'Commissions' abound in Cuban tourism

One step off the bus and we were swarmed. I clutched my backpack as people pulled at my sleeves insistently, pushing flyers in my face. One lady reached for my hand and tried to drag me away but I snatched my fingers from her clutch. I cursed myself for not being more prepared as we were backed into a wall. It had been a six-hour ride from Havana, complete with several disinfection stops. Everyone had to get out of the bus while it was fumigated in an effort to quarantine the dengue-carrying aedes aegypti mosquito in the capital.

Beside me, my friend had already begun negotiating. I heard an offer tossed out and a bidding war began. I followed her example and before long we'd negotiated (or thought we'd negotiated) a room with two meals a day for fifteen convertible pesos. The young Cuban woman led us through the narrow, cobblestone streets of Trinidad and into her casa particular, the private residences licensed to rent rooms out to tourists. She brought us up to the room, waited for us to unpack and settle in then promptly declared she was raising the price by five pesos. She took the money then disappeared -- it was only when our real hosts appeared with dinner that we realized we'd fallen for another commission hustle.

In Cuba, anyone even remotely involved in the tourism industry operates on complicated commission systems. The guy who points out your taxi, the woman who walks you to the door of a restaurant -- all of them draw a few dollars, inflating your price for their "help." With little alternative source of income, competition for this commission is fierce.

After we settled into our casa in Trinidad, we decided to explore and followed the cobblestones uphill towards the ancient colonial church, La Parroquial Mayor. Dusk was falling and the last golden rays of the sun reflected off the whitewashed walls and maroon-tiled rooftops, setting the picturesque UNESCO heritage village on fire from our vantage point on the Plaza Mayor. We watched the shimmering effect until the sound of live drums and horns lured us up the hill.

On a platform amidst café tables and spectators, elegantly dressed men in white top hats spun steps around long-limbed beauties in short dresses. Though most moved in pairs, two couples moved in a kind of quadrant, trading off partners without losing a step in a synchronized pattern. We only watched for a few seconds before a Cuban man introduced himself as Amparo and invited my friend to dance. I watched as he manipulated her body with expert skill on the makeshift dance floor. He wielded her inexperience with a keen eye for detail, never neglecting a smile for the clapping crowd.

After a few songs he invited us to the Discoteca Ayala, a club situated in a cave on top of the hill. We accepted eagerly and followed a dubious path over the mountain, using all our concentration to make out the details of the landscape in front of us. We were almost ready to turn back and forsake the idea of "La Cueva" when we came upon the gaping mouth of a cave complete with a red rope tied across the entrance.

"Five pesos," the doorman announced, stamping our hands after we passed him the bills.

We followed the sound of resounding bass down a path, passing stalagmites and stalactites on our quest for the dance floor. Eventually a large cavern opened up, with a dj set in a small cranny five metres above the bar. We ordered drinks and hit the dance floor, moving to salsa and reggaeton until the bar closed. Amparo almost commanded my friend to appear in the square the next morning for salsa lessons and she was too tired to decline. Though Cuba has often been cited as a particularly safe place for single females to travel, the men are persistent, especially when it comes to salsa lessons.

The next day happened to be some sort of street festival. We were given an obscure explanation about honouring the popular community committees, though this explanation seemed to have little to do with the unrolling celebration. From the late afternoon, different neighbourhoods in the small village began organizing block parties. On the street outside our casa particular, the neighbors put up speakers and tended hot coals around a protruding iron post. A large pot was set beside the post and the contents were set to boil from the proximity of the superheated metal -- a great demonstration of Cuban ingenuity. With limited access to technology, the people must often rely on personal resourcefulness. The music was cranked up and rum was passed all around as couples began to dance in the streets.

The last day we decided to go to the beach. After searching in vain for a coco-taxi, the two-person carts shaped like coconuts, we got in a regular taxi for double the price and made our way to the beach.

The Playa Ancón was almost empty, leaving us alone with the warm water and coconut palms. We splashed around snorkellers and scuba-diving trips heading to the nearby reef until tiring of the sun. We headed back towards the road and a bout of cheapness made us rule out the idea of taking a taxi.

I'd heard it was illegal for cars not to pick up hitchhikers in Cuba and I was eager to put the rumour to test. We walked along the highway with thumbs outstretched and only a few cars passed before someone stopped. We received a free ride and friendly companionship all the way back to Trinidad -- a typical Cuban experience.

How to get there

Buses usually leave for Trinidad twice a day from Havana's station and cost about $25. On the way back we took a taxi. A woman at the bus station in Trinidad organized it -- since we went together with two others we ended up paying the same as the bus fare with the added luxury of stopping whenever we wished. Check Cuban bus schedules at http://www.viazul.cu/asp/reserva/Default.aspx

Republished from the Winnipeg Free Press print edition November 28, 2009 E7