Coastal Interruptus
The Havana coastline is fraught with danger. Not because of massive waves and treacherous currents or because sharks patrol the shallows. The danger in Havana comes from the menfolk who wank in public spaces. The phenomenon is by no means limited to the coastline - it happens in the city centres, in cinemas and parks too - but it’s by the sea where it seems more prevalent.
It does seem a uniquely Cuban phenomenon though - perhaps brought about by the island’s clement weather and asphyxiating housing situation which crams one generation of family in with the next and so forth, leaving little privacy.
For a nation with a permanent dose of the horn it’s not difficult to reason why outdoor wanking is practiced; that it’s done so flagrantly is!
I’ve already described in a previous journal entry the circus-like feats of menfolk from Trinidad, who are able to navigate dilapidated bicycles no-handed down the colonial city’s cobbled streets while maintaining *ahem* a fully inflated opinion of themselves. The truth is this behaviour is not confined to Trinidad. It is, however, always confined to the menfolk.
There are probably hundreds of incidents a day in Havana alone. Over the course of two days in 2016 Lafonda and I had the misfortune to witness a double occurrence of open-air onanism both taking place at the rocky coastline in Miramar in Havana’s west.
PANORAMIC VIEWS
Lafonda tells of swimming down at the Miramar coastline as a child. It was in the clear blue waters off the rocky coast that she took her first splashes with her dad; it’s where she later taught her cousin to swim. It’s that memory which often leads us down Calle 70 to the corner of 1ra Avenida to stand on the rocks and gaze out to the horizon.
PANORAMA: The view from the coastline looking back at Hotel Panorama. Here you can see Lafonda scanning the terrain for potential flashers and wankers - sadly, a daily occurrence in these parts.
It was a beautiful day. The past two it had stormed and everyone - Lafonda and I included - were happy to be outside again. The flat sea gave up only the odd roll which culminated in a wave falling lazily on the ragged limestone. Lafonda and I hopped over the jagged rocks to marvel at the view and enjoy the gentle breeze.
Dotted over the rocks were people - mostly tourists from the quintet of large hotels lining 3ra Avenida behind us - also enjoying the day. To our left, five metres away, lay two 40-something uninhibited Italian women of ample proportions, lounging on a rectangular slab of concrete raised a few feet above the rocks. Their florescent bikinis cutting into their chunky thighs like string around a shoulder of pork, they chatted loudly as they slathered tanning oil over their huge buttocks and gigantic breasts.
Closer to the water’s edge sat a young Cuban couple facing each other, their legs entwined, lips locked. The way that young lovers do. Oblivious to their surrounds.
Elsewhere a man in his 20s ambled aimlessly nearby. The red backpack over his shoulders made him look like a tourist. To me he looked Indian; Lafonda assured me, however, he was Cuban. Every 10-seconds or so he glanced over his shoulder at the young couple, or towards the buxom Italian women, then take a few steps closer toward them. Observing him now it was clear the man had no real reason to be on the rocks. He wasn’t fishing. Nor was he walking with intent. Though pretending to be interested in the ocean his furtive looks over his shoulder and the care he took in appearing not to be looking at them raised Lafonda’s suspicions further.
“Tenemos que observarlo,” announced Lafonda.
“Que?” I said.
“Watch him. We have to watch him.”
“Yeah, I understood,” I assured her.
“Porque dijiste “que” entonces?”
I sighed. “Don’t worry about that. Why do we need to watch him?”
“Él es un wanker,” she asserted.
“No he isn’t,” I said, still thinking he was a tourist.
But as the man drew closer by feigning interest in something in a rock pool, Lafonda bristled with anger. Now that he was nearby it was clear he was Cuban and that meant there was a real risk - him being male and Cuban - of him exposing himself at any moment. It was what the menfolk around here did.
CRIME SCENE: In the shadow of the phallic Russian Embassy this manmade channel is where the young man crouched to get an eyeful of oily flesh and brazenly masturbate. Some might have reservations about wanking in broad daylight but not in Cuba.
He circled around, us standing between him and the recumbent Italian lovelies; his eyes darting lasciviously beyond us to soak in the bounty of naked flesh. Lafonda and I watched for any sudden movements. To our surprise, however, he kept walking [1], back to the street to pass over the storm water drain and then onto the rocks on the other side of the narrow channel. For a minute or so he stood looking over towards us as though in deep contemplation; eventually, however, he carried on walking away from us, continuing his aimless stroll. Only once he was a speck in the distance did Lofonda unclench her fists and relax.
“Told you,” I declared triumphantly.
It was at that precise moment we noticed a teenage boy - perhaps 16 or 17 - crouched on the rocky incline on the eastern bank of the storm water channel. My eyes met his and for a moment I assumed he must be fishing. In that brief space of time I allowed myself to marvel at the simple pleasures a Cuban life has to offer - sure they lack food and essentials, and, yes, it’s tragic the political system has led to a diaspora of Cubans around the world; and sure, the famed education system is decreasing in quality, as is medicine and its sporting teams; the human rights record is poor; public transport is diabolical, the roads are potholed; and yes I’ve suffered from food poisoning on nearly every visit. Things aren’t perfect, but wasn’t it lovely this young man could still come down to the coast and drop a line into the ocean to fish for his supper!
Perhaps it was the bright sunlight which impeded my vision but try as I might I couldn’t quite see what he was using to fish, so I shuffled a little closer, using my arms to shield the sun from my eyes and being wary so as not to slip into a rock pool. Just as my eyes adjusted, however, the boy regripped the penis poking through the end of his red sport shorts and began to methodically stroke his fishy rod back into life.
Distracted by the Indian-looking Cuban - perhaps deliberately so [2] - the aroused would-be angler had taken full advantage and was brazenly pleasuring himself in plain sight; the subject of his arousal: the voluptuous Italians ladies. I felt duty bound to say something.
“Oi,” I called, Spanish expletives ready to fire off my tongue.
I was too late though. “Grosero!” Screamed Lafonda on clocking the shafty fellow. She was still on high alert.
“Oi!” I called again. Louder this time.
Lafonda was bristling with indignation, hopping from one foot to the other as though unable to decide on the the exact way she was going to castrate him: blunt knife or oyster shell? After a few seconds she spun on her heel and strode over to the Italian women who were oblivious to the action.
While she did that I stared at the boy from across the thin stretch of water.
“Voy a llamar la policia,” I threatened.
“Que,” he shrugged, releasing his grip and allowing the semi erectness to bob parallel with his thigh. Penis? What Penis? His expression seemed to suggest.
Unbelievably after a few seconds in which he appeared set to scamper off in fear he took hold of himself once again and began methodically stroking away.
“En serio, voy a llamar la police,” I shouted once again, dumbfounded.
From behind me Lafonda screamed expletives after him, threatening him with the police, with telling his mother and, more bizarrely, that he should be in school.
While I admired - on a base level - the boy’s single-mindedness and Jedi-like ability to concentrate on the matter in hand, the threats were eventually too much for him to maintain himself. His penis withdrew back into his shorts and he reluctantly stood up and skulked away in the same direction as the decoy.
Lafonda stormed back over to the Italians who were now, alerted by our shouting, sitting up on the concrete platform to see what the commotion was about. As she explained that they were very nearly the unwitting subjects of a young man’s self gratification the plumper of the two removed her sunglasses and looked longingly into the distance for the young man.
“Oh,” she sighed wistfully. “But I wanted to see a little cubanito”. Proving that it’s not just fat European and Canadian men who visit this island for sex tourism.
FLASH MOB
PLAYA 16: Traditionally a swimming club where locals could bathe, socialise and fish, you’re as likely to see a man grapple with an eel as you are see a man grapple with his, well, eel. Incidentally I’m not accusing any of the menfolk in the picture - this was taken at a different, simpler time.
I can understand a young couple arranging a midday tryst in the open air. The 24-hour surveillance of the uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, parents and cousins who share their homes make moments of intimacy fleeting at best. Just as important is the clement weather; unlike the UK, say, where gentlemen flashers have the decency and, because of the cool weather, necessity to wear a trench coat, the Cuban climate lends itself to outdoor exploits.
A few blocks inland from the the Miramar coast is Parque Ecologico - ecological only in the sense that it’s a green space in an area without too many parks. It’s a mix of long grass, trees and, on the south-east corner, food stalls. The dirt pathways are strewn with rubbish. Throughout the day, always it seems, a lone trumpeter stands in the tall grass and practices his scales away from the nearby houses. Meanwhile, in the shade of a small grove of trees is a large boulder around which lie piles of discarded condoms, either sliding off the plonker of one particularly busy individual or, more likely, from that of many - the result of this one area of relative privacy being used day after day, night after night, by young couples all over the suburb desperate for intimacy. ‘Tis the shagging stone, so to speak.
This I can understand. Unfathomable, however, is the menfolk’s obsession with rubbing one out or flashing in public: at the cinema, on a bicycle, at the beach.
THE WAY YOUNG LOVERS DO: The coastline can still be a place for innocence, as evidenced by this young couple locked in a tender embrace.
Further east along 3ra Avenida are a few sunbathing areas and swimming “clubs” where locals meet to socialise, swim and soak up the sun. With concrete pathways winding over the coastal rocks and raised slabs to sit on or sunbathe, the area should be a suitable place to spend a few hours.
Playa 16 is one such area and I’d insisted we come down because I wanted to go snorkelling. Lafonda and I laid out towels under the shade of a weather-worn thatched umbrella somewhere in the middle but set back from the water. This was generally Cuban Only territory - further evidence of my CCA. Behind us a paladar contributed to the tropical idyll with soft Cuban son classics drifting on the warm sea breeze from within the restaurant.
After 10 minutes or so a group of men barrelled into view and threw their belongs under the next umbrella along. They chatted in loud gruff voices while passing an unmarked bottle of rum between them. They were a strange looking group: their ages ranged from around 20 years old to 40, from athletic-looking to mobster-gold-chain-wearing-fat. Something didn’t seem to fit.
The oldest of the group - the loudest too - pulled from his bag a portable speaker and commenced playing reggaeton from its tinny speakers, totally changing the ambience. Because the music was so loud they had to speak even louder over their own music which gave the impression they were arguing.
Annoyed, I decided to go snorkelling. Lafonda stayed to look after the bags. The two younger-looking of the men decided at that moment to swim too - one dark and athletic, the other white and podgy. I splashed about a bit hoping to spot some sea-life but the shallow waters here are mostly barren, the only splash of colour usually being the green and red of a long since discarded can of Crystal beer, slowly rusting on the seafloor.
Bored, I swam to shore and clambered onto the rocks where the two men were now sitting with their feet submerged in the water.
THEY ROAM IN PACKS: A group of men pretend to sunbathe on the concrete bathing platforms at Playa 16 while checking for unsuspecting females they can expose themselves to. Or maybe they really are just soaking up the rays. Sadly, in Cuba, you can never really know.
When I returned to the towels Lafonda decided to go for a swim. I watched her stroll down the concrete pathway to the edge, to the left of which sat the men. I caught Lafonda’s laugh and saw her sit on the ledge to next them and engage in conversation so I relaxed a little. She doesn’t entertain idiots and after a while the podgy white guy returned to the shade of his umbrella and sat with his group.
Ten or so minutes passed when all of a sudden Lafonda screamed.
“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.
I was incensed. “Hijeputa!” I spat. “Voy a llamar la policia!” I threatened for the second time that week.
The flasher clambered back up the pathway and trailed sheepishly behind Lafonda, his head bowed. The fat gangster of the group jumped to his feet and bounded over to us.
“Que paso?” He said as innocently as he could. He knew.
Lafonda explained. The athletic guy had told Lafonda he was a lifeguard from Guantanamo, that he was visiting family in Havana. He was a humble lad who was just trying to get by. He claimed to have saved several lives but, when pressed by Lafonda, couldn’t give any details. As she realised he was lying she made her excuses and got up to leave. It was at that point the man stepped down from his rock and waded knee-deep in the water, turned to Lafonda and invited her to “look”. When she turned he had his dick in his hands.
“You know what he did,” I screamed at chubby gangster guy. “Voy a llama la policia!”
I didn’t know where I was going to call the police, it’s not like I knew the phone number or even knew where a phone was that I could use to call them; I had no idea where the nearest police station was either. It was just a handy threat which I knew from my Tony Montana experience tended to work.
It was clear the group all knew what their friend had done. It was a pre-planned flashing. If Lafonda hadn’t been there it would have been some other innocent cubana. This group probably took it in turns to keep watch while one revealed themselves to unsuspecting women. That didn’t stop the leader of the pack from giving the worst excuse: that essentially his young friend was just a simple guajiro from Guantanemo who was new to Havana and didn’t know how to act in the city, thus giving the impression all the menfolk from Guantanamo walk around with their willies hanging out.
The other men surrounded us now and for the first time it dawned on me that we were outnumbered and at risk of being beaten or robbed. Lafonda felt the same. So, very quickly, we decided to accept the explanation and tell them we’d forget about it. We gathered up our things and trudged through a cut way to 3ra Avenida. I thought it imperative we locate the buxom Italians and advise them of where they could get an eyeful if they still wanted to.
As for us the coast ever since has been tainted.
1. Albeit with a hand in his pocket…
2. I’m not ruling out the possibility these open air wankers work in packs, sending in decoys to distract the vigilant so another can sneak into position and stroke away.