Beyond Havana: Discovering Las Tunas, Cuba's Authentic Urban Experience

Havana hits you like a beautiful, chaotic wave—a sensory overload of crumbling grandeur, pulsating music, and streets alive with conversation. For the first three days of my journey, I surrendered to its rhythm, allowing the city to wash over me before heading eastward to Las Tunas.

I begin each morning at a small paladares (private restaurant) near my casa particular in Centro Habana, where my host Claudia insists I try a different Cuban coffee preparation each day. 'The secret is in how you incorporate the sugar,' she explains, demonstrating the perfect technique for creating café cubano's signature caramel-colored foam.

My days unfold in a pattern familiar to any urban explorer—walking until my feet protest, then finding a shaded spot to sketch and observe. Havana rewards this approach generously. Beyond the polished colonial squares of Habana Vieja lies a city of contradictions where vintage Chevrolets rumble past revolutionary murals, and impromptu rumba sessions erupt beside crumbling Art Deco masterpieces.

One evening, as golden hour bathes the Malecón in amber light, I pull out my travel watercolor kit to capture the scene. A local artist notices my attempts and approaches with friendly critique. Jorge has been painting this seawall for thirty years, and his insights about how to capture Havana's distinctive light become as valuable as any workshop I've taken.

'You must understand,' he tells me, mixing colors on a well-worn palette, 'Havana doesn't just have light. It has memory in its light.'

That night, I add notes beside my sketches, reflecting on how cities hold collective memory in their architecture, streets, and the daily rituals of their inhabitants—a theme that would follow me eastward to Las Tunas.

The seven-hour journey from Havana to Las Tunas becomes its own chapter in my Cuban story. I opt for a colectivo shared taxi rather than the tourist bus, squeezing into a 1980s Lada alongside a family returning from a hospital visit in the capital, two university students, and a chicken that nobody claims ownership of but everyone seems comfortable with.

As we leave Havana's orbit, billboards featuring revolutionary heroes give way to vast agricultural landscapes. My travel journal fills with quick sketches of tobacco fields, farmers on horseback, and roadside fruit stands where we occasionally stop for juicy mamey or guava.

My seatmate Elena, a literature professor at the university in Las Tunas, notices my sketchbook and begins sharing stories about her city. 'We call ourselves the Ciudad de las Esculturas—City of Sculptures,' she explains with evident pride. 'Las Tunas may not have Havana's fame, but our artistic spirit is just as strong.'

The landscape gradually shifts as we move eastward. Western Cuba's tobacco country transitions to sugar cane fields that stretch toward distant mountains. The journey itself becomes a visual education in Cuba's rural realities—the backbone of an economy so often reduced to classic cars and cigars in travel imagery.

When I mention my interest in how different cities approach public space and community art, Elena's eyes light up. 'You've come to the right place,' she says. 'Las Tunas hosts the Jornada Cucalambeana, one of Cuba's most important cultural festivals celebrating our poetic traditions. But even in everyday life, you'll find our streets are living galleries.'

As the afternoon light softens to dusty gold, the Lada rattles into Las Tunas province. Unlike the approach to Havana, with its sprawling neighborhoods announcing the city long before you arrive, Las Tunas emerges suddenly—a modest urban center rising from agricultural plains, promising the authentic Cuba I've been seeking.

Las Tunas welcomes me without fanfare. No tourist touts, no jineteros offering city tours or casa particulars—just the genuine curiosity of locals when they spot a foreign face in a city that sees relatively few international visitors.

My casa particular, arranged through Elena's cousin, sits just two blocks from Parque Vicente García, the city's main square. Martha, my host, greets me with fresh guava juice and rapid-fire questions about Scotland, art, and my peculiar interest in her city. 'Most foreigners want beaches,' she says with a puzzled smile. 'You want concrete and sculptures?'

Indeed I do. The following morning, I set out with my portable sketching stool and drawing supplies to explore Las Tunas' urban fabric. The city immediately reveals itself as a living museum of public art. True to its nickname, sculptures punctuate nearly every significant intersection and plaza—from abstract modernist pieces to historical figures rendered in bronze and stone.

What strikes me most is how integrated these artworks are into daily life. Unlike the cordoned-off monuments of many European cities, Las Tunas' sculptures serve as meeting points, playground features, and conversation starters. Children climb on abstract forms while elders debate their meaning. Art here isn't separated from life; it's embedded within it.

At the Memorial de los Caídos, I watch a local art teacher guiding students through sketching exercises. When I approach with my own sketchbook, she immediately invites me to join their session. Soon I'm surrounded by curious teenagers examining my watercolor techniques while I learn their approaches to capturing light on stone.

'In Las Tunas,' the teacher explains as we compare sketches, 'we believe art should be part of everyday experience, not locked away in galleries.'

This philosophy extends beyond sculptures. Throughout my week in Las Tunas, I discover murals tucked into residential neighborhoods, community workshops where artisans create everything from ceramic tiles to wooden instruments, and impromptu poetry readings in local parks. The city operates on a different rhythm than tourist-oriented Havana—one dictated by local life rather than visitor expectations.

Each evening, I return to the central plaza to sketch as families promenade in the cooling air. Children chase each other around the statue of Vicente García, the city's namesake hero, while teenagers flirt on benches and elders debate politics and baseball with equal passion. This ritual—the paseo—reveals the heart of Cuban urban life far more authentically than any guided tour.

By my fifth day in Las Tunas, I've developed a routine that balances urban exploration with creative practice. Mornings begin with Cuban coffee at a local peso café where I'm now greeted by name. I spend midday hours sketching different neighborhoods, followed by afternoons visiting cultural spaces or meeting local artists Elena has connected me with.

One such connection leads me to Antonio, a sculptor whose workshop occupies a converted warehouse on the city's edge. His massive metal constructions—abstractions of human forms in motion—contrast with the colonial architecture that dominates the city center. As we talk art and process, he explains how Las Tunas developed its sculptural identity.

'After the revolution, each Cuban city needed to establish its cultural character,' he explains, welding a joint on his latest piece. 'Santiago had music, Trinidad preserved its colonial past, and we claimed sculpture as our contribution.'

What began as cultural policy evolved into genuine civic pride. Today, Las Tunas hosts a biennial sculpture symposium that attracts artists from across Latin America. The resulting works remain in the city, gradually transforming it into an open-air gallery.

Beyond the visual arts, I discover Las Tunas' rich tradition of décima—a ten-line poetic form with Spanish roots that has evolved into a distinctly Cuban oral tradition. At a small cultural center called the Casa Iberoamericana, I attend an impromptu performance where poets improvise verses on themes shouted by the audience. Though my Spanish catches perhaps half the wordplay, the rhythmic delivery and audience reactions transcend language barriers.

The following evening, Antonio invites me to a community art project in a residential neighborhood rarely seen by tourists. Families have gathered to create a collective mural celebrating local history. Children mix paints while grandparents debate which historical events deserve representation. I'm handed a brush without ceremony and assigned a section of wall.

As we work side by side into the evening, conversations flow naturally. I learn about daily challenges—water shortages, transportation difficulties, the complex dual currency system—but also about local innovations, community support networks, and unwavering cultural pride. My headlamp becomes unexpectedly useful as the neighborhood's electricity flickers out during our painting session, earning appreciative comments from fellow artists working by candlelight.

'This is Las Tunas,' Antonio laughs as we continue painting in the semi-darkness. 'We make do with what we have, and somehow it becomes more beautiful for the challenge.'

Las Tunas operates on rhythms entirely different from tourist-oriented destinations. By my second week, I've adjusted to its patterns—the early morning bustle as workers head to jobs, the midday pause when heat drives everyone indoors, and the evening revival when streets transform into social spaces.

Food becomes my window into local reality. While Havana's paladares cater increasingly to international palates, Las Tunas' eateries serve purely Cuban fare with no concessions to tourist preferences. At a paladar called El Jardín, I'm served whatever the family has managed to source that day—sometimes a feast of roast pork and plantains, other times a simpler meal of rice, beans, and whatever vegetables are available.

Rather than disappointment, there's authenticity in this unpredictability. Each meal becomes a lesson in Cuban resourcefulness and the realities of a complex economy. Conversations with the owner, Miguel, reveal the intricate dance of operating a private business within Cuba's evolving economic model.

'Some days we have everything,' he explains, serving strong coffee after lunch. 'Other days, nothing. But we always find a way to make something delicious.'

This adaptability extends beyond food. When I express interest in local birdlife, Martha's husband Carlos fashions a bird guide from hand-drawn illustrations after discovering I've forgotten my binoculars in Edinburgh. His knowledge of local species surpasses any guidebook I could have brought.

Daily necessities create community in ways I hadn't anticipated. One morning, I follow Martha to the local market where neighbors exchange news while waiting in various queues. When a vendor receives a fresh shipment of tomatoes—apparently a rare occurrence—word spreads through the market like electricity. The resulting rush isn't competitive but cooperative, with people holding spots for neighbors and ensuring elders receive their share.

Transportation reveals another layer of local life invisible to most tourists. With no rental cars available and taxis scarce, I navigate Las Tunas as locals do—on foot, by bicycle taxi, or cramming into shared vehicles heading in my general direction. These journeys become social experiences as passengers discuss everything from family news to national politics.

One afternoon, caught in a sudden Caribbean downpour miles from my casa, I shelter under a shop awning with a dozen locals. What begins as weather-related small talk evolves into an impromptu neighborhood gathering. Someone produces coffee in tiny plastic cups, another shares homemade peanut candies, and soon I'm listening to passionate debates about the recent baseball championships and upcoming harvest expectations.

'This is the real Cuba,' an elderly gentleman tells me, gesturing to our impromptu community formed by rain. 'Not what they show in the travel magazines.'

My final days in Las Tunas pass in a blur of farewell coffees, last-minute sketching sessions, and promises to return. When I finally board the bus back to Havana, I carry not just a sketchbook filled with urban scenes but a deeper understanding of Cuban life beyond the tourist narrative.

The return journey provides time to reflect. In my journal, I note how Las Tunas taught me to see beyond the surface-level Cuba that dominates travel imagery. The city offered no classic cars posed for photographs, no mojito-fueled salsa clubs, no carefully preserved colonial facades. Instead, it presented something more valuable—authenticity.

Arriving back in Havana feels like entering a different country. The capital's energy, once simply exhilarating, now reveals its performative elements. I notice how certain streets are maintained for tourist consumption while others crumble just a block away. Conversations with locals take on different dimensions as I can now reference experiences beyond the typical visitor circuit.

For my final two days, I explore Havana through Las Tunas-trained eyes. I seek out community art spaces in Vedado rather than the polished galleries of Old Havana. I visit markets where Cubans shop rather than the handicraft markets aimed at tourists. Each experience builds bridges between the two urban realities I've witnessed.

On my last evening, I return to the Malecón with my sketchbook. The seawall remains unchanged—waves still crash against the concrete, couples still stroll hand-in-hand, and the sunset still paints everything in impossible gold. But my perspective has shifted. My final sketch captures not just the physical landscape but the complex social reality behind it.

A street artist approaches, curious about my work. When I mention Las Tunas, his eyebrows raise in surprise.

'Most foreigners never go there,' he says, examining my sketches of Las Tunas' sculptures and everyday scenes.

'They should,' I reply, adding final touches to my drawing. 'It's where I found the real Cuba.'