Tuesday we leisurely joined a small queue to purchase tickets for the ballet. As with most queuing systems in Cuba all rationality was hurled out of the window to be replaced by totally unnecessary waiting times. We were there for over 3 hours with only 15 people in front of us. There are 2 ticket prices for the Ballet – 20 CUC (£12) for tourists and 5 Cuban pesos (15p) for locals. With the help of our temporary student ID’s we were able to exploit this little bargain but only by waiting 3 hours. Meanwhile a tourist can just waltz in with their 20 CUC and buy a ticket immediately. Its hardly surprising that they choose to sell a ticket that is 80 times more expensive than the pitiful pennies of the local ticket, but it must be such a smack in the face for all the Cubans lining up for hours.
Once we eventually got served we then squeezed into a bus bound for Guanabacoa. We spent quite some time last week constructing a questionnaire to take to the town. Walking around asking all sorts of people all sorts of questions, we ended up with over 70 pages of answers and opinions about architecture, social and private life and ideas for improving the town. This is all very well and good but the project is moving so slowly still and at some point we are going to have to throw a proposal into the air knowing full well it will be shot down like a fat duck, but will hopefully initiate impassioned discussion.
A 10-minute walk from our casa is the more residential area of Vedado where we lived in the first week. It is home to a series of massive hotels and a steep street called La Rampa that would not look out of place in San Francisco. Along La Rampa are many clubs and restaurants, the cinema we go to, banks and ice cream parlours. Just off this street is a humongous tower block that used to be a top hotel but is now 35 stories of flats. Perched at the top is an amazing little French Restaurant. Having spent 2 weeks budgeting tightly I decided that a pre-birthday treat was necessary. In the restaurant your tables are pushed right up against the glass which folds around all 4 sides making it impossible not to let your eyes wander over the vast city of Havana. At night it is especially beautiful and was a perfect place to turn 22 with a chocolate cake and red wine. At midnight we had tequila shots and I strolled home happy as Larry, possibly more so.
In the morning with a dull hangover I gratefully opened my presents but couldn’t stomach much breakfast. I tried to work over some maps on my laptop and come up with some ambitious urban plan but what’s the point when it’s your birthday and its sunny outside. So me, James and Larissa walked to a nearby fish restaurant and had lobster for about £2.50. I’m not exactly an expert but it was damn fine lobster, so succulent and meaty, with a really beautiful shell. Strange observation but he looked like he was a healthy happy lobster, and then he was boiled alive and silently screamed in pain until his fishy brain melted in agony. Pudding consisted of an ice cream on the Malecon, which dissipated in the noonday sun faster than I could eat it. The afternoon was relaxed and I read my new book and sipped a Chilean red wine that we can buy downstairs for tuppence – a very welcome addition to our culinary growth. Bonzo and James came from their house around the corner to eat dinner with us and Alice provided quite a spread – including one of the best soups ever created and a plate of plantain crisps that piss all over anything Kettles can make. I acted ignorant but was quietly expecting a cake, and lo and behold Larissa appeared with a spongy layer of joy. Mm, mm what a splendid dinner we had. Afterwards we hailed a taxi and sped to the National Theatre for an evening of pirouettes. The show comprised of 3 parts with a 10 minute interval between each, which meant that I rushed 3 bottles of beer and almost wet myself during the 3rd, final and most amazing section. From nowhere about 10 new dancers came on, all with incredible bodies, and moved in perfect unison. There was one main lady called Alicia Alonzo and her dress was a rich Indian turquoise. The main male dancer was courting her and at times I felt like I was intruding on quite a personal moment. Her balance was incredible and when he leapt he appeared to delicately land without a sound, slowing slightly upon impact giving the illusion that he could subtly subvert gravity. It was great. Afterwards we went to a bar that has become famous because it was Ernest Hemingway’s favourite joint. We all sipped his favourite cocktail – the Daiquiri – and enjoyed more merriness. Near our house on the Malecon is our local drinking establishment – a swish new cocktail bar facing the sea where a Mojhito costs a pound. We all got bici-taxi’s here and I realised, smoothing moving westwards along the seafront that this was exactly how I spent the last part of my last birthday – getting cycled towards Buckingham Palace with my buddy Rachel. It definitely beats stumbling through rotten back streets.
A short-lived post birthday comedown was soothed when we attended our first ‘work do’. In the main courtyard of our work place (by the by, apparently the restored convent in which we work was once on a list of the worlds 100 most endangered buildings!) a live band were playing and you could buy a couple of litres of homemade beer for 40p. It was pretty good and it was nice to get to know our bosses a little more, even the previously hard-nosed Mario. A persistent lady of advanced years grabbed my hand and forced me to embarrass myself with a cringe worthy salsa attempt. I was sort of getting into the groove when I looked up and saw a Cuban man looking at my jerky feet with such bewilderment. He might as well have just said “What the HELL is that? You are an embarrassment to lithe dancers everywhere!”. Eventually she gave up trying and even after 5 minutes my hips were killing me. In the evening we got a taxi a little way out of town in the search of a reggae night. It was closed but we did get to see somewhere that interested me before I arrived in Havana. There’s this little park, called Parque Alemendares, in which resides a giant tree with hundreds of hanging roots and vines. The place has been nicknamed ‘park of the hanged’ because people used to (and may still do) hang themselves from the boughs. I thought that was quite beautiful. As we were leaving, the heavens opened and we sheltered whilst the rains subsided. Afterwards the ground smelt amazing and the forest glistened.
I could see through my Xmas wrapping paper the Ferroro Roche logo and although these nutty nuggets aren’t a patch on Lindor, I once again had a low moment and chain-ate all 4. Larissa’s family are flying in tomorrow and are apparently bringing several boxes of Belgian chocolates with them, hopefully sustaining me for at least 2 days. I am being a typical Englishman and haven’t bought any presents yet. We are doing secret Santa, the mystery of which was quickly shattered by the loose tongued among us.
Yesterday we had the first of probably many Spanish lessons. Pedro is his name, and he is a psychologist living in a poky house near work with 2 gorgeous cats. I was seriously hung-over from 3 consistent nights of rum and found the 3 hours fairly hard going. By the end of it I couldn’t understand a word and felt like I had come full circle. And worse than 5 weeks ago. It’s costing us about £2.50 per session, which is a really good deal, even by Cuban standards. A course here could set you back a few hundred at least. Today we mostly worked on pronunciation which naturally brought about several laughing fits with 6 people all going “ YA, YEH, YI, YO, YU, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Ka, ka ka ka. And Pedro didn’t waste any time in getting us to say the Spanish word for vagina over and over and having quite the laugh himself. Given half the chance I would happily make 6 Spanish people say fanny fanny fanny, none the wiser. Ha!
