fantasize that I will run into a Zenith console radio with President Franklin Roosevelt giving a fireside chat (well, I suppose his talks wouldn’t have been broadcast in Cuba).

 Pedro shows me the three vacant rooms out of the eight they have.  I choose the nicest and largest room which has two beds and windows on two sides.  He warns me it can be a bit noisy at night as it’s above the street.  But I explain that I brought my little MP3 player with a white noise recording so I probably can handle it.  Pedro tells me to relax for a while and come up to the 3^rd floor terrace to fill out the paperwork later.  I hit the hay for a little snooze but after about 45 minutes, I am awakened by some guy on the street below yelling “puta, puta”.  He’s pissed off about something but I can’t catch the rest of it.  Time to get up anyway and think about dinner as it’s 5:45 and I never got lunch today (except for some packaged snacks).  

I join Pedro on the 3^rd floor terrace.  There are nice views of the city from here although some of the neighboring buildings appear to be falling apart.  Pedro has a city map for me.  He shows me the locations of recommended restaurants and the city’s not-to-miss Che Guevara sites.  He notes that Santa Clara was the location of the 1958 armored train derailment, the final straw which brought down Batista’s fascist government.  Pedro tells me some interesting stories about Che whose guerilla forces found a very supportive populace in Santa Clara.      

I head out to one of the restaurants that Pedro recommended but it’s closed today.  So I try another of his recommendations, La Aldaba.  It has a very nice atmosphere with Spanish décor and open windows which face the street.  I tuck into soft-shell tacos with lettuce, bean paste, salsa, and vegetables; a limonada (lime slush); and a flan with caramel sauce.  The price for everything is criminally cheap:  less than $4.00 with tip.  As I’m finishing my meal, a Cuban fellow with an alto sax arrives and plays some nice jazz with a canned rhythm accompaniment.  Two thumbs up for La Aldaba.     

After dinner, it’s a three-block walk back to my B&B where fall asleep easily while listening to white noise on my MP3.  It’s been a helluva long day – Gracias a Dios, I made it here! 

  

© Will Mahoney 2022

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