Cuba Part Six: Hosts are Whining, Trend- Assigning and Illegal Dining

From Trinidad, I made my way back up to Havana for the final night before my flight home. My plan was to stay at the same house as I did when I first arrived, and to my amazement I managed to find the road again from the window of a crushed and steaming public taxi. Since I knew that I'd be back in the same place, I'd left my big bag of luggage there and taken what was essentially a small bin-bag of essentials with me for the majority of my trip around Cuba. This had worked out pretty well, although of course by the end of the trip, the plastic bag had seen better days.

Although Roberto the casa owner had been informed by his many spies that I was indeed on the bus and would be back in Havana by around 1pm, he wasn't in when I arrived because he was out celebrating Father's Day with his daughter. I hurled my plastic bag over the enormous gate and went for a wander down the road until he came back.

My wander found me knocking on the door of the other people I had stayed with in Havana: Ariel and Anita, a youngish couple who were a lot more relaxed than Roberto and whose company I enjoyed very much. Anita seemed far too young to be married and have two teenage children. She spoke no English and despite knowing that my spanish was limited, spoke incredibly fast at me- constantly, which I think she knew would be good practise. Ariel was learning English after several years of nothing but Spanish and Russian in school. I had a lot of respect for him for this. Once when I was staying, Ariel's English teacher was sitting on the front porch with him and invited me to make conversation with them both. He himself spoke appalling English, which made the situation both funny and a bit sad, but I know he really enjoyed the chance to practise with me- whilst passing it off as good practise for his pupil, of course. The conversation topics this man chose sounded as if they were straight out of a high school text book ("What you like to in your spare time?", "Where you go for your holiday?") and I'm not sure he understood all of my answers, but he did a very good job of nodding along in a confident, self-important teacher way. From that first day, we agreed that I would speak English to Ariel and Spanish to Anita.

Anita and Ariel had another guest staying in their house: a girl (or woman, I should say) named Jess. She was South-African, but had an English father and was undertaking a PHD in the US. We were both leaving Cuba the following morning but I think we were equally glad for each other's company and easy english conversation. Jess had met some locals from down the street who were throwing a party, and I went along. Despite never having met or heard of me before, the hosts invited me in warmly and immediately brought over beer and lunch. It was a slightly bizarre party: held for a visiting university lecturer from Uganda (I think!) and his family, all guests huddled in the very small kitchen-living room area for the cooling fans. I chatted to university lecturers and posed for photos with a girl I did not know.

Later, I returned to Roberto's house where I was finally let in by another guest: an academic from the US. I grabbed my bikini and Jess and I headed to the beach. It was blisteringly hot and I was desperate for a swim, but was not keen to go to a local beach alone.

The final swim of my trip. Perfect water. Sun beginning to disappear and the smallest hint of an oncoming cloud. Metaphoric.

We caught a taxi back into the centre of Havana, and for the first time in Cuba I was able to sit down in a real restaurant-bar and have dinner out. I drank mojitos whilst watching a couple dance along to the in-house salsa band. Scanning the menu for anything with vegetables, my eyes stopped curiously at the words "beef steak". How exciting to eat something other than fish or chicken! I grabbed my chance and enjoyed something which was most definitely not steak, but which did also not taste of chicken. It would not be until exactly 24 hours later, 35,000 feet up in the air that I would wake up with a start as I realised that I HAD EATEN FIDEL'S COW!*

[*Just as in England, all swans belong to the Queen, in Cuba all cows belong to Fidel Castro. They are incredibly valuable, being few in number and much needed for their milk. Supposedly, Cubans can go to prison longer for the killing and eating of a cow or bull than for murder!]


Back at my accommodation, Roberto was tearing his hair out. "Where have you BEEEN?" he expired with all the confusingly camp convulsion of a house-wife scorned.
       -The beach, with that lovely and sensible girl, Jess from down the road.
       "But how did you find your way?! It's not safe! And your THINGS! In a plastic bag! I had travelling bags you should have said-I-thought-someone-had-taken-your-THINGS-And what do you want for your breakfast?!"
I assured the poor man that everything was under control, especially breakfast which was still around 10 hours away.  It's a wonder his daughter was ever deemed physically and mentally able to fly the nest... although perhaps he worried less about her abilities to catch buses and converse with strangers seeing as he was less likely to go to prison in the unlikely event of her disappearance than mine.

It was the very final night of my 6 month trip. I took great satisfaction in throwing much of the contents of my luggage in the bin, after taking most of my clothes to Anita down the road. Despite much of the bundle looking rather sad and worn after a grubby few months, Anita was delighted and said that anything she didn't keep would be passed along to someone in need. I'm sure much of Havana's fashion trends are based upon what tourists leave behind: I've seen some rather amusing sights around the city, including an enormous woman with triplets wearing an 'Athletic '91' hoodie, and a man on the beach selling cashews whose t-shirt declared that he would "SO much rather be playing a video game".

I said my goodbyes and went to bed feeling something a little less strong than excited, ever so slightly
uneasy and strangely nervous at the thought of flying home.