First and foremost, just to clarify, you really can believe everything you hear on the streets about this capital: Havana definitely has “a flavour all of its own”. Every other car really is a 1950s Chevrolet, the central buildings really are crumbling colonial mansions painted in sun faded pastel shades, and you really do turn the corner to find couples dancing salsa and sipping mojitos as the sun goes down. It’s beautiful as well as neglected and dirty, bright as well as smoggy and smelly, navigable at the same time as vast and expansive, loud and energetic whilst being welcoming and friendly. And like all cities this scale it takes time and patience to get to know. We didn’t have an awful lot of the former but we sure were ready to soak in the sights, smells and sensations.
Our guide book suggests to allow at least a week for Havana, and to start off by getting one’s bearings through a city bus tour. We were trying to outsmart it with some alternatives. Firstly, despite not being particularly blessed with a sense of direction, living nearby had given me the chance to get my head around the key sights before Helen’s arrival. Secondly, we had some kind helpers: one day we were joined in town by Koral (from the organopónico) and her hyperactive but delightful son who acted as wonderful guides in exchange for copious amounts of ice-cream, and another evening a friend of Isis was under instruction to keep us company after dark. And finally, for better or worse, we spent two mornings racing up and down the length of Havana to sort out my visa, and in the process got to see some of the less noted everyday sights of the city.
It also helped that we’d decided - partly out of necessity (I need a fixed address to give to immigration in order to renew my visa) and partly out of curiosity - to spend a few nights in the capital itself, and more specifically perhaps the most touristy but definitely the oldest and most enchanting heart: la Habana Vieja. The chance to experience the pace and wake up to a view of inner city roof tops, with their washing lines and sleeping dogs (note not too many green roofs in this part of town!) was – even in the two mornings of pouring rain – a real feast for the senses.
And so it was when we woke up on the 7th - rain sheeting in from all angles (strangely reminiscent of summer holidays in Wales) rather dampened plans of a birthday soaking in the sun whilst sipping mojitos on a rooftop bar. In addition I had the rather pressing issue of my visa to attend to, and unfortunately our plan to get up early, secure the stamp and be back carefree by lunchtime didn’t quite work out. Helen and I had both experienced Visa bureaucracy abroad to believe this wasn’t going to be easy, but we still had some hopes that this could be the exception. In fact, this could still go down as the worst yet.
Our first try failed outright. We’d been directed to the immigration office about 20 minutes’ walk from our casa particular. Not ideal in the weather but blessed with the impenetrable waterproof ponchos Helen’s mum had sent we set off in the right direction, only to be told upon arrival that immigration had moved: somehow it had been too good to be true! Instead of being in the centre of town it was now in the outskirts, around a 30 minute drive, and instead of having a system of one immigration centre per neighbourhood, it was now just one facility for Havana’s 2.2mn strong population.
So, with the knowledge of which local collectivo (a kind of local taxi that runs a certain route and is shared with other people) to get we set off again, headed up to the end of the route and walked the half hour to the centre - only to find it and be told that on a Thursday immigration closes at 12pm. Just Thursdays and Saturdays does it operate a half day, and not for love nor money - I did think now was the time for checking the corruption stakes but with no avail - arriving at 12.01 could get you in. Birthday luck hadn’t quite kicked in!
In the end we realised I couldn’t’ have done it then anyway. We knew there was a $25CUC price-tag on the visa but didn’t realise you couldn’t pay it up there in the middle of nowhere. Nope, it had to be done beforehand through a bank in town who’d take the money and exchange it for stamps. Yep, stamps just like those you put on letters. So, off we went to join the last person in the queue (Cubans are even better at queuing than the English) for an hour or so, and then some, in order to wait whilst they looked for more $5CUC stamps. No bother, we’d done enough to get to do it tomorrow – or so we’d thought.
The second attempt didn’t end so happily either. In fact, when we arrived at immigration the next day they asked for something new: my medical insurance. They didn’t care for evidence of what date I was leaving and they weren’t even as interested as I’d imagined in where I’d been staying this last month, but they sure as hell were not going to let me through without evidence that I wasn’t going to drain them of medical expenses and not be able to cough up afterwards. The only problem: I didn’t have it printed out, and if you think immigration has a computer to hand, let alone a printer, think again! This was a job for the city centre - so back we went! Fortunately we were travelling Cuban style so each journey cost less than one CUC rather than 8 to 10. Still, the price of connecting and printing soon took care of that!
On the third attempt it was all worth it though. Stamps, check. Passport, check. Insurance, check. Bringing Helen as proof that I was just a ‘normal’ tourist, and taking evidence of my return flight was not in the end necessary. All they did was stick the stamps onto a piece of paper, staple that together with the receipt from the casa particular and hand me back my visa with another stamp on it. No electricity involved, if you ignore the poorly connected air con. (NB if you’re a passport stamp collector you’ll be disappointed with Cuba. It chooses to stamp your visa not your passport so as to reduce conflict with passengers to and from the USA). Despite the stories I’d quickly dreamt up of where I’d been and what I had and had not been doing (i.e. not working, nor attending conferences, nor living with unregistered Cubans) we got off lightly – an unwelcome delay to our city adventure it was but after a drink or two it we agreed merrily that this was a fair price to pay for an extra two weeks exploring the island.
PS: An interesting addition to the last post on the internet: it seems that neither for love nor money can one find you an internet connection in the capital of Cuba after 6pm on a weekday evening even in the most expensive of tourist hotels. When we tried to find a means to buy some last minute scuba diving insurance we came up with blank walls on all accounts. Either: “there should be connection, there just isn’t now and who knows when it will be back”, OR, “Nope. Its 7pm now, the internet finished at 6pm – you can come back at 9am though”, OR “all the internet cards have been used. You can connect by wifi though.” Unfortunately we weren’t in the habit of carrying a laptop around here on the off chance wifi will suddenly appear. We gave up in the end but with a distinct feeling that such infrastructure could neither be efficient nor sustainable in the long run.
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