The Bizarre Truth (35 page)

Next, we headed to El Morro, the picturesque fortress built to guard the entrance to Havana Bay in 1598. El Morro Cabaña was added to the site in 1763, when the Spanish took back occupation of Cuba from the British in exchange for Florida, at the time a smart move for Spain. In the eighteenth century, Cuba’s GDP was six times that of Spain. Havana was home to more ill-gotten pirate booty than almost anywhere else on the globe. It was the global capital for the sugar and seafaring trading industries. Spice farms, citrus groves, and mining opportunities made Cuba an international powerhouse. By the way, you can also see a display of missiles at Morro Cabaña, some newer than others, still aimed toward the States. You can walk among scud missiles and check out the wing from the infamous U-2 spy plane that went down in the 1960s there.

I wanted more insight into how life functions in this complicated country, so I met up with my friend Toby Brocklehurst over lunch. Toby is a British expat who has called Cuba one of his homes for many years. He lives in an old apartment on the edge of Miramar, overlooking the western end of the Malecón. He’d invited us over for chicken salad, which I thought was rather thoughtful of him—who doesn’t love a good chicken salad? You can imagine my surprise when I showed up and discovered a lobster feast instead. Toby procured thirty lobsters, steamed them, and had his housekeeper pull the meat from the shell. His neighbors joined us for lunch, which also featured huge platters of fresh, sliced sunripened
tomatoes, baskets of warm bread, and bowls of homemade mayonnaise seasoned with curry. This might sound like a special-occasion lunch to most Americans—I can’t remember the last time I had lobster for lunch. However, despite its cheap cost here, it’s actually illegal to eat lobster in Cuba. But Toby knows some people who know some people, and trading food and favors in Havana is practically the local sport. It’s never printed on a menu, save a few restaurants frequented by foreigners and okayed by the state. At La Guarida, my favorite paladar, they acquired it from the black market. When I asked the manager about the lobster on my plate, I received only a blank stare and some ugly silence in return. Kids on the Malecón dive for lobsters when the weather is suitable, and everywhere you go you see them being eaten. But no one will talk about it. I asked again at Toby’s house for lunch about this crazy setup, and I was quickly convinced to drop the subject after our Cuban friends shot me some very strange looks.

I’ve discovered the more strict a nation’s governing body, the more vibrant its art scene. Cuba is not an exception to the rule. Havana Rakatan is a dance group that melds Afro-Cuban rhythms, country-inspired campesino story lines, and contemporary Latin dance styles. This is a group that’s mastered the rumba, cha-cha, and salsa, and performs with a live band who accompany them as they rehearse and tour all over Europe and Australia. These dances stem from Africa—specifically, from slaves brought to Cuba to work on sugarcane farms. With them came the food, dance, religion, and music that influence the entire Caribbean culture and birthed not only the great Cubano dance styles but the amazing music of Cuba as well. Heard of Son? This is where it was born, and the Buena Vista Social Club is just the tip of the iceberg, my friends.

I admit that my dance skills need a little work, and what better place to get a refresher than Cuba. Nelda Guerra, one of the most famous choreographers in all of Cuba and the “creative force” of this dance company, offered me a private lesson. You can’t imagine
how grateful I was for her help, because as the trip progressed, I found a lot of use for those moves. The lessons were awkward. I was on stage in an old run-down (go figure) theater in Miramar, surrounded by a group of world-class dancers, all of whom I had been watching for almost two hours, mesmerized as they rehearsed for their upcoming world tour. The artistry and athleticism of these dancers was impressive, so when Nelda took my hand and pulled me on stage I almost peed myself. I’m old, fat, out of shape, and extremely clumsy. But Nelda had me shimmying away. In no time she even allowed me to lead, which was less embarrassing than her leading—trust me on this. Nelda swayed around me, pulling me into her hips to music provided by Turquino, one of the most famous and accomplished bands in the country. I was swept away by it all, which is good when it comes to dancing, so I’m told.

One of the most famous Cuban artists in the world is a gentleman named Fuster. Yes, he is like Cher or Bono—one name. We met up with him at his home, which he built and designed himself. The exterior is covered with millions of little ceramic tiles, each one hand fired and glazed. This design motif extends throughout his neighborhood, where he’s spent the last seventeen years transforming his surroundings into a wild, outrageous, and bawdy pop art display. Fuster is also realpolitik communism in action, in the best sense of the word. He travels the globe, selling paintings and art installations for small fortunes, and disburses the money in his neighborhood so that everyone can enjoy a better life. He is a Cuban of Privilege, or COP, and COPs are a part of the local hierarchy here. They are popular if they give back, and almost all do. The reality on the street is that there are gorgeous mansions with palatial grounds in Cuba, and some privileged few get to live in them, mostly politicians and the like. Fuster lives in a beautiful, loft-style home that reminds me of the funky places in Venice Beach. Everyone in his neighborhood owns an air conditioner. The streets are clean. He puts people to work building new houses and working on his art projects. He does it for the love of
his country and the love of his people. Seeing the results of these selfless acts is extraordinary.

Transportation is one of the most culture-shocking experiences for an American in Cuba. There are only eight cars per thousand citizens in Cuba, and therefore, hitchhiking is most people’s transport of choice. Much like bus stops, hitchhiking stations line Cuba’s empty three-lane highways. Picking up hitchhikers is a national obligation. Even if you’re in a private taxi, chances are your cabdriver will stop and give someone a ride as long as they are going your way and a seat is empty. There is nothing scary or dangerous about it. It’s just the way Cuba moves her people. Communism in action, one hand helping the other in a very practical sense.

Cars are probably the most valued luxury item in Cuba. First of all, it’s difficult to get your hands on one. Before the revolution in 1959, roughly 150,000 cars existed in Cuba. Since the United States’ embargo, American auto giants have been prohibited from selling cars to the country—and it’s estimated that only 60,000 pre-1960 cars roam Cuba’s streets. Without the ability to trade with the States, it’s nearly impossible to find auto parts on the island, and engines are cobbled together. Like a Frankenstein automobile creation, cars are patched up with Russian, Czech, German, Japanese, and Swedish parts. Open up the hoods of some of these cars and you wouldn’t even recognize them. It’s almost as if lawn mower engines are powering some these vehicles. Last year, modern Chinese flexi-buses hit Cuba for the first time, replacing some of the oldest and most dilapidated camels on the city streets. The Havana Police finally have a few new cars, courtesy of Ŝkoda, and they were able to retire some of the thirty-year-old Ladas they had run into the ground. We drove all around the town one day in a 1952 Oldsmobile, touring Miramar, the Malecón, and the other drivable parts of the city, eventually meeting up with Enrique, a mechanic who’s essentially Cuba’s most famous car surgeon. He fixes motorcycles, cars—really anything with an engine. This man
is a mechanical genius who will go as far as engineering and machining his own parts when he can’t find the right one. I peered under the hood of a few of his current patients and was stunned by the mess of unconventional materials he implements. The man has resorted to using old surgical tubing for some of the hoses in his Willy’s Jeepsters.

Housing is almost as strange as the transportation. I visited the home of Damian Ruiz, one of the most famous painters in Cuba. He, his wife Pamela, and their son Bastian live in a crumbling, 300-year-old palazzo in Miramar. This house must have been something in its day, but now it looks almost condemnable. Honestly, I couldn’t believe they lived there. But when we stepped inside, I was dumbfounded by this gorgeously restored Spanish villa, complete with an incredible inner courtyard, giant rooms, twenty-five-foot-high ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling French doors. It’s very common to rehab only a home’s interior, keeping the outside in shambles to remain inconspicuous. And when it comes to buying or selling property, forget it. Remember that houses are exchanged. Like a house? Approach the current owners about trading. The Ruiz family lives here because the former owners couldn’t afford to fix it up. When Pamela approached them about a trade, they jumped at it.

I really enjoyed my time with the Ruiz family that morning. I missed my son and it was fun to hang out with Bastian, who watches my show with his friends on pirated satellite cable television, and we decided to take them to lunch. They suggested El Ajibre, yet another state-run restaurant. At this point in the trip, I’d lost my patience for state-run places. However, I was pleasantly surprised with El Ajibre. The restaurant opened about eighty years ago, and since its inception, they’ve specialized in one item: roast chicken. It comes with five or six different side dishes, rice and beans, plantains … the usual suspects. But the miracle of El Ajibre is their lemony pan sauce drizzled on these golden rotisseried beauties. I asked one of our Cuban fixers how this restaurant is able to
maintain its quality compared to the other state-run, crap-tastic restaurants. Apparently, El Ajibre ranked highly with the upper classes in the old days but was snatched away from the family who ran it during the 1959 revolution. People were so outraged, post-revolution, over the decrease in quality that the government struck up a side deal with the original owners, which is how things work in a benevolent dictatorship. El Ajibre is the exception to the rule. It’s a state-run restaurant with extremely high-quality product. I guess everyone needs a good must-go-to place for roast chicken.

That night, we drove to Vinales, another UNESCO World Heritage site. This place is breathtakingly gorgeous, like Vietnam’s Ha Long Bay without the water. Giant granite pillars rise up from a flat valley high above the central Cuban hillside. This area, with its ideal volcanic soil, perfect growing climate, and local population—everything is done by hand—makes Vinales ground zero for what is regarded as the world’s best tobacco.

Tobacco holds a special place in Cuban history. Historically, it was used as medicine, food, for social rites and religious ceremonies, and as offerings or gifts. People believe the crop has miraculous powers, which is an interesting viewpoint as seen from the States, where tobacco use is chastised. However, it seems even smoking’s biggest opponents find merit in handcrafted Cuban cigars. They truly are of unparalleled quality, and considering the skill that goes into creating these stogies, it’s easy to understand why they reign supreme. Cuba still implements traditional technique when it comes to agricultural production. Farmers work with oxen and homemade tills fashioned on anvils and attached to wooden frames. It’s a completely different way of life. I spent a day picking tobacco, racking it in the field on cured split timber, then helped lay it into the aging house, where it would dry for up to a year. After that, the tobacco is fermented or cured—what the locals call The Fever, because during this process the leaves are usually spritzed with liquid (often rum) and covered with special tarps for several days. If you lay your hands on the pile during this process,
it is actually a few degrees warmer than the rest of the barn due to the bacteriological process. After the curing, and some more aging if need be, the leaves are trimmed of large stems and the tobacco shipped to the famous Havana factories, where the stuff is graded, smaller veins and stems are removed, and leaves are classified according to color, texture, and leaf type. I had the privilege of enjoying a smoke in the Cifuentes family’s renowned Partagás factory, in the VIP lounge no less, with Ganselmo, who works as the head catador, or quality-control expert. This man is responsible for the consistency and quality found in the world’s greatest cigars—from Cohiba to Partagás, he creates them all. He typically tests between three and five cigars a day. It works a lot like wine tasting—he smokes only a small portion of each cigar before rating each one, drinking only unsweetened black tea to cleanse his palate between tests. I witnessed the whole cigar-making process, from stem to stern, even the rolling, which is an incredible experience. Cuban cigar rollers, called torcedores, spend nearly two and a half years perfecting their skills. Achieving master roller status may take upward of twenty years. An experienced torcedor will roll anywhere from 60 to 150 nearly identical cigars a day. I never in my wildest dreams thought I would ever get there to see it actually happen in front of my eyes. The aged Partagás Series 4 Ganselmo selected from his private humidor of rare, vintage smokes was amazing, but the rustic, rolled-up cheroots farmers smoke in the fields as they work are made with tobacco so good it doesn’t leave the farm. I smoked three that day. Put that in your mouth and smoke it!

Vinales offers a lot more than just tobacco farming, so we decided to stay for a day and a half. Our crew met up with Dago and Omar, a pair of crazy brothers who took us jutia hunting. Jutia are these giant jungle rats that can be skinned and eaten whole, like small pigs. The process was pretty simple. We laid some traps one night, then hit the sack. The next morning, we collected our jutia and headed to lunch at Dago’s friends’ farm on Vinales’s valley
floor. We dined on our freshly caught rodents, as well as crayfish as big as my arm from a local river and two massive red snappers, all grilled. We also ate roasted pig, and finished with palmichas, small dates harvested from royal palm trees. I was thankful for my salsa lesson from Nelda, because when a local band showed up to get the party started, I danced up a storm, played a little guitar, and had a good ol’ time with my hosts.