Bienvenidos a Cuba

The Flight and Airport de Jose Martí
1. The flight in. From my view from the tiny airplane window, I took in the Cuban landscape and was immediately struck by the vast blue sea. However, as we continued our descent, my eye was caught by the huddled grey-white mass perched on the edge of the ocean surrounded by the blue and green landscape, welcome to Havana.
2. Conrado. As we made our trek through the intricate system of immigration and customs, I watched as Conrado, our tall sturdy representative from the internationally known Casa de Las Americas, smooth-talked his and our way through lines and customs, going up to each official and employee, saying a few words, and then all of a sudden frantically waving for us to follow. In this manner, we were treated like special foreign ambassadors and were shuffled fairly effortlessly through the airport, with only a minor setback due to some spices, which are hard to come by and expensive in Cuba.
3. Security. I have always been nervous about going through security because I’m always afraid that some little item that I have forgotten in my pocket will set the machine off, and I’ll have to face the dreaded pat-down. Upon arrival, I was already confused because we had to go through security again on our way out, making me wonder if it was there to stop me from bringing anything in, or designed more for returning and visiting Cubans. I was already a little anxious when the security guard asked me if I my backpack had a laptop. Shit, I had forgotten to take it out, but he shrugged his shoulders and waved me through anyway.
4. Pesos. I have never changed money before and have never wanted to be a part of the process either, but as I changed Canadian dollars into the superimposed tourist currency of Pesos Convertible and then some CUC into the less valuable and traditional Cuban currency of Pesos Cubano, I felt the excitement of finally getting Cuban money. The 20 dollar Peso Convertible is decorated with the image of the monument of the revolutionary hero, Camilo Sinfuegos on one side, and disembarking tourists on the other. In contrast, the 20 Moneda Nacional bill also portrays the image of Sinfuegos on one side, but the other side depicts agricultural developments and successful farming techniques. While both are worth 20 in their respective currency, the Peso Cubano, and its message of “Desarrollo Agricola” holds no weight when compared to the CUC, stamped with images of tourists and the words “Operación Milagro”.

The Drive in
5. Propaganda. As we drove into Havana, I happened to be sitting right next to the open window. Hanging my head out like a dog, I couldn’t help but already notice the presence of revolutionary and socialist propaganda as we passed the political posters and slogans, splashed with sayings such as Cuba Sí, Hasta la Victoria Siempre, and Todo por la Revolución.

La Residencia
6. The Elevator. It only works sometimes, you have to press the button really hard, it doesn’t completely close, and too many of you can’t go all at once. Also it has a hole in the top.
7. The view of the Malécon from the Residencia. Simply amazing.
8. La Economía Política de Subdesarrollo. It’s a book that sits right next to the television along with a novel by Octavio Paz, other literary works, and a multitude of travel guides for Cuba.
9. The toilet. There is no seat, but thankfully I fit, and the chain is a string, I broke a part off the first day. Also, the string is always wet.
10. The view from my room. Sadly my window faces away from the Malécon. However, I get an equally fantastic view of the city, from which I not only get a great breeze, but can hear the sounds of cars, motorcycles, dogs barking, and the people below shouting and talking to one another. Sometimes, when it is really quiet I can hear faint echoing footsteps or the sound of a far off drum calling out in the night. Although it isn’t the constant soothing sound of the ocean, as I fall asleep, I listen to the lullabies of la calle and of Cuba.

Looking for an opening

(Amy Goodman http://www.flickr.com/photos/amycgx/4302472084/)

“She’s one of us,” says a woman at the Callejón de Hamel (Hamel’s Alley) located in the Havana neighborhood of Cayo Hueso. Her smile suggests an open invitation to explore. Amid the block’s worth of hand-painted murals depicting various Santería orishas, the fact that I have dark skin is more meaningful than my nationality. The Callejón is a public space routinely used for the expression of Afro-Cuban culture through art, religion, music and dance. “You should come back and visit us this Sunday; there will be live rumba” adds a man who has begun to give me a tour of the alley. It seems like my being a professional stranger doesn’t matter, and I immediately feel that this is a place to which I would like to return. As he begins to explain the significance of the grey Elegguá head stone adorned with cowrie shells that is traditionally kept behind the front door to keep watch over one’s home, I feel myself getting lost in the diction. I ask for clarification. The man, speaking to the woman that was so welcoming to me, contends that because I do not understand the language, that I am not one of them. My connection to the people has been diminished and the door to an Afro-Cuban community is slammed in my face as Elegguá looks on. Immediately, I am a stranger, a tourist and a potential patron who would much prefer to buy a refresco (soda) and experience the Callejón from the sitting area near the entrance.

Not having fully developed my Spanish speaking skills is one of the things that make it so difficult for me to interact with Cuban people. The words hit my ear like rapid fire but still manage to be “muy suave” as s’s and r’s are casually omitted. My years of Spanish language instruction seem insufficient when I consider how little I was required to engage in conversation; it was more important that I learn to listen, write, and repeat. The closest I got to speaking was reciting the date at the beginning of each class “Hoy es lunes….” Now that I am forced to speak Spanish in a living society of native speakers, it feels a bit uncomfortable. I have to conjugate verbs in the right tense all the while keeping in mind to address elders with the correct degree of formality.

Aside from speaking Spanish there are other things like my daily routine that distance me from Cuban people. At the student residence where I am living during my semester abroad program in Havana, I am provided with two meals a day. A dinner prepared by María, our house mother, of white rice, boniato (white sweet potato), baked chicken, col (cabbage), tomatoes and homemade jugo de piña (pineapple juice) is far more luxurious than what the average Cuban would eat. In addition, I use the national currency, the peso, and the tourist currency, CUC. Access to both currencies permits easy access to various activities, restaurants and events that could easily amount to the average monthly Cuban salary of 20 CUC. In so many ways, I am experiencing the dual nature of Cuban society.

I went into this experience thinking that if I tried hard enough I could find a way to connect with the people of Cuba. In only a short time, I have realized that this is quite a difficult task. I find myself in an awkward position not knowing exactly how I should conduct myself. The professional part of me wants to scribble a few words in my notebook or take a picture whenever I see something I feel is worth documenting, but the stranger in me is hesitant because I do not want my position as an outsider to be so apparent. How do I navigate between the two? How do I get over the fact that I might have a greater sense of belonging if only I could speak the language fluently? Professional strangers face the challenge of purposely inserting themselves into some portion of society with the hope that they will be accepted. I am still looking for that opening through which I can be accepted--a place where it is okay for me to be “one of them,” if only in a limited sense.

My America Versus their Havana

Not my country

But I don’t feel as lonely

Because in Cuba my black skin doesn’t matter

I’m not as low on a social latter

Never thought I could see time after time on this land

Black and white holding hand

What a pain to see

Small children struggling more than me

Elder men so energetic, walking along the streets so swiftly

Making me feel that they are actually younger than me

I know some poor are going to strive

For the money they don’t think I need to survive

How I love the blueness of the Atlantic Ocean and the sound of its tall, strong wave

For a swim in it I do crave

The marvelous Cuban friendship

Despite the hardship

Americans have time for friendship, but dwell in hardship

Even friendly police officers

Man, are they some talkers

The fast pace and lack of stall

Not supporting the American stereotype of the “slow native” at all

The echoing sounds throughout the morning

Funny, they actually don’t bother me

Time goes by so fast

So much to see and grasp

Had to remove my purse in the supermarket the other day, so I couldn’t steal anything at bay

But it didn’t phase me in any way

But if I was a Cuban and had to wonder

Would that make me a prisoner

Walking is the normal

Wouldn’t want anything more formal

A lot of help I receive

But could I stop their grieve

There’s so much to see

Without invading privacy

Because they invite you into their community

Getting an endless amount of facts and finding yourself having more and more inquiry

Every stray dog that your eyes have set

Feels like your own lost pet

Most activities done outside

Maybe it’s part of the Cuban pride

A supermarket on every block

That I want to take a look and stop following the clock

And they are not concerned about the time

Minor setbacks are not treated as some type of crime

Pay so little to eat

Yet still, so many hunger may defeat

People have to work very hard for their rates

Something similar to the United States

The people continuously follow the world news and are quite knowledgeable

Not like the American stereotype of the “ignorant native” at all

Another different ideal

The people are quite tranquil

A lot of smiles

Make the walks worth the while

Cuba vs. America

The countries continuing to fight since the Diaspora

One day in taking his picture a Cuban man was adamant

He wanted me to take a picture of him holding a book in his apartment window

Later I would receive that book as a present, in Spanish, “un regalo”

And although I’m American, with the picture and the book I will always be

Because I’m not consumed in how the Cuban is different from me

I believe in something similar as the Cuban revolutionary leader for the country’s liberty, Che

I believe in man, or as Che said before his assassination, “Yo creo en el hombre”

My Cuban Experience

These are the top ten things I would like to do while studying for a semester in Cuba. The reason why I would like to do these things is because they are my favorite things to do in the United States. Therefore, as I Spanish minor, I would like to know what it feels like to do my favorite activities in a cultural atmosphere that I've been trying to learn more about since being a freshman in high school...

-Play tennis
-Read a romance novel in Spanish
-Write poetry in Spanish
-Jog
-Go to the beach
-Dance
-Eat butter pecan ice cream
-Watch an action and/or romance film in Spanish
-Study at a coffee shop or other nice and tranquil restaurant
-Attend community organizational meetings

Cuba es para los Cubanos

“Cuba… es para los cubanos.” These were the words of Chino (the manager of la residencia) on our first night in La Habana when he went over “las reglas de la residencia,” and they have resonated in my mind ever since. He has told us many times, “Recuerden que ustedes no están en los Estados Unidos.” He and others remind us that we are not living like Cubans, nor could we really, no matter how hard we may try. It is these comments that keep me conscious of my role as a ‘stranger’ in Cuba, along with the stares we get walking in the streets dressed differently than the locals (with backpacks, beachwear and flip flops while Cubans, 80 degrees being their winter climate, wear pants, close-toed shoes or heels, and jackets) and by the frequent “Taxi?! Taxi?! El MEJOR servicio y precio en la Habana!” offers shouted at us from the road.

The dynamic of being a professional stranger in Cuba often leaves me feeling quite uncomfortable. The abundance of fresh-squeezed jugo de piña, mango y guayaba, rice, beans, meats, calabaza, yuca, boniato (my personal favorite, a Cuban sweet potato), rolls, papaya, piña, cabbage, tomatoes, tea, and the best café I have ever had… all of this excess and variety of foods contribute to my awareness of our ‘place’ as wealthy Americans here in Cuba. We go on excursions and read about Cuban life and history. We read about the Special Period and how there was hardly enough food for people to survive. We walk past bodegas where Cubans receive their rationed necessities and stop at food stands selling items in “moneda nacional” with full meals amounting to less than one US dollar. The food prepared for us each day is Cuban, but real Cubans don’t eat like we do. We are reminded of this every time we step in and out of the country’s two-tiered, dual-currency system and the incredible inequality between the two. We see that tourism, el mal necesario (“necessary evil”) as the government has called it, infiltrated the culture and people of Cuba yet allowed it to survive by providing a source of hard currency after the fall of the Soviet Union that was desperately needed. We step through entrances to the homes of Cubans along calles in la Habana Vieja which are not yet ‘restored’ and contrast that with our living conditions at la residencia. Sure, the elevators are not the most functional and one has a hole which covers about one third of the ceiling, so we can watch our slow ascent and descent. Sure, (even if the building is not in one of its temporary and frequent power outages) they might not always work. Occasionally, one will open only to reveal a brick wall on floor ten and a half, then close, lower a few inches more, open once more, again revealing a brick wall, continue this way until opening and exposing only half of the doorway to one of the floors… at which point we give up/laugh/feel like we are living scenes from Beetle Juice, get scared and take the stairs. Sure none of the toilets have seats (who needs ‘em, anyway?). Sure, the window next to my bed rattles like it is about to break free, plummet thirteen flights down and shatter along Calle Primera whenever the wind picks up.

All of these imperfections are just that – imperfect – by U.S. standards. It is all subjective. We’ve learned that there is one word vital to Cuban life – inventar (to invent). ‘Los cubanos siempre estan inventando’ is what Gerardo (our personal tourguide/main professor/historian/friend) teaches and shows us. All I had to do, as Chino put it, is stuff “papelitos” in the crevices of the windows and problem solved. Although it drove me crazy to hear my window banging against the pane and left me with one less night of sleep, it was nothing a few little pieces of paper couldn’t fix.

There are things that would be deemed dangerous, unheard of, and unsightly - to say the least - in the wealthy city of Ann Arbor that I call home, but these conditions are far better than those of Cuban citizens. What’s more, all six of us would say that we are living quite comfortably, actually. All of this amounts to one of the powers I gain as a stranger – a rich stranger by Cuban standards – living in a spacious penthouse, overlooking the Malecon, with two home-cooked meals served every single day. The details are quite irrelevant. We have what we need and more. We’re not living like Cubans, but we’re not living like Americans either.

Right now I really cannot say I miss much from home. I miss Mister Gregory (my Cocker Spaniel), Cocoa (my cat) and my father. I miss my roommates and friends. Even so, there are many more things I am glad to have escaped from than there are things that I am longing for. I am overcome with joy at leaving the bitter cold winter of Michigan. I am happy to leave my cell phone. I still imagine my cell phone vibrating, still have impulses to ‘check my phone’ and now and then I feel like I must make sure I packed my phone when we leave the residencia. Slowly I think these awful impulses will disappear. I am delighted to escape an extremely consumerist society and give my mind a rest in that respect. I think this trip has come just as I was finding myself on the verge of being too immersed in such a society.

Seeing as I am at such an impressionable time of my life, ‘the college years’ - where one begins to develop personal philosophy, opinions, and world viewpoint; when one starts to view the world much more critically and thoughtfully - I am glad to be experiencing this culture. It is a culture which seems, or at least aims to be, much more modest, humble… unaffected (by materialism, consumerism) than the high-strung and competitive culture of our capitalist society back home. As I spoke with a 40-year-old bartender (born in Puerto Rico whose parents moved to the U.S. from Cuba nine years ago), I told him I thought in many ways life in Cuba is “una vida más pura.” He readily agreed, and then went on to talk about how much the U.S. embargo hurts the Cuban economy. Again, equality for all and a society free of consumerist culture is the goal but not always the reality of Cuban life. With the introduction of tourism, an inherently capitalist industry, into the socialist ideology and idealistic spirit of the country, Cuban life certainly has been complicated. I am happy to leave the frustrations of my life back home but am aware that life in Cuba certainly has its own difficulties. Sometimes I do not understand the contemporary political, economic and social issues here and cannot begin to formulate solutions for or opinions of them. But then again, maybe I am just not supposed to. After all, Cuba es para los cubanos, and I am just a ‘professional American stranger’.

Away from the Ghost of Burden

Already in my short time here, I have come to anticipate and accept the contradictions that are weaved throughout my understanding of Havana, of Cubans, and my personal goals while studying here. So not surprisingly, when I thought about missing home, I realized that I didn’t. Perhaps for the first time in my life (including my life in Ann Arbor and all the places I’ve lived), I don’t feel homesick, don’t feel consumed with longing for someplace or someone to provide comfort and stability that was frequently absent in the reality of my life. I have searched for that magical missing piece since I was born and began to believe that the quest was an inevitable aspect of my life, the destiny of a dissatisfied wanderer.
Whether it was thinking about future loves, daydreaming about characters from the stories I read, or filling my schedule to the brim with meetings and classes, I consistently searched, consciously and habitually, for the external clue that would fill an internal void created by fighting parents, two houses and the weight of guilt at having caused so much unhappiness. Ironically, travel has frequently held the possibility of this magic and I spent my time on airplanes, mountains and beaches waiting for the feeling that I could never name to occur, waited for the sound of the ‘click’ in my ear that would let me know I could stop looking, that I’d arrived where I’ve wanted to be.
And yet, this trip is different. Perhaps I’m in denial, but I am not aware of missing anything acutely. And I don’t feel overwhelming pressure as on other trips. Being away from home has granted me a freedom to experiment and play that is usually so difficult for me to embrace. Since coming to college, I have actively tried to create a sense of home internally, to provide myself the stability that was always lacking. I have shed the skin of my childhood, of my father’s expectations, my mother’s sadness, of constant comings and goings and the darkness around the corner. I did this before, and not because, of being in Cuba. But being here, or rather being away from the ghost of burden that so recently consumed me, provides a safe space to move around these newly realized boundaries. There is freedom in my inability to understand our house mother Maria when she explains the plot of a television show, in the need to adapt to power outages and broken toilets, a weightlessness when my name is perpetually mispronounced, another chain link cut with the removal of the second ‘n’. A safety that is so contradictory; a space safe in the unknown, in the demands, in the misunderstandings, in the solitude.
Navigating through La Habana Vieja, walking along the Malecon surrounded by lustful teenagers with salt air stinging my eyes and constantly translating helps to squash the self-doubt that can only be eliminated through experience, through physicality, throughout movement. In addition to all of the beauty and kindness and questioning of being here, for me this time helps to solidify this newly constructed foundation and I am trying to play and run along its planks. Like the buildings that line the streets of La Habana Vieja, I am partaking on a restoration project of sorts; tending to walls and facades that were once neglected and using what I inherently posses to make the renewal complete.

Antes de llegar

While rolling my enormous amount of luggage into the bus station today, I could not help but notice the way in which I was incredibly burdened by all of the things that I was attempting to carry: clothes, shoes, books, a computer, shampoo, toothpaste… I was wheeling and dragging behind me months upon months of material items. I was burdened by a standard of living, a type of luxury, to which I was accustomed to and desperately attempting to maintain. And there, in addition to my beloved hygiene products and nestled between items of comfort, was all of the anxiety surrounding this trip. I hate to admit it, but I was nervous.

With all that I had packed, along with the expectation of maintaining at least some part of the standard of living I had always known in the United States, was I already hindering myself from sharing the in Cuban experience? What if I didn’t adjust to the Cuban way of life? What if I was not comfortable? It had been so long since I had taken a Spanish class, what if I no longer have the ability to communicate properly en español? What if I had left that charger for my computer in Lansing? What if I spent the next three months afraid, scurrying in between Casa de las Americas and la recidencia and never stopping to notice the little nuances of Cuban life?

On the way from the bus station to our hotel near the airport, we managed to make a friend in the taxi driver transporting us. He was an old Bangladeshi man who instantly began divulging to us his life story. Despite his willingness to break Canadian law for us and use his phone while driving to call his wife to check what the weather would be for tomorrow and the few times he unknowingly drifted between lanes on the busy Toronto expressway, my nerves slowly began to disappear. Between the account of his time in Tarablus and Al-Saudia, as well as his rendition of the entire recent history of the Indian sub-continent, I began to experience some relief. His obvious accent and his interesting choice of vocabulary did not seem to inhibit our ability to communicate. In fact, I had to laugh because I realized that this is exactly what I was destined to sound like to Cubans. It did seem as though it was possible to make a friend in unexpected place. I dearly hope that we run into our friend in March upon our return just in time to celebrate the independence of Bangladesh, and I now believe that Cuba, while different from my home, may need not loom large in my thoughts as such a worrisome place after all.

Last-minute stresses

As I was finishing up my packing - all very last minute (I have enough comfort food and hygiene products for probably the entire group) - I became overwhelmed with stress. For months now I really haven't felt anxious or nervous, only excited. Suddenly, the day before leaving for the trip, it all hit me. I became worried about 'culture shock,' safety, my confidence in speaking Spanish, missing friends, family, my animals and home... as I fell asleep for just a few hours, I was disappointed to feel that my emotional capacity was full of stress and fear, with little room for excitement. I was so scared all of a sudden. Being someone who strongly prefers to do things ahead of time and who also handles change poorly, I felt pretty helpless and exhausted.

But as these feelings seemed to overwhelm me, I kept telling myself that it will be worth it. Cuba will be more than worth it. This experience is one of a kind and I'm privileged to have the opportunity, funds, and determination to tackle it. I will learn more in the next three months than I ever have. It will be hard at times, yes, but I am ready to push through the hard times and appreciate everything Cuba will give to me. I cannot let my 'self' be consumed and controlled by fear. I have to take full advantage of what this trip will offer me and I cannot wait for the adventure to begin.

Adventure Anxieties

In the days that led up to my departure for Cuba, although I maintained a cool and calm exterior, I am extremely nervous. Despite the fact that I had just recently taken a class on Cuba and its history and culture, which provided me with a rough outline of society and history of the country, I realized days before I left that I really had no idea what I was about to experience. I kept wondering if my Spanish was going to be good enough, what the living situation was going to be, if I was going to make any friends, if I was going to be hustled a lot, and how and if I would be able to navigate the dual currency and using money. All that I was sure about was it was that rather than go on a trip, I was about to embark on a real adventure. Deep down I was confident that everything was going to be ok. I am used to leaving home and going to strange places where I know no one. I first tried it 3 years ago when I left New York and my family and friends to go to the University of Michigan. Back then I knew it was sink or swim, and luckily I managed to establish long lasting friendships and manage to make it on my own. Knowing this, I was certain, somewhat, that I was going to be fine in Cuba. However, that nagging voice in the back of my head, which quickly took over my entire brain, was consistent in its doubts and worst case scenarios, constantly reminding me that I was not totally prepared for what was to come.

As I looked over my suitcase, filled with clothes, 2 soccer balls, a mask and snorkel, and several books, I realized that this adventure was not only about what I would learn about Cuba and its people, but also, its corny to say, a lot about myself as a person. Mainly, I was hoping that after this trip, I would come back more confident in my Spanish speaking ability and maybe even with a few salsa moves to show off at parties. Additionally, I hoped to return with a more complete understanding of a society and people that has been virtually cut off from us for decades, and intend to learn a lot from talking to everyone and anyone I meet. As I attempt to prepare myself for this venture, one thing I am sure of is that throughout my time there, I will keep an open mind and try to experience anything and everything that comes my way as I try to take in all of Cuba within the short time frame of 3 months.

Eve

After hours of laundry and having every piece of clothing I own strewn across my living room floor, then folded and refolded, I am finally packed. Weeks of shopping and various drafts of chaotic lists have led to one slightly bulging suitcase and a backpack. As a chronic over-packer, one who generally brings enough clothing and toiletries to supply the entire population of the University, a single suitcase that holds everything I can imagine needing and wanting in Havana is truly a feat.

Surprisingly I am not consumed with panic that I have forgotten something, essential or otherwise, and there is (relative) calm tonight despite tomorrow being such a big day. Perhaps this luggage epiphany helps to explain my mind sight and feelings leading up to the trip. Simply put, I feel ready. Nervous and anxious, of course, but also unexpectedly prepared. In the past, trips like these, where I've spent months planning and anticipating, have always carried so much pressure and expectancy. Whether consciously or not, I envision those fleeting days or weeks as possessing some grand change that will completely reshape me as a person. That pressure inhibits me from fully being present in these settings and is ultimately disappointing.

But not tonight. Tonight, I am seeing tomorrow not as something I've been waiting for to mark the beginning of my life but simply as a continuation of my life, of who I am. Tonight, I have one suitcase and one goal. Tonight, I envision deeply accented and intimidating spanish, awkward salsa dancing, a wonderfully crowded apartment, constant questioning, lots of reading that I will ultimately be thankful for, wonderful food that comes in boxes, my hair smelling like saltwater for days. Tonight, my goal is to focus on being present while I am in Havana. My goal is to say 'yes', to experience as much as I am able despite discomfort or uncertainty or fear.

Tonight, I have one suitcase and one goal but they carry everything.

I’m really going to Cuba!

Yesterday, my mother called me in the room to watch a segment of ‘60 Minutes’ in which Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra visited Cuba as part of a musical exchange. The sounds, the architecture and the scenery seemed so vivid and a lot more exciting than my life at home in North Carolina. It’s still a little surreal to me that I will be traveling to Cuba in a few days.

Needless to say, I have not started packing. I do know that there are three things that I don’t want to leave home without: my journal, my favorite teddy bear, Ralph—we’ve been together since I was 7--and my copy of “Yoruba from Cuba” selected poems by Nicolás Guillén. With these things, I will not only be reminded of home but the importance of embracing as much of the Cuban culture as possible. I am most excited to meet Nancy Morejón. Lines like “My mother had a headscarf and a song / to cradle a faith in my soul” (14-15) from “Mother” or “ They left me here and here I stayed. / And because I worked like a beast / here I was born again” (7-9) from “Black Woman” make it easy for me to be a huge fan of her work. Knowing that there is a set date for us to meet her helps to put my anxiety at ease. Our hike through the Sierra Maestra is also something that I am looking forward to. Aside from the various excursions, I want to really get to know the people--what their daily routine is like, what they do for fun, what makes us similar and what makes us different. All of these thoughts about the upcoming months create a mix of excitement and anxiety about the unknown. After a year of anticipation...I’m really going to Cuba!