Castro's Downfall (part 1)
It was early-April 2006 when I arrived in Cuba for the first time. Having, in my first two days alone, thwarted the cigar blackmarteteers and kyboshed Tony Monatana’s plan to hold me ransom to an exorbitantly priced Chinese lunch, I settled into Cuban life like the cultural chameleon I am. I became as part of the Havana scene as street musicians, rum, and indolent service at Hotel Inglaterra [1].
I spent one week ambling around Havana. Fending off a jinatera’s advances on calle Obispo here; pretending not to hear a street hawker’s sales pitch on Paseo de Prado there.
Some accused me of pretention when I affected a gruff Cuban accent and blanked other English speakers. What I’d entered, however, was the holy grail of backpacker mind states: Complete Cultural Assimilation (CCA) [2]. In many respects I became more habanero than the locals.
It 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.
NANCY AND WINSTON: Always smiling, Nancy and Winston took me into their home like the son they never had. Did it disturb me that she always had the lime green rollers in her hair? Yes. I saw no reason for it. Luckily, Winston’s uncanny likeness to two-time Olympic gold medalist Daley Thompson - namely the moustache - was enough to distract me most of the time. My stay was soured slightly on the last day, after I settled my bill, when Nancy unfairly asked me to donate her my beach sarong. I didn’t.
After one week I decided to travel to Trinidad on the island’s south coast. I hitched a ride with an English couple who hired a taxi. The couple had a casa particular already booked; I, however, had nothing organised. A swarm of street hawkers sensed this and descended upon me to mutter sweet nothings in my ear to persuade me they knew of the best house. I ended up in a casa owned by a 40-something couple called Nancy and Winston. I stayed for one week and for the duration of my stay, Nancy had her hair in rollers; meanwhile, Winston was he spitting image of Daley Thompson.
Nancy’s mother spent her days standing at the front gate with a packet of Cohiba cigars hidden from view. Whenever a foreigner passed by she’d smile sweetly and whisper “cigar señor?” or “cigar señorita?” and wave the packet just above the wall, like the world’s lamest puppet show.
I may have refused to buy from Tony Montana’s father, Raul, on day two of my trip, but Nancy seemed more trustworthy. Plus, she didn’t lock me inside a courtyard in the hope of reaching a deal. I bought six cigars in total.
I’d agreed to meet the English couple on the steps of Casa de la Musica at 8pm that night. So, with a fat Siglo IV in my pocket, I ambled along the dimly lit cobbled streets to my rendezvous.
It was on those steps - as I authentically puffed away on the Siglo IV and sipped on a mojito - that Castro’s fate was sealed. That night I met two Danish guys who I would travel with for the next three weeks; our itinerary would eventually lead us to Plaza de la Revolucion on 1st May and a showdown with Castro himself.
But that was still weeks away. The Dane’s had their own problems.
Kristian and Martin were two blokes down on their luck. They’d arrived in Cuba around the same time as I had and had been staying at Hotel Colina in Vedado. On their first night in Havana they met a local tour guide too, whom they ended up having a few drinks with. Their guide said he’d show them around Havana the next day. When morning came the guide took them to la Habana Vieja.
Kristian and Martin needed to change their Danish krone (Kr) into CUC. “No problemo”, said the guide, “I take you to casa de cambio.”
On a thronging Calle Obispo the naïve Nords handed over all their cash (Kr 5,000) to the guide to change for them. Some while later out he came with an impressive wedge of notes as thick as a brick.
As they stood counting the money, locals gathered around and laughed. As they looked to the faces in the crowd for their guide, the terrible reality dawned on them. The guide had dissolved into the crowd and was gone.
What Kristian and Martin hadn’t realised before this point was Cuba’s two-currency system. Instead of CUC, their guide gave them a stack of pesos cubanos equal to about Kr 400. He’d slinked off with the rest.
It was clear from their wide-eyed expressions that they still hadn’t come to terms with their stupidity. If they had, they may have been more discrete about their current predicament. Instead, they wore the weary look of hurricane survivors examining their destroyed house, shaking their heads, totally unable to fathom the force of the devastating phenomenon.
I did my uppermost not to judge them. Backpacking is tougher than it looks and these two had no idea.
I would take them under my wing.
Click on the links below to continue reading about Carlitos’s gripping duel with Fidel:
[1] Hot tip. Hotel Inglaterra is perfect for travellers on a budget. If a waiter does actually take an order, you can generally be confident your drink won’t arrive for a good 30 minutes to an hour, if at all.
[2] Though most backpackers will never attain CCA, I am able to enter it almost at will.