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"Never underestimate the value of a brisk lie-down. Let me amend that: never underestimate the value of a brisk lie-down and a ready supply of running water.
Usually, after squirting a healthy splurge of soap onto your hand and holding it under a cold tap, we pampered children of the prosperous West naturally assume that with a twist of a handle, water will come out. Except here, now, it doesn’t and I’m reminded of my first trip to the island.
On my first night in Cuba, thirty-something years ago, I dropped my bags in the room, turned on the tap and washed off my travel funk under a cold shower-head, vigorously lathering my hair thickly with shampoo just seconds prior to the stream of water diminishing to a dribble, and then...completely giving up - nothing at all. I remember the quandary of not knowing quite what to do: covered, head to shoulders, in a mess of soapy froth - in Havana. And I recall that, whatever the solution, it wasn’t helped when seconds later all the power went out too and I was plunged into complete darkness, stumbling and bumbling, naked, in the middle of the night, in the pitch black, in a strange room, in Cuba - with a frothy head.
I still can’t remember how I remedied that situation - to be honest, it was a long time ago. A long time ago, thirty-odd years, but it appears that they still have a water problem, though it’s only one of many. And still, they muddle through.
Cuba wears you out, well, Havana does. The hustle is on. The bustle is on. Ever hustley, ever so bustley. Noise, noise, car horns, car exhaust fumes. Honestly, don’t bother giving up cigarettes if you plan on spending any length of time in a Cuban conurbation. The place runs on smoke, it’s everywhere. It’s the extra hidden price you pay when you climb aboard the ubiquitous ’57 Chevy convertible for a growly crawl up, down and around the potholes of Centro Habana. Twenty minutes in the traffic and you may as well have chugged five packs of non-filter Gauloises. It’s not just the noise or the lung-busting traffic, it’s the relentless electricity in the air of thousands of Cubans going about the business of simply surviving. And against the odds they are, they do, … just about. They’re hanging in, making do, getting on and not giving up. God only knows how. I honestly don’t know how I’d do it - but then I’m not Cuban.
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There’s smoke in the distance too, visible in a dark cloud that hovers, dirtily, over the top of the roof-top filials, television ariels and palm tree fronds of Havana Vieja. The clouds are dirty, but their specie of dirtiness is a beige colour while this plume is a more toxic-looking cancerous yellow-brown. At first, I assumed that in the absence today of an internet signal, the resourceful natives have perhaps resorted to smoke signals to communicate across the city and that there is a message to be read if only I knew how. Or, maybe Havana is on fire. But, on screwing up my eyes and gazing, far, far away, I can make out the tops of the culprits: three tall, industrial chimneys, somewhere beyond the muddling city blocks, in the direction of the railway station, the one without any trains.
Yes, it wears you out, Havana. That’s why the brisk lie-down just worked a treat and now, as the sun goes down on a warm winter's night in the Antilles I’m ready for a restorative glass of golden brown, 11-year-old Santiago rum.
I’m on the roof of a building on Cienfuegos Street, one that would probably fall down if it wasn’t propped up by similar buildings on either side. Night is setting in and I’m just waking up. We played last night, our final show here, at the Art Factory, La ‘Fabrica de Arte’ and it was good. We came, we saw, we conquered, we got down, we drank quite a lot of rum and walked for miles marvelling at the wonder that is Havana, Cuba. Now, if they’d just turn the bloody water on…
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I admit, it doesn’t seem right, does it? Pissing on the floor, in the house of Culture, in the corner of a room, up a flight of stairs.
I should point out that there were two toilets in the bathroom of the Casa de Cultura, but neither of them had running water, seats, loo paper or any kind of flushing apparatus - and in the hall outside, about fifteen ladies were queuing and starting to look a bit desperate. Up a flight of stairs with a broken light, there was a top-floor concrete balcony where a couple of hundred concert-goers, dolled up in their finest clothes, were busy looking glamorous on this, the final night of the annual Havana Jazz Festival.
Downstairs at ground level was a crowd of a thousand more, packing into the open air space for the music and I can only assume they had one or two similar toilets of their own, though I’ve a feeling that their pooing and peeing experience wasn’t much more culturally rich than ours, us, the Jazz Fest elite with our artist-passes - up on high, gazing down.
I was advised - on asking for directions, “Downstairs, on the left - but there’s a huge line so just give a dollar to the guy at the door and he’ll open the ‘other door’ “. The battered-looking toilet attendant was very accepting of the proffered dollar. So much so, that he made something of a show of opening the mysterious ‘other door’ in full view of all those others patiently waiting in line, and ushered me into what appeared to be a dimly-lit classroom that featured - balanced precariously on a chair at the far end of the room - a large military-green camo, plastic jerry-can that was already on the point of overflowing. I smiled awkwardly, thanked him profusely as he closed the door behind him, held my nose and went about the task whilst admiring the infant artwork of seven-year-olds pinned around the walls.
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Everything was lovely, but I could identify the flaw in this fix, the potential problem hovering on the horizon. What would happen later when the can was full? An imminent eventuality. There were a lot of people, there was a lot of drinking - and the night was still young. Such challenges are the stuff of the daily reality for regular Havanese. They shrug their shoulders, facing the struggle with grim resilience and, even, humour, ready to contend with the seemingly impossible. ‘There’s always always a solution’, they’ll tell you, ‘pero. no es facil’.
The solution in this instance - I was told later, the bottle by now full and overflowing - was yet another ‘door’ and yet another room. At this door, apparently, bursting attendees at the ‘House of Culture’ were being encouraged by the man collecting dollars to just piss on the floor in the corner. This advice had been acted on, judging, I was told, by the advancing puddly pool of pee.
This is the final night of the Havana Jazz Festival at one of several venues around town. My compadres and I had missed a good show earlier at the Karl Marx Theater and had instead spent the afternoon melting in the heat of the apartment, where the toilets after four days of no running water, were still not quite as bad as those at the house of Culture.
I’d almost done the sensible thing, saying to Pedro and John, ‘You’, know, I might just stay in tonight, read my book, chill out, get an early night…’ They looked doubtful but could see the logic. We’ve been caning it pretty hard but cooler heads prevailed and we decided that, given there was still a discernible trace of blood in our collective rum stream, we probably should do the right thing: get completely hammered, listen to very loud music with stinky overflowing loos and stagger in at five in the morning, and I’m glad we did. Well, I am, but my brain isn’t entirely convinced." [c] johncleary.com
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