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HAVANA TIMES — Many outsiders long to visit Old Havana and the greater part of Cubans do too. Consistently, a great many travelers stroll along its cobblestones, getting a charge out of the best attractions, inns and attractions the city brings to the table. This is the Havana we find in manuals, on sites, named “fascinating, intriguing”: a place you need to go to at any rate once in your life. This is Old Havana, the excellent Havana.

 

Established in 1519 and sanctified through water San Cristobal de La Habana to pay tribute to Havana’s benefactor holy person, the city owes its name to the boss Habaguanex who controlled the region in the years paving the way to its colonization. Today, it is our capital and the most populated city in Cuba and the Caribbean islands as it has  occupants (2017).

 

It’s history is as old as its design. It has the Capitolio which reflects – despite the fact that it’s an extraordinary neoclassical building-magnificent strength at the time, a Cathedral, the Malecon, a Theater which in its initial years was thought to be a standout amongst the most wonderful structures on the planet, initally named Tacon, a Lighthouse Fortress, a Square, the Museum of the Revolution, which still shows the injuries it endured in the progressives’ assault to oust Batista and his oppression.

 

 

 

Be that as it may, my Havana, my old Havana, doesn’t show up in photos and individuals just result in these present circumstances city to find and hotshot its misfortunes. My Havana made up of sweat and dangers, of commotions that don’t just occur in working hours, of confronts which wipe away their anguish with a grin. The Havana that puts on a “bembe” (custom, well known festival of African drop which is characterized by its custom drumming party) by the Hotel Inglaterra or that sets up a tin rooftop, while inquisitive spectators watch, on the grounds that there isn’t a window and it doesn’t have enough wood in the “barbecoa” (a little wooden room, worked as a moment floor in old houses with high roofs).

 

My old havana stuffed with “yumas” (this is an obscene term used to call nonnatives, particularly guests from the US) and “jineteras” (whores), “bicitaxis” (tricycles that go about as taxicabs) and in addition “ruteros” (littler transports which substitute cabs at a much lower cost). My Havana of poor and rich children, private “guaguas” (transports) and “camels” (old undercarriage combined which have two mounds on the rooftop mimicking a camel pulled by a tractor trailer motor. Of alcoholic individuals sitting on the University’s means or by the Ceiba Tree in Fraternity Park. Of people groups, of individuals, of Cubans, of habaneros who zest up every day existence with rumba.

 

The Havana where tree plants dangle from half-crumbled and moist structures, which never rests since tanks should be loaded with drinking water at three in the morning.

 

My shrouded old Havana, “chusma” (revolting individuals or spots), wrinkled, manhandled, filthy. My dead Havana that has been revived over a thousand times.

 

My old Havana which under Cuba’s searing sun, influences me to raise my hand trusting that a taxi will stop and in five seconds, influences me to build up an existential emergency profound inside me, when the “almendron” (US autos from the ’40 and ’50s which are what the majority of our aggregate taxicabs are these days) driver yells at me: old Havana?

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