Cabbin' Cuba

You have several options to get around Cuba. Flights, which are usually expensive and only take you from Havana to Santiago. The state-run Viazul buses, which are also relatively pricey and are a chore to book - the online booking tool almost never works, and in person you’ll have to stand in several lines for a couple of hours and possibly bribe the driver to secure a seat in high season. Then there are camionetas, local transport that costs about 2 EUR per 100km. However, they are of course slightly less comfortable since you’ll be squeezed in the back of a truck, and you’ll have to wait for half a day for them to fill up and get going.

If you want to be flexible and see more remote parts of the island, cabs are the way to go. Taxis in Cuba are basically any moving vehicle that someone decides to make some money with. In Europe, most of them would have their home in a museum. For the 260km from Las Tunas to Moron, I share a 1953 Cadillac with seven people - four entangled on on the back seat, three riding in style in the front. We refuel with heating oil, since it’s cheaper than gasoline. Many of the engines on the island, I learn, are fitted to cope with the lack of resources in the country.

Ready to board the cab for another 12 hour drive.

The most memorable cab ride takes me and two friends from the beaches of Cayo Coco to Havana, 530km at night. The driver, bald and stocky, and shows up at the 11pm in a 1983 Honda. The passenger seat is occupied by a sexy Cuban chica, so the three of us load our luggage in the trunk and squeeze into the back. We stop at the checkpoint that regulates access to the peninsular to make sure that only taxis paying the peninsular premium get to chauffeur tourists. The driver steps out, in hand a big plastic bag containing, by the looks of it, imported cookies. The bag changes hands, accompanied by amicable chatter. Then the boom is lifted, and we drive on. Business as usual.

Next stop, Moron, in front of a shop. The lady gets out, the driver gets out. He shakes hands with a guy parked next to us, and starts unloading out backpacks. “He’ll drive you to Havana,” he instructs us. Glad to share the space with one less passenger, we change into the other car, an almost identical Honda. The new driver, Gustavo, is equally stocky, but less chatty. He hits the road, which is almost empty, with the occasional unlit horse cart driving on the bank and a few other cars coming our way. The doors of our ride are leaky; a cold wind blows through the cracks. I nod off, wrapped in a blanket courtesy of Condor.

In Santa Clara, some time past midnight, we stop in front of a house. Gustavo disappears up a set of stairs. A couple of minutes pass, then he comes back down and introduces us to his “brother”, Frederico. “He’ll drive you to Havana,” he says. Frederico greets us and assures us that he’s been resting for the drive. A couple of minutes later, we’re back on the highway, which is in semi-good shape. In order to not lose the lane, the Frederico hugs the central line and swerves to the right when he’s blinded by the headlights of an approaching car. Everyone drives with undipped headlights. From the back, our driver looks like Nosferatu, bald with weirdly shaped ears. He appears to be constantly blinking his eyes, but other than that I can detect no movement in his body. 230km to go.

Fortunately, Frederico appears alive and well - he stops regularly at highway service stations that lie abandoned in the middle of nowhere, eerily lit like movie sets. Since I can’t sleep, I stretch my legs - the only other vehicle at this stop is a truck piled high with fruit, seemingly abandoned. Hours later, we finally arrive in Havana, just as the city begins to wake from sleep. We get off in old town, hoping to find a place to stay somewhere central. A pale Nosferatu collects his money, bids us farewell, and gets back into the car. I secretly cross myself as I watch him drive off in his rattling Honda, leaving a small cloud of dust behind.

Late night petrol station. There is really not much going on here.

A Gay Night Out

Travelling to Cuba around Christmas is more difficult than expected. The flight from San Jose in Costa Rica is 3 hours delayed - which is nothing compared to the 4 hours the luggage takes to arrive at the luggage belt once we land in Havana. By the time I’m reunited with my backpack, I have sworn an oath that, in the future, I’ll travel the world with hand luggage only. I’m also stuck in Havana, since the last bus to Santiago, where I’m supposed to meet a friend, leaves at 00:30. Also, my German SIM card stopped working as soon as we touched the ground.

Fortunately, I have a back-up plan. Before taking the flight, I have been emailing Lianne, a Couchsurfer from Santiago de Cuba. Currently, she’s in Havana visiting friends. I text her from Stephan’s phone - he’s a guy I met at the airport, waiting for the luggage to arrive. She invites me to come and stay with her. 

I meet Lianne and her two German girl friends at a street corner in downtown Havana. We drop off my backpack at the Casa Particular (a kind of home stay that replaces hostels in Cuba) they’re staying at, and before I know it, we’re on our way to a club to celebrate Stefanie’s last night in town. “It’s a gay club”, Lianne explains, “I hope you don’t mind? We’re lesbians, you know.”

“No, I don’t mind. I’m straight, though” I reply. “I hope you don’t mind”. The girls laugh, just as we arrive at the location. Inside we find a ice-cold room with lots of small tables arranged around a tiny dance floor, a screen on the back wall, cheesy music playing and a laser show lighting the still empty space. We sit in a corner while the men - there are only men - start to roll in. Hairy muscled guys with gold chains around their necks, manicured metro sexuals, amazingly good looking toy boys in hot pants and quite a few trannies in evening garb. 

Then, the show begins. Dramatic music plays, and two pair of guys dressed only in golden tutus and holding candles positions themselves on both sides of the screen. A photo show clearly borne by Windows 95 starts to play. I marvel at the terrible quality of the presentation that is entertaining a now packed club, only to realize that I’m watching a tribute to a deceased member of the community. The moment the last picture fades from the screen, a drag queen resembling Jessica Rabbit, dressed in a red glitter outfit, with long red hair and a gap between her front teeth, enters the stage. With a dramatic turn of the hips and her head thrust back, she begins to sing “All by myself” by Celine Dion. Or almost sing - since the performance turns out to be playback. Including quivering lips and chin, and heaving bosom. The audience loves it. Men walk up on stage to stuff small notes in her bra and kiss her on the lips, for which she momentarily has to pause the singing. One admirer wipes off a bit of mascara that has gone astray, and the crowd applaudes. 

The show goes on for a couple of hours, with three transvestites taking turns belting out eighties tunes. Every few songs there is a short interlude of four guys performing boy band choreographies with lots of thrusting hip movements thrown in. The home-sewn costumes get skimpier, and Jessica’s last outfit doesn’t include more than panties, a bra and a flowing blue robe that reveals her buttocks to whistles when she twirls at a particularly emotional part of the song. 

While I’m not sure what exactly I’m witnessing and I’m freezing cold, I’m really enjoying myself. It’s one of those evenings that you couldn’t have planned for, where you learn more about a country than from any guided tour. Being here feels like being at a 80ies bad taste party cum Singstar meet-up, where everyone is having a fabulous time. People have clearly known each other for eternity, and appreciate and celebrate each expression of individuality, as flawed as it may be. There is a sense of community that seems self-aware that parts of the evening are ridiculous, but they’re going for it anyway. Part of me wishes to be part of that crowd. Lianne grabs my hand from across the table and grins: “Do you like it?” “Yes,” I reply earnestly. “I love it.” “You’d make a great lesbian, you know. Just in case you change your mind.”