My wife and I didn’t really know what to expect when we decided to travel to Cuba with our sons. We studied all the guide books we could get our hands on and talked to the few friends who had been there recently. Our sons also did a lot of homework, and we shared our collective information.
Still, as we landed in Havana, we had a sense of uncertainty about what we would experience and learn in the week ahead. Much of what we did experience and learn can be summed up in the one word the four of us would laughingly say to each other far more often than you can imagine: “Cuba,” which was the shortened version of its predecessor, “Hey, it’s Cuba.”
The first such incident occurred in the Havana airport, where we had passed through customs and immigration with surprising ease. But getting our luggage? That was another matter entirely. For whatever reason, and we never were given a good one, it was all of almost two hours before our suitcases finally came into view on the rotating carousel. And as we left the terminal, others from our flight were still waiting for their luggage to appear.
Our next “Cuba” incident occurred when we arrived at the “Casa Particular” where we were to spend our first three nights. These privately-owned residences are similar to a bed and breakfast in many respects. (Privately-owned in Cuba, however, is not the same as privately-owned in the U.S.; the state has a legal claim on all property.) In some instances the owners vacate the property for the visitors; in others they stay in the property and treat the visitors like house guests.
For this first of our casas, we had the entire apartment to ourselves for three days and nights. We paid a modest rental fee (about $40 per night), which is then divided between the owners and the government. All such rentals are closely monitored. We were required to provide our passport and visa information at each stop, presumably so it could be reported to the government.
But the “Cuba” aspect of our check-in to this first casa occurred when the owners were nowhere to be found. Confusion reigned for about 30 minutes until a gentleman, who turned out to be the husband of the couple who owned the casa, finally appeared to let us into the apartment and show us the details: two bedrooms, two bathrooms (both with showers that did not dispense hot water, an inconvenience we had read to expect), a small kitchen and a large living room with a dining area.
Other “Cuba” moments occurred when we confirmed that many of the public toilets do not provide toilet paper or have toilet seats. In other washrooms, an attendant provides toilet paper (for a minimal fee). And time, as in being on it, is certainly something not to be relied on. At one point we hired a guide to take us to various parts of Havana and agreed to meet at noon for the excursion. At 12:15, the gentleman called to us from across the street where he was at a bar with a friend. He motioned to us that he would be over shortly.
We stayed in two hotels over the course of the week. At the first, on the resort community of Varadero, we waited for close to an hour to be checked in. It wasn’t that we were being ignored so much as that the process, for whatever reason, took a long time. “Cuba,” we said to each other.
Other “Cuba” moments included these sightings: an oxen-drawn cart slowing traffic to a crawl on a main street in Viñales, a rural community west of Havana; a long line of prostitutes standing outside a jazz club in Havana, many of the provocatively dressed women brazenly offering their services in none-too-subtle advances; shops that only accepted CUPs as currency (CUPs are the local medium of exchange; CUCs are what you get when you exchange foreign currency; procuring CUPs was a major task; after several days we did find a way to buy some).
Cuba is fascinating and intriguing for reasons other than those “Cuba” incidents. It is a socialist country that seems to provide the basic needs to survive to all its citizens. In neither the main city of Havana, nor the rural town of Viñales and its surrounding farms that we toured, nor, for that matter, in the resort community of Varadero, did we see any evidence of either abject poverty or modest wealth. In other words, everyone seems to subsist/survive at the approximate U.S. equivalent of working poor. (Some residents appeared to live perhaps a tad above that level.)
Average wages for even the professional class (lawyers and doctors) rarely exceed 100 CUCs per month. (One CUC is roughly equivalent to one U.S. dollar.) Thus, everything that is necessary to survive is exceedingly inexpensive, and health care, education, and lodging are all provided at no personal expense.
The other point that bears mention is that no one we encountered appeared to be discontented about their lot in life. Everyone seemed, if not happy, at least sanguine about the lives they had. We never encountered begging or panhandling and saw no evidence of serious crime. In fact, the police presence, even in heavily populated sections of Havana, was minimal, often seemingly non-existent. We walked extensively both at day and night (on several occasions well past midnight) in all areas of Havana and never felt any real concern for our safety. (I only wish the same could be said for parts of major cities in the U.S.)
We also encountered a surprising willingness among many residents to talk about the politics of U.S.-Cuban relations. Most were favorably inclined towards an opening of the borders, seeming to welcome an infusion of U.S. influence. One waiter, however, offered a contrary perspective, suggesting that Raul Castro would not allow much of it.
“We have a way of life here that works for us,” he said. And as I envisioned Starbucks and McDonalds crowding out the quaint little shops that now exist, and residents seeking more “stuff” to keep up with what their neighbors had, I found myself agreeing with him.