With Lafonda senior away, we shortly learned the important role she played during our frequent visits. She was the gatekeeper. The matriarch. Crucially, she also kept the rest of the family at bay from our belongings... Now that Lafonda senior wasn’t here, and with post-Covid Cuba a wasteland, Pablito and Edmundo sensed riches.

We were at their mercy.

If you did take a wrong turn in the days after Hurricane Irma hit and ended up on calle San Lazaro by mistake, one would be forgiven for thinking it blew hardest through this part of town. The sides of buildings missing, balconies torn off, debris everywhere. But Prado, with its bronzed lions lining the pedestrian boulevard, is the dividing line. To the east, the preserved UNESCO world heritage site. Havana’s money maker. To the west of Prado is the real Havana. It may look like a hurricane has just ravaged it but in reality, it’s the 60-odd years of neglect that’s responsible.

A sleepless night. The wind howled around the roof, branches fell, and, around 3am, next door’s corrugated roof finally peeled itself clean and flipped, luckily, in some other direction. Lafonda’s mum, as she usually did, knocked on our bedroom door at around 6am carrying two cafecitos. Fittingly, our stash of Cubita and Serrano coffee had run out a few days before and we’d forgotten to buy more. The coffee she brought, then, was classic state-rationed Coffee, the ingredients and quality of a more dubious nature. The repercussions of Irma were already being felt.

Cuba’s health care is famously free for its locals. Foreigners, meanwhile, must visit the foreigners only hospitals. The difference is not only price. Similar to how London cleared out the riff-raff in the West End prior to the Olympics, the mirage of Cuba’s mythologised health system shines through in the foreigner-only hospitals, where, although having to pay, the facilities are modern. Johnny America can leave after two-days in a diabetic coma and assume all Cuban hospitals and medical centres are as well equipped. Alternatively, however, Cubans may not have to pay out some pesos for their care, but neither will they have up-to-date equipment, or medicines for that matter. It’s all smoke and mirrors.

We all knew we wanted to take a closer look at them once we were down there, but for Ari and I  - me, raised on the age-old English sensibility of minding one’s own business; Ari, a Yanqui raised on guns and, therefore, expecting the inhabitants of a rural hut to be armed to their teeth - this would entail no more than walking past at a respectful/safe distance. Lafonda, however, had different ideas. A native of these shores and raised in the aforementioned conditions, a passing glimpse of the rows of yucca in the front field wasn’t enough. Before we could stop her she was walking up the pathway  to the blue house as though she always called around first thing in the morning.

With no plan other than a desire to climb something, we decided over a breakfast of huevos revueltos y fruits that we’d just drive until we saw a mountain we liked. From the veranda of Casa Anita - our casa particular located two-kilometres south-west of Viñales town centre - we had sweeping views of the valley. We were adamant, however, that we’d steer clear of the area around the Mural de la Prehistoria known as los Dos Hermanas, for while it is undoubtably beautiful we had no desire to scale a mountain only to glimpse the mural in the distance. This meant we had to drive several kilometres north of Viñales town centre, out into the rolling farmlands, surrounded by the impressive mogotes which typify the Viñales Valley rock formations.

“Carlitos,” she shouted to me. Then “Disgusting!” She was back on her feet and walking towards me in a hurry. From across the way she explained with a growing sense of urgency what had happened - though, in truth, she needn’t have bothered.  Surprise surprise the athletic guy had seen it fit to lower himself out of view from me and expose himself to an innocent Lafonda.

A couple of days later we stop for a bite to eat at a restaurant on the northern end of Plaza Vieja. I’ve spent the morning practicing my spiel, much to the annoyance of Lafonda, and so am ready to initiate a deal. In no way am I nervous about my engaging in el mercado negro so Lafonda’s mocking of me does not perturb me one bit. Instead, I lean back cooly on the chair and lower the peak on my cap, scanning nonchalantly around the plaza from behind my mirrored Aviators as though absolutely nothing untoward were on my mind.

For the umpteenth time on our Cuban cocktail quest, Chad Jnr. is asking a barman for a pineapple and the withering look he receives in response is, understandably, deserved. While friendly and hospitable people, Cubans do not suffer idiots well.