This summer, I had finally had enough. After years of people telling me about all the great cars in Cuba—which had only become even more frequent in the past year since President Obama announced the restoration of American-Cuban relations—I decided it was time to go see for myself. As an avid collector and restorer of vintage vehicles, it just seemed wrong I hadn't been yet. So when a friend put together a small group of designers and like-minded souls to travel to Cuba for 10 days, I seized the moment. Armed with little more than a backpack full of spare parts that I managed to smuggle through customs (I figured they'd come in handy for making friends), my street Spanish, and a few vague contacts, I made my way to Havana.

As I stepped out of the humid, old airport and into the parking lot, I was immediately taken by the stark contrast of old and new. A few billboards announcing development projects and advertising modern global brands loomed over shacks selling simple items laid out on the dirt. The parking lot was packed with an equal mix of 1940s and 50s American cars, new Chinese-made tourist buses, and 1970s and 80s Russian diesel putters clinging to life. Beautiful examples of the best western and European architectural styles from the first half of the 20th century were offset by more contemporary and stark Russian concrete disasters. It was clear which countries had remained Cuba's friends over the years.

Everything that people had told me was true: Havana is like stepping through a time warp.

Forget Naked & Afraid—try owning a 1959 Buick without the Internet, parts stores, or even paint shops.

If the country looks frozen in time, that's because it sort of has been since 1959, when Castro's revolution resulted in the nation's near-total isolation from the U.S. In addition, with limited trade and imports controlled by the Cuban government, people learned to make the most of what they had. This all spurred a culture of resourcefulness that is well beyond anything pampered first-world types could even imagine. Forget Naked & Afraid—try owning a 1959 Buick without the Internet, parts stores, or even paint shops. Need some body work? Grab a hammer, find a tree stump, then start crushing something up to use as pigment unless you can afford some black-market auto paint (big money). And yet the Cuban people prevail.

On my first day, having heard rumor of a car show on Saturday mornings in a small park by the Hotel Nacional de Cuba, I wandered down the Malecón, a wide esplanade along the coast and took in all of the sights and smells. All around the signs of restoration were as prevalent as the signs of decay. When I arrived at the park, there was a lone 1958 Plymouth sedan parked by a center fountain. Tiles embedded in the concrete celebrated various vehicles and automotive events, including the the now-defunct Cuban Grand Prix. I introduced myself to the man with the Plymouth. His name was Lorenzo Verdecia, and as it turned out, he was the president of the local car club.

Lorenzo Verdecia (left) is the president of Havana's local car club Friends of Fangio, a reference to Argentinian racer Juan Miguel Fangio and his Cuban kidnapping. Jonathan Ward

By now I was starting to feel like a beast of burden sweating under the weight of my backpack, so I offered him some of the spare parts I had brought (relays, fuses, bulbs, solder, etc.). Verdecia and I began chatting, and I told him that I restored cars for a living in the U.S. Kind and congenial, he explained to me the attachment Cubans have to their old cars. The classics in Cuba are more than just relics people maintain simply because they cannot buy a new car, he said. They have become a symbol of perseverance.

The classics in Cuba are more than just relics people maintain simply because they cannot buy a new car. They have become a symbol of perseverance.

Verdecia then proudly pointed out that his car is quite significant in that it still has the original engine. Most have been swapped out for whatever fits or is available. I noted that the chrome was stripped off of his bumpers and that the base metal was polished perfectly. There is no chrome shop in the country, he said, so he just had to get a little creative. He even told me about a 90-year-old man who was famous for restoring cloisonné badges and horn buttons using nail polish. I saw some examples of his work, and they were quite impressive. Human ingenuity is an amazing thing.

One evening, the ringleader of our group arranged for a dinner party with an old friend of his who had moved to Cuba from New York City decades ago. During dinner at her picturesque villa, our host started telling tales of an old Aston Martin. She said a British official had gifted the car to a friend of hers when the official had to leave abruptly and was unable to export the car. Now, everyone has heard legends of Cuba's truly rare but forgotten cars, so this was like catnip to our group. Incapable of containing my excitement, I immediately begged to be put in touch with the current owner, but the conversation moved on. The next day, the woman contacted me and explained that the car had actually been given to her and that she had been secretly storing it outside of Havana in a shed on her family farm. What luck!

Knowing my profession, she hoped I could provide some guidance on what to do with the car. Officially, it is no longer legal to export any vehicle from 1959 or older out of Cuba, as they are protected as national treasures. But in Cuba, anything is possible if you know the right people. Turns out my new friend knows just about everyone. My impression was that she sensed the rapid changes coming to Cuba and wanted to better understand the car's potential if she suddenly had options. I quickly agreed to help and we planned for me to go see the Aston a few days later. She simply said she would arrange a car to pick us up and take us to the farm, which is located about an hour outside of Havana.

Our rides for our Aston adventure were two Russian GAZ Chaika M14 limos once owned by a guy named Fidel Castro. Jonathan Ward

On the morning of our trip, I gathered with a few of my fellow travelers outside the hotel, leaving the only wi-fi zone we had found so far. A man we'd never met motioned for us to follow him around the corner. As we did, we couldn't believe what we saw—not one, but two green 1977 Russian GAZ Chaika M14 limos still blazing the Cuban flag on the front fender. The drivers informed us that the limos were once owned by Castro, and apparently some of them are used as taxis now. We hopped in, noting the original brown corduroy interior and trim that would probably fall off if you looked at it wrong. The archaic diesel rattled to life, and we set off on our adventure.

The sky was clear and a brilliant azure as we made our way out of town. Traffic began to thin, and potholes became more violent. Eventually fields of tobacco replaced rubble and concrete, and horse-drawn carts shared our lanes along with the occasional bus cobbled together from parts of numerous other vehicles. With only one power window in the limo sort of working and an A/C system that seemed to have reinvented itself as a humidifier, we made the mistake of stopping for a short break. The GAZ decided to make it a long break. After we used all of the water we had hoped to drink to sate the hissing radiator, and I did my own version of a Cuban repair job by putting a bandaid on the cooling system and re-aligning the alternator pulley so that it actually produced a few amps, we were on our way again.

Jonathan Ward

Approaching our destination in a ragged little town, we cut down a series of small dirt streets and eventually pulled up to a makeshift shed where a young man awaited us. He cautiously looked around to make sure no one was nearby before attempting to unlock the door. The key didn't budge. Apparently it had been a long time since anyone had opened the shed. Exemplifying the Cuban resourcefulness I had already learned to respect, he produced a homemade version of a bolt cutter and freed the door from its lock and chain. It took several of us to articulate the door open, but as our eyes adjusted to the dim cavern, we saw the unmistakable buttocks of a British sport car. I immediately knew what we were looking at.

Under record-breaking layers of grime, was a left-hand-drive 1958 Aston Martin DB 2/4. It clearly had led a rough life—many parts had been severely modified out of necessity. The entire dash and steering column, as well as the engine, were sourced from an old Lada. We stepped over the original bits littering the dirt floor as we began inspecting the car. It was far from running, but that didn't matter. This was exactly the kind of find I had hoped for setting out on this trip. After about an hour, we closed the door and returned the car to its secrecy.

Jonathan Ward

Aston Martin's file for the car simply contained one index card with 'Cuba?' scrawled on it.

Jonathan Ward

When I returned to California, I contacted Aston Martin about the car. The company informed me that it was one of two built with the race-spec engine, and its file for the car simply contained one index card with "Cuba?" scrawled on it. Aston seemed to appreciate the update, but I didn't get a sense that it was too interested in any sort of restoration at the moment.

With Cuba now opening up to the U.S., and rapid commercialization and tourism virtually assured, both the owner and I dream of seeing the car restored to compete in a resurrected Cuban Grand Prix. I'd like to think it could happen. By typical standards, the car is barely restorable, but its story begs you to dispose of any rational thoughts that would keep it from being revived. With or without the Grand Prix, I can tell you one person that would be willing to see such a foolhardy adventure through.

Jonathan Ward

My trip taught me a lot about the Cuban people, its car culture, and the many misconceptions people have about the country, but I think my biggest takeaway is that people have it all wrong when they say that U.S. collectors and restorers should source cars from Cuba. These vehicles belong here and are more valuable in Cuba than they would be anywhere else given their condition (except, maybe, for that blue Tucker in Havana that has taken on a mythological status).

Jonathan Ward

On my last night, I wandered down to the plaza where I had met a young man who runs a tricycle taxi. We had talked earlier in the week, and he told me that he was a doctor. Turns out he makes more money pedaling tourists around than he does at the hospital saving lives, so he works both jobs. He lamented that in Cuba you have to struggle just to be able to live and eat. Getting ahead did not even seem like an option. It's this common hardship that unites the people. As we debated the future of Cuba, he spoke of capitalism and communism. "Communism does not work, but capitalism has no conscience," he told me in Spanish. That phrase will always stay with me. I gifted him my last tire patch kit, my backpack now empty of all its parts, and then we quietly pedaled through old Havana and into the night.

Jonathan Ward

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Jonathan Ward is the founder of Icon 4X4. He contributes to Road & Track on all matters of design and automotive miscellany.

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