Settling in Santiago de Cuba

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]I arrive at Santiago de Cuba’s bus station from Bayamo, where I had spent my first 3 days exploring the Sierra Maestra mountain range. Again, I have no problem bumping straight into a taxi driver and we set off towards the centre where I’ll be staying in a casa particular.

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A casa particular is Cuba’s version of a homestay where travellers can live with a Cuban family in their private home. This is a policy that the Castro government introduced in 1997. Since then, families have been allowed to register their house as a business and rent out rooms to tourists, subject to tight state regulations.

The casa particular in Santiago de Cuba that I had in mind is not available for the first 5 days, but a neighbour has offered to accommodate me until it’s free.

I step out of the taxi and knock on the large, antique wooden door. It turns out that the owner is not in so, instead of hanging around, I find myself one a few doors up the hill. I’m led into a small apartment across the street from the family, which I’ll have to myself. I drop my bags, whack on the air-con, and whip out the guitar.

Re-energised, I set off to check out the centre and view some other casas that I have shortlisted as good bases with musical ties. I’m keen to get settled somewhere quickly and find some Cuban musicians.

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My first target is Casa Maria, which I found by frivolously entering ‘guitar’ and ‘Santiago de Cuba’ into the search boxes of casa particular websites. Many of the streets in the centre of Santiago de Cuba have two names, old and new, and there aren’t many road signs. Life gets interesting for foreigners. I plonk myself on a random step and whistle into my map.

Suddenly, the door opens behind me. I rise and spin like Mr. Bean attempting a Michael Jackson move. I apologise and explain that I’m a bit lost.

A suave, elderly Cuban with braces strapping his trousers against a bloated belly stares back at me. He pauses cooly to examine me, cigar balanced precariously in mouth.

“Tranquilo’, he says and asks where I’m from. “Ahhhh, Leeeverpool! Los Beetlays!”

It turns out he speaks some English, so we dig into a game of linguistic tennis. He tells me a bit about the history of the Beatles’ music in Cuba, how influential and revered it became, and still is. At one time, the music of the Beatles was banned on Cuba’s airwaves, as the Castro government sought to insulate the country from external influence that may ‘compromise’ the revolution.

The Beatles’ music went underground, becoming cool and rebellious for young people just as it did in the West, but with slightly more severe consequences for indulging than being grounded. Sneaky imports were smuggled in from overseas, bootlegs were passed around on the sly. Even the man who carried out the order to ban it on the airwaves admitted listening to the Beatles in private. Politics and hypocrisy combined – now I really do feel at home!

My new friend welcomes me to Cuba and steers me towards Maria’s house on the next block down the hill. He says he has known her for years and she’s a very nice lady.

Her daughter beckons me up the stairs. “El Sol!” she says, pointing to the sky. This is a commonly heard two-word phrase in Cuba (especially when you’re sporting an exposed, bald head). I park myself next to Maria as she rocks back and forth in her chair. I explain that I have read online that she has close links with musicians and can arrange lessons for me.

She seems a little confused about all this internet lark and her daughter doesn’t add anything to convince me that the recommendation for this casa was all that accurate. I decide to go with my instincts and wander on.

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After a few more minutes of wandering I’m sweating like a pig in the oven that is Santiago de Cuba. I decide to take shelter from the sun in the rather swanky and definitely-out-of-my-budget Hostal San Basilio, where a kind and unassuming receptionist welcomes me.

I explain my mission in Cuba and ask if he can recommend a good place where I could stay for a month, with space for lessons and meals included. He’s intrigued by my story and recommends a hostel nearby. He picks up the phone to call for me, covering the mouthpiece to ask my price range, as the phone audibly rings. What ensues is a lively exchange.

From across the large desk I hear an animated female voice through the receiver. It echoes off the beautiful mosaic floor and around the courtyard of the San Basilio. I sense this woman drives a rather hard bargain. I’ll have my work cut out for me here.

The call ends. She can’t meet my price. I thank him and tell him I’ll try my chances in person. He points the way from the entrance, shakes my hand and wishes me good luck on my journey.

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As I enter the Hostal Girasol, I’m instantly bowled over by the striking decor. The owner of the mystery voice, a distinguished lady called Caridad, discusses my requirements as she proudly escorts me round the 4-storey building. This place is a work of art: intricate murals and tiles, ornate wrought iron benches and a decadent rooftop terrace.

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The place is perfect, all except for the price tag. We head downstairs to talk shop. Caridad does indeed drive a hard bargain, but all with a healthy dose of humour and suggestive facial expressions. Traits not entirely lacking in my home city.

She agrees to include breakfast, an evening meal and laundry service, and will also move a desk from her office into my room. But best of all, I’ll be free to use the roof terrace for lessons. And, as it is low season in Santiago, my teacher and I would more than likely have it to ourselves. It would still have the homely feel of a casa particular given that the room would be on the ground floor next to the family quarters. I manage to nudge her on the price and I agree to return tomorrow with my gear to set up shop.

Relieved to have secured such a homely place to stay, I explore the centre a bit and grab myself a bite to eat, trying to avoid the advances of the masses of jineteros (street hustlers who mercilessly and ruthlessly try to sell you anything and everything). I pause a moment to admire the breathtaking views of the bay and surrounding mountains, as the sun sets on Santiago de Cuba.

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Darkness quickly descends upon the city. Beyond the centre, street lamps are becoming scarce so I’ll have to rely on my sixth sense to guide me.

I venture down a steep hill through the barrio of Tivolí. There’s a nice, lively vibe to the streets with families sitting on their steps, children playing, and groups of teenagers waxing lyrical in that inimitable Cuban accent.

There’s a real communal atmosphere here and everyone seems to know each other. It reminds me of how the streets of Toxteth used to be in Liverpool back the ’80s when I was growing up: neighbours borrowing cups of sugar from each other, kids having homes-from-home here and there, running around playing hide and seek.

Already, I’m starting to like this vibe and with proper digs sorted, I arrive back at base with my mission on track.

Now all I need is a teacher.

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