Road Story

Chapter 1 – El Campismo

Just like the Maritimes. It only rains on the weekends. Here in Havana it would only rain on Friday afternoon. As it was while we where trying to set up another camping trip. The weekend previous we had given up on camping quickly, in favour of sitting in our room to eat freshly made guacamole, and drink our rum. That had been at 1:00 in the afternoon.

This time the shower lasted only twenty minutes. It would have been pitiful had we let that minuscule amount of precipitation daunt us. So instead we waited for Hana’s Cuban counterpart. When we had waited almost an hour, we decided to just go. He could catch up hitchhiking.

So, seven of us get in a six seat van that is supposed to hold eight people. When Terry opts to sit on the floor, the driver puts an extra seat, a small wooden stool, out on the curb.

We boot down the road, breakneck speed. The driver is weaving in and out of traffic. This driver brought new meaning to the term aggressive driving. Pedestrians didn’t stand a chance. I saw this man cross three lanes of traffic at a red light. I saw this man squeeze the van through spaces I wouldn’t take a smart car.

After stopping for directions only twice, we make it to the campismo. Which consists of a horde of Young Cuban University students and a spread of two story constructs. These “buildings” had four rooms, each with two bunk beds. An ante with a sink in a counter and a bathroom opposite.

I’m talking absolute barebones. Absolute roughage. Absolute vodka. Which became one of the debates central to the weekend: was vodka made from potatoe skins? And did Prince Edward Island have a formal local brand? The other questions revolved around how long we would have to wait in line for the comidor, the communal food vendor, whether we should wait to start drinking, and what could be done if we ran out of alcohol?

First things first, as we had gotten a few funny looks while getting out of the van, we decided to make a little introduction. Looking back on this, it felt like a first day in prison. We had to stand our ground, not show any fear or we wouldn’t get any respect. So we went for a tour. We walked the length of the campismo, parading ourselves for the none to sublte Cuban stare to discern out presence. That’s right, we were saying, we’re not here for a long time, just a good time, and You had better show it to us.

Turns out the wait for food was longer than the wait to start drinking. Rodrigo was the stalwart gluton, holding out for food two hours. Terry, Hana and I eventually went down to keep him company. Which was when I finally realized that Terry and I had drank most of a Forty of rum.

Triumphant, we returned with the spoils our of effort, which would later spoil my stomach. Picadillo, a delicate dish to make right under the best circumstances, was served completely rancid to our drunk and hungry selves. We quickly continued to drink. Until our liquid courage compelled us to discover the discoteca.

This would be our first big foray amongst the camping Cubans. We climbed the stairs with an eager dread. We’d been through the humiliation of being dancing Canadians in Cuba, the land of Salsa. We were steeled against what ridicule might come.

And so we danced. But, one by one, as either our stamina or interest waned, the Canadians began tapping out. The Cubans wouldn’t have this; if we were at the discoteca we were going to be dancing. With a Cuban in hand, we each got a serious lesson in the romantic salsa, and the not so romantic reggae-ton. As was want to happen, jealousy was sown amongst the Cubans, and resentment. As some of the Canadians rejected a partner or two for to forward advances, the Cubans began to pout. One rotten apple ruins the barrel. They quickly descended from the discoteca, leaving a few of us unsatisfied.

We dispersed just as suddenly, in a drunken confusion. I found myself wandering up and down the country road trying to avoid the shit and potholes, I believe I was going to retrieve my sandals, but I can’t entirely recollect. Only moments later I found my companions skinny-dipping in the ocean, under a full moon.

And now as I write this the next full moon is hanging in the night sky over Habana.