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Havana, “indomitable village” of Communism.

One has two options to get from Cancun to Havana. Either you pay a little bit more and fly with Mexicana or you travel with Cubana de Aviación. If you’re not scared of flying, we recommend the second. The flight is less than one hour, but really amazing. From outside everything looks normal. Shiny fuselage, three motors, two wings and a fashionably dressed crew. But when you enter the plane you notice already that in Cuba, in general, and in Cubana particularly, things are not what they seem. First, duck your head. The Russian aeronautic engineers, perhaps thinking of that dog they sent to space, designed the hatch for Laika’s height. Everyone had to duck their heads several inches if they didn’t want to take a souvenir home in the form of a bump on their heads.

Once inside, the most probable thing is that you will be seated next to a Cuban. We had been told that in Cuba everyone is crazy about leaving the island, but once out, they only want to go back. Besides you and some other lost tourists, the plane will be packed with black men with gold chains and mulatto girls with nice bottoms of enormous dimensions. All of them as Cuban as a one of Fidel’s cigars, though with an American Passport. A passport that, just to piss Fidel off, you can get for free with a Happy Meal in Miami. So that when they return they can tell the family how good the Big Mac is. The Big Mac, and the dryer, the DVD and any other diabolic invention needless to say forbidden by the Party, because, as every Communist knows, these are instruments that devour people’s souls.

Ah, but all these Cuban dissidents, as soon as they are seated, forget about Coca Cola and other silly capitalistic products and ask for a Havana Club, comme il faut: on the rocks or with Tu-Kola, a Cuban version of the most famous drink in the world. You have to think of Cuba as a Lidl , only bigger. Not a single original brand, only bad quality copies in irrational formats, and always out of stock. And you’re lucky if you find a supermarket, because in Havana there are fewer stores than windows with their glass not broken.

Continuing with the beautiful tradition of not having any merchandise, it is likely that when it’s your turn to ask for a drink on the plane, the only bottle of rum the stewardess is carrying might be empty. But don’t worry. Behind you there’s a guy with the appearance of having sneaked through the rear window with today’s offer: a bottle of Havana Club for ten bucks, fifteen if you take two. If you think he’s doing that discreetly so that the Revolutionary Police doesn’t catch him, you’re wrong. The guy’s screaming as if he were in a street market, shaking the bottles over his head so violently you better duck your head if you don’t want to end up with a second bump.

In the midst of so many acrobatics, the unthinkable may happen. Either someone lights a cigar or the plane is on fire, because from the floor comes white smoke you’ve never seen on a plane before. The voice of the attendant on the intercom tells you not to worry even if your feet disappear in the mist. It’s the air conditioning. And you take notice because between the music, the “cuba libre’s”, the peddler and the screams of your neighbors this smoke appears to be more like a 70’s disco effect than a Yak-42 defect. Yes, you’re reading right. Trillo’s Yak-42, the one that crashed in Turkey . This type of airplane wouldn’t pass an ITV inspection for a merry-go-round. Luckily, with so much entertainment you barely notice anything, and by then it will be time to land anyway. You’ll realize that because half of the passengers will be clapping, cheering and howling like a pack of hounds. No wonder since they risked their lives to leave the island and now have returned with Cubana de Aviación, an equally dangerous feat, not to mention a lot more expensive. You’re in Havana. Welcome to Communism!