Cuba...The Havana leg...part 1

During the Autumn/winter months I planned an escape from the UK, somewhere away from the norm, the thin veneer of of a shallow society which is UK is. My destination, I determined had to be out with Europe, somewhere off the beaten track and after scanning google maps, talking with some friends and some inspiration from one of my lifetime favourite authors I decided upon Cuba, and with the clock ticking that the embargo maybe lifted and floods of capitalism would wash upon the island's shores in a more peaceful "Bay-of-pigs" attack since the welcomed visit of Barak lifting Cuba out of its 50's time warp (a "fear" i need not have worried about since Trump is now in the big house much to the dismay to the cuban population after such hope) I booked my flight quickly before I could talk myself out of it, surprisingly cheap flying from Edinburgh to Havana via Gatwick with British Airlines and Virgin. I did my prep by deciding to learn Salsa and use that as a ice breaker across there instead of learning Spanish as I have no aptitude to languages only to discover I have no aptitude to Salsa either but it was fun and good to do something new out of the comfort zones. Brightly coloured shirts and Hemingway hat modelled for selfies I was getting in the mood.

Havana here is come, the first stop city of my Cuban adventure and what a place to start...

Havana in a lively, magical city of tropical heat, sweat, ramshackle beauty, and its very own rhythm. A cadence. A tempo. At first, this unique place can seem like a confusing jigsaw puzzle; but work out how to put the pieces together, and something beautiful will emerge, quite a culture shock and also to my system landing here in the evening after leaving Scotland on a cold frosty January morning. First job after getting my English pounds exchanged into CUCs at the airport was to get a taxi onwards to the Casa I was bedding down in for a couple of nights. Easy enough, first sortie successful enough, delivered safely to my Casa, after a good sleep and a light breakfast prepared by the casa owner it was time to get out and explore Havana.

Picture this; you’re wandering in Havana firstly transversing the Malecon looking out upon the Florida straits, blue ocean so strikingly beautiful and 50's vintage cars like from a movie slowing down shouting out the one word question to you "Taxi?". Strolling along the cracked uneven concrete of the ground is cool underfoot – despite the afternoon sun still resting high – from tall shadows, cast by pale honey-coloured, crumbling buildings that line these streets. Watching the waves crash against the barrier wall on the other side of the road. And the place is alive. Vendors, shopkeepers, tourists, taxi drivers, rickshaws and waiters. There are faces everywhere. Hunched in low-slung doorways, smoking on corners. Small groups here and there; a smattering of people, moving seemingly with no order at all, yet each marching to a steady, unspoken beat. This is such a contrast to being in the UK, but you are o conscious of that dollar sign above your head and it does attract the attention of every local attempting to sell you everything and anything "cigars my friend?", "Woman?", "Wi-fi card?" "come in here my friend and I will write down the address of a Salsa party for you"....yes, I fell for the last one, stepping in a bar so my new "friend" could get pen and paper, only to find a rum and coke served in front of me at a ripoff price that the fancy bars in Edinburgh would not have the balls to attempt and charge you, I did not protest, this was my first lesson about Cuba, I gave my new "friend" a knowing smile and rejected the further request of him wanting to show me where I could buy Cuban cigars.... this guy was obviously getting a cut from the bar to talk naive gringos such as I was at this point, into its dark, low quality rum serving domain, he knew I was now wise to him so after one last attempt asking for 20 cucs to help feed his family (which I refused with a stern face) he shook my hand and wished my a good trip, and this is Havana in a handshake, its safe enough, just watch out for the hustles and try and get your street smarts on quickly for your cash will soon part your company to the jineteros with their promises of the best mojitos in the city and Salsa parties. Plaza Vieja, Havana’s famous Old Square was a pleasure to see in Havana (well apart of a sub-standard lobster dinner) Now its walking around a live Havana postcard scene. An oil painting of kaleidoscopic colonial buildings, just like you saw in the travel guides. Here, pastel-coloured Cuban baroque nestles seamlessly next to Gaudi-inspired art nouveau. Bright sunlight bounces some of Havana’s finest vitrales; stained-glass windows that glitter like spun sugar in every shade of the rainbow. For at Plaza Vieja, grandeur is in no short supply. Granted, the architecture is dilapidated and falling down, but it only adds to such breathtaking ethereal beauty and looks like a condensed tropical Edinburgh Royal mile, but without the bagpipe music. People describe Havana as a place lost in time – and it’s true. It’s been six decades since the Revolution, where working people inherited a city they simply could not afford to keep, and now? Cuba wears these years on its sleeve. From your spot on the Square, you hear the clinking of glasses, shouts and yips and yells of locals, and tourists alike, filling out the packed paladares (homes made into restaurant by locals attempting to earn from the tourists), loading their plates with flavours free of state-run restrictions. Serving up African, South American and Spanish fare, these privately owned restaurants peddle meat, fish, and seafood. Freshly made paella, steam rising high, served hot from huge cast iron pans; cloying golden orange and amber rice, jewelled with inky black olives and ripe cherry tomatoes ( I will add here that the tomatoes were the very best I have ever tasted in this world), vermillion in colour and ready to burst. And of course, as is custom, all food served the option of thick cigar (which I rejected) and a few throat-warming shots of the hard stuff (which I welcomed). Good rum, this time. Thankfully but the moonshine I had in the shady bar before. Crowds surround street performers and laughter erupts, carried by the wind on top of musical notes from the house band. Dry wailing from a creaky old accordion, coarse and discordant, softened by pleasing, golden twangs plucked gently from a guitar. It’s enough to create a pleasant tune, and cause a slow, lazy smile to spread across your face. It could be the rum talking Possibly but I am Scottish, whisky runs in our blood like antifreeze.

Here, people wander hand-in-hand, side-by-side with vintage candy-coloured Cadillacs that roll along the concrete promenade. The image creates a surreal time-warp, reminding us of the struggle, no, the tenacity of Cuban people. It creates a genuine connection with the welcoming past; in this unique, dreamlike place, where history is piled up like wrecked treasure on a palm-fringed beach. Faraway car horns sound over chugging, coughing engines that wheeze into life. Waves crash loudly against stone breakwaters. Leafy palms sway in the breeze, peppered by the shouts and laughs of young Cubans lighting fires on the sand. The salty sea air stings your skin. You walk under dusky skies, still blue but now in bloom, streaked rose pink with cloud blossom. You pass locals. Fishing, lazing, smoking on the sea wall. Waving an arm from a 1950s Ford Crestline, crudely painted flamingo pink in a valiant attempt to hide the rust. And so, with the crumbling city skyline in the distance, the sun starts to dip. Melting into the horizon, sinking over the edge of the world, it transports you. You stare straight ahead and feel calm, despite the chaos around you. Lean in on someone close, and remain in that far off, peaceful land for as long as you possibly can. Because a sunset seen from the Malecón is a sunset that steals your heart. It takes you to a different place, sweeps you off your feet. Makes every hair on your neck stand up. Days feel like months as you try to absorb every detail of the spellbinding scene unfolding around you, but in Havana? You’ll only ever scratch the surface of this infatuating, captivating country. In Havana, making sense of your surroundings is no mean feat. It makes you think. It makes you question. Around every corner, in every direction you send your eyes, you’ll be hungry for answers. But this city has been evading these for years. No one could invent Havana – and you should never go with a long list of questions. Just arrive with an open mind and steel yourself for a long, slow seduction. Be prepared to disconnect from the life you know as routine. Be prepared to just be.