Down and Out in Havana - Staggering Towards the End

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Down and Out in Havana - Staggering Towards the End

Thur 06/06 - 12/06/08

I take a coach back to Havana, arriving at 10pm and checking into the Park View Hotel, situated just off the famous Paseo del Prado, and opposite the Museum de la Revolution. After the relative cheapness of casa's and hostels, I've decided to splash out on three-star luxury for three nights, giving me time to situate myself, re-group and get over the tragedy of the Magic Man Hat.

The first thing I do Friday morning is head to the hotel Florida, and access their high speed internet. There was a time, not so long ago, when travellers and folks of all persuasions would have got by without the net, living their daily lives in the real world, not cyberspace. For me, however, it is a necessity. I've no other way of transferring my funds from bank account to credit card. My life now revolves around this process. With better preparation, I'd have come to Cuba with a variety of visa cards, travellers cheques and plenty of cash, but problems have been popping up on a daily basis, and planning ahead has been a luxury ill-afforded me.

Things are made worse by the fact that it's no longer my money I'm spending. My funds have run dry, and I'm sustained through this drought by my dad. So, money is transferred from his account to mine, and from mine to my credit card, meaning I have to regularly check my balances and make sure I can see myself through the six working days this process requires.

In the Florida, I make another transfer, of £280, which I hope should see me through until I return home. I walk to La Rampa in the afternoon, and ask in the Air Europa office about bringing my flights forward by a week. Typically, their computer is down, and the women behind the desk has trouble understanding what I'm asking. She tells me to go to their other office in Miramar on Monday.

On Saturday, I decide to book an extra night in the Park View. This is a risky move, as it costs me half of my remaining money, leaving me 50cuc to last until Tuesday. I'm still feeling pretty jaded, and the truth is I just can't be bothered to pick up all my shit and find somewhere new. I figure I should give myself until Monday, leaving Sunday to scout out new premises. I spend most of the weekend watching Euro 2008 in my hotel room, taking time between matches to wander around central Habana and Veija.

I had mixed feelings about Havana first time around. It may have had something to do with being ploughed down by a motorcycle, and having to live under the same roof as a man who resembled a Columbian drug baron, and his psychotic and incredibly old relatives. Second time around, and Havana has more than won me over with her slinky charms. The place is a fucking cauldron, a bubbling, molten flow of hot women, dance fever, burning liquor and unabashed masculinity. In Havana, men are men - big, deep-voiced, bare chested - and women are women - sensual, scantily clad and beckoning attention unashamedly. Europeans can't compete with the old fashioned, cut glass gender models. There's no ambiguity, no need to hide anything - you're either hot or you're not.

My lack of funds means I can't really sightsee, so I never get to see the insides of buildings like the Capitolio. I eat only in cheap restaurants, my favourite being Little Hanoi, a Cuban/Vietnamese crossover where you can get a good meal for as little as 2.50cuc. Yet again, I make changes to my plans. I'm too used to the comfort of my room in the Park View. I'm reluctant to move, even though it makes no financial sense to stay. I arrange to stay one more night, and to pay the hotel on Tuesday, when my money is cleared.

I still need to sort out my flights. I figure if I can bring them forward by a week, I'll be able to see out my time on one of Cuba's beaches and perfect my tan. I take a cab to Miramar, paying 10cucs. I need to get to 78th street, Avenida 5. The cab driver is a fool, though. He mistakes my clearly written "7" for a one, dropping me at 18th street. My the time I realise what's happened, he's driven off. I've already decided that I'll have to walk all the way back to the hotel, as there's no way I can afford the fare back. I know this will be no easy task. Miramar is located to the west of the main city, and I'd estimate the distance to be at least eight or nine kilometres. In 40° c heat, with no shelter from the sun, a man could be struck down, blistered and delirious. So, I'd have preferred not to have had to walk an extra thirty blocks right off the bat.

Miramar is very different to the rest of Havana. Clean, quiet, elegant and green, it's home to some of Havana's wealthiest residents and a welcome change of scene from the oily, smoky centre. Avenida 5 is lined with large mansions and Art Deco houses, many of which have been converted into foreign embassies. It takes me roughly twenty minutes to reach the Air Europa office on 78th. I'm a sweaty mess, but they don't judge me too harshly. My flights get changed from the 25th to the 17th, and I'm amazed that there's no extra cost.

And so the journey home. A duel in the sun, baking, smoking, eyes scanning the streets for shade and asylum from the harsh stare of the afternoon heatwave. I don't really know where I'm going, but if I stay close to the coastline, it will lead me all the way back into Vedado and then Centro. Although I'm leaking water at an alarming rate, my head feeling the full force of the sun, I actually enjoy the walk. I see sights that I'd never have come across ordinarily, all free from the tourist's embrace and the hustle of Jineterismo.

I pass through Plaza de la Revolucion, a place of cultural and social significance, where rallies celebrating the fall of the Batista regime and the triumph of Castro's revolution were held. Then, moving closer to the sea front, I pass a building guarded by military, who tell me to cross to the other side of the road to walk by. Finally, I enter familiar territory, walking by La Rampa and Calle 23, and the impressive Hotel National. Half an hour later, after a total of two hours walking, I arrive back at the Park View.

Tuesday. The day of reckoning. I'm down to 20cucs. I need to pay my hotel bill and move on. I walk down to the bank and insert my card. I doubt, after all the drama, that I'll ever be able to go through this process without waves of nervous tension and anxiety. I take care to enter the correct PIN. I select the amount of cash. "Sorry, your request could not be authorised". Fuck.

I walk to the Florida and spend 3cucs on the internet. The money is not there. I check my bank account. The funds have left, but something has gone wrong. The reference number for the latest transaction is different - there's an extra digit on the end. Damn it, I've fucked up again. I make another, smaller transfer, noticing that the screen refreshes as I type in the amount, jumping the cursor up into the reference number box. So that must be what happened. I added a "2" onto the end of the reference without noticing, and now the money isn't going to come at all. I establish that it will take three working days for the funds to come back into my account once they're rejected, meaning it will be at least eight days before I can get the money.

This is bad. Catastrophic even. I email the bank to see if my theory is correct, and figure I can give it one more day to see if the money arrives before I can conclusively surmise that I'm fucked. I have to go back to the Park View, and explain as best I can what has happened. I tell them I'll be spending one more night, and then hopefully getting the hell out in the morning.

I return to my room. This is so frustrating. It seems wrong to think of myself as poor, a down and out, whilst I'm lying on my bed in a three star hotel, watching cable TV. But now, after many close shaves, I feel as though I really am on a verge of becoming a bum. I just won't be able to get hold of my money before I leave the country. I've been eating one or two meals a day since Friday to make my cash last, and living like a squatter in my hotel, unable to pay my bill, and therefore unable to leave unless I make a run for it. Sooner or later, the tipping point will come. If I can't figure out some way to get my hands of money (and right now I can't) then I'm fucked. I'll be out on the streets, a hustler, a vagrant, pimping cigars, women or maybe my own sweet white ass. The hotel will make me a slave. I'll be washing dishes and sucking cock; a whipping boy, chained and confined to quarters, beaten and tormented, spat upon, cursed, mocked and derided, a cellar-dwelling gimp, a symbol of revolution, the triumph of the oppressed over the oppressor. No one will deliver me clean towels anymore. I'll sleep in faeces and dream of sunshine.

Wednesday morning. Yesterday, I sent a desperate email home, asking my dad to phone the hotel after 10am, when I've had a chance to get to the bank again. I don't know what this will achieve, or how he can help me, but I just need to hear another's perspective. Dealing with problem after problem all alone in a foreign land takes its toll. You run low on energy and ideas. You no longer trust yourself or your opinion. You flounder and you choke, and before long, the weight pulls you under.

It's five to ten. The bank came up empty again. I now know for sure my money transfer has failed. I have no idea if my dad even got my email. I can no longer afford to go online to check. I have no idea if he'll even be able to get through on the phone if he did. I figure this is my last chance. If this doesn't happen, then I'm done. The phone rings. We discuss the problem. He suggest I contact the British embassy. I'd thought of this, but I can't afford the phone call or the taxi ride, meaning I'd have to walk all the way back to Miramar again, though I'm prepared to do so, if necessary. He says he'll ring them for me, and get back to me.

Several phone calls later, and I'm speaking to Barbara, member of staff at the embassy. She reassures me that this sort of thing happens all the time to foreign travellers. She says if my dad can speak to their staff in the UK, and transfer funds to their account, they can then give me the money. She says all being well, I should be able to pick up the cash in the morning. Relief washes over me. This is fantastic news. I won't be a street hooker or a gimp after all. I speak to dad again and then arrange to call Barbara at 11am tomorrow for final instructions.

I go downstairs and speak to the lady at the tourist desk. I tell her I want to leave tomorrow and go somewhere with a beach. I had my eye on Cayo Largo or Cayo Coco, islands to the south and north of the mainland respectively. However, Largo is fully booked up and Coco is a twelve hour bus ride away. She suggests Varadero. Although I've already been there, I just want sun, sand and no complications. She books me five nights at the Cuatro Palmas, an all-inclusive three star hotel which she says is the best value for money at 70cucs a night. She arranges transport to the hotel, and says they will be able to put me on a coach directly to Havana airport when I leave on the 17th. Sold.

In the evening, I head back to Hanoi once more for another cheap meal. I'm sitting alone, eating, when an American guy comes over and asks me if I'd like to join him and his companion, who turns out to be an English girl called Liz. The two of them met at the airport, and have been hanging out together for the last few days. The American is called Ben. He speaks good Spanish and is a keen salsa dancer. He says he's been to Havana five or six times, in spite of the risk of being fined upwards of $3000.

They ask about my travels, and I tell them about my money problems. They're amazed one guy can have so much bad luck. Ben tells us a story. On one occassion when he was in Havana, he was sitting with a few Cubans. He had a bottle of drink, and he offered it to one of the men. The man became angry. He said in Cuba, we have been through so much hardship that we don't offer - we give. In other words, to avoid embarrassment or uncertainty, you do not ask a person to make a decision if they would like what you have - you just give it to them. Having told his tale, Ben gets out his wallet, and places a 20cuc note on the table in front of me. I'm genuinely speechless. My natural reaction is to refuse, but having heard his tale, I know to do so would be wrong. I thank him from the heart. Ben and Liz get up to leave. They tell me they'll be at a dance night at the Florida hotel later if I want to join them. We swap contact details, and then they leave.

20 Cuban Convertible Pestos (CUCs) equates roughly to £10.90. It's not a huge sum of money, not nearly enough to change your life, but to me, in this moment, it means the world. It's three or four days worth of food and drink. It's survival, when the chips are down. Just like when Mike paid 25cents for my bus ticket in Quito, it is not the amount of money, but what it means to you in the context of your current situation that makes it such a noble and valuable gesture. Ben and Liz understood what I was going through. They understood that it can happen to any of us. It is not with grand and elaborate over-spending on fast cars and big houses that you appreciate the true importance of money. It is when such insignificant amounts bring such significant gain that you really come to understand what money is and why we all need it so badly.

As much as I would like to, I don't join Ben and Liz. Either I'd squander the 20cucs on drink, or they'd offer to buy me booze out of further kindness, and either way it would not be a just and proper investment. I will have one drink, though. Despite spending days in Havana, I've never been into the famous Bodeguita del Medio, where Ernest Hemmingway was a regular, and where the mojito was invented. I sit on a stool in the bar, sipping a mojito. My last night in Havana is a quiet one, but a good one nonetheless.


Thursday. I'm sweaty again. I'm trying to get hold of Barbara at the embassy, but none of the pay phones in my hotel work. I've walked all the way to the directory in Calle Obispo, ten minutes away. I finally get through. The funds haven't cleared yet. Shit. She tells me to call back at twelve. Another twenty minutes fast walking in the hot sun, and I call again. Still nothing. Shit. I have to check out of the hotel now. She suggests I wait in reception, and she'll call me there when the money arrives. It seems there is a small chance it might not even be there today. Shit! I've another hotel and a bus booked.

I'm downstairs in reception, watching the football in the lobby bar. I've got twelve pestos left, one of which I spend on a beer. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm either Vegas or bust, baby. At one, the phone rings and the receptionist hurriedly beckons me. It's Barbara. The money is ready. I call a cab, and arrive at the embassy. I talk to the security guard, and he opens the big iron gates, and shows me through. Barbara is waiting in reception, with 550cuc for me. I thank her several times, and clutch the envelope close. The cab takes me back to the Park View. I walk in smiling. The receptionists have been following my dramas closely, and they seem almost as pleased as me that it has all been resolved.

I sit back down in the bar, and drink another beer. I'm at peace. The crisis has been averted. I am not a dirty little whore. My bus arrives at two, and I'm away again, pockets not nearly so empty, riding into the sun.

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Comments

[RobAndKrista]

Your posts are absolutely hilarious, thanks for the laugh! I can relate to your tales of Cuba as we have just been there ourselves. Brilliant...