The Glorified Gypsy
The travel writings of a vagabundo
After many years of visiting and always giving my last CUC to Lafonda’s family, I decided, in 2018, to keep a few hundred CUC for the next visit, which would have likely been the following year. I hadn’t counted on Covid-19 keeping us away for a total of five. Nor had I envisioned that in 2021, the Cuban Government would scrap the CUC - effectively turning my CUC into Monopoly money.
Read MoreWith Lafonda senior away, we shortly learned the important role she played during our frequent visits. She was the gatekeeper. The matriarch. Crucially, she also kept the rest of the family at bay from our belongings... Now that Lafonda senior wasn’t here, and with post-Covid Cuba a wasteland, Pablito and Edmundo sensed riches.
We were at their mercy.
Read MoreIf you did take a wrong turn in the days after Hurricane Irma hit and ended up on calle San Lazaro by mistake, one would be forgiven for thinking it blew hardest through this part of town. The sides of buildings missing, balconies torn off, debris everywhere. But Prado, with its bronzed lions lining the pedestrian boulevard, is the dividing line. To the east, the preserved UNESCO world heritage site. Havana’s money maker. To the west of Prado is the real Havana. It may look like a hurricane has just ravaged it but in reality, it’s the 60-odd years of neglect that’s responsible.
Read MoreA sleepless night. The wind howled around the roof, branches fell, and, around 3am, next door’s corrugated roof finally peeled itself clean and flipped, luckily, in some other direction. Lafonda’s mum, as she usually did, knocked on our bedroom door at around 6am carrying two cafecitos. Fittingly, our stash of Cubita and Serrano coffee had run out a few days before and we’d forgotten to buy more. The coffee she brought, then, was classic state-rationed Coffee, the ingredients and quality of a more dubious nature. The repercussions of Irma were already being felt.
Read MoreCuba’s health care is famously free for its locals. Foreigners, meanwhile, must visit the foreigners only hospitals. The difference is not only price. Similar to how London cleared out the riff-raff in the West End prior to the Olympics, the mirage of Cuba’s mythologised health system shines through in the foreigner-only hospitals, where, although having to pay, the facilities are modern. Johnny America can leave after two-days in a diabetic coma and assume all Cuban hospitals and medical centres are as well equipped. Alternatively, however, Cubans may not have to pay out some pesos for their care, but neither will they have up-to-date equipment, or medicines for that matter. It’s all smoke and mirrors.
Read MoreWe all knew we wanted to take a closer look at them once we were down there, but for Ari and I - me, raised on the age-old English sensibility of minding one’s own business; Ari, a Yanqui raised on guns and, therefore, expecting the inhabitants of a rural hut to be armed to their teeth - this would entail no more than walking past at a respectful/safe distance. Lafonda, however, had different ideas. A native of these shores and raised in the aforementioned conditions, a passing glimpse of the rows of yucca in the front field wasn’t enough. Before we could stop her she was walking up the pathway to the blue house as though she always called around first thing in the morning.
Read MoreWith no plan other than a desire to climb something, we decided over a breakfast of huevos revueltos y fruits that we’d just drive until we saw a mountain we liked. From the veranda of Casa Anita - our casa particular located two-kilometres south-west of Viñales town centre - we had sweeping views of the valley. We were adamant, however, that we’d steer clear of the area around the Mural de la Prehistoria known as los Dos Hermanas, for while it is undoubtably beautiful we had no desire to scale a mountain only to glimpse the mural in the distance. This meant we had to drive several kilometres north of Viñales town centre, out into the rolling farmlands, surrounded by the impressive mogotes which typify the Viñales Valley rock formations.
Read More“Carlitos,” she shouted to me. Then “Disgusting!” She was back on her feet and walking towards me in a hurry. From across the way she explained with a growing sense of urgency what had happened - though, in truth, she needn’t have bothered. Surprise surprise the athletic guy had seen it fit to lower himself out of view from me and expose himself to an innocent Lafonda.
Read MoreA couple of days later we stop for a bite to eat at a restaurant on the northern end of Plaza Vieja. I’ve spent the morning practicing my spiel, much to the annoyance of Lafonda, and so am ready to initiate a deal. In no way am I nervous about my engaging in el mercado negro so Lafonda’s mocking of me does not perturb me one bit. Instead, I lean back cooly on the chair and lower the peak on my cap, scanning nonchalantly around the plaza from behind my mirrored Aviators as though absolutely nothing untoward were on my mind.
Read MoreFor the umpteenth time on our Cuban cocktail quest, Chad Jnr. is asking a barman for a pineapple and the withering look he receives in response is, understandably, deserved. While friendly and hospitable people, Cubans do not suffer idiots well.
Read More“Que paso, amigo?” I said in an effortlessly authentic Cuban accent, addressing the oldest of the group. I pointed at the carnage behind him and smiled. As if to say, even if you have just murdered a rival farmer I’m totally cool with it. When in Rome, etc.
Read MoreWe were 30 minutes out of Matanzas still when I regretted travelling with the Norwegians. They were especially grumpy sitting in the back seat of the battered Lada. Their sweaty legs rubbing against each other surely only made them hotter and more irritable. I know it did me. I began wondering about Martin and Kristian - wondering if they were coping ok now they were fending once again for themselves.
Read MoreFidel Castro lifts both arms to the sky to enjoy the pleasing morning zephyr fanning him dry and doesn’t flinch when the towel loosens and drops to the floor. It was nothing they hadn’t seen before, thinks Fidel, as he waves to Raúl who is scurrying across the courtyard with a straight razor in his hand. At peace with the world, Fidel then folds the Cuban-flag Adidas tracksuit which he’d let to dry on the balcony and returns to the bedroom.
Read MoreClaudia answered the door in a silky back dressing gown, dishevelled black hair tied up in a bun, and heavy makeup. The gown was tied low, revealing a sun damaged cleavage, while a chunky thigh poked out coquettishly towards us. A strong smell of perfume billowed out from the apartment. Despite these obvious alarm bells we heeded the siren’s call and followed her beckoning hand inside.
Read MoreIt was past midnight when we left Alejandro’s paladar. Casa de la Musica had just shut for the night and people – tourists and locals – were walking home en masse. The way it works, the Cuban hustlers – mostly men – were not allowed to mix with the tourists on the steps of the venue. Instead, they waited at the bottom, held back by the local police. But once Casa de la Musica closed, there weren’t enough police to keep all the hustlers in check.
Read MoreIt was a prime time to be in Cuba. There was talk – as there had been for years – that it was important to see the country before “the Americans took over again”; it was important, most of all, to see it before Castro died.
Little was I to know that in a few weeks I’d play a part in the bearded one’s downfall.
Read MoreTony punched his own thigh in frustration and Raul began shouting. I unclenched my fists and relaxed. I could tell from the amount of spittle erupting from his mouth that Tony Montana was the recipient of his diatribe. Tony leaned back on his milk crate in an effort to dodge the shower. Eventually Raul finished. He slammed the lid down on the wooden chest and stood up, kicking his milk crate with his heel and sending it skittering into the wall. I stood up cautiously and kicked mine into the wall too.
Read MoreHe broke off our gaze to thump at the door again.
“Maria!” he bellowed. “Abre la puerte!”
A loud but indecipherable female voice barked back. A chain lock jangled inside and the door swung open. A thin woman stood in the doorway, her hand on her hip. She was barefoot, wore a pink faux-leather miniskirt and green vest which she had rolled up above her small pot belly. A trail of thin black hair stretched from the waistband of her skirt to her exposed navel.
Read MoreHe introduced himself as Tony Montana, an ugly grin on his face. “Say hello to my little friend,” he quipped.
I smiled politely.
“You ‘ave seen Scarface?” he asked, unsure by my reaction.
“Claro,” I said. “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,” I effortlessly mimicked, quoting another famous line.
Tony was unmoved.
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