Jana’s Havana Adventure

While on vacation at a Varadero Beach, Cuba resort (it was cheaper than renting a cottage in Muskoka for two weeks), I decided to hire a car and driver for the day and head off for Havana with my camera in tow.

Now, this is very frowned upon by the Cuban government since they want to keep the tourists on the grounds of the resort. Cuban vacation resorts are like Hotel California by the Eagles: "…you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." You have to put on your sunglasses, walk with intent, and look like you own the place. Otherwise, the resort security guards stop and ask you too many questions.

Not only does the Cuban government want to keep tourists from seeing how real Cubans live, they also want to keep all the tourist dollars in the hands of a few select government tour operators. My thinking was the US$80 I paid my driver for the day was the equivalent of three months salary. Well, I always like to know exactly where my money is going….

At 8 a.m. on August 12, 2003, I waited for my driver, Raul—"a friend of a friend of a friend" deal by one of the resort employees—at the back of the resort, near the employees’ entrance. Employees not only have to punch the clock, one by one, they also have to submit to searches on both arriving at and departing from the resort to make sure that they are not stealing nor engaging in black market commerce.

Raul was only 15 minutes late, a miracle by Latin standards. He explained that he was stopped and questioned by the police as to why he was driving down the highway where all the resorts were situated. He told me he made up some cockamamie story about a friend (me) bringing him expensive medication from Canada.

As the highway passed through small villages and towns, ladies of the evening positioned themselves strategically at intersections where drivers had to slow down. Raul explained that "anytime is good in Cuba," and that these "working girls" were waiting for workers returning home after the night shift.

The drive to Havana from Varadero is about two hours. But my rusty Spanish was enough to get me through the day. Raul explained that just to survive in Cuba, everyone must be a good liar. In Cuba, everyone has too much month left over at the end of their money. By necessity, everyone is involved in some sort of under-the-table dealings or backroom commerce to help balance the chequebook.

Speaking of backroom dealings, Raul took me up to the third floor of a walk-up apartment in Havana that was probably built in the 1920s, but hadn’t been touched since. I kept thinking men wearing double-breasted, pinstripe suits and fedoras would not have been out of place here. Calling the place quaint and rustic would have been kind, but people who live in these dwellings are clean and tidy and they have pride. They also have Sharp televisions and Sony mini-stereo systems.

Inside, was my connection to buy Cuban cigars—Monte Cristos #4s—at a fraction of the price even offered by the factory. Back in Toronto, I awarded them like prize ribbons at a country fair, remarking that they were probably hand-rolled on the firm, young thighs of laughing Cuban maidens. Totally untrue, but it seemed like a fun thing to say. I kept thinking of the opera Carmen.

We arrived in Havana around 10:30 a.m., so I was shooting primarily from 11 to 3, in the harshest light. Oh, yeah. It was hot. Real hot. Whatever possessed me to go to Havana in August? No matter. The heat stroke passed three days later and I lost two kilos. I shot about 100 pictures; here are my favourites. Enjoy!