An explorer in Cuba strikes up a conversation with a fisherman on Havana’s Malecón, Cuba, which leads to an invitation to observe a little-known innovation in Cuban sea culture: fishing with condoms. This story was written by a student on our Craft of Travel Writing Certification course.
Each evening along Havana’s Malecón, Cuba, scores of fishermen gather. They stand on the weathered seawall, their fishing rods tilting towards the sea. Fishing lines silently slip into the sea’s darkening waters. They wait unhurriedly for an elusive bite.
A breeze pushing ashore from the Florida Straits is refreshing and pleasantly salty. Polished American gas-guzzling convertible classic cars soundlessly cruise past. These are strikingly restored and purr along in their adapted modern Japanese engines. Some noisily groan and rattle as they proudly pass by. These are the unrestored relics on wheels with cannibalised spare parts from Ladas and Russian tractors, and from anywhere else spare parts can be repurposed.
Waves lap lazily against the worn sea wall. Fishermen patiently wait, hopeful for an insistent tug on their lines. Many will linger until the morning hours. Others resolutely remain until dawn. Most will go home with only a modest catch.
A fisherman nonchalantly relaxes in an easy chair, watching a small television powered by a car battery and an inverter. The fingers of his right hand gently pull on his line so he can detect a bite. A bucket beside him contains seawater and four snapper.
I compliment his catch. He has more than most others.
“There are so many fishermen here,” I said.
“We fish so that we have food for our families,” says Nuro, a wiry old man. Fishing is another way that Cubans support themselves in their economy on crutches.
Below, jagged rocks threaten to snag an unwary fisherman’s line.
“Does your line get caught on these rocks?” I ask.
“All the time,” replies Nuro’s friend Rafael. “We step onto the rocks as close to the sea as we dare to avoid our lines snagging,” he adds. Countless abandoned lines claimed irretrievably by those jagged rocks glisten in the fading light.
“If a line snags, we have no hope of freeing it. We cut it and leave it to the sea,” laments Rafael.
“What do you catch here?” I ask.
“Snapper, tarpon. Sometimes barracuda,” Nuro replies. “Here on the wall, we can only catch small fish. The bigger fish are a few hundred metres from the shore.”
Nearby, a fisherman clambers down from the seawall and precariously picks his way to the edge of the rocks while reeling in his catch. He manages to avoid his line snagging. His prize is a silvery snapper. He brings it back to the wall to his wife’s smiling delight and his young daughter’s excited squealing.
A young boy with no fishing rod holds his reel, pulls out a metre of line, and limberly jumps onto the sea wall. He swings his line above his head. When the hum of his circling line reaches the perfect pitch, indicating the desired momentum, he releases the line. It arcs into the sea. He hands the reel to his smaller brother and repeats the ritual with another reel. The faster he swings the line above his head, and the more urgent the line’s screaming pitch, the further out to sea the hook and bait will reach.
“Could you use a boat to fish for the bigger fish?” I ask.
“Who can afford a boat?” Nuro laughs, shaking his head. “We used to paddle out on rafts and inflated tyre tubes to reach the larger fish. Back then, the catch was always good.
“Rafts and tyre tubes?”
“Yes. We could go out some distance using our flippers. There we could bait the larger fish and bring home a feast. But not anymore.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“The government banned it long ago,” he explains. “Too dangerous,” he continues, nodding towards the ocean. “Sometimes, a fisherman was carried so far by the current he could not get back. Or, he was eaten by sharks,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Now, to reach a few hundred metres from the shore, we use condoms. But fishing with condoms has not worked for me lately, so tonight I’ve come here.”
“Fishing with condoms?” I ask sceptically.
“Yes. Go to the Hotel Grand Aston, walk to the Malecón, and face the ocean. There you will see fishing with condoms,” he said.
“Are you pulling my leg?” I ask, giving him a playful grin.
Puzzled, he glances down at my legs. “No, I am not pulling on your leg. I am over here,” he answers.
I chuckle. “I’m sorry. When you ask someone if they are pulling your leg, what you mean is whether they are joking with you.”
He laughs, understanding. “No, no. I am not joking with you,” he promises. The lingering mischievous smirk on his face leaves me wondering.
“No one here is fishing with condoms,” I challenge, glancing up the Malecón.
“No, not here. The currents are too strong,” he explains. The currents on the Hotel Grand Aston’s section of the Malecón are better for condom fishing.”
I smile at him skeptically, as if to say I could not be had.
He caught my look. “I promise you,” he says earnestly. He leans in. “Go there tomorrow night. I will be there, and I will show you how we fish with condoms.”
Curious, the next night I decided to see if my leg had been pulled. I imagine Nuro and his friends pointing at me and laughing heartily when I arrive, satisfied that they had put one over on the foreigner who fell for Nuro’s tale.
I arrive at the hotel and cross the street, bracing myself for a good-natured ribbing.
There is Nuro. He waves. I walk towards the cluster of fishermen expertly navigating the rocks.
“Hola, Nuro,” I greet him.
“Hola, Felipe. I’m glad you came. You’re just in time,” he says.
Nuro flicks on the torch strapped to his forehead. Light shines in the direction he faces. Puddles of light illuminate puddles of seawater. Crouching, he unzips his fraying canvas bag and pulls out several packets of condoms. He tears one open, inflates the condom like a balloon, and ties the end. He inflates four more.
“We tie these together, add line, sinker, hook, and bait, and put it out to sea,” he explains. “The condoms float. The current takes them out to sea as far as the line will allow. This line is 300 metres. This is where the big fish are. We use live bait to attract them.”
Nuro manoeuvres around the rocks to the sea’s edge. He releases his nest of ballooning condoms.
“Let’s see what we shall catch,” he says as he returns.
“Why condoms?” I ask. “Why not just use balloons?”
“Condoms are cheap. The government subsidises them. Balloons are a luxury and more expensive. Condoms are also stronger.”
I admire the Cuban ingenuity to fish with this unlikely accessory. Where there is a need, Cubans will improvise and invent until they find a solution, just like their Russian tractor parts coaxed onto their American gas guzzling cars.
The condoms slowly drift away into the vast darkness, just as Nuro predicted.
Conversation amongst the fishermen helps the time slide by. Tales are shared. Some are tall. At times, each tall tale is taller than the previous one. Hearty laughter ensues. Amber ron (rum) is passed around. A cheap Cuban cigar’s smoky cloud drifts towards me. Reminders that this is Havana. The cigar’s acrid aroma assaults me.
Nearby, teenagers perch on the Malecón’s wall, talking, laughing, singing, and strumming guitars. The sea wall is where Havana’s youth gravitate each evening. They will be there until the morning hours as well.
Not far from where we stand, a fisherman’s line tugs.
“Bring him in, Papa,” a young boy shouts, encouraging his father.
He is delighted when a 10-kilogram giant red snapper glistens in his father’s arms.
“This one I will sell to a paladar,” the boy’s father announces.
Paladars are Havana’s culinary gems, serving up food with flair. They are private restaurants at their owners’ homes, tucked away in elegant courtyards, leafy gardens, apartments in restored colonial buildings, and in yesteryear’s faded mansions. They cater to tourists. Cubans cannot afford to dine at one. Selling fish to a paladar is illegal but quietly tolerated. The price this giant red snapper will fetch will feed the family for a week or more.
Nuro is unlucky this starless evening. Not a single catch. Each of the few elusive tugs on his line was hopeful but came to nothing. Each inquisitive fish was not inquisitive enough. Several times bait needed replenishing.
Nuro sighs and reels in his line to check his bait.
“Once more,” he says. “If nothing bites, I’ll return to the wall tomorrow with my rod.”
Nuro assembles his nest of condoms, his line, sinker, and bait. We watch hopefully as it drifts out again.
A few minutes pass. Nuro’s face lights up. “I have a bite,” he says excitedly.
He tugs at the line and begins to reel in his catch.
“This one’s a fighter,” he mutters, leaning back as the rod bends under his prize’s determination to escape. Hastily, he reels in the line as he leans forward again.
The contest between fisherman and fish continues. When the fish is spent, Nuro reels it in. He holds up his prize, grinning triumphantly. A glistening barracuda.
“This one is almost a meter long,” Nuro announces, his eyes sparkling. “Tomorrow night,” he beams, “we feast.”
