Rolling Through Havana
HAVANA TIMES – In Havana, getting into a shared taxi is not an everyday act. Surviving transportation is a feat. A relentless battle between the sun, exhaustion, and despair. At the stop, Cubans don’t wait. They stalk. As if they were a hungry pack of hounds. Bodies tense at the slightest hint of a motor approaching on the avenue. Then it happens: the car turns the corner and the crowd launches itself mercilessly. Children, the elderly, dignity—none of it matters. There are elbows, shoves, shouts, even whispered prayers. “Driver, for God’s sake, man!” someone pleads.
Once inside—if you manage to get in—another odyssey begins. The open windows let in hot wind and the roar of the city, mingling with blasting reparto music. An aggressive, sticky rhythm thunders from the battered speakers. Sometimes the driver shouts profanities at the first car that cuts him off or overtakes him. Red lights, stop signs, turn signals—ignored. The steering wheel is a weapon, and he is the cowboy of this Third World highway.
The ride is a sensory cocktail. To my left, a woman flaunts a sweet, overpowering perfume, a mix of tropical fruit and cheap alcohol. It invades me, crawls down my throat, stings my nose. To the right, a young man with a sweat-soaked shirt lifts his arm, revealing a more earthly, more human, harsher smell: the scent of labor, of the missed bus, of the relentless midday sun. The car groans at every pothole, as if it might fall apart with each passing meter. It’s a 1956 Chevrolet, a rolling fossil that survives on miracles and grafted parts.
Outside, Havana moves slowly, oblivious to our agonizing sway. Inside, we ride like sardines in a can, amid obscene songs, foul odors, and learned resignation. This transport doesn’t just move bodies: it drags along frustrations, anxieties, and the exhaustion of a city where living is, sometimes, resisting. But Cubans are stubborn; they laugh, sneak in, and improvise. Because even if the road is uncertain, you’ve got to keep rolling down these streets. Even if it’s in museum pieces teetering on the edge.
Because here, catching a ride also means grabbing life by the hair.