I couldn’t have made up the flight over to Cuba if I tried. My friend and I arrived at Mexico Airport bright eyed, bushy tailed and with that so-excited-with-life expression smeared magnificently all over our pasty faces. Mexican customs team took one look, promptly seperated us into isolated immigration lines and then tested us for every drug, bomb and weapon they were armed with. As an escaped tampon fled the scene during my bag search, fear bubbled to the surface, probably transpiring as pure guilt to my captor. After what felt like years, we were finally given the all clear and tried to move our frozen bodies away as quickly as possible. Learnt our lesson pretty quick “close the face and disengage”.

Head down, we made our way to the boarding gate and crammed in line between a menagerie of big booties, heavy gold jewellery, dirty moustaches and rich European kids pushing into one another. Hot and sweaty, we stood close, practicing our disengaging but accidently caught sight of Double Denim. DD donned a large white cowboy hat and leather boots and was saundering down the queue. Of course, beelining for the two wide eyed Aussies he hisses, “Mi Scusi, could you carry a package onto the plane for me?” Guess we need more practice.

Politely declining his proposal we filed onto the little plane to carry us a few hours over the ocean to Cuba. We had the window seat and the middle seat and were almost safe from having to make friends, when a shrivelled old man carrying a giant teddy bear and a Cuban hat plonked himself down. He proceeded to order tequila after tequila, burping and patting his teddy the whole way there.

H A V A N A

Flying over the Caribbean into Havana reminded me of flying into Broome. Turquoise, crystal clear water illuminated the plane windows, even teddy was propped up to take in the view.

Arriving on the other side was utter chaos. There were only a few custom lines and hundreds of fresh tourists desperate to start their holiday. Once through, the choice was either left or right for baggage collection with over 5 flights worth of suitcases spitting out of one conveyer belt. We managed to get front row seats to the mayhem but our ankles were covered in brusies from the hundred confused trolleys being rammed up behind us. I had never seen airport etiquette like it! Our bags did finally turn up but getting enough space around us to pull them off the belt was another story.. Pissing sweat now, we reluctantly hurled our packs on our clammy backs, and waddled toward the exit. Like a sign from the Immaculate , we saw our names glowing from a sheet of paper, held high by a little Cuban man in a Cuban hat. Our transfer was here! And not just any old thing… a 1950’s electric blue Cadillac blaring salsa music!

The rest was like a dream. We didn’t even know where to look from our red leather seats – there was so much to soak in! Political propaganda signs paved the way out of the airport and into a valley of rolling green hills, brightly coloured apartment blocks of all shapes and sizes, smeared into a rainbow as we zoomed past. Pack-horses working the land were unphased by the smell of vintage cars smoking the highway. The road itself; a friend to bikes, tuk-tucks, animals, army buses and cars all humming ahead at their respective paces. Left, right, ahead, behind, we didn’t have enough peripheral vision to take it all in and THEN we turned into Old Town.

Wow. It was like we had driven right off the pages of reality and onto a movie set. Narrow roads shadowed by towering colonial walls of peeling candy colours were imploding with activity. Locals were piled into the streets; sitting in doorways, riding horses, yelling to their neighbour… selling, laughing, whistling, bartering. It was sensational. Old mamas hung out of their windows, laundry was strung out like kites in the sky, young boys kicked a can around, groups of sassy teenagers strutted down the sidewalk, buskers tried hard to be heard, fruit vendors sang out about papaya and young shiny workers gleamed with sweat and dirt. As the Cadillac weaved its way deeper into the maze, driving up the curb to fit sometimes and brake-slamming every now and then to avoid a collision with a chicken, we started feeling nervous our hostel was going to be close because not a tourist was in sight. But slowly as the road slightly widened, blonde hair and sunburnt skin started appearing. Before we knew it, we were being dropped off at a bright fuchsia “casa particular”. Our home for the next couple of days.

Turns out we were staying right in the heart of Old Town, but close enough to the port for it to be a street infused with tourists and locals alike. Our block alone was a crazy whirlwind of old and older, painted, cracked and repainted – a photographers dream! Our beautiful casa was run by Swiss-expat Marcel who was extremely helpful and one of the the few English speakers we came across throughout our 10 days in Cuba.

The view from our room.

The port although beautifully framed with piazzas, white cobble stones and lively restaurants, was a bit of a tourist trap. We later came to learn the drinks and meals were sometimes double in price with hidden service charges and commissions concealed on the bill. With the CUC almost equaling the USD we were quite taken aback with the prices. And we obviously fell for the lovely faced Cuban who promised salsa and fresh fish, leading us into a fairly empty restaurant and then charging us 70 CUC for dinner. Music was delivered though, and a mojito on the house, so all was not lost.

There was a choir of different languages down this end of town. Tourists flew down the Malecon, (Havana’s seaside boulevard) in their open-topped cars and slurped up their ice cream and churros bought from street vendors. I think Cuba is still seen as quite “exotic” in Aussie-terms but the Europeans, Canadians and Mexicans have cottoned onto this hot spot a long time ago, and the visitor numbers reflect this! In response, the Cuban’s expect, and love tourists. They’re charming, witty and full of lust – we quickly learnt “Linda, linda” meant beautiful.

Having a couple of days to explore we soon discovered the crowded Calle Obispo, Havana’s main artery connecting to the shinier part of town. Up toward Central Park the place was brimming with vintage cars, cigar shops, rum bars, Hemmingway’s haunch and grandeur hotels. Further across, stood the impressive Revolutionary Square in New Town, featuring the Josi Marti Memorial and Memorial Tower. Every turn seemed to showcase another complex layer of history and so we continued, open mouthed and drawn to music, culture and colour which poured out of every corner.

A F T E R  D A R K

After a sleepless night in our casa because of all the colour in the night, we decided we needed to join it. We had met two G-rated Swiss Germans who were also staying at our casa, and for a safety-in-numbers tactic, agreed to meet up with them that night so we could all go searching for a Salsa bar together. With an 8pm meet pencilled in, Sam and I went for dinner beforehand. With every turn now shaded in the colours of dusk and the hustle and bustle replaced with tipsy, hungry Europeans, we struggled to locate an earlier spotted restaurant.

Just as we stumbled onto O’Reilly Street, we attracted a group of Cuban suiters and to politely escape the sitch, ducked into a nearby eatery which happened to be the one we were looking for! It was in a beautiful colonial building originally housing a wealthy Spanish family 100 years ago. Starving, we ordered a giant serving of beans and rice. We were first given a mountain of bread which we hungrily dived into almost chipping a tooth in the process. Rock hard! So much cracking came from our stale basket, it was the musical prelude to our comedy of errors evening about to unfold. The next course was much better, which we inhaled before looking at the time and realising we had missed our date! Trying to quickly navigate back was impossible and we finally reached our hostel around 8:30pm.

Sam whipped out the translation book and fumbled through a conversation with the sassy black Cuban working at our place trying to communicate if the boys had been waiting, and where she would recommend us going out. Sass was ardiment we visit a particular Salsa club in a different part of town, promising free drinks, Latino-African music and authenticity. Eager, we jumped in a tuk-tuk and took off down the darkened streets.

C O M E D Y  O F  E R R O R S – T H E  M U S I C A L  P A R T  I

Firstly, we didn’t have enough small change for our poor sweaty driver so I scampered off in search of some, leaving Sam as hostage.  I found the dingy door to our questionably recommended blackened Club and pushed through.  Greeted with extremely unwelcoming faces, I played shirades with the two guys behind the bar for small change. They pretty much stared through me. Not reading the signs, I attempted again – and this time the one customer drinking behind the bar offered me smaller notes. I hurried back to Sam who was also playing the same hand-action game, and we re-entered the dark club again together. Filled with optimism, we ignored the looks of disdain as we waited patiently to be served at the bar. Finally with mojitos in hand, we picked a comfy looking couch and sat back, observing our surroundings. Time check: 9:30pm. There were more and more guys filing in, each looking as disinterested in us as the last. This suited us fine, but it was very different to the usual Havana treatment of “I love you linda”. There was a freshly loved up couple in one corner – nicknamed Stares (because the guy didn’t blink) and his broad. Both Cuban. Another less seedy looking couple were a little closer to us and we thought potentially friend material, so smiled at them occasionally from across the room.

A couple of drinks in, we were feeling pretty good about our life decisions… until our massive grills-wearing waiter towered over us to tell us we need to take our bags outside. Not understanding, we asked the friendly looking couple for further explanation. The guy came over as he could speak quite good English and explained at 10pm they make everyone leave their belongings in a locker room – for our own safety. Great choice we had now; stay in a promisingly good club, stripped of all of our belongings, or leave now having seen no salsa action. Having waited now for over an hour with little reward, we decided to stick it out and bid goodbye our handbags, who were now at the mercy of Grills. With nothing but 20 CUC to my name, we could not stop laughing at our current situation. Dire. Retreating to the bar I took my only note up to order another round. Old mate bar tender looked at me so underwhelmingly I had to stifle laughing, before putting the money in his pocket and walking out. Great! Now we actually had nothing. We had never felt so stiff, awkward… and white. Our change was eventually returned to us in a money sleeve which we swiftly stole to use as a wallet. Feeling a little better we had some concrete possession between us, we sipped our drinks and hoped for the best. It slowly dawned on us the whole place was offered table service… that wasn’t us.

Having been stripped of every belonging, mode of communication (trans book) and female prowess, we were then approached by Grills and told our couch was reservado – and not for us. Perfect.

He pointed to a scummy table with restricted viewing crammed next to Stares. Then things got really interesting. A family of four were next through the door – a young local couple with serious swagger, a mum, and her partner – Gandalf, a white-haired wizard pushing 70. Soon to follow were two amigas dressed in skin tight mesh who plonked themselves at the bar. We barely had time to take it all in when Big Daddy in sunnies and a little fire cracker strolled in arm in arm, taking up a middle table.  From there, it was a revolving door of exploding tits and arse, girls big and small were absolutely flaunting their pink bits and guys were covered with gold, hats and grills. The air was thick with attitude! Finally, the couch we were booted off was taken up by a fairly young curly haired guy with an extremely confident looking lover. Yep, gang was all here. And us. It wasn’t until a fellow stiff, awkward couple of tourists made their way in, did a lap and fled, did we decide maybe it was best to leave. We were clearly the odd ones out. Both of us barely fill B-cups.

It was now close to midnight, we had seen no dancing, had our stuff reprimanded, been kicked off a table, made no friends, were clearly in the wrong end of town, and had zero sass between us. But SUCH an experience! And one which showed off another side to Cuban pride!

Finally exiting we ducked into a nearby pub to use their toilet (just in case we were refused entry in our one) and ran into the two young things we were supposed to go out with!

C O M E D Y  O F  E R R O R S – T H E  M U S I C A L  P A R T  II

Marcel was surprised to see us home so early. He was sitting out the front (as everyone congregates on their house steps, talking to their neighbours and pass-byers) and fell about laughing as we tried to recap our surreal night. Shaking his head and coining the place “too-authentic”, he then insisted on one of the other Cuban girls working there to take us out with her. She was a beautiful, long haired goddess, now lumped with us (in our top knots and comfortable walking shoes) and the two Swiss  boys who had also made their way home and were keen to join. Even Marcel chuckled at Sams Adidas shoes versus goddess’s heels. We all crammed into a taxi and tried our hardest to engage goddesss, with our limited Spanish – she was so lovely though. The Swiss boys were stoked to be heading out, we all made friends pretty quick. The taxi pulled up in what looked like a residential area in front of a huge gated building. We were in line a few minutes before we reached the front. Surprise, surprise the bouncer sized up our motley crew and shook his head. Goddess pleaded with him pointing to us every now and again but he stood strong to NO ENTRY. After watching the bargaining go on for a few moments I couldn’t help myself any longer. Sam cringed, the boys stiffened with embarrassment. I went in for the kill. It’s all a bit hazy now but I pretty much communicated a broken sentence of non-sensical words like “Night first, Havana, love, Australia I from am, Skippy (as I acted out kangaroo moves) love you, please sir, dance thank you.”

An amused smirk later, and the gate opened.

Dumstruck we all squealed with delight, prompting poor Goddess to have to tell us in Spanish “try and act cool”. (We didn’t need it translated to understand what she was saying). But on entry, we almost froze in our tracks again at the sight of what we were heading into. It was an epic orgy of pharemones, with bodies moving with such vigour and confidence we felt like we had walked into Beyoncé’s dance studio. Our awkward four grabbed drinks and pushed our way into the middle. Trying not to picture what we actually looked like by comparison, we knocked back our mojitos and moved as best we could. And it was so much fun! We were grabbed left, right and centre to salsa, thrown in the air after being spun around and dipped and moved onto the next person, but all to current music hits. Lord of the dance soon made his way over, curious to see us in the thick of it. He turned out to be a professional dancer and magnificently gay. He stuck around the whole night, loving his new friends and us loving him teaching us moves and passing us like rag dolls to all his dancer mates. By 4am the dance floor was slowly thinning out. Goddess was on the 7am shift so we europhically followed her out of there, with the Swiss also in tow, who were now trying their hardest to sly onto us.

Bidding everyone goodnight after protests from the Swiss, we went upstairs to our room and passed out. We were woken up a short time after but couldn’t figure out what the sound was, until the whispering started again. “Can I sleep in here with you?”.  Slowly as our brains kicked into gear we could see one of the scrawny little Swiss boys at the end of the bed.. stark naked! Not believing what we were seeing and the absurdity of the situation, we both deliriously exploded into laughter, sending him tripping over our packs and scurrying down the hall like a naughty school kid.

The alarm went off after what felt like a minute of sleep. We rushed up to breakfast to find the Swiss boys already there and had saved us a seat (no awareness)… we went straight for a table of two. Poor Goddess was on the breakfast shift looking pretty green, Marcel loved that we had all had such a good time together, Sam could hardly speak, and me and the non-shame-faced-Swiss were laughing at the sight of his embarrassed mate. We all made false promises to meet up in Trinidad before hot tailing out of there for Vinales.