Meeting Maradona in Havana

By Adam Docker

We thought it was going to be a straightforward interview.

Fly to Havana. Meet Maradona. Job done.

Instead, we spent six days in a hotel room waiting for a phone call. Waiting for word that the money had landed in a Swiss bank account. Only then, we were told, would Diego be ready.

Eventually, we got the call.
We drove out to a deserted medical centre on the outskirts of Havana—somewhere between Cold War fallout and surrealist film set. Diego’s manager greeted us like an old friend: big smile, smooth charm, full Berlusconi energy. Lunch was served. Promises were made. But still, no Maradona.

“Set up in the building next door,” he said. “I’ll call you when he’s ready. I promise.”

So we set up. And waited.
Back to the hotel. Another long evening.

Then at 10pm: the call.
“Come now!”

We raced down the Malecón with no map, no GPS, no lights—just gut instinct and adrenaline. Somehow, we made it back.

Inside the hut, we waited again.
Upstairs, we could hear him—singing his heart out in the bath. A single love ballad playing on loop from a tape deck. Over and over again.
“MARIAAAA… TE AMOOOO…”
He’d rewind it. Play it again.
Sing louder.

Half an hour later, he exploded into the room like a human firework—soaked, loud, charged. We followed him outside, heading toward the setup.

It was pitch black. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
Suddenly—crack.
A scream. A shout.
“Puta madre!”
Maradona had just walked straight into a tree and gone down hard. We scrambled around blindly, helping him up, checking he was alright, all of us bumping into each other in the dark.

Eventually, we made it to the other hut.
He gave us a three-hour interview—raw, electric, and unpredictable. He took breaks. Disappeared to the toilet. Returned buzzing.
It was chaos. And it was magic.

I’d brought my camera. Shot on film.
No digital. No safety net.
And I had maybe two minutes. No light setup. No real time to think. Just shoot.

Maradona was restless—his energy explosive. I shot fast. I shot blind.
Some of the frames were useless. But a few…
A few carried something real.

There’s one portrait—my favourite—where you’ll see a thin white line in the background behind him.

That wasn’t a mistake.

That line was intentional.
A quiet nod to the ghost in the room.
His addiction. Always there. Always present. Even in Havana.

I try to do that in my photography—
hide something in the image. Something true.
Sometimes it’s in the light. Sometimes in the colour. Sometimes in the composition.
A little secret, just for me. Just for the story.

With Maradona, it felt important.
Not to glamorise. Not to judge.
But to show what was really there.

We drove back into the city in the early hours of the morning. No drugs, no drink. Just a head full of adrenaline.
There was no need for any white powder that night.

We were already flying.