Crumbling Beauty
MAD JUMBLE The view of Centro Havana, west of the Passeo del Prado.
TRAVEL: There is no city on earth like Havana
Story and photography by Gordon Bowness
In Toronto, June 2014
Downtown Havana is a mad jumble of faded and peeling pink, blue and yellow concrete confections: ornate beaux-arts palaces, sleek art-deco blocks and Soviet modernist marvels, all jammed together along narrow, winding streets, all in the same crumbling state of disrepair, blasted by sun, salt and rain. Then there are those famous Chevys and Fords: at least 50 per cent of vehicles on the road were made before the revolution of 1959 and the subsequent US embargo. And, most unsettling of all, there’s no advertising. No flashing screens, no billboards, hardly any signage over a particular business or shop. There are revolutionary slogans and the faces of Fidel and other revolutionary leaders hand-painted here and there. Plus some beer promotions. But that’s it. It’s shocking how disorienting the absence of advertising is. What era are we in?
Everyone should experience this vertiginous, disorienting wonder city.
But poverty and politics lurk around every corner. Havana is not the Cuba of Varadero and Caya Coco with their unspoiled beaches and gated resorts. The capital offers a very different—and much richer—holiday experience. You cannot escape history in Havana. The past 500 years of conquest and colonialism, resistance and revolution, adaptation and syncretism are ever present. Havana’s history is its people, proud and tenacious. And history doesn’t stand still. Perhaps that’s why Habaneros love to dance.
For LGBT locals and travellers alike, Havana is in a state of flux. Two years ago, to enter the LGBT social scene, you’d wander up and down the Malecón, the seaside promenade that runs for five miles through the heart of the city, or you’d head to a few blocks in the Vedado neighbourhood known as La Rampa, to find out where the roving gay party was happening that Saturday. The search is much easier now. As of spring 2014, there are at least three LGBT bars with another two or three venues hosting weekly gay parties. Pride is now officially sanctioned; some events have even moved into the giant Karl Marx Theatre. The city’s LGBT scene is exploding.
Around midnight one Friday this past February, a friend and I find ourselves standing outside Humboldt 52 (52 Humboldt), a small gay bar in a squat, nondescript building in Vedado. The doorman bars our entry; the place is full.
The show has just started so no one’s leaving any time soon. We can hear the music and the revelry inside. My friend offers a substantial tip. The doorman demurs. He simply cannot squeeze two more people in. It’s packed. Outside are a few locals standing around. We don’t really feel like waiting. A young man approaches and suggests going to another place, a disco we’ve never heard of. He says there will be lots of men and dancing. He’ll take us. We hem and we haw.
“How far?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Ten Cuban minutes?” we ask. Havana is rife with jineteros, touts paid to steer tourists to bars and restaurants.
He says it’s close. He seems nice. So off we go.
After a five-minute walk we’re standing in front of Hotel St John’s (206 Calle O). The main-floor lobby, where we pay the cover, is a louche ’60s dream with its tattered rattan chairs and young men lounging in tight jeans. The disco, Pico Blanco, is on the 14th floor. We’re escorted to an elevator and squeeze in with a full party; we all laugh nervously as the elevator bounces upward. The door opens onto a startling scene: A dark, narrow hallway packed with young men. We’re one floor below the disco, where the washrooms are. We walk past the line and up a flight of stairs, again crowded with men, and into the disco. We made the right choice. The place is crammed, the vast majority locals. It’s not a huge space but it takes up almost the entire top floor. Glass walls on three sides offer a stunning view of the city. On a low stage at one end is a show with drag queens and muscle-bound acrobats. The vibe is sexational.
Immediately I get a new friend. “You have a nice face. Do you like my face? You have nice eyes….”
We start buying drinks. It’s what you do. We get more friends.
And then the question… “Are you staying in a hotel?” This is crucial, I find out, because locals can’t stay overnight in hotels; they can only hook up with tourists at private bed and breakfasts, what’s called casa particulares.
It so happens my friend and I are staying at a casa particular. We get more friends.
As the dancing kicks in, the place really heats up, literally. We lose the view because of the steamy windows. From the street below it must look like some perilously perched opaque fish tank.
At one point my friend is approached by two stunning creatures: young, tall, skinny, both wearing tight mod suits, one all white, the other white and black. They are like some Cuban version of the Kray brothers… a very apt allusion, apparently, at least according to my new friend, the one with the compliments. “Watch your wallet with those two,” he hisses. “Tell your friend, now.”
As if on cue, my friend comes over with the dashing duo and one of them offers me a drink. Unheard of. C’est la guerre.
We never do figure out if the warning is genuine… or perhaps more self-serving.
A few hours later, with only our original guide in tow, we try our luck again at Humboldt. It’s quiet at that late hour, only a handful of people remain—a welcome opportunity for conversation, however broken, and laughs.
This is what we learn about the weekend line-up of LGBT parties. Fridays is Pico Blanco, Saturdays is Café Cantante (at the corner of Paseo and Calle 39, in the basement of the Teatro Nacional; considered gay-friendly most of the time), and Sundays is… something. I can’t remember; too much rum.
It seems Humboldt is always a good bet. The other fulltime gay bar is the scrappy Las Vegas (204 Infanta), which has a popular drag show that starts after midnight. It’s dead before that.
Who knows which venue will still be happening next season? In the past the police would crack down periodically on gatherings along the queerer section of the Malecón. Hopefully, however, these bars—and others—will still be going strong.
There are countless gay-friendly restaurants, too. One of the most quixotic by far is Notre Dame des Bijoux (218 Gervasio) in Centro Havana, run by a flamboyant former dancer with the National Ballet of Cuba. The place is stuffed to the gills with celebrity memorabilia, ceramics, art, kitsch and plants. And Chihuahuas. There’s a pretty garden patio on the roof and a small must-see dining room downstairs. The place is just around the corner from one of the best restos in the city, La Guarida (418 Concordia). Unbelievably romantic and great food. But you have to book ahead. So go there to make a reservation, then head to Notre Dame. You’ll be charmed.
Story and photography by Gordon Bowness
In Toronto, June 2014
Downtown Havana is a mad jumble of faded and peeling pink, blue and yellow concrete confections: ornate beaux-arts palaces, sleek art-deco blocks and Soviet modernist marvels, all jammed together along narrow, winding streets, all in the same crumbling state of disrepair, blasted by sun, salt and rain. Then there are those famous Chevys and Fords: at least 50 per cent of vehicles on the road were made before the revolution of 1959 and the subsequent US embargo. And, most unsettling of all, there’s no advertising. No flashing screens, no billboards, hardly any signage over a particular business or shop. There are revolutionary slogans and the faces of Fidel and other revolutionary leaders hand-painted here and there. Plus some beer promotions. But that’s it. It’s shocking how disorienting the absence of advertising is. What era are we in?
Everyone should experience this vertiginous, disorienting wonder city.
But poverty and politics lurk around every corner. Havana is not the Cuba of Varadero and Caya Coco with their unspoiled beaches and gated resorts. The capital offers a very different—and much richer—holiday experience. You cannot escape history in Havana. The past 500 years of conquest and colonialism, resistance and revolution, adaptation and syncretism are ever present. Havana’s history is its people, proud and tenacious. And history doesn’t stand still. Perhaps that’s why Habaneros love to dance.
For LGBT locals and travellers alike, Havana is in a state of flux. Two years ago, to enter the LGBT social scene, you’d wander up and down the Malecón, the seaside promenade that runs for five miles through the heart of the city, or you’d head to a few blocks in the Vedado neighbourhood known as La Rampa, to find out where the roving gay party was happening that Saturday. The search is much easier now. As of spring 2014, there are at least three LGBT bars with another two or three venues hosting weekly gay parties. Pride is now officially sanctioned; some events have even moved into the giant Karl Marx Theatre. The city’s LGBT scene is exploding.
Around midnight one Friday this past February, a friend and I find ourselves standing outside Humboldt 52 (52 Humboldt), a small gay bar in a squat, nondescript building in Vedado. The doorman bars our entry; the place is full.
The show has just started so no one’s leaving any time soon. We can hear the music and the revelry inside. My friend offers a substantial tip. The doorman demurs. He simply cannot squeeze two more people in. It’s packed. Outside are a few locals standing around. We don’t really feel like waiting. A young man approaches and suggests going to another place, a disco we’ve never heard of. He says there will be lots of men and dancing. He’ll take us. We hem and we haw.
“How far?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Ten Cuban minutes?” we ask. Havana is rife with jineteros, touts paid to steer tourists to bars and restaurants.
He says it’s close. He seems nice. So off we go.
After a five-minute walk we’re standing in front of Hotel St John’s (206 Calle O). The main-floor lobby, where we pay the cover, is a louche ’60s dream with its tattered rattan chairs and young men lounging in tight jeans. The disco, Pico Blanco, is on the 14th floor. We’re escorted to an elevator and squeeze in with a full party; we all laugh nervously as the elevator bounces upward. The door opens onto a startling scene: A dark, narrow hallway packed with young men. We’re one floor below the disco, where the washrooms are. We walk past the line and up a flight of stairs, again crowded with men, and into the disco. We made the right choice. The place is crammed, the vast majority locals. It’s not a huge space but it takes up almost the entire top floor. Glass walls on three sides offer a stunning view of the city. On a low stage at one end is a show with drag queens and muscle-bound acrobats. The vibe is sexational.
Immediately I get a new friend. “You have a nice face. Do you like my face? You have nice eyes….”
We start buying drinks. It’s what you do. We get more friends.
And then the question… “Are you staying in a hotel?” This is crucial, I find out, because locals can’t stay overnight in hotels; they can only hook up with tourists at private bed and breakfasts, what’s called casa particulares.
It so happens my friend and I are staying at a casa particular. We get more friends.
As the dancing kicks in, the place really heats up, literally. We lose the view because of the steamy windows. From the street below it must look like some perilously perched opaque fish tank.
At one point my friend is approached by two stunning creatures: young, tall, skinny, both wearing tight mod suits, one all white, the other white and black. They are like some Cuban version of the Kray brothers… a very apt allusion, apparently, at least according to my new friend, the one with the compliments. “Watch your wallet with those two,” he hisses. “Tell your friend, now.”
As if on cue, my friend comes over with the dashing duo and one of them offers me a drink. Unheard of. C’est la guerre.
We never do figure out if the warning is genuine… or perhaps more self-serving.
A few hours later, with only our original guide in tow, we try our luck again at Humboldt. It’s quiet at that late hour, only a handful of people remain—a welcome opportunity for conversation, however broken, and laughs.
This is what we learn about the weekend line-up of LGBT parties. Fridays is Pico Blanco, Saturdays is Café Cantante (at the corner of Paseo and Calle 39, in the basement of the Teatro Nacional; considered gay-friendly most of the time), and Sundays is… something. I can’t remember; too much rum.
It seems Humboldt is always a good bet. The other fulltime gay bar is the scrappy Las Vegas (204 Infanta), which has a popular drag show that starts after midnight. It’s dead before that.
Who knows which venue will still be happening next season? In the past the police would crack down periodically on gatherings along the queerer section of the Malecón. Hopefully, however, these bars—and others—will still be going strong.
There are countless gay-friendly restaurants, too. One of the most quixotic by far is Notre Dame des Bijoux (218 Gervasio) in Centro Havana, run by a flamboyant former dancer with the National Ballet of Cuba. The place is stuffed to the gills with celebrity memorabilia, ceramics, art, kitsch and plants. And Chihuahuas. There’s a pretty garden patio on the roof and a small must-see dining room downstairs. The place is just around the corner from one of the best restos in the city, La Guarida (418 Concordia). Unbelievably romantic and great food. But you have to book ahead. So go there to make a reservation, then head to Notre Dame. You’ll be charmed.
On a number of fronts, LGBT Cubans have made huge strides in the last 15 years. Leading the charge is Mariela Castro Espin, daughter of President Raul Castro and director of the Cuban National Centre for Sex Education (CENESEX). Last year Espin was awarded the International Grand Prix by the Quebec lobby group Conseil québécois LGBT for her educational and advocacy work on behalf of LGBT and HIV-positive Cubans. No doubt Espin helped prod her uncle Fidel Castro to make a remarkable expression of regret in 2010 over the regime’s past maltreatment of LGBT Cubans.
Gone are the notorious quarantines for HIV-positive individuals. A UN report notes that generic anti-retroviral drugs are now readily available. Rigorous testing, education and outreach have resulted in the lowest HIV rates in the region. In addition, Cubans have had access to sex reassignment surgeries through the universal health care system since 2008. In 2012 a trans woman was even elected to municipal office in a central province. The increasingly public success of Havana’s two-week long Pride, officially an anti-homophobia event known as iDAHO, is a tangible expression of the improved lot of LGBT Habaneros.
Gone are the notorious quarantines for HIV-positive individuals. A UN report notes that generic anti-retroviral drugs are now readily available. Rigorous testing, education and outreach have resulted in the lowest HIV rates in the region. In addition, Cubans have had access to sex reassignment surgeries through the universal health care system since 2008. In 2012 a trans woman was even elected to municipal office in a central province. The increasingly public success of Havana’s two-week long Pride, officially an anti-homophobia event known as iDAHO, is a tangible expression of the improved lot of LGBT Habaneros.
As long as they don’t criticize the government.
The Human Rights Watch report on Cuba is sobering: Political dissent is met with arbitrary detentions and intimidation. Freedom of expression is nonexistent. The government’s paranoia is plainly visible. When tourists and Habaneros mix, police regularly stop locals to check identity papers. Even on the gay beach, young men parading in swimming trunks can’t stray more than a few feet from their bags or wallets holding their papers. Authorities seem intent on showing locals they are under the thumb of the regime. It’s disturbing to witness. Even I got mistaken for a local when a cop barked something at me in Spanish. When I responded in English she waved me away like some bad smell.
So how to justify going?
Cubans are very poor; they need our money (and much else). In addition to documenting abuses by the regime, many human rights groups acknowledge the terrible pain inflicted by the US embargo, mainly borne by the poor and other marginal groups.
Recent baby steps towards economic liberalization are unleashing pent-up entrepreneurial energy. The tiny nascent middle class needs support if it’s ever to have enough clout to challenge the regime.
Whether you want to thumb your nose at US arrogance or support gradual change in Cuba, go to Havana and spend money. Engage… in crumbling beauty and in messy politics. Havana and its people offer so much in return.
The Human Rights Watch report on Cuba is sobering: Political dissent is met with arbitrary detentions and intimidation. Freedom of expression is nonexistent. The government’s paranoia is plainly visible. When tourists and Habaneros mix, police regularly stop locals to check identity papers. Even on the gay beach, young men parading in swimming trunks can’t stray more than a few feet from their bags or wallets holding their papers. Authorities seem intent on showing locals they are under the thumb of the regime. It’s disturbing to witness. Even I got mistaken for a local when a cop barked something at me in Spanish. When I responded in English she waved me away like some bad smell.
So how to justify going?
Cubans are very poor; they need our money (and much else). In addition to documenting abuses by the regime, many human rights groups acknowledge the terrible pain inflicted by the US embargo, mainly borne by the poor and other marginal groups.
Recent baby steps towards economic liberalization are unleashing pent-up entrepreneurial energy. The tiny nascent middle class needs support if it’s ever to have enough clout to challenge the regime.
Whether you want to thumb your nose at US arrogance or support gradual change in Cuba, go to Havana and spend money. Engage… in crumbling beauty and in messy politics. Havana and its people offer so much in return.
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Culture vs beach? You don’t have to give up the sun and sea when staying in Havana. There’s a lovely long stretch of beach called Playa del Este just a 20-minute taxi ride from downtown (costs around $20; arrange with the driver to pick you up, too). There’s a big hotel at Santa Maria del Mar at one end and a small town called Guanabo at the other. The gay beach, Mi Cayito, is in the middle. There you can rent lounge chairs and buy cold beer and drinks and food (ham and cheese sandwiches are always a safe bet in Cuba, but also tasty deep-fried shrimp). The odd mix of tourists, hustlers, trans folk and other locals—all under the watchful eye of the police—is something to behold. |