Second-Hand Woes
In the beginning, there was hope. Never before had we passed so smoothly through the arrivals hall of José Martí International Airport, or indeed, felt so welcome into Cuba. Where once the entirety of the immigration staff wore a uniform look of “surly”, they now wore smiles. Where we would normally have spent an hour or so queuing to pass through customs, our passports were checked within five minutes - even accounting for the need to see a temperature-checking medical officer on COVID duty.
It seemed we would be in a beaten-up taxi in next to no time. Of course, a five year absence is long enough to unlearn the horrors. I’d forgotten about the hellscape that is the José Martí baggage hall: the interminable heat; the creaking of the empty carousel (which, if nothing else, prepares the visitor for another empty conveyor belt they may soon see: those of the Cuban supermarkets checkouts. Empty, because there is no food to put on them). And the greatest horror of all: that Cubans know nothing of carousel etiquette - there is no courtesy gap left for anyone to dash through from behind and grab their bags. Instead, Cubans swarm the carousel like ants on a honey pot, nosing the baggage trollies right up to side of the carousel to build an impenetrable barrier, only moving once the last of their 10 oversized plastic-wrapped bundles tumbles down the chute and thumps against the carousel barrier, before joing the slow procession of clockwise-moving bags.
As far as I could tell, our Iberia flight was the only one to land during the three hours we spent in the baggage hall, yet it still took 90 minutes for our bags to finally appear. [1] In that time, we sweated half our bodies’ weight.
By the time we made it through to the arrival lounge, the new Cuba had well and truly turned into the old Cuba. Our pre-arranged lift failed to show and so we had to brave the hoards of legal and illegal taxis desperate for business. In the end, we agreed a price of €20 with an elderly man who had just driven his nephew to the airport in his ancient Lada, and who was now headed back to Playas del Este. As I loaded our suitcase into the boot, I could see my own feet through the rust holes. And seatbelts? The only thing restrained in that car was the speed, which, fortunately, given the safety issues, could muster no more than 50km p/h.
Soon, we were in Playa - Lafonda’s ancestral home. This would be our first trip in over 16 years where her mother was not present to welcome us or to keep the other family members under control. And so, with that particular firebrand away, the running of casa Lafonda was in the hands of her two uncles, who have spent - if my experience is anything to go by - the last 30 years camped on the porch of the house, where they smoke thin cigarettes, speculate on money-making schemes, and play air-guitar to 70s American rock classics. [2] The sight that greeted us, however, when the Lada pulled up, was a shock. Pablito and Federico had aged, of course. Worse: they were stick thin. Shirtless, as ever, the two figures hobbling down the pathway to greet us were a collection of bones wrapped in cling film. Pablito - dentally challenged for as long as I’d known him - was now nothing but gums. Federico’s bald avocado seed-like head, meanwhile, lolled precariously atop his thin neck, his ribs and spine showing through his nutrient parched skin, which was an unhealthy sulphur yellow hue.
With Lafonda senior away, we shortly learned the important role she played during our frequent visits. She was the gatekeeper. The matriarch. Crucially, she kept the rest of the family at bay from our belongings. You see, when visiting Cuba, we bring an extra bag each, stuffed with clothes, toiletries, medicines. Usually, the majority is for Lafonda’s mum, dad and sisters. The close family. The uncles and cousins get something as well, but not as much. A pair of shoes each. A shirt. They have their own families overseas who should provide for them. Now that Lafonda senior wasn’t here, and with post-Covid Cuba a wasteland/land of opportunity (depending on your luck, connections and drive), Pablito and Federico sensed riches.
We were at their mercy.
Tradition has it that after the initial hugs and catch-ups, we drag our bags to the bedroom, unzip them, and begin handing out the goods to Lafonda’s mum. Pablito and Federico reasoned, correctly, that without their sister around, more of the bounty inside our bags was all theirs.
Now, here’s the awkward bit. The week before coming to Cuba we’d been in Belgium, and we’d dedicated one day to buying up half the stock of various second-hand clothing stores in Ghent, for clothes for her uncles. We bought more than we normally buy them because it was cheap. But, at some point on the train ride back to our base in Ostend, it dawned on me that I hadn’t seen those huge bags of clothes in a while. I’d either left them on the platform in Ghent, or they’d been thieved on the train. I don’t know. But it did put us in a bind in that we no longer had as many clothes for Pablito and Federico. We were forced to do a second shop in Vienna, some days later, where the merch was not as cheap as in Belgium. And we couldn’t find any replacement shoes for Pablito - specifically, velcro trainers (because he hates laces).
There wasn’t any need to tell them about the missing bag of clothes. To do so would have been like Bob Geldof telling a starving African that he’d brought crates of cheese and ham sandwiches for the village, but they all bounced off the back of the truck while driving through the Great Rift Valley. Nevermind, have a Polo mint. Of course, Ladonda did tell them, including telling Pabilito - whose feet were currently sheathed inside a pair of worn out rubber sandals - about the pair of shoes he could have been slipping his sorry feet into now, if I hadn’t lost them in Belgium.
The look of disappointment on his face will haunt me forever.
Feeling guilty, I scanned my open bag and spotted the pair of leather flip-flops I’d brought over for Lafonda’s dad.
“Here, how about these?” I offered Pablito.
But Pablito walked with a limp and didn’t like wearing flip-flops or the feel of them between his toes. I was about to slip them back into my bag, pleased that I’d be able to give them to Lafonda’s dad after all. Only, Federico’s long-suffering wife Cari - who, up until now, had remained in the background, unnoticed - suddenly stepped forward and asked if she could have them instead. I was about to protest, but then I looked at the flip-flops she was wearing. There was more structural integrity in a greasy takeaway food carton than in her current footwear. [3]
And then there was Federico. El más complejo. A former government worker, he may or may not have been the type of person who would spy on the non-Communist neighbours and report them. A few years ago, we were sipping rum on the porch and he was educating me all about how the 9/11 World Trade Centre terrorist attacks were a hoax, when all of a sudden he leaped out of his sillón and jabbed a boney finger to the stormy sky.
“Drone!” he cried. “Drone.”
Federico was paranoid at the best of times, and declared that someone - he didn’t actually explain who - was spying over the suburban streets of Playa. I looked up at the hovering object in the sky, and then sat down almost immediately.
“That’s not a drone,” I said, disappointedly. “It’s a Chinese lantern.” Someone a few blocks away had probably launched one for their birthday.
Federico protested, and insisted it was a drone. But the flickering flame and lantern-like shape was hard to refute. Eventually, reluctantly, he agreed and slumped back into his rocking chair.
It occurred to me later that Federico had likely never seen a drone before and had only ever read about them in Granma.
The same intensity then at which Federico poked at the phantom drone, was the same intensity that he now looked at our open luggage, scanning every item and calculating its value. I’d lost a pair of trainers for him as well in Ghent-gate. Unlike Pablito, however, Federico wasn’t as easy to fob off. Lafonda, also, was guilt-ridden. Not because we lost their clothes, but because of her uncles’ appearance. The desperation on their faces. Quickly then, and without consulting me, she very kindly offered Federico the Salomon cross-trainers I was wearing.
“At the end of the holiday, Carlitos will given them to you.”
Edmundo’s cunning eyes calculated the deal. It was clear from the way his thin lips relaxed that he was satisfied.
That, 12 days later, I did not give Federico my Salomons, is another story.
1. I am guessing, but I assume the baggage crew have a good old rummage through everything before they bother to load the bags onto the carousel.
2. Picture the scene: Federico’s smoke-stained bedroom which he shares with Cari. The beautiful old stucco ceiling, cracked and falling away. In the corner, a small television, perched atop a small DVD player, displays the track listing for one of Federico’s rock compilation CDs. As they call me in to the room, the solo to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird is on. Federico and Pablito are both rocking out, but it’s Pablito’s show. I’d never seen anyone play air guitar with a plastic bag, but the way Pabilito stretched that bag between his arms, and made the instrument his own, was Prince-esque. To this day, it’s one of the greatest musical performances I’ve seen.
3. I did buy Lafonda’s dad a new pair of flip-flops later in the trip, from a store in Plaza Vieja. It wasn’t with out complications, however. Lafonda’s dad, although dirt poor, is also a fashionista. Every time we stopped in a shop to look for footwear, he inquired whether they sold any white baseball caps, and made unconvincing pleas with me that Lafonda had sanctioned the purchase of one these as well.