I spent a leisurely afternoon in the picturesque old town; drank a ricisimo hot chocolate at the museum of chocolate, took in a few lofty views of the city, badly twisted my ankle in a pot hole full of horse piss, sat myself down on a restaurant patio over a beautiful little square, ate some fried platanos covered in lots of garlic, sat in the sun on the steps of the square for half an hour and finally hobbled back to my hood with a stinky foot along the ocean front malecon at sunset with the accompaniment of a little more than the usual flattery and cat calling from the groups of young men that had congregated at the seaside for some twilight drinks. About half way home a handsome young cubano got down on one knee asking the “princess” to run away with him. When I got home I had a luxurious hot shower and had almost settled down to a stress-free evening when my dad phoned to inform me that Air Canada had changed its mind and that my ticket could not be changed after all – and I would either have to come directly home without my week long layover or stay the course in Cuba – and as lovely as my day had been I still did not want to stay the course as my flattery bank was by now completely full and the overflow was beginning to cause some problems in the mental health department.
Old Havana
I have not yet managed to quite fit in with the local crowd, despite my tan (although I was actually mistaken for a Cubana the other day – much to my delight – but I was quickly discovered when I was unable to answer a question posed to me in Spanish) and I find the society in Havana to be equal parts kindness and helpfulness and equal parts hostility and desperation– the latter makes me think I will never feel comfortable here while the former makes me feel warm and fuzzy and safe and looked after. I have been helped here by the locals on so many occasions it is hard to count – if I stop at a bus stop to ask if the bus that stops there goes my way they will not only confirm that I am at the right stop –but they will also make sure I don’t pay too much, make sure I get on the bus and even make sure I get off at the right stop.
On the crowded public bus the other day, a young guy gave up his seat for me and he and the lady next to me chatted with me the whole time, made sure I got the closest stop to my house, told me to be careful walking at night, and sent me on my way with her phone number and an invitation to call any time. In fact most of my good-will stories involve public transit and I’m convinced that though the guide books say not to go near it, that the bus is actually the best way to travel in this city – provided you’re not in much of a hurry. This is also the cheapest way to get around the city (aside from walking) – costing literally only a few cents.
The most expensive way to get around the city is by a tourist taxi which unless you make them use their meter charge an exorbitant amount of money, I was charged $4 to move casas the first time and I was only going about 6 blocks down the road.
The second most expensive way is to go in an old and run down but still official taxi where you can usually bargain a fare down to a reasonable rate of say 2 CUCs (basically 2 dollars) for what would take an hour to walk.
The second cheapest way to get around is in the old 1950’s giant American cars, some of which are in alarmingly good shape and others which are just downright alarming. These cost either 10 or 20 pesos (50 cents to a dollar) to get you about anywhere a tourist would like to go in this city. Once inside any of these brightly colored automobiles, you feel like you have stepped back into a 1950’s gangster flick – but upfront, instead of two pinstriped gangsters in fedoras, you have one or two Hispanic muchachos, in uber-chic sunglasses and varying amounts of bling. Though they clearly are not from another era they will greet you and usher you in and out of the vehicle with all the laid back cool distancia that you would expect from a 1950s gangster. They are not allowed to pick up tourists so you have to either rely on your feminine whiles or your authentic Cuban looks and language skills– since I have neither of the later I’ll have to assume that it was my elegant silhouette gesturing at the side of the road that got me my half dozen rides in these antique vehicles. If you are lucky enough to have one pull over for you – the harder task is yet to come; you still have to be going in the right direction, and if they did somehow mistake you for a Cuban when they decided to pull over, you have to know how to say where you are going in a very specific way – like a secret password that if you know it they will probably give you a ride whether or not they have realized by this point that you are clearly a foreigner. So with all that explanation it is actually quite a challenge to get a ride in a non-tourist taxi in this city.
Classic car taxis taking a brake in old HavanaWhen I got my first ride I was feeling pretty gangster-cool myself until my idealistic vision of my wholesome Cuban taxi driver was shattered at the sight of a condom wrapper beside me in the back seat. On my second or third ride I got sandwiched in to the middle front seat and got quite the work out trying to keep my leg from being burnt on something under the car that had clearly long lost whatever protective insulation it once had. By the end of my second week in the city, and after a few slightly traumatically unsuccessful ride catching attempts (one in the midst of a TORENTIAL down pour and one involving a belligerent and extortionate driver), I had had just about enough of Havana taxis and resigned myself to walking and taking the bus, two far more economical options and healthier as well.
But, back to the goodness and kindness business - this part of Cuba shines clearly through at my casa where Cari now refers to me as “mi illa” (meaning my daughter or my girl– which is apparently a very common term of endearment here) and I feel enveloped in the care of two very nice elderly ladies who go out of their way to make me feel at home. So tonight I go off to bed with giant question marks dancing in my head about when to go back home, and how long to stay here and what the heck I’m going to do here if I stay – and why the heck would I want to leave this beautiful Caribbean island a week early anyway…
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