Melissa Govender recalls the time she got horribly drunk on a home stay in CubaFlamingo-pink bedroom sets and curtains, lukewarm showers with no pressure, telephone calls at 11.30pm and hawkers selling bread at 5am. That's what staying at a Cuban casa particular (B&B) is like.Casas have become a tourist favourite because they are more economical and better maintained than the state-owned hotels. Also, you get to shack up with a Cuban family. On occasion, this includes one constantly shirtless male family member (if you're lucky, it's not the grandpa).My casa experience was positive but I did struggle with the locks.When Cuba's ideological and economic big brother, the Soviet Union, collapsed, the Cuban economy was annihilated (euphemistically referred to as the "special period"), and so, in 1997, as a source of extra income, the Cuban government permitted private citizens to operate casas particulares. Bartenders demonstrate their affection with the quantities of rum they pour into your mojito Entrepreneurial Cubans renovated their homes but fitted their doors with special locks that I am convinced were all made in China. Opening these doors involves a tricky combination of pulling the door and turning the key at a special angle until finally you hear that victorious clicking noise. Sometimes even the homeowners struggle.One boozy night in Baracoa, after many mojitos and much salsa dancing at the Casa del Chocolate (a dancehall by night and a chocolate museum by day), I headed back to my casa.I did make a pit stop at Noche de Praga and for a $1 entrance fee I was granted access to my first and last Cuban-only disco. Not a tourist in sight - hallelujah and no mean feat in tourist-laden Cuba! Bartenders demonstrate their affection with the quantities of rum they pour into your mojito ... and this bartender was outright seducing me!At 2am, with intoxication levels fairly high, it was time to finally retreat.After stumbling back and forth a few times on the same street, I finally recognised my casa by its jade-green stoep. And there it was ... my nemesis ... the locked door. I pushed, pulled, turned the key from every conceivable angle and still it refused to unlock. With frustration levels rising and compromised logic, I did the only reasonable thing I could - I started pleading with and then screaming at the door.I woke up the household. Thankfully, my casa mama came to my rescue and let me in. Head pounding the next morning, over oily eggs and strong black coffee, I sheepishly apologised.I never stayed out until 2am again. The rest of my evenings were pretty sober in comparison.• Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels to share with us? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za...