Havana Memories: Camels and Chevrolets

 

Gently does it, gently, g-e-n-t-l-y. Perfecto. That’s just the way I like it. Then with a satisfied smile he reaches for the volume and I’m blasted with salsa. No surprise that he loves Los Van Van, the kings of double entendre in Cuba. He’s my driver and he’s only talking about closing the car door... of course.  But even such a mundane request is an opportunity for any red-blooded cubano to flirt, and to flirt with style. I slide into my seat and he flashes me a sidelong look as he shifts gear, I grin to let him know that his innuendo is appreciated. I’m in a máquina, a collective taxi, along with five other passengers and we’ve just left La Lisa en route to Central Havana, one of the more downbeat neighbourhoods in the city.

It’s stifling and every window in the vehicle is wound down. In fact, the windows are permanently wound down. They’ve probably been wound down since they broke back in the 1950s. It’s sad that in the half a century or so since this car began its journey, not everybody has treated it gently. It’s battered and bent but it has spirit and it’s still on the road. We are purring along in a black Chevrolet that hiccups every now and again when we hit a pothole or burps unceremoniously when the clutch is called into action. But who cares if this old lady shows her age from time to time? This is the Zsa Zsa Gabor of the road and I’m blessed to be one of the last few to luxuriate in her charms before she retires.

Even though I’ve been living in Havana for a year now, I’m still bewitched by these elegant pre-revolution era cars. Each time I hail one, I’m glee filled, suppressing the urge to jump up and down on the spot because I can, with a mere wave of the hand, halt one of these beauties and avail of her charms. I frequently stop and gawk at them because I can’t disguise my feelings. It’s their aura; they unfailingly exude sophistication and timelessness. They’re forever associated with a bygone era of Hollywood film stars and real-life mafia, a golden era when they were young, happy, and forever beautiful. Roads populated with these vintage cars fuel my daydreams and fantasies.

On Calzada del Cerro a 1938 Packard pulls unexpectedly to a halt in front of me. I stare. It’s a sinister manoeuvre and I expect to see half a dozen rain-coated gangsters hastily emerge wielding violin cases. Instead, two women wearing fluorescent pink and lime green lycra leggings step out into the hot sunshine. Ciao, Ciao, they smile happily, and their friend waves back to them from the rear window. The Packard drifts away and for a few moments it is the only vehicle on the road, doggedly zigzagging past potholes, framed against a background of crumbling façades of 19^th century architecture. Then it’s gone I’m alone with my fantasy.

The ride home won’t be as stylish. I’m taking a camello, a camel bus. If the Chevrolet is Zsa Zsa Gabor then the camello is the medusa of the road. It’s something of a monster designed to transport 250 people, or more. Boarding one is an act of bravery, or foolishness, or both. I pause at the nearby bus stop. It’s getting late and my heart sinks when I see that there are already about forty people hovering around. My nerve weakens considerably when nobody responds to my calls for the last person in the “queue.” I walk meekly from cluster to cluster until I finally locate the man in front of me. He’s wearing blue jeans and a red baseball shirt. When the throng moves forward, I have to fall into line behind this man, behind these colours. Suddenly, he’s hailed a máquina and vanished into its interior. There’s a void left behind. This has happened to me before. It’s not enough to locate the last person, the one before has to be identified too, as a contingency. It’s de rigueur and I forgot. Now I’m stranded. I’ll be mortified when the next person to join the queue asks who is in front of me. Replying “dunno” is a massive loss of face.

You hear the camello before you catch sight of it. You often smell it too. Camellos belch thick black diesel fumes from an exhaust pipe in the roof to the accompaniment of much rumbling and wheezing. It’s climbing the hill now and will soon appear around the bend. The throng stiffens to attention and musters closer to the stop.  A passer-by steps hastily out of the way and into the road, taking a detour rather than get caught up in the impending scrum, it’s not unknown for “innocents” to be sucked into a camello by the sheer force of pushing and shoving.

I feel the adrenaline surge, look for a vantage point, and silently vow to take a máquina next time. Checking that my purse is wedged into the bottom of my bag and the zip is fully closed I step forward. The camel bus shudders to a halt, doors open and passengers are spewed forth. Like a swarm of angry bees, the tight scrum has divided in two, each mustering around a different exit, launching the offensive even as the last person descends. It’s a woman. She sees the deluge and looks frightened, fearful that she may not make down the steps, but she does, albeit almost without her skirt. She grabs the folds, which have been momentarily swept back into the camello, and tugs hard, hastily rearranging the flowing garment around her, before stomping off. I choose the rear entrance. There’s a tiny gap that I know I can slide into. And I do.

These days, I take the Number 10 bus along the Fall’s Road into Belfast city centre. No adrenaline and no glamour but I am guaranteed a seat!