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The taxi darted and screeched through the narrow, bustling streets of Santiago de Cuba.
It was midday Saturday, and seemingly the entire city was out shopping, strolling, or taking in the music that emanated from several quarters. ‘How do they endure the fumes?’ was my first thought. I’d been in the country and seaside for a couple of days, a clean environment devoid of the air and noise pollution of the city. This was yet another sign that the cord was being cut.
Only earlier in the same week had I even booked the ticket to come down here, little more than 72 hours ahead of the flight. We’d had nearly a meter of snow in the week or so before then, and I happened across a package that was too good to refuse: air, hotel, meals and drinks for about $500 – as a solo traveler especially, such a price was practically insane. This was at a three-star all-inclusive resort east of Santiago – our previous experience with a four-star in Cuba had been mixed, but for the value at this time of year I had to do it.
As soon as the broader arrangements had been confirmed, I went to work on finding a Casa Particular in the city. The Cuban equivalent of a B&B had been of some appeal for quite some time. Last year, traveling with my better half, we’d looked into an overnight option in Havana, but eschewed it for two day-trips instead. Traveling alone this time gave a bit more leeway on such matters, and thanks to a wealth of information online (most notably a site called Cuba-Junky.com) I narrowed down the options and eventually booked into a casa near the city centre for three days, two nights.
And thus after a day and a half on the beach, shaking off the cold and blues of late winter Canada and acclimating with sunshine and fine Cuban rum, my untethered adventure away from the safe, known-quantity of resort holidays was beginning.
The first stop that morning, on the way into the city itself, was at El Morro. Havana has a Morro, of course, as does San Juan – the Spanish built these fortresses at strategic points. This one sits at the entrance to the Bahia de Santiago, and its views of the bay, the city, and the Caribbean coast are striking.
Upon entrance, I was greeted by a uniformed guide who offered explanations in both English and Spanish. We chatted along the way, and I knew that it was right to give a decent tip – what I hadn’t anticipated was two other guides coming along later, but frankly the lack of tourists around made me want to help – I offered to get some items from my bag in the taxi afterwards, and they gladly made the walk down the hill. What I had to give was what I’d bought at the dollar store before leaving home, items very cheap and basic to us but either unavailable or very expensive to Cubans: toiletries, soap, hats, t-shirts, etc.
This was a reminder yet again of where I was and the stark contrasts between all that we have and that the Cuban people lack.
And so as the taxi swerved and chugged on the way to my destination, I quickly felt myself approaching that ‘ground level’ that I’d been talking about all week (to anyone who’d listen).
This was the Cuba that I’d come looking for.
The taxi pulled up to the address I'd been given, to two awaiting Cubans, an older man and a younger woman. As I got out of the car the two came over to inform me that I’d be staying in a different house – the man, who turned out to be my host, joined us in the taxi for the short drive over.
“I’m Raul,” he said. “I hope you’ll enjoy our home. It’s actually closer to the city centre.” He was correct, and after a few turns on the constricted one-way streets, we were on Calle Corona and in front of my home away from home for the next few days. Yes, the umbilical cord of resort travel had been cut – but I could already feel the new bonds forming with Raul.
Up a tight staircase and through a slim doorway, I enter the home – bright and cheerful, the living room catches a breeze off the bay and through to the courtyard. Raul introduces Morayma, his wife. They are a retired couple, not overly bubbly but genuine in their smiles. Their hospitality would help create an unforgettable experience.
Raul had misheard me in the corridor and tells Morayma I’m a “Mexicano” living in Canada. As he asks for my passport, standard procedure as the Casa owner must document every guest, I correct the nationality issue with an “Americano” and hold out the blue document with the seal and “United States of America” on the cover. I’m glad my Spanish was passable for a Mexican-Canadian, at least in the first moments. They’re a bit surprised to see an American.
Not that Americans don’t travel to Cuba. Sure, it’s illegal – ground covered in this forum previously. It’s estimated that perhaps a hundred thousand Yanks visit annually. The large majority visit Havana, which is, granted, the showpiece for this island’s image in the rest of the world. Getting to this end of the country seems to be much less common.
After putting my bags away in the room – which, thanks to Pototo in Havana and the nice folks at Cuba-Junky.com, is exactly what I was looking for: air conditioned, with private washroom, in a central location – I’m shown around a bit by Raul. We chat in the kitchen with Morayma. The surroundings are simple and immaculately clean, with a tri-burner gas stove and a recent-model Samsung refrigerator, tile floors, and a quaint dinette. Meal times, costs, and ingredients are discussed and finalised. The room had been 25 Cuban convertible pesos (1CUC = approx. C$1.11) per night. Dinners would be 7 CUC, and breakfast 3 CUC. “Pollo asado” is what we’d decided on for dinner that night: grilled chicken.
In the open-air central courtyard I could see into a few other homes, and asked Raul about the stairs that seemed to go up to the roof. “Si,” he said, leading me up the rusting staircase to a 360-degree view of the neighbourhood, central Santiago, the bay, and the Sierra Maestra beyond.
“Aqui es Cuba,” Raul said. This is Cuba. Indeed.
... To be continued ...
