It was April 30th and I was just arriving in Havana from San Jose, Costa Rica. After dealing with the hassle of getting my hands on some Cuban Pesos at the airport’s seemingly only exchange counter, I was finally on my way with an acquaintance I met on the tarmac bus. We and a couple of nice, older gentlemen from Turkey went on our way to the taxi staging area to share a ride to the city center. Itching to start seeing those classic 1950’s, that itch was scratched the moment we got outside and hopped into a bright blue 1950-some Chevrolet with classic white leather seats. Though this car was rigged with a digital odometer and under the dash were A/C vents that appeared to be taken off of a cheap Asian car, it still retained much of its charm and certainly its rumble of a vintage American engine.
The spring Havana heat coupled with eagerness of seeing Cuba with my own eyes, I delicately rolled down the window as I crossed my fingers the seeming ancient mechanisms of the window crank didn’t break on my watch. While I continue to gaze upon the world largely withheld from American eyes, we approach a stoplight adjacent to La Plaza de la Revolución. It was a nice open area with the José Martí Memorial, circled by government buildings displaying larger-than-life outlines of the revolutionaries Che Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos. It’s at this point that our cabbie informs us that there will be a massive parade with thousands in attendance, included their very own dictator, Raúl Castro. Naturally, I had to be there.
That evening upon socializing with fellow foreign travelers at the hostel, I found out I wasn’t the only one intrigued by the hoopla and commotion of the parade. In fact, everyone wanted in. The thing was, we all wanted to enjoy the evening, but wanted to make the 7am parade start. Our solution: let’s stay up all night. At this point, I knew it was going to be a night to remember.
Here we are, a bunch of 20-somethings from different parts of the world who all decided to converge in Cuba, ready to take on the night. The nightlife was naturally were we belonged, and we set out to find it. We would go to the doorstep of one establishment, then another, leading us to quickly realize that most Cubans shut everything down the eve of May 1st, presumably in respect for the holiday ahead and to get a good night’s rest before the holiday’s bright and early start.
Disappointed, but still energetic and not about to give up, we found a convenience window, stocked up on a couple of bottles of Havana Club and made our way down to the Malecón (sea wall and adjacent boulevard) with our group and some new faces we met on the way in tow. It was our time at the Malecón that was one of the most memorable and it was coincidentally one of the simpler. There we were, sitting along the wall as we face Havana and its 1950’s cars joyriding and taxiing up and down the boulevard, with our backs to the United States somewhere out in the abyss amongst the sound of Caribbean’s waves crashing on the rocks below. Couples embracing and kissing, groups of friends hanging out and passersby all congregated to the wall that night, like many nights before. We talked, laughed, and shared insights and stories from our homes abroad.
The Cuban Immersion
A part of the Malecón session that doesn’t happen as much as it should on trips sometimes was the interaction with the locals. The couple of Cuban guys we picked up along the way couldn’t have been older than 19 years old and by talking with them, gave us a glimpse into the life of the youth in Cuba. It was so interesting that they marveled at my iPhone 6 saying that they never could obtain one in their lifetimes. Having been hanging out with them all night, I felt comfortable enough with to let them handle my phone. They got such satisfaction by simply moving the background screens back and forth as if they liked the way the touch sensory responded to their fingertips. They had phones of their own, and not too out of date but were less popular, cheaper brands. Granted, Apple products are expensive by most American’s standards (and certainly my own) but their response to something that is a very common part of our lives for us -tourists was eye-opening in a way. I read about how wages are very low and imports are limited and restricted but I had just witnessed this authentically first hand. All these sights, sounds, and interactions were all great, but the rum was running out and we were now in the wee hours of the morning- it was time to roam across the streets of Havana to La Plaza.
As we left the Malecón and made out way inland as a pack of mostly foreigners down the darkened streets, relying on the few city lights for guidance, we quickly started joining the masses of Cubans, street by street, joining more and more people before dawn in a communistic pilgrimage of sorts.
In the Thick of It
A food break here, a restroom break there, and before we know it, we made it! “May Day” has arrived. In the thick of it, we weave our way through the families, social groups, and loners, towards the center and around the parade staging area lining up the middle of the street. Finally, we find a spot we were all content with right next to a pack of Cuban soldiers preparing to walking in synchrony with their nation’s flag held by each of them in the middle.
It was surreal at this point. Here we are, our group, having walked miles in the dark, starting just as the fewer than 10 of us to now being in a pre-dawn congregation of over possibly a million people, most of whom living in the strict, communist rule of the Castro regime for all or most of their lives. The parade groups wait with anticipation to start their march towards the ominous, towering José Martí Memorial as the sun starts to illuminate the early morning sky.
The time has arrived. The beats and rhythm escalate, everyone now is attentive and upright, and the parade caravan begins to slither forward. Our endurance has paid off, witnessing this sight that few Americans have seen. I felt truly fortunate enough to seize the opportunity to travel to Cuba with the loosed travel restrictions and happened to arrive perfectly in time for one of the nation’s most important holidays. We stayed for a half hour as we were only humans on 24 hours of no sleep, therefore desperately needing to get back the hostel for a well-deserved mid-day sleep… and a propaganda break.