One Week in Havana
Originally published in the University Observer (UCD), on 16 September 2015.
Shortly after a nine-hour stretch of air-conditioned slumber, I transferred from Havana’s Jose Marti International Airport to the Hotel Telegrafo at the heart of the old quarter. Yet, the banality of a taxi ride became our appropriate introduction, thanks to the driver. The old brute spoke no English. The Irish couple that shared the ride ignited no conversation. And the cab’s interior was struck by the zipping sounds that came from an open window, a bevy of 1950s Chevy Bel Airs and Russian Ladas grating and grinding past us on the wet road of the rainy night.
However, in approaching the transitory spectacle of Plaza de la Revolucion, the driver pointed to that image of Che positioned on the side of the Ministry of the Interior, espousing merely the name with a warm affection that would not be lost on these foreigners in the broken silence. An affection that cannot be sold by the revolutionary’s print on all those T-shirts and memorabilia, but rather conveyed as it was by the spoken word of a man in touch with his history.
Visiting a nation with such an illustrious history of Communist affiliation, it was occasionally comical to note precise aspects of Havana’s geography that reflected it, besides the poor conditions of many living spaces. The Cine Payret, quoted as being ‘the largest cinema in Havana,’ stands directly across the neo-classical edifice of the Capitol Building. The latter is somewhat of a doppelganger to Washington’s, replete with a similar rib-cage of restoration surrounding its dome. Since 2013, it has resumed its position as the meeting-place of the National Assembly, once again becoming a symbolic watchman over what is seen within the opposite threshold.
But as the cabbie proved, the citizens shape a city’s character. In an introduction to Graham Greene’s Our Man in Havana, Christopher Hitchens recollected his impressions of the people, relating a landscape where “everybody is on the take… removing their fingers from their instruments as soon as they see a hand drift toward a pocket’. Indeed, every moment is a hustle for many of the fair occupants, while much of the seniors recline in front of their homes beside the emaciated figures of their pets. The offer of a taxi, or any object of sale for that matter, is ignited by a mere glance in the seller’s direction. Some attempt to profit from their distinct visuality, taking advantage of the more powerful CUC (the designated currency for international visitors); those images of well-dressed Cubans with foot-long Cohibas between their lips are often exchanged for a polite tip.
Historically, the Cubans also incontestably regard the Irish with a kinship that is rooted in their historical conflict with a colonial overseer. A street leading right up to the Plaza de Armas bears the title of ‘O’ Reilly,’ named after the Dublin-born Spaniard with a bloody record for his Empire. Moreover, the passage under the street’s plaque recounts a more poignant sentiment, proclaiming in the native and universal tongues of both nations, ‘Two island peoples/ In the same sea of struggle and hope/ Cuba and Ireland.’
Meanwhile, much has been made of Havana’s music to the point where one is left repeating what’s already been recounted. The charm of the Afro-Cuban rhythms and impassioned melodies was undeniable, whether heard in a stroll or during suppertime. Yet, hearing the street musicians churn out more renditions of ‘Chan Chan’ or ‘El Cuarto De Tula,’ is either indicative of the sheer range of the Buena Vista track list, or rather an innocent pandering to the multitudes of unaccustomed internationals who flock the capital like never before.
Then of course, one is drawn to “Hemingway’s haunts,” as RTE’s Deirdre Mullins has also reported. And boy, did the man get around! The La Bodeguita del Medio was always crowded, whilst the hefty Floridita (the author’s top spot for Daquiris) is a miniature museum for those in love with the man’s lifestyle but not necessarily the literature, some in full regalia with thin white shirts and Kakadu hats; modern swashbucklers in all but soul. Thus, I settled for the pink façade of the Hotel Ambos Mundos, where one can enjoy a quiet Mojito on its baking rooftop for only three foreign pesos.
On July 20th, the embassies of Cuba and the U.S. were officially open for business, mere months after the former was no longer regarded in league with those ‘on the wrong side of history.’ It’s still uncertain as to what the ‘benevolent’ incursion of capitalism will do to the country, itself an institution that has entered its evening hours. However, if in some time to come, a Big M sets up shop on the intensive sprawl of the Malecon promenade, the Western world will gradually lose a living, breathing postcard of mid-20th century living, but a change that the Cuban folk are probably better for.
A number of young locals have also acquired mobile phones in a city that still conveys streets occasioned by payphones. But when the dust is swept, the cracks are filled, and the food is fast and in larger portions, Revolution Square will still contain the images of Che and comrade Camilo Cienfuegos, keeping tabs on change (and its terms) like the prescient stare of Dr. Eckleburg. These upright frames will forever serve as emblems for a once-great humanitarian project, ending at the evening shore of the Malecon, the sun briefly hovering in bright nakedness, and finally settling below the Gulf.
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