"Remember, to Habana - no problem!"

by Abigail Catchpowle (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Cuba

A 1953 Chevrolet Bel Air, its dark green bonnet more dented than smooth, bounces towards me through the streets of Trinidad's Old Town. A tanned slim man, who looks too tall even sitting down, is at the wheel and next to him I recognise the ticket seller I had met the previous day. I peel my sticky limbs away from those of my girlfriend Robyn and step out in the sunlight, already missing the small patch of shade, cast out by a taverna’s long-rusted sign, which I was sheltering under. The car lurches to a stop with a grand bow, the bumper kissing the polished cobbles before righting itself. With a bellow of “hola chicas!” the ticket seller springs out and bundles us into the empty back seats. The hot white leather burns the back of my bare legs, the springs poke through the cushions into my spine and I resist the urge to look for a seatbelt – Cuban cars might look Instagrammable from the outside, but for Western tourists like myself the interiors can be a much-needed reality check. The ticket seller slams the door shut behind Robyn and leans back in through the open window telling us “it’s just you and Ramiro now. Remember, to Habana - no problem!”. We nod and exchange a simple “hola” with the driver as our Spanish is sorely lacking, and soon enough the Chevy is speeding along the dusty highway to the capital. I settle in for the five-hour drive as Ramiro impatiently honks his horn, seemingly in time to the salsa blasting from the radio. The humid air rushes past my open window and I close my eyes, enjoying the damp breeze until I drift off. A few hours later I awaken to Robyn shouting over the crackling radio: “excuse me mate, where are we? This doesn’t look like Havana”. Opening my eyes, I see what she means – the car has stopped, and the highway seems far behind us, but there are dozens more palm trees than houses outside. Cutting the engine, Ramiro looks at us blankly and replies in Spanish. He and Robyn go back and forth twice more, neither understanding the other, and I laugh telling Robyn “hey I told you we should have learnt some Spanish”. My chuckles die down when Ramiro gets out and warmly greets a heavily inked man who has approached the car. He’s wearing a thin black vest, clearly showing the tattoos he’s covered in; a faded Cuban flag up fills one arm and I gasp seeing the knife tattooed on his neck. So far in Cuba I had barely seen anyone with even one tattoo – I assumed it just wasn’t the cultural or economic norm – and now I was looking at a man who might have fit in at an East London coffee shop, but who definitely stood out in the Cuban countryside. Just looking at the man my mum’s anxious voice immediately came rushing into my brain and I replayed everything she’d said before we left: Is Cuba safe for two women to go travelling alone? Would they be able to tell Robyn and I were a couple? Would they mind? Have things really changed since Castro’s regime was forcing LGBT people into ‘re-education camps’? The weight of the situation dawned on me – I don’t know where I am, I can’t speak the language and of course, being in Cuba, my phone has no internet. I glance at Robyn for reassurance and instead see her tucking our passports into her bra – “oh great,” I mutter “at least we’ll be internationally trafficked”. I look outside again and the man with the neck tattoo catches my eye and grins, flashing a gold tooth. I look away quickly and nervously reach for Robyn’s hand on the seat - and then glance back just as the two men embrace - and kiss! “He’s one of us!” I exclaim and then realise exactly how hypocritical I’ve been. Scared of being judged by my own appearance, sexuality and gender I’ve been doing exactly that to this man. Robyn also sags with relief but a moment later she’s back to her usual self bluffing “I wasn’t worried. Remember, to Habana - no problem!”