Tony Montana (part 1)
Five angry meseros were surrounding me. I was deep in Chinatown on only my second day in Havana and this was the second time today I’d been on the wrong side of the locals.
In my broken Spanish, I shouted defiantly: “No voy a pagar!” My sweat-drenched t-shirt clung to my heaving chest.
Tony Montana had stitched me up – as I always knew he would. And here I was, in an empty restaurant in a shitty part of Havana, encircled by the restaurant’s wait staff who were demanding I cough up CUC120, when the bill should have only come to CUC20, max.
The meseros stepped in closer. “Tenes que pagar”, they said. Adding, probably, “hijo de puta” for good measure. [1]
I clenched my fists and readied myself.
I’d arrived in Havana from Cancún the night before on a Cubana Airlines aeroplane made in the former Soviet Union, built, to guess from its appearance, anytime between 1950 to 1980. The seats folded forwards and, as we boarded, dry-ice was being pumped into the cabin, covering everything below knee height. It was as weird and bonkers as I’d hoped Cuba would be.
If I arrived.
As we began descending over the lush greenery of Pinar del Rio the capitán – Spanish for “captain” - appeared to do the equivalent of an emergency stop – mid-air. The plane tilted downwards and everyone – not including me – audibly gasped. For a few brief moments it felt as though we were suspended in mid-air. The engines appeared to cut out, and we dropped a few hundred feet. Silence filled the cabin. Just when everyone had time to think of the worst, the engines roared back and we levelled out. El capitán said nothing.
Forty-five minutes or so later I’d arrived in Jose Marti International Airport and had passed immigration control through the famed – but sadly now defunct – floor to ceiling-high security doors. Like prisoners being let out of their cells.
It was around 10:30pm by the time I barged my way through to the sweltering arrivals lounge. Attractive immigration officials in mini skirts leaned against tables, gazing down at their fingernails; old men in guayabera shirts chomped on thick cigars. It was hot and humid and I felt like I was home.
One thing the Cuban officials didn't particularly like was my lack of any accommodation, and my explanation of “Yo soy el Glorified Gypsy, this is how I roll”, was apparently lost on them. That’s what 50 years of Communism does for you! So I was walked over to an information desk whereby an old bald man with forehead wrinkles deeper than the San Andreas Fault assisted me. And by “assist”, he essentially pulled out a crumpled business card from his top right pocket and called the number. Within five minutes I was in a battered Lada taxi on my way through the sultry Havana night to a casa particular in the barrio of Vedado.
I wish I could remember the address of the casa particular where I spent my first night in Cuba. Alas, I can’t and the relevant journal for this trip is stowed away safely in a suitcase, which would be too much of a hassle to dig out. What I can tell you is the house was a classic colonial-style building, painted mostly sky-blue or sea green. The owner – I’m trusting of my memory enough to call him Juan – was in his mid-50s and dressed in a white guayabera. He ushered me into the house and showed me my room – a lovely bedroom with high ceilings and pastel pink bed covers.
After a shower, Juan offered me a shot of rum as I sat on the porch with him, rocking back and forth on one of the cast iron rocking chairs. I may not have researched Cuba much before I arrived, but one skill I’ve developed over the years is the ability to detect when something is offered as “free”, or whether I’d have to pay later. In this instance I knew the shot of rum was given as a welcoming gesture and so I gladly accepted. [2]
I’d have loved to shoot the breeze with Juan all night. The warm tropical air made it perfect weather for chilling out on a porch. But I had no idea where I was in relation to La Habana Vieja – the famed historic centre of the Cuban capital. I asked Juan to draw a map for me as I wanted to explore. It may have been late, but this gypsy was restless. Juan pulled out a napkin [3] and scribbled a crude map of the area. Essentially, I was to walk a couple of blocks south-east until I hit La Rampa, then turn left and walk north east to the end until I reached the Malecón. He told me it was a long walk, but I waved away his concerns with the type of enigmatic/dismissive gesture I’ve become known for.
With the time being close to midnight, I set off into the muggy night. It being the weekend, the streets were teeming with people. Vedado is renowned for its bars and clubs, and as I hurried [4] down La Rampa between the crowds of tall Cubans, the hot salsa and reggaeton rhythms leaked out onto the streets. All eyes were on me. [5]
As I ambled along the Malecón, it occurred to me Cuba was mine for the taking. Young, handsome, and, with entry-level Spanish under my belt, the womenfolk couldn’t get enough of me.
“Where av’ joo been all my life,” hollered one.
“Hey baby,” slurred another.
The attention got a bit too much actually and so I crossed to the other side of the street. It was here I saw the hand-drawn sign for a casa particular on the wall of a crumbling apartment block. [6] I scanned up the outside of the building, following a seismic-like crack which appeared to split the building in two like a melting iceberg, to see two men standing on the second-floor balcony.
“Hey,” called one of them in heavily accented English. “You want room?”
I took a look over my shoulder at the glittering moonlight on the ocean and imagined waking up to that every morning. [7]
“Claro,” I said, my Spanish already improving just from being in Cuba.
The men gestured for me to go up and have a look. So, seizing the moment, I did.
I climbed the dark narrow staircase up to the second floor, where thick black dirt from the traffic of the Malecón had blown in through the open entrance, and settled along edges of the faded tiling of the stairs. The thin iron banister wobbled to the touch. The two men waited at the open door. From the street all I’d seen of the two men were their silhouettes. They both stood blocking the entrance to the apartment. Dollar signs for eyes.
They were both around 180cms tall: one was a lean black man dressed in black jeans and a scruffy white shirt; the other was an oily-faced white man whose pink scalp was easily visible through his thinning, but heavily gelled, bleach-blond hair. Acne scars puckered his face. His brown squinty eyes checked me out, calculating my worth. He wore a grimy white vest and shorts and had on a thick gold chain, rings and watch to match.
He introduced himself as Tony Montana, an ugly grin on his face. “Say hello to my little friend,” he quipped.
I smiled politely.
“Joo ‘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.
They gestured for me to enter the apartment. To the left was the kitchen and the bedrooms used by the family. To the right was the living room, and then two bedrooms with balconies and ocean views. The décor, suitably, had all the taste of a former Cuban drug kingpin fallen on hard times.
They began telling me about themselves. At least, Tony did. The other guy remained quiet. According to Tony Montana they were brothers.
Tony began his pitch. Was I look for casa? Joo were! Well, have we the perfect room for joo.
VISTA DEL MAR: This was the first sunset I enjoyed from my ocean-front druglord-styled apartment. It was taken after the full events of my day with Tony Montana and so probably would have been better served in Part 2 of the story. I'd returned to my room expecting Tony to have ordered a hot on me, or, at the every least, to discover all my belongings stolen. Neither happened, but that didn't stop me sleeping on the balcony all night with the adjoining door locked.
They led me through to the bedroom at the front of the apartment, the one with the balcony overlooking the Malecón. It crossed my mind they may try to rob me but I also enjoyed the adrenalin rush this brought.
I was in a spontaneous mood and agreed to stay here the next day. I wanted an ocean view and CUC25 a night sounded a good deal.
I was sceptical. Tony Montana was not a person to trust. And yet, I enjoyed being part of the game. I knew they were priming me for a hustle but I was open to it. Tony wanted to be my guide to Havana and so I agreed that tomorrow, after I brought all my stuff around, he could take me around.
It would lead me to my showdown in Chinatown.
For parts two and three of the Tony Montana journal click on the links below:
[1] Bear in mind my Spanish was rusty back in 2006 and this was my first experience with the Cuban accent.
[2] I was so grateful for Juan’s hospitality that when the shot of rum did appear on my bill, I paid without saying a word.
[3] This also appeared on the bill.
[4] Not out of fear, but because of excitement!
[5] Many visitors to Cuba stand out to the locals and, as such, are targeted for scams and street hustles. Not me. Perhaps because of my Latino looks and magenta tan, plus my ability to assimilate into any culture and environment, I was only hustled out of $40 on my first night in Havana. Far below the average sum, I’m certain.
[6] Back in 2006, casa particulars were no way near as common as they are now.
[7] The ocean. Not the moonlight.