Castro's Downfall: postscript
How does one spend their remaining week in Cuba when also a hot target for the authorities? [1] Well anyone versed in Cuban history will know Fidel’s speeches lasted several hours. Factor in the oppressive heat and my need to continue the charade of being drunk, it stands to reason I didn’t hang around until the end. In fact I’d already arranged my escape; the Norwegian ladies had made prior arrangements to catch a taxi to Varadero and, naturally, they asked me along.
It was nothing sexual. No way. At least not on my part. No doubt they were keen - especially so since I’d gone full blown CCA [2] ever since my second week in Cuba, which I’m reliably told adds to my already potent sex appeal.
I’d sworn not to go to Varadero, it being everything a self respecting backpacker should dislike: hotel complex after hotel complex, all you can eat buffets, and package tourists. No sir, I did not fancy it one bit. As I said, however, I needed to lie low. If that meant travelling alone with three Norwegian women - thus allowing Ida extra time to grapple with her as yet undemonstrated lust for me - then so be it. If it meant buying a Che Guevara t-shirt, then so be it.
Varadero is a thin peninsula 145 kilometres east of Havana which reaches out from the mainland like an anorexic crab claw pinching at the the neighbouring Cayo Blanco. In 2006 the Cuban government still banned Cubans from staying in hotels in their own country. Whilst anyone who has stayed in a Cuban hotel may consider that a blessing [3], it meant Varadero was particularly odd, even for Cuba. It’s 20 kilometre length is lined with hotel after hotel, and it’s here you’ll find the worst kind of tourist in the world: the package deal traveller.
If Castro had done his homework the last place he’d think to look for The Glorified Gypsy was Varadero!
We 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.
As ever Fidel’s speech was broadcast live on Cuban radio and he was only just wrapping it up as we creaked our way into Varadero.
Of course we arrived in the town without accommodation booked. I’d assumed we’d pair off once we arrived and search for a casa - it being easier to find a place for two people rather than four. It turned out, however, that they wanted to stay in a hotel. It seemed everything was booked out though, and it was only after two hours of traipsing the streets that we found a dilapidated apartment hotel complex willing to put us up for two nights.
Kamila, Ida and Silje had no interest in exploring what little there was to see of the town; their only objectives was to suntan and drink and ignore me.
Fine, I thought. Screw them! I gave Ida two more opportunities to change her mind but she just rolled her large blue eyes as if to say: “I’d love to, Carlitos, but the girls would never forgive me.”
I spent one night in Varadero. Early the next morning I tip-toed into Ida’s room and whispered in her ear that I was leaving and that she could come too if she wanted.
“Piss off. I’m sleeping,” she grunted, not even opening her eyes.
And with that I slung my backpack over my shoulder in my own indomitable way and crept out of the apartment. Because they cheesed me off I didn’t bother leaving my share of the bill either.
I returned to Havana by Avatur coach, arriving just after lunch. It was sweltering and I returned to Vedado in search of a casa particular for the night. I decided to return to Juan’s place - the casa I stayed in on my very first night in Havana. He was rocking slowly back and forth on the sillón on the veranda.
“Juancito!” I bellowed. I bounded down the pathway and up the two steps to the veranda where he looked up irritably.
Of course, Cuban men being machos, he held back how pleased he was to see me but said he did have a spare room. Naturally, it was the very same room I’d stayed in the time before.
In two days I was flying back to Mexico City and then I’d be travelling through Central America to Colombia.
I spotted Kristian and Martin in the cafe outside Hotel Colina; as ever they looked drab and brow beaten. That’s the Cuban paradox, right there: you either love the country of you hate it. For the Danes they’d wanted to love it from the beginning but the loss of their money and the hours they’d spent in the offices of Air France had run them down. Now all they wanted to do was to leave.
I suggested we walk to Hotel Nacional to spend the afternoon. From there we could watch the sunset from the clifftop gardens and enjoy supping on a few mojitos. Initially they declined; however, after some first-class cajoling on my part they eventually changed their minds. And, boy, were they glad they did.
The sun had not long dropped beneath the ocean when Nacional’s salsa show began in the garden. We were toe-tapping along to the music when something startled Martin. Over on the wicker chairs which lined the veranda bar area he’d spotted the Cubano who’d swindled them out of all their money on their second day in Havana.
The man lounged on the chair with his thick thighs splayed open and small pot belly jutting out to the heavens. His right arm was draped over the shoulder of a European female who’s skin glowed red with sunburn and growing irritability.
For the next two hours we monitored him as he buzzed from one table to the next trying to sweet-talk the female tourists. By 10pm, however, he was done. We followed him into the hotel lobby and then out the front entrance to the palm-lined driveway. Halfway down the pavement to the left we surrounded him.
It took the dopey jinatero a few seconds to recognise the Danes but when he did he gulped like cartoon characters do.
“Give us our money,” demanded Kristian. His voice cracking with emotion.
“What money?” he bluffed.
“Give us out money or I will call the police!” Shouted Martin.
The man pulled out his wallet and opened it up.
“I don’t have joor money.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t got money.” he said again simply, shrugging his shoulders.
“Well you’d better give us what you have!”
I swiped the wallet from his hand and pulled out the pathetic contents: a total of USD 120 in various denominations and somewhat crumpled condom.
It didn’t atone for the their loss but the thrill of catching the hustler and getting some money back [4] was almost worth the Kr 5,000 they’d idiotically given him in the first place.
It was a fitting footnote to this historical Cuban adventure.
Read the final part in the Fidel Castro saga below:
1. Who, to be fair to them, wouldn’t really know anything was up with Fidel until at least the following month.
2. Complete Cultural Assimilation (CCA)
3. Cuban hotels aren’t renowned for their quality.
4. USD 80 once I’d palmed a $40 for myself for my mentoring services.