“WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?!? WOOF. WOOF WOOF WOOF.”
The mood in the car is giddy, so I can’t help but to sing along to this dreadful song. I’m squashed in the back of a souped-up 1950’s Chevy, speeding through the suburbs of Havana with an entourage of gay Cuban men. The taxi’s disco lights are flashing, and the reek of cologne from my new friends is making me a little woozy. I’ve taken a lot of cold medicine. Maybe I’m just dreaming? I look over and see my husband woofing along with the music. Not dreaming, I conclude.
Despite being a straight married couple, we’ve been invited to the capital’s premier underground gay party. Not bad, considering that we’ve only been in Cuba for a week.
Feeling a cold coming on, I was tempted to decline. But I was intrigued. Gay bars and clubs are illegal in Cuba. Instead, we’re told, a roving fiesta gay stays one step ahead of the law. To get to the secret location, we wait outside the flashy-but-forlorn Yara Theatre, where all the taxi drivers know the score.
Soon we’re zooming down dark, deserted streets so far away from the Havana of mojito bars and cigar factories that I start wondering if we’re being kidnapped. We finally arrive to find hundreds of gay and lesbian Cubans crowded on a cul-de-sac fringed by a few ramshackle homes and coconut groves. In a place where electricity is unreliable at best, the party’s organizers have done an amazing job of rigging up a thumping sound system, along with just enough twinkle lights to create a club-like atmosphere under the stars.
I head to the makeshift bar, where there are only two choices: rum ($3) and Coca-Cola ($1). I buy one of each. The rum comes in a clear glass bottle, with no label and no cap. As I mix my first cuba libre, I say a quick prayer that it won’t make me blind. It’s surprisingly smooth.
More bottles circulate freely among the crowd, and eventually the entire street is moving to a mix of Euro-pop and salsa. I find myself with dozens of handsome dance partners, and learn some sexy merengue moves with the confidence of knowing that my teachers derive no pleasure from gyrating against me.
The rum has made me forget my cold and when I eventually glance at my watch I’m shocked to discover that it’s 4am, because the party is still going strong. We decide it’s time to leave and quickly find a taxi among the many waiting at the end of the street.
The ride back to our casa particular is much more sedate. I reflect on what has been our best night in Cuba and realize that travel is most rewarding when it shatters our preconceptions. I’d come to Cuba expecting to find a picturesque island hopelessly stuck in the past, and yet the Cuba I’ll always remember most fondly was like a big, sweaty, gay bar.
