I asked my friend Damian, a 23-year-old filmmaker here in Havana, to take me to a gay party. I'm starting research for a longer article about young gay culture in Havana, and the secret parties are the best place to start.
Last visit, I'd tried going to one of the parties with another American, but we deemed the unlit location in a bad part of town too risky and turned around.
But this time, I had Damian--an experienced party-goer--as my guide into the world of young gay culture in Havana.
Here in Cuba, being gay is complicated to say the least. In the 70's, gay men were sent to re-education camps, because being gay was deemed counter-revolutionary. During the 80's, the AIDS epidemic in the States created further bigotry against gay people and culture in Cuba.
Today, while it's not illegal to be gay, what are illegal are gay parties.
Now try to stick with me for the logic here: The government won't sanction official gay clubs, so the gay community has been forced to create their own. What's technically illegal then is the organization of the parties themselves. Since the party planers charge an entrance fee to cover drinks/DJ/set up costs, they are earning money outside the system, even if they aren't making a profit. Since they're not an official business owned or taxed by the government, these parties are illegal.
Every week on Friday and Saturday, there are two different numbers you can call. And every week you ask one question: Where's the party? You get an address. Sometimes the address is familiar, a repeat location, and sometimes, it's new.
Usually the parties are on people's rooftops or in backyards, but last Friday the party was inside someone's home. They cleared out all the furniture from three rooms, put up a black light and started pumping some techno. And just like that, you have a gay party in Havana.
When we arrived, Damian was surprised that most of the people didn't look familiar to him.
"I've been away from the parties for 3 months, and it's already a different group. Plus it seems like there's a lot of straight people here. Usually young straight people come because they have gay friends, or they don't care. Sometimes it's straight couples looking for someone to experiment with."
About two thirds of the people at the party are men. A few dance, most hang out in groups, and some lean against the walls, checking other men out, or waiting to be checked out. The few lesbians I see seem to be in couples, or at least are more likely to be kissing or dancing with each other. The most common dance combination are gay men dancing with women (straight or gay I'm not sure). It seems to me the gays and lesbians don't interact at the club too much. Damian says that's because they don't like each other.
"We don't have different clubs, so the gays and dykes have to tolerate each other. We have to be in the same space. Is that a bad word in English to use, dyke?"
Damian points to one couple dancing. The girl has long hair and a little black dress on, which Damian deems as a sign that she's straight and dancing with her boyfriend. He guesses they are looking for someone to experiment with. 5 minutes later he corrects himself that the man she was dancing with is not her boyfriend.
"Oh he's gay. He just checked me out."
Damian also points out the two 'modern' guys in the corner, of which he says there are always a few. The 'modern' guys are cute and dressed with an unusually fashionable sensibility. Prostitutes, Damian says. Not looking for clients here of course--no rich foreign men are at this party. They just came to have fun.
I ask Damian if he ever meets anyone worth dating at these parties.
"Oh yes, I have, sometimes great people. I never go up to them, I'm too shy. Usually how it works is if you like someone, you send your friend. He says 'My friend thinks you're cute', or they send a friend over to you to do the same. Sometimes if you make enough eye contact with the other person and one of you is less shy, they might come over directly and ask your name. But I never could do that."
The innocence of sending a friend over to a guy with a message reminds me of how things used to work in middle school. The idea of it is charming, especially compared to the straight club culture here, which tends to consist of men aggressively pursuing women. I ask Damian why he thinks it might be different at the gay parties.
"I think a lot of it has to do with our own shyness, our own shame. People are more afraid of being rejected."
Damian is interrupted by the first friend he recognizes, who introduces Damian to his boyfriend. After he goes back to dancing, Damian looks at me slyly.
"We used to have a thing. Well, not really, I liked him and he liked me, but he told me he couldn't get involved with me because he works with my mom. My mom is sort of conservative, and for him he couldn't date me if he worked with her."
I ask Damian how his mom reacted when he told her he was gay at 18.
"She wasn't angry, but she didn't really want to talk about it either. She doesn't really ask me about boyfriends. The exception was the love of my life, who lives in Germany. She met him when he visited and she loved him. He even stayed in my room with me in the house. But that's the only boyfriend she's ever met".
We go and dance for awhile to the techno beats, which always feel spastic to me in a country where the national rhythm is so much smoother. The room where people dance is hot, crowded and hardly ventilated. I ask Damian if I can go get some air outside and come back in.
"No they don't like people waiting outside on the corner, it could tip off the party. I always ask them to explain to me, why can't I be on the corner a minute? They say 'You know why'. I say 'No I don't know why, explain it to me'. They say ' You know why, you're gay'. I want them to explain their fear. Because that is the real power the government has. They have people believing what they're doing is wrong. That it's something to be ashamed of. That's the real power."
Less than an hour later, we call it a night and head home.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Night with Paulo
Jose and I joined our friend/spiritual guru 'Paulo' for another night of guaranteed subversive conversation and good vibes.
Paulo had been sick with a parasite for the past couple weeks, so we hadn't seen him since my arrival. He'd shaved off his Dali-esque mustache and looked a little weak from the illness. Jose and I had just gone to the local market and bought enough produce to last a family of 4 around a week. The total cost of groceries was around 7 dollars.
When we arrived at Paulo's studio, he dropped some homeopathic medicine on his tongue.
--"They have homeopathic medicine here?"
--"No it's from a friend, sort of illegal. To cure me from the antibiotics I took for the parasite."
When Paulo started to cook us dinner, he asked if we liked brown rice. I got excited and asked where he finds it in Cuba. That got a similar response.
--"From a friend, who practices a macrobiotic diet. It's hard to come by, sort of out of the mainstream."
Illegal brown rice?
Paulo cooked in his Japanese-style kitchen that only fits one person, and more or less rejected our attempts to help him.
--"You brought the food! This is going to help cure me!"
He slipped Jose a few bucks to get a couple beers for us and cut up the pineapple so that we wouldn't be hungry while the beans were cooking--(usually a 2-3 hour process). The beer and pineapple turned out to be a great combination. Mixed together, it tastes like Summer wrapping around your tongue and giving it a tight squeeze. 'Hey, remember me?', Summer asks. 'How could I forget?' you lie, so as not to hurt the season's feelings.
When we finally ate dinner, the only way I can describe the meal is ' Algo Que Alimento'. That phrase is used a lot here, and it literally means something that feeds you, provides nourishment. But the expression for me has always had an emotional connotation.
To feel truly nourished here is something I don't take for granted. Certain nights, certain people, certain foods, se alimentan. This was one of those nights, one of those meals.
Later, when we got to talking, I asked Paulo if I could record our conversation. I was nervous to ask, but also desperate for the chance to be able to decode later all the things I miss in the moment because of the language barrier. At first, Paulo was taken aback, and I thought he might even be offended. I offered to put it away, saying it was a silly idea. But then he smiled, almost excited.
--"No, no. I have nothing against it. It's just, I've never thought of it before. That's what a piece [work of art] is. A piece is to record a moment, the moment in which we exist."
He paused and went on.
-"I believe that to make art is to begin to fall. It's the first step to be unfaithful. Really, it's like going low is the first step, the first hole in the moment. But now to do it is to abandon yourself."
Paulo has a way with words where they make complete sense only in the moment in which you're experiencing his expression of them. We kept talking about art for awhile, and Paulo argued that no artist is better than any other. I asked him how he critiques the students in class if that's the case.
--"It's an art too--to be a professor. I'm not looking for anything in particular. And yet, yes, I am looking for something in particular. It's inexpressible. It's the mystery of things. It's no aesthetic, it isn't any systemic idea of 'this is how you should make a work of art'. I don't have the slightest idea how to make a 'work of art', how should I tell them what to do?"
We all laugh when he adds that sometimes, he just comes to class and sleeps. Jose nods that it's true, but still, they always discuss the work after studio ends.
The conversation eventually turns to El Moro, the old Spanish fort that for all three of us has come to signify Cuba. More than Cuba, it is a magical space, or as Paulo said, 'A place of peace after the war'.
Talking about El Moro gives Paulo an idea for how he'll end the series he's been working on about comings and goings into Havana. He'll paint an aerial view of the city , with El Moro at the center. He gets excited and starts to sketch. It's a playful map, with a big airplane, and landmarks like the Malecon, and his house. I joke it's like my sense of space in Cuba, a handful of places I know how to get to on my own, a handful of places that center me. Paulo jokes we should add Jose's house to the map.
After he sketches, he pauses and continues speaking as if he left off in the middle of a sentence.
--"But what I like too is how to enter and leave. How one enters Havana alone, like a visit to someone's house, and when they launch away--it's like the buses, the cars--like time, bored by time..."
And then the tourists arrive, dressed as if they're on safari. And their guides, who speak any kind of shit, which they pay to listen to. And the women in the street, dressed up for the tourists in white dresses, with huge cigars in their mouths, and flowers in their hair. And they hold a little doll--a tragicomic doll really, a monument to the pain, the lack of hope, but also the strength of saying 'Yes, I am here, I am alive'.
I know what Paulo is referring to and it makes me cringe. The women and men dressed up in Habana Vieja, posing for photographs as walking Cuban stereotypes; the easiest way to get your wrinkled-Cuban-with-a-cigar shot to bring back home. Maybe they'll even dance for you.
I suggest to Paulo that perhaps the tourists know its a costume, an act, and that's why they're so happy to have found the cliche they came looking for. That's why they know they should pay the performer. And to me, that's what makes me sick, the form of prostitution that takes place everyday in the central square. I add that I often feel guilty, because I too am a tourist here, someone who came looking for some sort of answer in Cuba.
Paulo surprises me with what he says next.
--"I believe I'm also a tourist here. I arrived a little earlier, nothing more. Here I am a tourist. I can't tell you I am Havana, or that I depend on Havana, or that I'm more 'Habanero' than you...This is equally your country, please. That doesn't exist. When I visited Italy, I felt it was mine, absolutely mine. If it's not mine, then whose is it? For who else could it be? The same, Cuba is yours--whose else's could it be?"
I mumble that I don't see how it's mine if I can't even fully speak it's language.
--"How many languages are spoken in Cuba that I don't understand? I would like to, I don't know, play the piano. That's a language I don't speak, but it's a language spoken here in Cuba. When I listen to Germans speak, how do I understand what they are saying without understanding the words? It's another level of communication. Do you understand?"
Do I! It's only how I get through most of my interactions here everyday. It's the way I'm understanding him in this very moment. He goes on.
-"This [Cuba] is a system in which people establish different forms of living. And the tourist has something great to give. He's saying: this isn't that serious, it can be superficial too. It can be a happy journey. People say 'I'm Habanero, or 'I'm white' or 'I'm from Vedado', or 'I'm living under the conditions of socialism'. This has no meaning. It is a discourse that traps...
And that is very important. There are many people here who believe they are victims of socialism, under the hand of Fidel. Lies! That man doesn't direct anything in your life, no system mandates anything in your life, no city. Liberty is to feel you are free. It is to know that those thoughts are not on top of you."
I try to argue with Paulo that surely he sees the way in which society can at least make life harder on people, how it can attempt to limit them. He sticks to his original point, that that control doesn't really exist.
He starts to sew, and mentions to Jose that he needs to get another light for the studio. Jose says he knows someone who sells gallery lights and Paulo asks him to look into it, and ask how much it costs, because he thinks they're probably too expensive.
He puts a few more homeopathic-black-market-drops into his throat. I think about all the things in his life--from weed to medicine to brown rice--that he's deliberately gone outside the system for.
And then I think about the reality, which is that adding another light to his apartment might be too expensive, and since he doesn't steal, that make Paulo no ordinary anarchist.
Paulo will find a way to get a light, and he'll even make it beautiful. He'll keep cooking brown rice, taking chinese herbs and smoking the thinnest joints on the planet. He'll continue to live his life as much as he can without thinking about government or even societal structures. He'll play outside the rules, but never recklessly. Which means there's something to lose, some societal contract Paulo signs, maybe without admitting it to himself.
I can't help feeling that Paulo is like a very deliberately cooked meal. He's made his own recipe and assembled the rarest ingredients. He is the mixture, but the kitchen still belongs to Cuba. And that's why the end result is so unique. It can only be described as Algo que Alimento.
Paulo had been sick with a parasite for the past couple weeks, so we hadn't seen him since my arrival. He'd shaved off his Dali-esque mustache and looked a little weak from the illness. Jose and I had just gone to the local market and bought enough produce to last a family of 4 around a week. The total cost of groceries was around 7 dollars.
When we arrived at Paulo's studio, he dropped some homeopathic medicine on his tongue.
--"They have homeopathic medicine here?"
--"No it's from a friend, sort of illegal. To cure me from the antibiotics I took for the parasite."
When Paulo started to cook us dinner, he asked if we liked brown rice. I got excited and asked where he finds it in Cuba. That got a similar response.
--"From a friend, who practices a macrobiotic diet. It's hard to come by, sort of out of the mainstream."
Illegal brown rice?
Paulo cooked in his Japanese-style kitchen that only fits one person, and more or less rejected our attempts to help him.
--"You brought the food! This is going to help cure me!"
He slipped Jose a few bucks to get a couple beers for us and cut up the pineapple so that we wouldn't be hungry while the beans were cooking--(usually a 2-3 hour process). The beer and pineapple turned out to be a great combination. Mixed together, it tastes like Summer wrapping around your tongue and giving it a tight squeeze. 'Hey, remember me?', Summer asks. 'How could I forget?' you lie, so as not to hurt the season's feelings.
When we finally ate dinner, the only way I can describe the meal is ' Algo Que Alimento'. That phrase is used a lot here, and it literally means something that feeds you, provides nourishment. But the expression for me has always had an emotional connotation.
To feel truly nourished here is something I don't take for granted. Certain nights, certain people, certain foods, se alimentan. This was one of those nights, one of those meals.
Later, when we got to talking, I asked Paulo if I could record our conversation. I was nervous to ask, but also desperate for the chance to be able to decode later all the things I miss in the moment because of the language barrier. At first, Paulo was taken aback, and I thought he might even be offended. I offered to put it away, saying it was a silly idea. But then he smiled, almost excited.
--"No, no. I have nothing against it. It's just, I've never thought of it before. That's what a piece [work of art] is. A piece is to record a moment, the moment in which we exist."
He paused and went on.
-"I believe that to make art is to begin to fall. It's the first step to be unfaithful. Really, it's like going low is the first step, the first hole in the moment. But now to do it is to abandon yourself."
Paulo has a way with words where they make complete sense only in the moment in which you're experiencing his expression of them. We kept talking about art for awhile, and Paulo argued that no artist is better than any other. I asked him how he critiques the students in class if that's the case.
--"It's an art too--to be a professor. I'm not looking for anything in particular. And yet, yes, I am looking for something in particular. It's inexpressible. It's the mystery of things. It's no aesthetic, it isn't any systemic idea of 'this is how you should make a work of art'. I don't have the slightest idea how to make a 'work of art', how should I tell them what to do?"
We all laugh when he adds that sometimes, he just comes to class and sleeps. Jose nods that it's true, but still, they always discuss the work after studio ends.
The conversation eventually turns to El Moro, the old Spanish fort that for all three of us has come to signify Cuba. More than Cuba, it is a magical space, or as Paulo said, 'A place of peace after the war'.
Talking about El Moro gives Paulo an idea for how he'll end the series he's been working on about comings and goings into Havana. He'll paint an aerial view of the city , with El Moro at the center. He gets excited and starts to sketch. It's a playful map, with a big airplane, and landmarks like the Malecon, and his house. I joke it's like my sense of space in Cuba, a handful of places I know how to get to on my own, a handful of places that center me. Paulo jokes we should add Jose's house to the map.
After he sketches, he pauses and continues speaking as if he left off in the middle of a sentence.
--"But what I like too is how to enter and leave. How one enters Havana alone, like a visit to someone's house, and when they launch away--it's like the buses, the cars--like time, bored by time..."
And then the tourists arrive, dressed as if they're on safari. And their guides, who speak any kind of shit, which they pay to listen to. And the women in the street, dressed up for the tourists in white dresses, with huge cigars in their mouths, and flowers in their hair. And they hold a little doll--a tragicomic doll really, a monument to the pain, the lack of hope, but also the strength of saying 'Yes, I am here, I am alive'.
I know what Paulo is referring to and it makes me cringe. The women and men dressed up in Habana Vieja, posing for photographs as walking Cuban stereotypes; the easiest way to get your wrinkled-Cuban-with-a-cigar shot to bring back home. Maybe they'll even dance for you.
I suggest to Paulo that perhaps the tourists know its a costume, an act, and that's why they're so happy to have found the cliche they came looking for. That's why they know they should pay the performer. And to me, that's what makes me sick, the form of prostitution that takes place everyday in the central square. I add that I often feel guilty, because I too am a tourist here, someone who came looking for some sort of answer in Cuba.
Paulo surprises me with what he says next.
--"I believe I'm also a tourist here. I arrived a little earlier, nothing more. Here I am a tourist. I can't tell you I am Havana, or that I depend on Havana, or that I'm more 'Habanero' than you...This is equally your country, please. That doesn't exist. When I visited Italy, I felt it was mine, absolutely mine. If it's not mine, then whose is it? For who else could it be? The same, Cuba is yours--whose else's could it be?"
I mumble that I don't see how it's mine if I can't even fully speak it's language.
--"How many languages are spoken in Cuba that I don't understand? I would like to, I don't know, play the piano. That's a language I don't speak, but it's a language spoken here in Cuba. When I listen to Germans speak, how do I understand what they are saying without understanding the words? It's another level of communication. Do you understand?"
Do I! It's only how I get through most of my interactions here everyday. It's the way I'm understanding him in this very moment. He goes on.
-"This [Cuba] is a system in which people establish different forms of living. And the tourist has something great to give. He's saying: this isn't that serious, it can be superficial too. It can be a happy journey. People say 'I'm Habanero, or 'I'm white' or 'I'm from Vedado', or 'I'm living under the conditions of socialism'. This has no meaning. It is a discourse that traps...
And that is very important. There are many people here who believe they are victims of socialism, under the hand of Fidel. Lies! That man doesn't direct anything in your life, no system mandates anything in your life, no city. Liberty is to feel you are free. It is to know that those thoughts are not on top of you."
I try to argue with Paulo that surely he sees the way in which society can at least make life harder on people, how it can attempt to limit them. He sticks to his original point, that that control doesn't really exist.
He starts to sew, and mentions to Jose that he needs to get another light for the studio. Jose says he knows someone who sells gallery lights and Paulo asks him to look into it, and ask how much it costs, because he thinks they're probably too expensive.
He puts a few more homeopathic-black-market-drops into his throat. I think about all the things in his life--from weed to medicine to brown rice--that he's deliberately gone outside the system for.
And then I think about the reality, which is that adding another light to his apartment might be too expensive, and since he doesn't steal, that make Paulo no ordinary anarchist.
Paulo will find a way to get a light, and he'll even make it beautiful. He'll keep cooking brown rice, taking chinese herbs and smoking the thinnest joints on the planet. He'll continue to live his life as much as he can without thinking about government or even societal structures. He'll play outside the rules, but never recklessly. Which means there's something to lose, some societal contract Paulo signs, maybe without admitting it to himself.
I can't help feeling that Paulo is like a very deliberately cooked meal. He's made his own recipe and assembled the rarest ingredients. He is the mixture, but the kitchen still belongs to Cuba. And that's why the end result is so unique. It can only be described as Algo que Alimento.
Jose's Childhood
The other night I asked Jose to tell me about his childhood.
Jose is 6 months younger than me, meaning he grew up during Cuba's 'Special Period', which was the worst post-revolutionary economic period in the country's history. After the Iron Curtain fell, Cuba nearly went right down with it. The economic support Cuba had been relying upon from Russia was pulled out from under them, and what was left was a severely dysfunctional economic system that is still struggling to function today.
During the Special Period, many people were literally starving, and people tell me the overall mood was similar to what you might imagine The Great Depression was like.
I asked Jose if he remembers that time, when there were rolling blackouts every day, and food was scarce.
"Sure, I mean I have some memories of the lights being shut off...but in general, being a kid was the best way to pass through that period. For adults it was harder, they suffered more...for me, put a plate of some eggs and rice in front of me and it was good. For me it was the same, I enjoyed my childhood."
Jose maintains that he has only fond memories of his childhood, that it was nothing traumatic. I noticed that he always reiterated that point after telling me a sad story. Most of Jose's childhood memories have to do with his family. He speaks a lot about his father, who divorced his mom when he was 6 months old.
"I remember sometimes visiting my dad at his house and returning crying because I felt so bad for him. He had no job, he didn't seem to have anyone..."
Still, Jose admits he never had a good relationship with his father.
"He was never affectionate with me. I never remember going to the beach with him, or the park. Very few times I went out with him. He was traumatized because his first wife, his true love, died before I was born. And also because that's just his character--dry, cold. It's different with my older brother because he's the son of the woman who died. So he feels badly for him..."
"My mom tells this story that my dad would never come to pick me up at kindergarden. One time, he had a girlfriend with a kid in my class and he came to pick up that kid with her. My mom says he didn't say hi to me or anything and then my parents got in a fight right there. My mom asked him, 'Why can you pick up this boy but not your own son?'"
"Now I think he feels guilty. He helps me in certain ways, giving me space to work, to paint, helping me with money sometimes. I don't feel bad about it though, it's his internal issues, and I don't feel like they affected me. My mom was always so much of a mom. I never felt the need to have anyone else occupying that space. Really, I didn't."
Jose also remembers his grandmother fondly.
"My mother was like the Pope, and my grandmother was like God. My grandmother had a strong character, she would say, 'you have to do this', or you don't eat. But she would surprise me too. Like one time a boy threw a rock at a neighbor's roof and it broke a part of it. I was afraid she might think it was me, but instead she said, come on, let's go inside so they know it wasn't us. And then, when the angry neighbor came outside, she pretended not to know anything about it. She was staring at the ceiling, all innocent, like a kid. But yes, sometimes she could be violent with me."
Jose's grandmother left for the States when he was 13.
"I felt guilty later because I didn't want to go to the airport to say goodbye. I don't know why I didn't want to go. After that, I would dream of my grandmother every night. I would dream that she was still at her house. And I would pass by and there she would be on the patio, getting fresh air, sitting in her chair. And I'd wake up crying."
A few years before his grandmother and aunt left for the States, his mom started getting involved with Nicholas. NIcholas was Jose's stepfather for awhile, and still enters and exits the family's life every 6 months or so. Nicholas left for the States a few years back, but continues to support Jose's mom and the son he had with her. He exists in a sort of grey area: their only lifeline, but no father figure. He's a harsh man, who's hard on Jose and often reminds him that being an artist will never make him any money, especially in the States. In the month I've been here, Nicholas has been visiting Cuba as well, but I've never seen him in the house.
Still, Jose remembers Nicholas's arrival when he was 8-years-old fondly. They moved to Guanabacoa, a neighboring municipality where Nicholas is from.
"It was good, I didn't know anyone and got to meet new people, relate more with nature, animals. I was 8, so it was a great process of discovery. There were always parties, lots of people on the weekends. I fell in love for the first time too. With a set of fraternal twins. I fell in love with both of them, but I was never with either of them. I always fell in love a lot."
Jose's way of looking at the world remains mostly positive. As long as there are friends around him and women to fall in love with, he doesn't see the world as a bad place. In a few years, his mom and younger brother will leave for the States. Jose believes he'll be able to leave too, perhaps through his art. He'd like to travel the world, live abroad a few years. But Cuba, he maintains, will always be his home.
Jose is 6 months younger than me, meaning he grew up during Cuba's 'Special Period', which was the worst post-revolutionary economic period in the country's history. After the Iron Curtain fell, Cuba nearly went right down with it. The economic support Cuba had been relying upon from Russia was pulled out from under them, and what was left was a severely dysfunctional economic system that is still struggling to function today.
During the Special Period, many people were literally starving, and people tell me the overall mood was similar to what you might imagine The Great Depression was like.
I asked Jose if he remembers that time, when there were rolling blackouts every day, and food was scarce.
"Sure, I mean I have some memories of the lights being shut off...but in general, being a kid was the best way to pass through that period. For adults it was harder, they suffered more...for me, put a plate of some eggs and rice in front of me and it was good. For me it was the same, I enjoyed my childhood."
Jose maintains that he has only fond memories of his childhood, that it was nothing traumatic. I noticed that he always reiterated that point after telling me a sad story. Most of Jose's childhood memories have to do with his family. He speaks a lot about his father, who divorced his mom when he was 6 months old.
"I remember sometimes visiting my dad at his house and returning crying because I felt so bad for him. He had no job, he didn't seem to have anyone..."
Still, Jose admits he never had a good relationship with his father.
"He was never affectionate with me. I never remember going to the beach with him, or the park. Very few times I went out with him. He was traumatized because his first wife, his true love, died before I was born. And also because that's just his character--dry, cold. It's different with my older brother because he's the son of the woman who died. So he feels badly for him..."
"My mom tells this story that my dad would never come to pick me up at kindergarden. One time, he had a girlfriend with a kid in my class and he came to pick up that kid with her. My mom says he didn't say hi to me or anything and then my parents got in a fight right there. My mom asked him, 'Why can you pick up this boy but not your own son?'"
"Now I think he feels guilty. He helps me in certain ways, giving me space to work, to paint, helping me with money sometimes. I don't feel bad about it though, it's his internal issues, and I don't feel like they affected me. My mom was always so much of a mom. I never felt the need to have anyone else occupying that space. Really, I didn't."
Jose also remembers his grandmother fondly.
"My mother was like the Pope, and my grandmother was like God. My grandmother had a strong character, she would say, 'you have to do this', or you don't eat. But she would surprise me too. Like one time a boy threw a rock at a neighbor's roof and it broke a part of it. I was afraid she might think it was me, but instead she said, come on, let's go inside so they know it wasn't us. And then, when the angry neighbor came outside, she pretended not to know anything about it. She was staring at the ceiling, all innocent, like a kid. But yes, sometimes she could be violent with me."
Jose's grandmother left for the States when he was 13.
"I felt guilty later because I didn't want to go to the airport to say goodbye. I don't know why I didn't want to go. After that, I would dream of my grandmother every night. I would dream that she was still at her house. And I would pass by and there she would be on the patio, getting fresh air, sitting in her chair. And I'd wake up crying."
A few years before his grandmother and aunt left for the States, his mom started getting involved with Nicholas. NIcholas was Jose's stepfather for awhile, and still enters and exits the family's life every 6 months or so. Nicholas left for the States a few years back, but continues to support Jose's mom and the son he had with her. He exists in a sort of grey area: their only lifeline, but no father figure. He's a harsh man, who's hard on Jose and often reminds him that being an artist will never make him any money, especially in the States. In the month I've been here, Nicholas has been visiting Cuba as well, but I've never seen him in the house.
Still, Jose remembers Nicholas's arrival when he was 8-years-old fondly. They moved to Guanabacoa, a neighboring municipality where Nicholas is from.
"It was good, I didn't know anyone and got to meet new people, relate more with nature, animals. I was 8, so it was a great process of discovery. There were always parties, lots of people on the weekends. I fell in love for the first time too. With a set of fraternal twins. I fell in love with both of them, but I was never with either of them. I always fell in love a lot."
Jose's way of looking at the world remains mostly positive. As long as there are friends around him and women to fall in love with, he doesn't see the world as a bad place. In a few years, his mom and younger brother will leave for the States. Jose believes he'll be able to leave too, perhaps through his art. He'd like to travel the world, live abroad a few years. But Cuba, he maintains, will always be his home.
The Ways of the GuaGua
considerable amount of my time in Cuba has been spent on the bus. I'd guess an average of 2-3 hours per day. Spending all that time either squashed (or lucky, with a seat!) has taught me a few things about the does and don'ts of riding public transit in a city where few things are private. I thought I'd share a few lessons I've learned along the way should you ever find yourself riding a guagua.
1. Before you Board
-When you get to a bus stop, sometimes you'll be expected to ask the question 'El Ultimo?'. That means last, and what you're asking is who you're supposed to stand behind in line when the bus arrives. At some bus stops no one asks for El Ultimo--but at others it is positively rude not to ask. I've yet to crack the code completely, but I think asking vs. not asking has something to do with how busy the stop is, or if it's the first stop the bus makes.
-Needless to say, never, ever cut anyone if there's an established order. I'm pretty sure that level of betrayal is the most un-comradey thing you can do here. That said, if no one called their place, it's a free for all, and get ready to get pushed into the bus or left on the curb.
2. Marking Your Territory
-Do not, as I did once, try to sneak an American nickel in the kiosk because you forgot Cuban change. The bus fare is our equivalent of about 4 cents, but you will get caught. Most people don't have appropriate fare and overpay, some don't pay at all. Just don't try to sneak anything past the driver, who apparently has superhuman powers of sight.
-Once you're on, (this is assuming you can move) push yourself towards the back of the bus, even though that's where you won't want to go. The middle of the bus has the least air and fewest opportunities to score a seat. But move on back or be moved-- you're making room for people to cram their way in on the next stop. Kind of like the circle of life, right? Only a lot more body odor.
3. Mind your Manners
-Obviously pregnant women, kids, disabled and the elderly get seat preference. But if an old man offers you his seat, don't try to argue with him, he's being chivalrous. I've realized it hurts their feelings.
-If you're standing with a bag and someone takes it from you, they're not stealing, they're actually holding your bag for you in their lap. This one is especially useful to know before hand. On my first visit to Cuba, I politely rejected one guy's offer to hold my bag (also known as my bag containing a $1000 camera) and I swear, his look of hurt and confusion still haunts me.
-If someone accidentally hits you in the face and apologizes for it, be sure to tell them loudly enough that it's OK. If you try to mumble 'esta bien', you may end up getting slapped on the ass by an elderly lady who wants to make sure you heard her apology. That might have been one I learned today...
4. Expect the Unexpected
-The bus driver reserves the right to stop for a sandwich and juice mid-journey, as I learned last week. He also reserves the right to occasionally skip stops. But if he doesn't 'abra atras' to let people out, he will have 100 Cubans yelling at him, which is no small force to reckon with. That helps keep his power in check.
-On the fun side of unexpected, you may find yourself on a party bus, which are especially popular on weekends. Those are buses with neon lights and club music pumping on the inside. Don't be shocked when little girl and old lady alike start to sing and grind along to the less than pristine lyrics.
And above all else, remember: Es Cuba, so you might as well try to relax and enjoy the crazy ride.
1. Before you Board
-When you get to a bus stop, sometimes you'll be expected to ask the question 'El Ultimo?'. That means last, and what you're asking is who you're supposed to stand behind in line when the bus arrives. At some bus stops no one asks for El Ultimo--but at others it is positively rude not to ask. I've yet to crack the code completely, but I think asking vs. not asking has something to do with how busy the stop is, or if it's the first stop the bus makes.
-Needless to say, never, ever cut anyone if there's an established order. I'm pretty sure that level of betrayal is the most un-comradey thing you can do here. That said, if no one called their place, it's a free for all, and get ready to get pushed into the bus or left on the curb.
2. Marking Your Territory
-Do not, as I did once, try to sneak an American nickel in the kiosk because you forgot Cuban change. The bus fare is our equivalent of about 4 cents, but you will get caught. Most people don't have appropriate fare and overpay, some don't pay at all. Just don't try to sneak anything past the driver, who apparently has superhuman powers of sight.
-Once you're on, (this is assuming you can move) push yourself towards the back of the bus, even though that's where you won't want to go. The middle of the bus has the least air and fewest opportunities to score a seat. But move on back or be moved-- you're making room for people to cram their way in on the next stop. Kind of like the circle of life, right? Only a lot more body odor.
3. Mind your Manners
-Obviously pregnant women, kids, disabled and the elderly get seat preference. But if an old man offers you his seat, don't try to argue with him, he's being chivalrous. I've realized it hurts their feelings.
-If you're standing with a bag and someone takes it from you, they're not stealing, they're actually holding your bag for you in their lap. This one is especially useful to know before hand. On my first visit to Cuba, I politely rejected one guy's offer to hold my bag (also known as my bag containing a $1000 camera) and I swear, his look of hurt and confusion still haunts me.
-If someone accidentally hits you in the face and apologizes for it, be sure to tell them loudly enough that it's OK. If you try to mumble 'esta bien', you may end up getting slapped on the ass by an elderly lady who wants to make sure you heard her apology. That might have been one I learned today...
4. Expect the Unexpected
-The bus driver reserves the right to stop for a sandwich and juice mid-journey, as I learned last week. He also reserves the right to occasionally skip stops. But if he doesn't 'abra atras' to let people out, he will have 100 Cubans yelling at him, which is no small force to reckon with. That helps keep his power in check.
-On the fun side of unexpected, you may find yourself on a party bus, which are especially popular on weekends. Those are buses with neon lights and club music pumping on the inside. Don't be shocked when little girl and old lady alike start to sing and grind along to the less than pristine lyrics.
And above all else, remember: Es Cuba, so you might as well try to relax and enjoy the crazy ride.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Cohima
Yesterday we journeyed by bus ride to Cohima, Hemingway's municipality of choice. We went to visit Jose's friend Rafael, who will be moving to the States in January.
To find Rafael, we went to Lily's house. Lily is Rafael's girlfriend of three years. They're neighbors and sleep at each other's houses every night. Lily is half Russian, her Mom came here in the 80's, met a Cuban man, and never left.
When we arrive, House is on TV. The illness this episode is a man who can only say rude things, or maybe, who can only say what's actually on his mind.
Rafael and Jose talk for a long time about Jose's new idea for a project to collect wood and carve them as spears. He wants to crisscross the spears into a sort of blockade, filling the gallery with the installation. The space he has in mind has two separate doors from which he wants people to be able to enter and then exit out of. The point would be that they can't cross through the blockade. The idea strikes me as decently interesting, though it's hard for me to imagine discussing the logistics of it as passionately as they did for an hour straight.
After their debate about spearheads and House are over, we wait another hour for Lily to 'get ready' to go out to the ravine. In all, she keep us waiting an hour and a half, which to me seems incredibly rude. I tell this to Jose when we're alone.
-Yea, she's malcreada, but you have your things too, like not eating the food her mom offered.
This makes me both angry and embarrassed, since I knew it was kind of an insult that I couldn't finish my cracker with pink horrible mayonnaise, but I thought it at least counted for something that I drank the juice she offered. To me, not being able to force myself to eat all the things Cubans like to snack on seems like protecting my health, whereas making people wait an hour and a half without explanation just seems bratty. Yet another cultural difference.
Finally, we make our way to the ravine after walking through a bunch of brush. Watch out for snakes, Rafa warns me, and as usual with Cuban men, it's hard to tell if he's teasing me or being serious. FInally we make it to a swap like area with lots of mud and mosquitos, branches and no water.
'Isn't it pretty?' they ask me, and I lie through my teeth, yes. Personally, I'd rather go up to the rock and look at the sunset, or the ocean, or really anything else. I know that to them, this clearing seems more interesting because it's a different sort of landscape than they're used to. It's damp, dark and mysterious. To me, it's the type of hole I might find after taking a wrong turn at a park in Northern California.
Eventually we make our way back up to the rock, and vista I find beautiful. I get to share a Monte Cristo cigar with the group that Rafa's Dad gave him for our walk. Rafa's Dad sells cigars, and he tells me I'll be able to buy a box from him for 25 before I leave, which I know will please someone back home very much.
We sip on pear wine and our gifted cigar and look out at the landscape. Rafa asks me a bunch of questions about New York, where he wants to move after he works for a year in Miami.
--How do you get into Julliard? How much do you have to pay? Do you have to pay it right away? How much does a studio apartment cost? In Manhattan? IS the Bronx dangerous? What's New Jersey like? Ugly? Like Regla?
Rafa doesn't seem too phased by my somewhat discouraging answers. After all, he's about to embark on not just the adventure of a lifetime, but a new life. As much as I have a grudge against Lily for being a prima donna, I have to wonder how she feels listening us talk. She remains mostly silent, chewing on the cigar. She's slipped the paper ring off of it, and put it on her finger. Later, when the topic turns to Cuba, she finally speaks.
--To me, Cuba is a museum.
We talk about the foreign perspective of Cuba, the way people eroticize it, like to think of it as a place frozen in time. When Lily says Cuba is a museum, she doesn't mean it fondly, romantically. Yet that's one of the main reasons people visit this Island. The fantasy: return to a simpler time, simpler place. While I never was so delusional as to believe that fully the first time around, part of this trip's harshness has been the further crumbling of that myth.
Rafa says that although he wants to see the world, live outside of Cuba, one day,he wants to come back here and build a house. Right here, he gestures towards the vista. Lily chimes in, saying what you can build a palace in Cuba with 30 thousand dollars-- two patios, two, maybe three bedrooms. You can tell they've talked about this dream house before.
I finally ask the question that's been one my mind all day. What will happen to them when Rafa leaves?
The answer is nonchalant. Rafa will leave, and he and Lily don't have a plan, they decided its better not to make some plan that might be broken. But because Lily has Russian citizenship too, they hope it will be easier for her to leave and for them to eventually get married, Allá.
Later, when I ask Jose what he thinks will happen, he says he's certain they'll make it, saying they have 'Un amor fuerte, un amor de verdad'. They're the most stable couple he knows.
I of course am not so sure, and feel a great sadness for Lily, upon leaving Cohima. I imagine that in a month, he'll be gone. Her neighbor, her lover, her best friend, the person she sleeps with every night. Suddenly, totally, utterly absent.
And if she decides to believe in their future, she'll have to wait. And wait.
And suddenly it occurs to me why she might have felt entitled to keep us waiting, to keep Rafa waiting. At the end of the day, for us, it was only an hour.
To find Rafael, we went to Lily's house. Lily is Rafael's girlfriend of three years. They're neighbors and sleep at each other's houses every night. Lily is half Russian, her Mom came here in the 80's, met a Cuban man, and never left.
When we arrive, House is on TV. The illness this episode is a man who can only say rude things, or maybe, who can only say what's actually on his mind.
Rafael and Jose talk for a long time about Jose's new idea for a project to collect wood and carve them as spears. He wants to crisscross the spears into a sort of blockade, filling the gallery with the installation. The space he has in mind has two separate doors from which he wants people to be able to enter and then exit out of. The point would be that they can't cross through the blockade. The idea strikes me as decently interesting, though it's hard for me to imagine discussing the logistics of it as passionately as they did for an hour straight.
After their debate about spearheads and House are over, we wait another hour for Lily to 'get ready' to go out to the ravine. In all, she keep us waiting an hour and a half, which to me seems incredibly rude. I tell this to Jose when we're alone.
-Yea, she's malcreada, but you have your things too, like not eating the food her mom offered.
This makes me both angry and embarrassed, since I knew it was kind of an insult that I couldn't finish my cracker with pink horrible mayonnaise, but I thought it at least counted for something that I drank the juice she offered. To me, not being able to force myself to eat all the things Cubans like to snack on seems like protecting my health, whereas making people wait an hour and a half without explanation just seems bratty. Yet another cultural difference.
Finally, we make our way to the ravine after walking through a bunch of brush. Watch out for snakes, Rafa warns me, and as usual with Cuban men, it's hard to tell if he's teasing me or being serious. FInally we make it to a swap like area with lots of mud and mosquitos, branches and no water.
'Isn't it pretty?' they ask me, and I lie through my teeth, yes. Personally, I'd rather go up to the rock and look at the sunset, or the ocean, or really anything else. I know that to them, this clearing seems more interesting because it's a different sort of landscape than they're used to. It's damp, dark and mysterious. To me, it's the type of hole I might find after taking a wrong turn at a park in Northern California.
Eventually we make our way back up to the rock, and vista I find beautiful. I get to share a Monte Cristo cigar with the group that Rafa's Dad gave him for our walk. Rafa's Dad sells cigars, and he tells me I'll be able to buy a box from him for 25 before I leave, which I know will please someone back home very much.
We sip on pear wine and our gifted cigar and look out at the landscape. Rafa asks me a bunch of questions about New York, where he wants to move after he works for a year in Miami.
--How do you get into Julliard? How much do you have to pay? Do you have to pay it right away? How much does a studio apartment cost? In Manhattan? IS the Bronx dangerous? What's New Jersey like? Ugly? Like Regla?
Rafa doesn't seem too phased by my somewhat discouraging answers. After all, he's about to embark on not just the adventure of a lifetime, but a new life. As much as I have a grudge against Lily for being a prima donna, I have to wonder how she feels listening us talk. She remains mostly silent, chewing on the cigar. She's slipped the paper ring off of it, and put it on her finger. Later, when the topic turns to Cuba, she finally speaks.
--To me, Cuba is a museum.
We talk about the foreign perspective of Cuba, the way people eroticize it, like to think of it as a place frozen in time. When Lily says Cuba is a museum, she doesn't mean it fondly, romantically. Yet that's one of the main reasons people visit this Island. The fantasy: return to a simpler time, simpler place. While I never was so delusional as to believe that fully the first time around, part of this trip's harshness has been the further crumbling of that myth.
Rafa says that although he wants to see the world, live outside of Cuba, one day,he wants to come back here and build a house. Right here, he gestures towards the vista. Lily chimes in, saying what you can build a palace in Cuba with 30 thousand dollars-- two patios, two, maybe three bedrooms. You can tell they've talked about this dream house before.
I finally ask the question that's been one my mind all day. What will happen to them when Rafa leaves?
The answer is nonchalant. Rafa will leave, and he and Lily don't have a plan, they decided its better not to make some plan that might be broken. But because Lily has Russian citizenship too, they hope it will be easier for her to leave and for them to eventually get married, Allá.
Later, when I ask Jose what he thinks will happen, he says he's certain they'll make it, saying they have 'Un amor fuerte, un amor de verdad'. They're the most stable couple he knows.
I of course am not so sure, and feel a great sadness for Lily, upon leaving Cohima. I imagine that in a month, he'll be gone. Her neighbor, her lover, her best friend, the person she sleeps with every night. Suddenly, totally, utterly absent.
And if she decides to believe in their future, she'll have to wait. And wait.
And suddenly it occurs to me why she might have felt entitled to keep us waiting, to keep Rafa waiting. At the end of the day, for us, it was only an hour.
Climbing out of the slump
Every travel slump needs a turning point, and I'm hoping mine happened 2 days ago at about 3 PM.
I spent the morning filled with frustration, playing out fantasies in my head of going home early. After some tough love from Paul over online chat telling me to pull myself together, I left the internet and wandered around, still feeling dazed from the disgrace of crying in a cheesy hotel lobby.
I decided I wanted an ice cream. So I walked around Vedado in search of the Extreme, (pronounced Extrem-AY) and found the standard response at each vendor. No hay. No hay. No hay.
I decided to wait for the bus home, but after half an hour, it didn't come.
So I walked to another bus stop heading towards Habana Vieja, where I can catch the ferry towards Jose's house. His mom was cooking me dinner that night, and though I had planned to go home first, I was already part of the way into the usually hour and a half journey, so I decided to keep going.
A couple things then happened to ease my slump, none of which probably seem very momentous. One, I found a store that had the Extrem-AY, and one should never underestimate the power of ice cream, especially in this country. It's the closest thing to the opium of the masses that can exist in a Communist country.
The second thing that happened was that I waited for a bus for nearly an hour. When the first P-5 came, so many people packed on it that the doors couldn't close. So I had to wait for the next one.
And instead of my usual American impatience, I felt something different. A sort of resignation started washing over me. That resignation is not exactly indifference and it certainly isn't happiness. But it is a sort of calm, a sort of embrace with the dysfunctional, the overcrowded, the illogical. I stopped torturing myself, asking 'Why is there still no bus?' 'Why is the bus so crowded at 3 PM that people have to wait an hour just to start their journey?' 'Why wouldn't a country where people can't buy cars not have a better bus system?'
Instead, I tried to remember times I'd waited for the bus in Oakland, or the subway in New York. I found a piece of cement to sit on and watched the little ants crawl over my shoes, I looked at the Winnie the Pooh shopping bag one woman used to carry groceries. I watched as one couple made fun of a chubby middle aged woman wearing a black mesh cutout shirt that showed her midriff.
And by the time the bus finally comes, you are not so much ready as you are resigned to the task at hand. You have to get over your claustrophobia and previous standards for oxygen and stuff yourself into that bus like its the last one you'll ever see. And just when you think you can't breathe, just as your face is smashed against some dude's back, and you can feel some woman's breasts smashed against your spine, and the doors won't close, and the bus won't move--something happens.
You feel the tiny woman behind you begin to laugh. As men push her to get further in the bus, and the doors try to close and she's in an even worse spot than you, the doors might close on her. And she can only laugh. Her little diaphragm shakes against your back, 'Ay!' she says between breaths, and it's contageous.
You manage to turn your head to the left so that you have enough air to start laughing too.
You laugh because that's all you can do in that situation. You laugh because, Ay, es Cuba. Because this is so uncomfortable and there's no air and people's most personal body parts are the only thing keeping you standing. You're trapped, but you're also not falling over.
The woman laughs and you laugh, and eventually, some people get off the bus and you can stand without being held up by the bodies of two other people. And eventually, you make it all the way to the back of the bus, and you even get a seat.
And finally, a few hours later, when you make it to Regla, you get a home cooked meal of Ropa Vieja, just like Mom makes, and you actually feel full, for once.
And that's it. That's enough to start climbing out of the slump and start seeing Cuba for what it is. Certainly not a paradise. Not even a vacation spot. But rather a place where sometimes, you can learn to laugh.
I spent the morning filled with frustration, playing out fantasies in my head of going home early. After some tough love from Paul over online chat telling me to pull myself together, I left the internet and wandered around, still feeling dazed from the disgrace of crying in a cheesy hotel lobby.
I decided I wanted an ice cream. So I walked around Vedado in search of the Extreme, (pronounced Extrem-AY) and found the standard response at each vendor. No hay. No hay. No hay.
I decided to wait for the bus home, but after half an hour, it didn't come.
So I walked to another bus stop heading towards Habana Vieja, where I can catch the ferry towards Jose's house. His mom was cooking me dinner that night, and though I had planned to go home first, I was already part of the way into the usually hour and a half journey, so I decided to keep going.
A couple things then happened to ease my slump, none of which probably seem very momentous. One, I found a store that had the Extrem-AY, and one should never underestimate the power of ice cream, especially in this country. It's the closest thing to the opium of the masses that can exist in a Communist country.
The second thing that happened was that I waited for a bus for nearly an hour. When the first P-5 came, so many people packed on it that the doors couldn't close. So I had to wait for the next one.
And instead of my usual American impatience, I felt something different. A sort of resignation started washing over me. That resignation is not exactly indifference and it certainly isn't happiness. But it is a sort of calm, a sort of embrace with the dysfunctional, the overcrowded, the illogical. I stopped torturing myself, asking 'Why is there still no bus?' 'Why is the bus so crowded at 3 PM that people have to wait an hour just to start their journey?' 'Why wouldn't a country where people can't buy cars not have a better bus system?'
Instead, I tried to remember times I'd waited for the bus in Oakland, or the subway in New York. I found a piece of cement to sit on and watched the little ants crawl over my shoes, I looked at the Winnie the Pooh shopping bag one woman used to carry groceries. I watched as one couple made fun of a chubby middle aged woman wearing a black mesh cutout shirt that showed her midriff.
And by the time the bus finally comes, you are not so much ready as you are resigned to the task at hand. You have to get over your claustrophobia and previous standards for oxygen and stuff yourself into that bus like its the last one you'll ever see. And just when you think you can't breathe, just as your face is smashed against some dude's back, and you can feel some woman's breasts smashed against your spine, and the doors won't close, and the bus won't move--something happens.
You feel the tiny woman behind you begin to laugh. As men push her to get further in the bus, and the doors try to close and she's in an even worse spot than you, the doors might close on her. And she can only laugh. Her little diaphragm shakes against your back, 'Ay!' she says between breaths, and it's contageous.
You manage to turn your head to the left so that you have enough air to start laughing too.
You laugh because that's all you can do in that situation. You laugh because, Ay, es Cuba. Because this is so uncomfortable and there's no air and people's most personal body parts are the only thing keeping you standing. You're trapped, but you're also not falling over.
The woman laughs and you laugh, and eventually, some people get off the bus and you can stand without being held up by the bodies of two other people. And eventually, you make it all the way to the back of the bus, and you even get a seat.
And finally, a few hours later, when you make it to Regla, you get a home cooked meal of Ropa Vieja, just like Mom makes, and you actually feel full, for once.
And that's it. That's enough to start climbing out of the slump and start seeing Cuba for what it is. Certainly not a paradise. Not even a vacation spot. But rather a place where sometimes, you can learn to laugh.
An Hour of Cuban TV
The night after my conversation with Mauricio about access to information to Cuba, I stumbled upon a documentary on Cuban TV produced by 'Zona Franca'. Zona Franca seemed to have a very Cuban political bent, but nothing in the ending credits led me to believe it was produced here.
The documentary was about the ownership of the media by corporations, and focused mainly on the corruption that exists in the US and Puerto Rico as a result. Mauricio had just been talking about his love for Amy Goodman of Democracy Now, and here she was, with Spanish subtitles, talking on Cuban TV.
Goodman described the way the police arrested her and other demonstrators outside the RNC, despite their right to demonstrate and their press passes. Goodman then goes on to say that the Youtube footage of that event is the reason rights were wronged.
--That's the power of the internet. Why we have to keep internet open and free. Open access for all.
Having just talking to Mauricio about the lack of open internet use in Cuba, the reason why the government here would play this documentary confuses me. Sure it had a strong anti-corporate and at times anti-American message, but it's overall point was that the media needs to be operated by and for the people. Certainly not by corporations, but not by the government either.
I have to wonder how the average Cuban perceived the documentary. To me, seeing Rufus Wainwright's 'Oh What a World' played to spliced footage of stocks and bonds, Bush, and yes, even Obama, was surreal to say the least. The documentary closed with a point from Ms. Democracy herself.
Goodman continued:
-Thomas Jefferson said, if he had to chose between no government or no free press, he'd chose no government. It is absolutely essential to have a free press.
Why would Cuba play a documentary quoting Jefferson, or democracy for that matter? Calling for a free media? In some ways its heartening to know things are not as censored as I thought. It seems that many radical messages can slip through the cracks, as long as there is an equally radical anti-corporate or anti-American message to counter-balance it.
After the documentary ended, I was curious to see what would follow it.
The next segment that came on Cuban TV was called 'Cuba, Que LInda Es!'. This week, the lucky town was Cienfuegos, and music played for 5 minutes to a sort of amateur tourist video. There were no words, just shots of people, walking on ordinary looking Cuban streets. Elevator music. Shot of statue of Jose Marti. More people, walking on the street. 5 minutes of this and 'Cuba, Que Linda Es!' is over.
The nightly news was next.
The first segment, not unusually, was about Venezuela. Chavez was giving a speech protesting the presence of US bases in Columbia.
Here in Cuba, Chavez has his own billboards. That's a high honor here, with the exception of Bush, who has billboards comparing him to Hitler. Here, Venezuelan news is Cuban news. The partnership between the countries is obviously more filled with brotherly love and hope than the awkward partnership between Cuba and China.
Next was a segment pulled from CNN en Espanol about the deficit in the US reaching a record high in October. What followed were 3 'local' segments, the first about a group of Cuban doctors on an aid mission in Bolivia, the next about a series of new street lamps in Cuba (from what I can gather a gift from the Chinese?) and third about the success of fumigation efforts against mosquitos in the country.
And that's it, there's your hour of Cuban TV. Weird by our standards to say the least, but not nearly so simple as state-run propaganda. I for one will be tuning in more often, if only to see what crazy movie slips through the cracks next.
The documentary was about the ownership of the media by corporations, and focused mainly on the corruption that exists in the US and Puerto Rico as a result. Mauricio had just been talking about his love for Amy Goodman of Democracy Now, and here she was, with Spanish subtitles, talking on Cuban TV.
Goodman described the way the police arrested her and other demonstrators outside the RNC, despite their right to demonstrate and their press passes. Goodman then goes on to say that the Youtube footage of that event is the reason rights were wronged.
--That's the power of the internet. Why we have to keep internet open and free. Open access for all.
Having just talking to Mauricio about the lack of open internet use in Cuba, the reason why the government here would play this documentary confuses me. Sure it had a strong anti-corporate and at times anti-American message, but it's overall point was that the media needs to be operated by and for the people. Certainly not by corporations, but not by the government either.
I have to wonder how the average Cuban perceived the documentary. To me, seeing Rufus Wainwright's 'Oh What a World' played to spliced footage of stocks and bonds, Bush, and yes, even Obama, was surreal to say the least. The documentary closed with a point from Ms. Democracy herself.
Goodman continued:
-Thomas Jefferson said, if he had to chose between no government or no free press, he'd chose no government. It is absolutely essential to have a free press.
Why would Cuba play a documentary quoting Jefferson, or democracy for that matter? Calling for a free media? In some ways its heartening to know things are not as censored as I thought. It seems that many radical messages can slip through the cracks, as long as there is an equally radical anti-corporate or anti-American message to counter-balance it.
After the documentary ended, I was curious to see what would follow it.
The next segment that came on Cuban TV was called 'Cuba, Que LInda Es!'. This week, the lucky town was Cienfuegos, and music played for 5 minutes to a sort of amateur tourist video. There were no words, just shots of people, walking on ordinary looking Cuban streets. Elevator music. Shot of statue of Jose Marti. More people, walking on the street. 5 minutes of this and 'Cuba, Que Linda Es!' is over.
The nightly news was next.
The first segment, not unusually, was about Venezuela. Chavez was giving a speech protesting the presence of US bases in Columbia.
Here in Cuba, Chavez has his own billboards. That's a high honor here, with the exception of Bush, who has billboards comparing him to Hitler. Here, Venezuelan news is Cuban news. The partnership between the countries is obviously more filled with brotherly love and hope than the awkward partnership between Cuba and China.
Next was a segment pulled from CNN en Espanol about the deficit in the US reaching a record high in October. What followed were 3 'local' segments, the first about a group of Cuban doctors on an aid mission in Bolivia, the next about a series of new street lamps in Cuba (from what I can gather a gift from the Chinese?) and third about the success of fumigation efforts against mosquitos in the country.
And that's it, there's your hour of Cuban TV. Weird by our standards to say the least, but not nearly so simple as state-run propaganda. I for one will be tuning in more often, if only to see what crazy movie slips through the cracks next.
The Right to Communicate
It was one of those days. One of those days where all you really want to do is talk to Mom. You don't feel like exploring the country, writing, or learning new Spanish verbs. You just want to talk to Mom.
For my generation, (at least in my country), communication is practically a human right. Sure, you may be a starving student, with outstanding loans, no health care and two jobs, but god damnnit, you have a cell phone and a Facebook account. And you can check it even if you yourself can't pay for wifi--at the local library, cafe or friend's house.
Here it's a different story. Although it's hard to get anyone to tell me exactly what the rules are, what seems clear is that to have an approved internet connection in your home, you need the government's permission and a job that merits the need for access. Of course, plenty of Cubans have found ways around this, getting black-market connections, which from what I can tell are extremely expensive and deliver only very slow and limited dial-up. One friend of mine is paying 20 dollars a month for a personal connection, which I believe only gives him access to email. 20 bucks is on the high end of the average salary per month here.
So using the internet in hotels, as expensive as it seems to me--(about 16 bucks for two hours)--is still an extreme privilege. So why did I feel so wronged, so infuriated when after an entire afternoon and night of trying, I still couldn't Skype with my mom?
Because to me, communication seems like a basic right--assuming I can pay for it.
It's in these moments, where I'm ready to curse this country for it's lack of bandwidth that I feel most 'American'--entitled, impatient and hungry for some 'real' food. The very technology I felt was suffocating me back home suddenly feels absolutely necessary now that I'm more or less without it.
Here, communication is not seen as a right. It's a privilege. When I returned home to my casa particular, I started a conversation with the owner, Mauricio, about access to information. Mauricio is a kind man who obviously likes to play by the rules. He documents every guest and payment meticulously and does everything by the book. But ten years ago, he tells me, leaning in, he used to get illegal satellite TV.
--I liked PBS the best, it was the most balanced. Fox news, I didn't bother with. But then, around the time the Iraq War was starting, watching CNN would make me upset. I saw how the propaganda was building, how there was going to be a war based on false evidence. I'd turn off the TV at night and feel nervous. That, along with the fact that I could have gotten in trouble, was the reason I stopped the satellite.
The idea that a Cuban, someone constantly surrounded by government propaganda, could actually feel sick watching our 24 hour news cycle, is certainly a damnation of our media. That said, someone watching the news here isn't accustomed to 'bad' news in the way we are. Bad news (at least as it occurs in Cuba) is never on the news, and a local segment is more likely about a new art exsibit than about politics. Still, Mauricio says he still gets the Washington Post and Democracy Now's newsletters through his email. That, he says, is how he stays informed.
It's hard for me to find Cubans who are willing to openly talk about their own country's journalistic shortcomings. I find most people I talk to are quick to criticize America, but I wonder if that criticism is an opportunity to also vent some of their frustrations about their own country. I'm always able to find people here with opinions about Obama, the US media and the global economy. What's hard is getting anyone to talk about Fidel, their media or Cuba's economy.
And I don't think it's that people are afraid, or at least not so afraid as we might imagine. After all, are these not the same Cubans risking jail time for internet and cable?
Maybe they're afraid, with reason, that I'll write down what they say. But the blank expression I tend to get when I ask people if they feel their media is censored continues to confuse me. I feel an eerie absence of understanding when I use terms like 'freedom of expression' to little recognition in such an educated county.
What I'm starting to realize is yes, Cubans want more rights. But those rights are not usually conceived of on a grand scale. Like the college student back home, rights here are understood in a more practical way. Here, the lack of access to and inequity of communication can be understood by who does or doesn't have access to the internet.
For me, this right was more or less taken for granted, until I was denied access to hear my mom's voice.
And when that happens, you'd be amazed how 'freedom of information' starts to seem more like an interesting concept than the pressing injustice in the room.
For my generation, (at least in my country), communication is practically a human right. Sure, you may be a starving student, with outstanding loans, no health care and two jobs, but god damnnit, you have a cell phone and a Facebook account. And you can check it even if you yourself can't pay for wifi--at the local library, cafe or friend's house.
Here it's a different story. Although it's hard to get anyone to tell me exactly what the rules are, what seems clear is that to have an approved internet connection in your home, you need the government's permission and a job that merits the need for access. Of course, plenty of Cubans have found ways around this, getting black-market connections, which from what I can tell are extremely expensive and deliver only very slow and limited dial-up. One friend of mine is paying 20 dollars a month for a personal connection, which I believe only gives him access to email. 20 bucks is on the high end of the average salary per month here.
So using the internet in hotels, as expensive as it seems to me--(about 16 bucks for two hours)--is still an extreme privilege. So why did I feel so wronged, so infuriated when after an entire afternoon and night of trying, I still couldn't Skype with my mom?
Because to me, communication seems like a basic right--assuming I can pay for it.
It's in these moments, where I'm ready to curse this country for it's lack of bandwidth that I feel most 'American'--entitled, impatient and hungry for some 'real' food. The very technology I felt was suffocating me back home suddenly feels absolutely necessary now that I'm more or less without it.
Here, communication is not seen as a right. It's a privilege. When I returned home to my casa particular, I started a conversation with the owner, Mauricio, about access to information. Mauricio is a kind man who obviously likes to play by the rules. He documents every guest and payment meticulously and does everything by the book. But ten years ago, he tells me, leaning in, he used to get illegal satellite TV.
--I liked PBS the best, it was the most balanced. Fox news, I didn't bother with. But then, around the time the Iraq War was starting, watching CNN would make me upset. I saw how the propaganda was building, how there was going to be a war based on false evidence. I'd turn off the TV at night and feel nervous. That, along with the fact that I could have gotten in trouble, was the reason I stopped the satellite.
The idea that a Cuban, someone constantly surrounded by government propaganda, could actually feel sick watching our 24 hour news cycle, is certainly a damnation of our media. That said, someone watching the news here isn't accustomed to 'bad' news in the way we are. Bad news (at least as it occurs in Cuba) is never on the news, and a local segment is more likely about a new art exsibit than about politics. Still, Mauricio says he still gets the Washington Post and Democracy Now's newsletters through his email. That, he says, is how he stays informed.
It's hard for me to find Cubans who are willing to openly talk about their own country's journalistic shortcomings. I find most people I talk to are quick to criticize America, but I wonder if that criticism is an opportunity to also vent some of their frustrations about their own country. I'm always able to find people here with opinions about Obama, the US media and the global economy. What's hard is getting anyone to talk about Fidel, their media or Cuba's economy.
And I don't think it's that people are afraid, or at least not so afraid as we might imagine. After all, are these not the same Cubans risking jail time for internet and cable?
Maybe they're afraid, with reason, that I'll write down what they say. But the blank expression I tend to get when I ask people if they feel their media is censored continues to confuse me. I feel an eerie absence of understanding when I use terms like 'freedom of expression' to little recognition in such an educated county.
What I'm starting to realize is yes, Cubans want more rights. But those rights are not usually conceived of on a grand scale. Like the college student back home, rights here are understood in a more practical way. Here, the lack of access to and inequity of communication can be understood by who does or doesn't have access to the internet.
For me, this right was more or less taken for granted, until I was denied access to hear my mom's voice.
And when that happens, you'd be amazed how 'freedom of information' starts to seem more like an interesting concept than the pressing injustice in the room.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The slump arrives
I had a feeling this would happen, but not so soon.
The travel slump.
Last visit I only experienced the slump for about a week. It snuck up on me only after about two months of near constant stimulation, infatuation and novelty began to wear off.
Maybe because this time I'm not starting from scratch, the slump kicked in a few days ago. It's the feeling of already missing home, already missing the very things (technology, work) I expected to need a break from.
I found a good casa particular, but the weather has been stormy the last few days and I found myself holed up in the room with the curtains closed. A sort of dampness seemed to permeate all corners. Although the room is clean, the guava I've stored in the fridge makes everything smell like the signature pink fruit. It seeps into the water, the sheets, the old wood. It's not a bad smell, yet I feel oddly angry at it, newly frustrated by my situation.
And what is my situation? Well for one, that I'm still getting my bearings. I still haven't decided if I want to stay in this casa, the price is decent but the kitchen is shared and I feel confined to my room so as not to impose to early on the family.
Then there's the bigger question: what exactly am I doing here? Why did I come back to this place?
The fact that money has been tighter than I anticipated--(the exchange rate takes 20% on the US dollar, and in my budgeting I conveinently overlooked this detail) makes me imagine alternate scenarios. For all this money, why didn't I go somewhere new? Somewhere more comfortable, somewhere where the national motto isn't "No es facil"?
Well I came because I think I wanted this to happen. I wanted to take the rose colored glasses off. I wanted some closure with Cuba. With Jose.
And certainly now, I feel I will have it, but why? What has Cuba, or Jose done to me besides treat me like a queen?
Jose shows me around, his mother cooks for me in her home, and he cooks for me in mine. And yet, I feel undeniably, painfully, American.
I find myself telling him I need space--(to do what? That's what I'm trying to figure out) and he says he understands but I can't help feeling like I'm kicking a puppy that only wants to please me onto the street.
I spoke with my friend Sarah here about my sudden need for space from Jose, how I felt that after a week his constant presence was almost making me sick, despite the fact that he's done nothing but act completely devoted and wonderful to me.
Sarah is a few years older than me and is leaving Tuesday for a rare opportunity to study abroad in Spain. When I began to speak, she immediately nodded and knew what I meant.
-That's why I haven't been able to date Cuban men in a few years. Only foreigners living here. Cuban men, they're so sweet, but they're on top of you. After a week, you're living together. Two months, you're engaged. If you're going somewhere, he asks, casually, where? He thinks, why is she going? Who else will be there? What am I not giving her that she needs?
I nodded, glad that someone else understood my situation. And yet, when I ask myself why now, why did I feel the need to return to Cuba, I can't pretend Jose wasn't the reason.
Jose's my key inside this strange place, this place that makes less sense the more familiar it becomes. His friends, for the most part, become my friends, his language becomes my language. And I think that's what's begun to infuriate me--the feeling of being so utterly dependent on another person, even if I take a day like today to write, see other friends, visit the old folks home.
Like a puppy, I know he'll always come back, offer to cook me dinner, act generally like most people's dream man. And a sense of panic, or at least dull dread, for my future overtakes me. I sense that somehow no matter who the man is, or how much space he gives me, to live with someone else and to continue to love them may be one of my life's greatest challenges.
My body's been achy, almost as if I'm sick, but I have no symptoms beyond a feeling that the dampness is everywhere. I've begun to dread the smell of guava fruit, once so delicious to me, it now seems overpowering.
The real challenge of this journey, I see now, will be learning to carve out my own space, my own work, my own pleasure. It will be the challenge of not taking people or places for granted just because they are no longer new. No longer cast in a hyper-romantic light.
As Sarah finished our conversation:
-You'll figure it out, it will become a compromise. But after all, if you came to Cuba to live as an American, what would be the point? You came here to experience Cuba in a new way, and you will.
The travel slump.
Last visit I only experienced the slump for about a week. It snuck up on me only after about two months of near constant stimulation, infatuation and novelty began to wear off.
Maybe because this time I'm not starting from scratch, the slump kicked in a few days ago. It's the feeling of already missing home, already missing the very things (technology, work) I expected to need a break from.
I found a good casa particular, but the weather has been stormy the last few days and I found myself holed up in the room with the curtains closed. A sort of dampness seemed to permeate all corners. Although the room is clean, the guava I've stored in the fridge makes everything smell like the signature pink fruit. It seeps into the water, the sheets, the old wood. It's not a bad smell, yet I feel oddly angry at it, newly frustrated by my situation.
And what is my situation? Well for one, that I'm still getting my bearings. I still haven't decided if I want to stay in this casa, the price is decent but the kitchen is shared and I feel confined to my room so as not to impose to early on the family.
Then there's the bigger question: what exactly am I doing here? Why did I come back to this place?
The fact that money has been tighter than I anticipated--(the exchange rate takes 20% on the US dollar, and in my budgeting I conveinently overlooked this detail) makes me imagine alternate scenarios. For all this money, why didn't I go somewhere new? Somewhere more comfortable, somewhere where the national motto isn't "No es facil"?
Well I came because I think I wanted this to happen. I wanted to take the rose colored glasses off. I wanted some closure with Cuba. With Jose.
And certainly now, I feel I will have it, but why? What has Cuba, or Jose done to me besides treat me like a queen?
Jose shows me around, his mother cooks for me in her home, and he cooks for me in mine. And yet, I feel undeniably, painfully, American.
I find myself telling him I need space--(to do what? That's what I'm trying to figure out) and he says he understands but I can't help feeling like I'm kicking a puppy that only wants to please me onto the street.
I spoke with my friend Sarah here about my sudden need for space from Jose, how I felt that after a week his constant presence was almost making me sick, despite the fact that he's done nothing but act completely devoted and wonderful to me.
Sarah is a few years older than me and is leaving Tuesday for a rare opportunity to study abroad in Spain. When I began to speak, she immediately nodded and knew what I meant.
-That's why I haven't been able to date Cuban men in a few years. Only foreigners living here. Cuban men, they're so sweet, but they're on top of you. After a week, you're living together. Two months, you're engaged. If you're going somewhere, he asks, casually, where? He thinks, why is she going? Who else will be there? What am I not giving her that she needs?
I nodded, glad that someone else understood my situation. And yet, when I ask myself why now, why did I feel the need to return to Cuba, I can't pretend Jose wasn't the reason.
Jose's my key inside this strange place, this place that makes less sense the more familiar it becomes. His friends, for the most part, become my friends, his language becomes my language. And I think that's what's begun to infuriate me--the feeling of being so utterly dependent on another person, even if I take a day like today to write, see other friends, visit the old folks home.
Like a puppy, I know he'll always come back, offer to cook me dinner, act generally like most people's dream man. And a sense of panic, or at least dull dread, for my future overtakes me. I sense that somehow no matter who the man is, or how much space he gives me, to live with someone else and to continue to love them may be one of my life's greatest challenges.
My body's been achy, almost as if I'm sick, but I have no symptoms beyond a feeling that the dampness is everywhere. I've begun to dread the smell of guava fruit, once so delicious to me, it now seems overpowering.
The real challenge of this journey, I see now, will be learning to carve out my own space, my own work, my own pleasure. It will be the challenge of not taking people or places for granted just because they are no longer new. No longer cast in a hyper-romantic light.
As Sarah finished our conversation:
-You'll figure it out, it will become a compromise. But after all, if you came to Cuba to live as an American, what would be the point? You came here to experience Cuba in a new way, and you will.
Friday, November 6, 2009
One Night
I want to share a night with you.
Jose and I went to our friend's house (who for his total security I'll just call Paulo). I had one of my best nights in Havana with Paulo and Jose last spring when he invited us into his home.
Paulo's loft is unlike any other I've yet to see in Cuba--it's in the style of a Japanese dojo and is painted with a Buddhist minimalist sensibility. On the wall is whatever series Paulo is working on. A low table sits in the center of the room complete with small circular pillows for sitting and drinking tea.
Last time, the memorable experience of being the only time I smoked a joint in Cuba. The Maria, as they sometimes say, was as mild as drinking a cup of warm milk. We sat listening to Jimi Hendrix and Paulo painted us, just as we were sitting, looking off into different directions.
This time, I had gifts for Paulo from my now good friend Shannon. Shannon and Paulo met after I left Cuba, but by huge coincidence we both live in Oakland and Jose was smart enough to give her my email. Not only do we have a lot in common, Shannon has become a great friend of mine and getting to know her has been a true gift.
Shannon gave me rolling papers to bring Paulo, who often likes to smoke to disinhibit himself before he paints. Paulo admired the papers, and decided to use the Zig Zags first, since he liked the picture of the Muslumo on the cover. We joked how all these images are different methods of selling a product. I told Palo the image of a Cuban artist would probably sell papers back home, that it's all a matter of what's cool, and believe it or not, Cuban artists are usually seen that way.
After we shared a pot of green tea we smoked the thinnest joint I've ever seen. It was a gesture on his part to share with us again, not only is the plant illegal here, it's much much harder to come by and extremely expensive.
Not wanting to inhale more than a few times I expected the same mild feeling as my last experience in Paulo's loft. Indeed, the high here is known to be more than mild compared to the States. As Paulo said to Jose 'They're used to something of a different caliber over there'.
But this time, my high was truly present. The few puffs altered my state of mind in the way I imagine the less hyper-bred 'grass' of my parent's generation did. Instead of things getting somewhat fuzzy around the edges, I merely felt more content, clearer, creative.
French music played through Paulo's speakers. I opened my journal and began to write. Paulo and Jose took their shirts off, and crouching on the floor, began to paint, facing opposite directions.
We stayed that way awhile, each of us absorbed in our own outlet of choice.
One song repeated only this chorus in english.
'Hello, hello/Once again I cannot sleep/Turning in my sheets/Walk out the door and on the street/Look at the stars beneath my feet/Remember rights I have wronged/ And here I go./Hello hello...'
After less than an hour, I looked up and realized Jose had been painting what was directly in front of him: my legs, in my default seated posture, one foot tucked under me and the other dangling, as if I'm an amputee.
It was a beautiful painting, filled with hues of yellow, brown and orange, demonstrating where different degrees of warmth radiated depending on my circulation.
Paulo painted a photo he'd taken earlier that day on a trip to the airport. Two airplanes have landed in Havana and are being taxied. He titles it 'Mama, Papa y Nene'.
'In this case', Paulo smiles pointing to me, 'Tu--Mama, Jose--Papa, Yo-Nene'. We all laugh and return to the table in the center of the room, sipping on tea.
I ask the artists why they think some of us stop drawing, since don't we all start out with that impulse? I know I did, it was just never as strong for me as the impulse to write.
Both say they barely drew as little boys. In fact, they both resisted the impulse. Paulo said he never painted because his family was so artistic he wanted to rebel against that path. But one day his friend made a bet with him that he could paint better than Paulo. So they had a sort of paint-off, which Paulo easily one. That sparked something in him, and he's painted ever since.
Jose sometimes doodled as a kid but never thought about being an artist. When he was 14, one day, his uncle, who also paints, gave a landscape to the family which they hung on the wall. Jose remembers looking at the wall and thinking, why can't I make something to put on our wall? So drew something for his uncle who said he had talent and should start lessons.
Jose and some other kids in the neighborhood began classes with a very old art teacher in the neighborhood. Of the 4 kids in the class, one now takes care of birds, one works at a ration stand and one is sick with a brain tumor. Jose paints.
After these stories and others, Paulo cooks us a spanish omelette with potatoes for dinner, with a little rice and avocado on the side. 'Ahora tu-- Mama y Papa y nosotros--Nene', I joke.
Paulo tells us about the time he was able to go to Italy to visit family. He tells of the olive oil they have there, the wine in jugs, the cheeses. Although our dinner is good for Cuba, we all salivate. Then we discuss vegetarianism, and its potential moral basis. In these moments of half-comprehension I'm reminded why I want to be fluent, so that these conversations might become easier; less filled with blanks and furrowed eyebrows.
It was a night I'll remember every time I look at the portrait of my twisted legs on the canvas Paulo gave to Jose who filled it before giving it to me. Like the thin joint, the materials, words and energy were all given without selfishness or promise of return.
Jose and I went to our friend's house (who for his total security I'll just call Paulo). I had one of my best nights in Havana with Paulo and Jose last spring when he invited us into his home.
Paulo's loft is unlike any other I've yet to see in Cuba--it's in the style of a Japanese dojo and is painted with a Buddhist minimalist sensibility. On the wall is whatever series Paulo is working on. A low table sits in the center of the room complete with small circular pillows for sitting and drinking tea.
Last time, the memorable experience of being the only time I smoked a joint in Cuba. The Maria, as they sometimes say, was as mild as drinking a cup of warm milk. We sat listening to Jimi Hendrix and Paulo painted us, just as we were sitting, looking off into different directions.
This time, I had gifts for Paulo from my now good friend Shannon. Shannon and Paulo met after I left Cuba, but by huge coincidence we both live in Oakland and Jose was smart enough to give her my email. Not only do we have a lot in common, Shannon has become a great friend of mine and getting to know her has been a true gift.
Shannon gave me rolling papers to bring Paulo, who often likes to smoke to disinhibit himself before he paints. Paulo admired the papers, and decided to use the Zig Zags first, since he liked the picture of the Muslumo on the cover. We joked how all these images are different methods of selling a product. I told Palo the image of a Cuban artist would probably sell papers back home, that it's all a matter of what's cool, and believe it or not, Cuban artists are usually seen that way.
After we shared a pot of green tea we smoked the thinnest joint I've ever seen. It was a gesture on his part to share with us again, not only is the plant illegal here, it's much much harder to come by and extremely expensive.
Not wanting to inhale more than a few times I expected the same mild feeling as my last experience in Paulo's loft. Indeed, the high here is known to be more than mild compared to the States. As Paulo said to Jose 'They're used to something of a different caliber over there'.
But this time, my high was truly present. The few puffs altered my state of mind in the way I imagine the less hyper-bred 'grass' of my parent's generation did. Instead of things getting somewhat fuzzy around the edges, I merely felt more content, clearer, creative.
French music played through Paulo's speakers. I opened my journal and began to write. Paulo and Jose took their shirts off, and crouching on the floor, began to paint, facing opposite directions.
We stayed that way awhile, each of us absorbed in our own outlet of choice.
One song repeated only this chorus in english.
'Hello, hello/Once again I cannot sleep/Turning in my sheets/Walk out the door and on the street/Look at the stars beneath my feet/Remember rights I have wronged/ And here I go./Hello hello...'
After less than an hour, I looked up and realized Jose had been painting what was directly in front of him: my legs, in my default seated posture, one foot tucked under me and the other dangling, as if I'm an amputee.
It was a beautiful painting, filled with hues of yellow, brown and orange, demonstrating where different degrees of warmth radiated depending on my circulation.
Paulo painted a photo he'd taken earlier that day on a trip to the airport. Two airplanes have landed in Havana and are being taxied. He titles it 'Mama, Papa y Nene'.
'In this case', Paulo smiles pointing to me, 'Tu--Mama, Jose--Papa, Yo-Nene'. We all laugh and return to the table in the center of the room, sipping on tea.
I ask the artists why they think some of us stop drawing, since don't we all start out with that impulse? I know I did, it was just never as strong for me as the impulse to write.
Both say they barely drew as little boys. In fact, they both resisted the impulse. Paulo said he never painted because his family was so artistic he wanted to rebel against that path. But one day his friend made a bet with him that he could paint better than Paulo. So they had a sort of paint-off, which Paulo easily one. That sparked something in him, and he's painted ever since.
Jose sometimes doodled as a kid but never thought about being an artist. When he was 14, one day, his uncle, who also paints, gave a landscape to the family which they hung on the wall. Jose remembers looking at the wall and thinking, why can't I make something to put on our wall? So drew something for his uncle who said he had talent and should start lessons.
Jose and some other kids in the neighborhood began classes with a very old art teacher in the neighborhood. Of the 4 kids in the class, one now takes care of birds, one works at a ration stand and one is sick with a brain tumor. Jose paints.
After these stories and others, Paulo cooks us a spanish omelette with potatoes for dinner, with a little rice and avocado on the side. 'Ahora tu-- Mama y Papa y nosotros--Nene', I joke.
Paulo tells us about the time he was able to go to Italy to visit family. He tells of the olive oil they have there, the wine in jugs, the cheeses. Although our dinner is good for Cuba, we all salivate. Then we discuss vegetarianism, and its potential moral basis. In these moments of half-comprehension I'm reminded why I want to be fluent, so that these conversations might become easier; less filled with blanks and furrowed eyebrows.
It was a night I'll remember every time I look at the portrait of my twisted legs on the canvas Paulo gave to Jose who filled it before giving it to me. Like the thin joint, the materials, words and energy were all given without selfishness or promise of return.
So an American loses a bag in Cuba...
All I can say is I must have been really tired.
When I finally arrived, the flight had already been delayed a couple times, making my total journey time to Havana 24 hours.
Going through customs could have been worse. Officers had masks on and were inspecting people for flu-like symptoms while I filled out a card saying I hadn't had a headache in 24 hours, which of course wasn't entirely true. Customs asked me my name, where I was staying and the purpose of my trip, and my visa (never passport) was stamped through.
Tourismo was the purpose, and in the next hour I'd certainly act like one.
Jose greeted me on the other end of the glass doors. He looked exactly like I remembered him, if a little thinner for the wear.
It was one of those much anticipated moments: rare for me in that it didn't disappoint my always unreasonably high expectations. The airport was filled with that energy you sometimes hear about, especially in countries where people are usually leaving. I felt the other who were waiting for loved ones watch us hug, and could feel the cariÑo that radiated back from their own memories of greetings and departures.
Before we left the airport a driver offered us a taxi for 20 bucks back into Havana, which is standard. We got in his car and talked and talked and it wasn't until we'd arrived at the hotel I realized my laptop bag was gone. I'd taken it with me in the backseat, but in my haze of exhaustion and happiness I'd only grabbed my other bag and must have thought the other was in the trunk with the bags Jose carried.
Of course the driver was gone by the time I realized, so we commenced our hazy sleepwalk through Havana. First we went to the hub where a lot of the taxis go and looked for the driver, who wasn't there. When we told other drivers what had happened, none seemed too optimistic, since the cab we'd both thought was legal--the yellow/black CubaTaxi is apparently somehow illegal to take from the airport. Another company has a monopoly on airport rides so the taxi agency would have no way of tracking the driver because he shouldn't have been at the airport in the first place. Like most things involving the cross between socialistic bureaucracy and capitalistic monopoly in Cuba, I don't pretend to understand the logic.
Like most Cuban conversations, each driver we spoke with was personally concerned, and had their own detailed opinion about our situation which usually took between 5 to 10 minutes to deliver.
After exhausting the taxi drivers, (or vice versa) we went to the police station, which at first seemed logical to me.
I wasn't worried because as far as Cubans are concerned, I have a visa to enter the country from Mexico, and there's nothing illegal about me being here. Still, I realize I've been lucky enough not to interact with the law before, especially with Jose.
From what I've read and heard, a relationship like mine and Jose's used to be cause enough for the police to stop you on the street and ask for identification. I've heard even friendships between Cubans and tourists could be considered cause for enough for harassment from the law. As of now, from what I've heard/experienced, that's changed, and it's only illegal to harass tourists. Still, it occurred to me once we entered the station that Jose was taking a small risk.
The police asked him where I was from once they realized I was a foreigner. The conversation went something like this:
--De donde es ella?
--Estados Unidos
--Y tu?
--Cubano
--Cubano-Cubano?
--Si.
I learned later that the purpose of that exchange was not to question the nature of our relationship but to chastise Jose for not knowing that the yellow taxis aren't allowed at the airport.
The rest of the exchange with the police was resembled the conversations with the taxi drivers, except with the police we had to work harder to convince them to care about what had happened.
One officer, (Jose told me later after we were waiting for the investigator because I missed it) had been hitting the computer monitor repeating 'que pasa con eso?' Jose laughed that after a few minutes of this, he accidently knocked the mouse with his elbow, thus accidentally 'fixing' the computer.
Kind of funny, but hilarious to our Cuban friends Jose reenacted the story for later. What I didn't know before is that the police here in Havana have the reputation being a sort of hick-brute hybrid. The stereotype is that they're curated from the countryside where they come to the big city to bully other more 'educated' Habaneros. Jose seems to feel they have few skills beyond breaking up fights and asking for ID on the street.
I have to say, the police didn't seem dumb to me, but they also didn't exactly illicit a feeling of comfort or effort. I got the feeling they could try to make a notice to put at the airport like we begged, but it didn't vale the pena.
When we were directed to another station specializing in tourists, we ended up talking with a couple other officers for almost an hour. They were nice guys and who at least cared enough to each give their animated opinions about every element of the story. A few times, I almost cracked up laughing because the scene was so surreal, the cops smoking and joking with us, while one took down my name and how much each item in the bag cost. He wrote the items (Apple I spelled out loud a few times, they don't exist here) in an inventory book that looked like what guest book at a wedding. I imagined all the other claims for lost good greeting the ghost of my laptop in black market heaven.
The police took down Jose's number, walked us to the door, patted Jose on the back (I love how this was seen as more his problem than mine) and said 'Hermano, if we ever find it, I'l bring it personally to your door and we'll celebrate with a bottle of rum'.
It was about that moment I said hasta luego to my laptop and heard Havana grin back a bienvenidos in return.
So imagine my surprise when today, almost 5 days later, Jose's mom got a call from the driver saying he had the bag. When she couldn't reach us, she called our friend Italo to find us. Italo ran from his house to the Ludwig Foundation where we happened to have just arrived. He yelled from the street over the balcony for Jose, who ran back up five minutes later grinning with the news.
We met the driver outside the hotel an hour later where he drove up with 3 other guys in a car. He proudly showed me everything still in its place, unharmed and very much not stolen. He told me his daughters had wanted to keep the new pink toothbrushes I'd packed in the bag but that he had told them it wasn't theirs. Of course I gave him the toothbrushes along with a nice reward in cash, but the whole interaction still amazes me.
And yet it doesn't at all. In some ways, I expected Cuba to be the one place my computer would come back. That it didn't the day after it was lost was almost more surprising to me then its return. Why, I'm not sure, because other Cubans here sure can't believe I got it back.
The driver says the bag fell underneath the seat, which might have been why I missed it when I left and why he didn't find and return it until now.
Or, according to Jose and other Cubans, he probably got scared that my phone or computer could be tracked and realized it wasn't worth the risk. When he went to the police station and realized we'd left our number with the police, that certainly would have sealed the deal.
And yet, either way, he returned it.
And it's not that people are only good samaritans in Cuba. Even in New York, people return things. I think the difference is, they're usually things they could hope to buy someday. Or maybe things they already have.
What was in that bag was a fortune for that man and his family. There was a new computer, a cell phone, prescription glasses, an ipod, and yes, pink toothbrushes. No reward I could give him could be anywhere near the value it would have here. So why do I feel safer in this country, even in the days I considered my things long gone? Why do I expect that people here, even if they're not 'better', are more likely to at least act in a way that is better?
Because this is a police state? Because if something violent happens to me its international news and life in jail? Because I'm acting like an entitled tourist? Because the average stranger here is more likely to offer their home to me than a neighbor would back home?
Yes, yes, yes and yes. At first I was pretty sure the moral of this story was obvious, almost too simple to merit writing down. Now I think the moral is to stop generalizing about Cubans, to stop romanticizing this great country and begin seeing it for what it is: a place that so far, has been good to me.
When I finally arrived, the flight had already been delayed a couple times, making my total journey time to Havana 24 hours.
Going through customs could have been worse. Officers had masks on and were inspecting people for flu-like symptoms while I filled out a card saying I hadn't had a headache in 24 hours, which of course wasn't entirely true. Customs asked me my name, where I was staying and the purpose of my trip, and my visa (never passport) was stamped through.
Tourismo was the purpose, and in the next hour I'd certainly act like one.
Jose greeted me on the other end of the glass doors. He looked exactly like I remembered him, if a little thinner for the wear.
It was one of those much anticipated moments: rare for me in that it didn't disappoint my always unreasonably high expectations. The airport was filled with that energy you sometimes hear about, especially in countries where people are usually leaving. I felt the other who were waiting for loved ones watch us hug, and could feel the cariÑo that radiated back from their own memories of greetings and departures.
Before we left the airport a driver offered us a taxi for 20 bucks back into Havana, which is standard. We got in his car and talked and talked and it wasn't until we'd arrived at the hotel I realized my laptop bag was gone. I'd taken it with me in the backseat, but in my haze of exhaustion and happiness I'd only grabbed my other bag and must have thought the other was in the trunk with the bags Jose carried.
Of course the driver was gone by the time I realized, so we commenced our hazy sleepwalk through Havana. First we went to the hub where a lot of the taxis go and looked for the driver, who wasn't there. When we told other drivers what had happened, none seemed too optimistic, since the cab we'd both thought was legal--the yellow/black CubaTaxi is apparently somehow illegal to take from the airport. Another company has a monopoly on airport rides so the taxi agency would have no way of tracking the driver because he shouldn't have been at the airport in the first place. Like most things involving the cross between socialistic bureaucracy and capitalistic monopoly in Cuba, I don't pretend to understand the logic.
Like most Cuban conversations, each driver we spoke with was personally concerned, and had their own detailed opinion about our situation which usually took between 5 to 10 minutes to deliver.
After exhausting the taxi drivers, (or vice versa) we went to the police station, which at first seemed logical to me.
I wasn't worried because as far as Cubans are concerned, I have a visa to enter the country from Mexico, and there's nothing illegal about me being here. Still, I realize I've been lucky enough not to interact with the law before, especially with Jose.
From what I've read and heard, a relationship like mine and Jose's used to be cause enough for the police to stop you on the street and ask for identification. I've heard even friendships between Cubans and tourists could be considered cause for enough for harassment from the law. As of now, from what I've heard/experienced, that's changed, and it's only illegal to harass tourists. Still, it occurred to me once we entered the station that Jose was taking a small risk.
The police asked him where I was from once they realized I was a foreigner. The conversation went something like this:
--De donde es ella?
--Estados Unidos
--Y tu?
--Cubano
--Cubano-Cubano?
--Si.
I learned later that the purpose of that exchange was not to question the nature of our relationship but to chastise Jose for not knowing that the yellow taxis aren't allowed at the airport.
The rest of the exchange with the police was resembled the conversations with the taxi drivers, except with the police we had to work harder to convince them to care about what had happened.
One officer, (Jose told me later after we were waiting for the investigator because I missed it) had been hitting the computer monitor repeating 'que pasa con eso?' Jose laughed that after a few minutes of this, he accidently knocked the mouse with his elbow, thus accidentally 'fixing' the computer.
Kind of funny, but hilarious to our Cuban friends Jose reenacted the story for later. What I didn't know before is that the police here in Havana have the reputation being a sort of hick-brute hybrid. The stereotype is that they're curated from the countryside where they come to the big city to bully other more 'educated' Habaneros. Jose seems to feel they have few skills beyond breaking up fights and asking for ID on the street.
I have to say, the police didn't seem dumb to me, but they also didn't exactly illicit a feeling of comfort or effort. I got the feeling they could try to make a notice to put at the airport like we begged, but it didn't vale the pena.
When we were directed to another station specializing in tourists, we ended up talking with a couple other officers for almost an hour. They were nice guys and who at least cared enough to each give their animated opinions about every element of the story. A few times, I almost cracked up laughing because the scene was so surreal, the cops smoking and joking with us, while one took down my name and how much each item in the bag cost. He wrote the items (Apple I spelled out loud a few times, they don't exist here) in an inventory book that looked like what guest book at a wedding. I imagined all the other claims for lost good greeting the ghost of my laptop in black market heaven.
The police took down Jose's number, walked us to the door, patted Jose on the back (I love how this was seen as more his problem than mine) and said 'Hermano, if we ever find it, I'l bring it personally to your door and we'll celebrate with a bottle of rum'.
It was about that moment I said hasta luego to my laptop and heard Havana grin back a bienvenidos in return.
So imagine my surprise when today, almost 5 days later, Jose's mom got a call from the driver saying he had the bag. When she couldn't reach us, she called our friend Italo to find us. Italo ran from his house to the Ludwig Foundation where we happened to have just arrived. He yelled from the street over the balcony for Jose, who ran back up five minutes later grinning with the news.
We met the driver outside the hotel an hour later where he drove up with 3 other guys in a car. He proudly showed me everything still in its place, unharmed and very much not stolen. He told me his daughters had wanted to keep the new pink toothbrushes I'd packed in the bag but that he had told them it wasn't theirs. Of course I gave him the toothbrushes along with a nice reward in cash, but the whole interaction still amazes me.
And yet it doesn't at all. In some ways, I expected Cuba to be the one place my computer would come back. That it didn't the day after it was lost was almost more surprising to me then its return. Why, I'm not sure, because other Cubans here sure can't believe I got it back.
The driver says the bag fell underneath the seat, which might have been why I missed it when I left and why he didn't find and return it until now.
Or, according to Jose and other Cubans, he probably got scared that my phone or computer could be tracked and realized it wasn't worth the risk. When he went to the police station and realized we'd left our number with the police, that certainly would have sealed the deal.
And yet, either way, he returned it.
And it's not that people are only good samaritans in Cuba. Even in New York, people return things. I think the difference is, they're usually things they could hope to buy someday. Or maybe things they already have.
What was in that bag was a fortune for that man and his family. There was a new computer, a cell phone, prescription glasses, an ipod, and yes, pink toothbrushes. No reward I could give him could be anywhere near the value it would have here. So why do I feel safer in this country, even in the days I considered my things long gone? Why do I expect that people here, even if they're not 'better', are more likely to at least act in a way that is better?
Because this is a police state? Because if something violent happens to me its international news and life in jail? Because I'm acting like an entitled tourist? Because the average stranger here is more likely to offer their home to me than a neighbor would back home?
Yes, yes, yes and yes. At first I was pretty sure the moral of this story was obvious, almost too simple to merit writing down. Now I think the moral is to stop generalizing about Cubans, to stop romanticizing this great country and begin seeing it for what it is: a place that so far, has been good to me.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
On my way
Currently I'm sitting in a cafe/restaurant drinking sangria and eating french fries. Which seems about right, since I'm in between worlds, here in the airport at Cancun.
I didn't get much sleep taking the red eye from Oakland to Boston despite the fact that I had all three seats to lay out on and conditions were perfect. I was so tired getting into Boston that I ended up looking for a cart and ended up in baggage claims. By the time I got the cart, I realized I had to check back into security, and an hour later I ended up about 10 feet from where I'd gotten off the plane at 6 AM. Then I waited another hour and a half for my next flight.
All in all, today has been a humbling reminder that I need to keep my wits about me, apparently even domestically.
I sat next to a couple on the way to Cancun with thick Boston accents. The woman was wearing about 5 rock star leather bracelets, and the guy some gold loop earrings. Somehow, despite their accessories, they had no interest in talking with me, cool young person that I am. I think I pissed them off by sleeping the whole flight while occupying the aisle seat. I tried to help out by tucking my knees into my sweatshirt and making a ball out of myself, but I have a feeling that just made them resent my flexibility.
When we landed the woman cheered 'Yea Cancun! Tequilllla!'.
When I finally made it to customs with the other gringos, the mexican border guy didn't ask me one question. Just stamped me along. Then I had to fill out a form saying I didn't have any swine flu symptoms, which you can still see the after trauma of here--(like the waiter here offering me a squirt of hand sanitizer before I made my order).
Not surprisingly, on of my suitcase pockets burst, and I had to leave some of the spices and shampoo behind. When I made it out mostly in one piece from customs, a nice handsome porter offered to help me in very good english. I slipped into english with him too, my old shyness coming back, and he took me to the gate for Mexicana.
There a travel agent who handles the (I'm guessing especially US) visas into Havana helped me out while the porter stood guard of my bags with an increasingly achy looking shoulder. Although I missed the first flight I was hoping to get, I did end up getting a much better deal than I expected. She agent me how long I wanted to stay, gave me a 15 dollar two month visa and a roundtrip tickets on Mexicana all for 350. I'm hoping it's all as simple as it seems, because I was thinking it was going to be much harder than that. Here's to trusting people in uniforms and official looking paperwork.
Getting the tickets lifted my spirits and I started speaking to the porter in Spanish, which he seemed shocked I had known all along. I was glad to see he felt more comfortable (rather than patronized) when I slipped into speaking his native language. That said, my accent is not what it was when I left, and I look forward to getting back some of that Cuban slur.
That's it for now. Stay tuned for Habana, and hopefully much more interesting stories to come.
Rachel
I didn't get much sleep taking the red eye from Oakland to Boston despite the fact that I had all three seats to lay out on and conditions were perfect. I was so tired getting into Boston that I ended up looking for a cart and ended up in baggage claims. By the time I got the cart, I realized I had to check back into security, and an hour later I ended up about 10 feet from where I'd gotten off the plane at 6 AM. Then I waited another hour and a half for my next flight.
All in all, today has been a humbling reminder that I need to keep my wits about me, apparently even domestically.
I sat next to a couple on the way to Cancun with thick Boston accents. The woman was wearing about 5 rock star leather bracelets, and the guy some gold loop earrings. Somehow, despite their accessories, they had no interest in talking with me, cool young person that I am. I think I pissed them off by sleeping the whole flight while occupying the aisle seat. I tried to help out by tucking my knees into my sweatshirt and making a ball out of myself, but I have a feeling that just made them resent my flexibility.
When we landed the woman cheered 'Yea Cancun! Tequilllla!'.
When I finally made it to customs with the other gringos, the mexican border guy didn't ask me one question. Just stamped me along. Then I had to fill out a form saying I didn't have any swine flu symptoms, which you can still see the after trauma of here--(like the waiter here offering me a squirt of hand sanitizer before I made my order).
Not surprisingly, on of my suitcase pockets burst, and I had to leave some of the spices and shampoo behind. When I made it out mostly in one piece from customs, a nice handsome porter offered to help me in very good english. I slipped into english with him too, my old shyness coming back, and he took me to the gate for Mexicana.
There a travel agent who handles the (I'm guessing especially US) visas into Havana helped me out while the porter stood guard of my bags with an increasingly achy looking shoulder. Although I missed the first flight I was hoping to get, I did end up getting a much better deal than I expected. She agent me how long I wanted to stay, gave me a 15 dollar two month visa and a roundtrip tickets on Mexicana all for 350. I'm hoping it's all as simple as it seems, because I was thinking it was going to be much harder than that. Here's to trusting people in uniforms and official looking paperwork.
Getting the tickets lifted my spirits and I started speaking to the porter in Spanish, which he seemed shocked I had known all along. I was glad to see he felt more comfortable (rather than patronized) when I slipped into speaking his native language. That said, my accent is not what it was when I left, and I look forward to getting back some of that Cuban slur.
That's it for now. Stay tuned for Habana, and hopefully much more interesting stories to come.
Rachel
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