One Month and Counting

I have been home for exactly one month today and strangely, some parts about my former life seem more foreign to me than they did before I left in January. I don’t think that people assume me to be any different than any other African American. In the States, I am not usually mistaken for Cuban, Barbadian, Martinican or anything other than a U.S. citizen. This is definitely a shift for me. My daily mindset had been to try and make sense of things partly based upon whether people thought that I was Cuban or a foreigner. Here, that is not really a concern. I don’t have to be nervous about whether or not my speech is clear and understandable. I can ”fit in” without having to reveal to someone that I am not who they thought that I was. I am not here visiting family. I live here, and that’s not a surprise.

Not standing out in the crowd definitely has its share of advantages and disadvantages. At home, it is highly unlikely that I will experience delayed service because the waiter or waitress suspects that I have foreign citizenship. I also feel a bit more at ease in knowing that I can go places without people trying to take advantage of me because I look like a tourist. In the same respect, there is one major disadvantage that I’ve come to realize. Other people don’t seem to find me all that interesting. My hair or the way that I speak doesn’t elicit any questions or impromptu conversations from people who are eager in finding out who I am. Ricardo at the Violín pizzería or Udalia at the peluquería (beauty salon) were quick to ask me, “Why are you in Cuba? How long have you been here? What are you studying?” At home, there is nothing of the sort. I just feel like I’m walking around with this amazing secret and I’m just waiting for someone to express even the slightest bit of interest so that I can share my experiences with them.

The few friends that I have talked to since being home all want to know what I’ve been up to for the last three months. They ask about the weather, about the food, but the most popular question is, what is the one most important thing that I’ve learned while in Cuba. I’ve learned that I’m capable of doing amazing things and creating important relationships if I just get over my initial shyness. That’s my answer for now, but it may change. I find that I will only realize how much I’ve learned when those opportunities arise where I’ll do things differently than I would have done a few months ago.

One friend asked me to tell her a funny story. How could I begin to tell her about the night at the fuente when I was approached by a middle-aged vendor who singled me out as the “negrita más linda” without first explaining what the fuente is, that there are vendors who sell mani, what mani is, who was with me and then finally translating “negrita más linda.” By the end of it, the act of retelling this funny story made me feel rather depressed about the life that I had left in Havana.

I miss seeing people walking down the street. There’s just cars here. Honestly, there aren’t many streets that I’ve ever walked on if they weren’t in my neighborhood or in the more touristy, downtown area of my city. I want to walk, but I feel confined by the weather and not being near places that are designated for walking, like a public park. Here, it’s so easy to be alone—which after spending three months in a house full of friends, is a big adjustment. But I am also surprised at how easy it was for me to get back into my normal routine. Most things, like driving, using my cell phone, or turning on my stereo, was like I had never left.

Admittedly, I hesitated the first time I was asked to use my debit card because I did not know if the six digit code that came to mind was actually my PIN. I hadn’t had to recall a meaningless sequence of numbers for the last three months. As I stood in the checkout line, I bowed my head and hoped that the little screen would tell me that my payment had been approved. Yes! Managing C.U.C and moneda nacional got a little difficult at times, but I always knew how much I had and couldn’t overspend like I often do when I am swiping away with my debit card, not thinking too seriously about how each transaction eats away at my bank account.

Ordering food for my welcome back meal was also a bit of a disorienting experience. As I stood in line looking over the menu at Noodles & Company, I was a bit overwhelmed by the abundance of offerings and the thought that the employees were ready to prepare most anything that was on the menu. It wasn’t too late in the day or the wrong day for me to order a particular item. After ordering, the half liter cup I was given was so much larger than the more manageable glass cups that I had grown accustomed to using in Havana. I was reminded of our problem with proportions and over-eating. Oh, America. Furthermore, I have become a bit more conscious of the things that I eat. Additives, preservatives, “natural flavoring.” I liked knowing that when I ordered food at the cajita stand on F/5 that it was a home cooked meal that promised to be riquisimo (very delicious). Longing to find that same taste, I made my own version of pan con tortilla (a sandwhich of egg and bread sometimes with lettuce and tomato). I rarely cook, but I was really missing the Cuban cuisine that I had grown to love.

Lastly, things here just aren’t as bright as they are in Cuba. It has been overcast, and chilly since I’ve been home, and even the colors that people wear—including myself—appear to be just as drab as the weather. Where is the woman dressed in Ochún yellow from head to toe with the Dolce & Gabbana rhinestone embellished t-shirt and matching wedges? I miss her.

What was coming to me

I have let’s see,
a desire to be included
in the Diaspora that gave birth to me.
I have a case of mistaken Cuban identity
I have a Cuban police officer asking to see my documents
expecting to get money as bribery.

I have, let’s see,
I have an M Card
A student I.D. from Casa de las Americas
A medical expense card
I carry oddities in my speech
I have a bag full of unexpected things.

When I see and touch myself,
I have a face full of ambiguities
I am a Diaspora unmet.
I am a garden prone to transplant.
Again, today, I touch a new land
Jose Marti, terminal 3
A trip made by my own volition
I am a repository of experience.

I have Havana Vieja, a walled city in my memory.
I have a disguise that even with lips painted shut can speak.
I have a blackness defined by a different country code.
Looking very closely, I am not who you think.
I can say Americana
I can say turista
I can say negra
I can say raza
I can say revolución
In any context
I have “already had enough sun.”
These are the frames of my experience,
My research, work and writing.

I have, let’s see
I have a stereotyped familiarity
That you know my name and my intentions
That I already know this type of oppression.
I have the pain of not being acknowledged
Not as a student
Not as a visitor
But as someone rehearsed to insignificance.

I have, let’s see,
That being Black,
No one will stop me
On the bus,
On the street,
But, In a hotel lobby.
In my room, the workers are surprised that I have a key
In a tourist locale, a place for which I should not have money
What is the worth of the people who accompany me?

I have let’s see
A blue collar Havana police
To question me
To uproot me from a group
And throw me in the middle of their assumptions.
I have the right to be angry?
I have the right to consent?
I have the right to discredit “racial utopia” rhetoric.
No protest
No defense
And this is the consequence
Gigantic, blue, socialist
Cuba and sea.

I had, lets see
an experience well known by many Cubans who look like me .
In this skin,
I had access to the entrails of this beautiful country.
In this skin,
I had what was coming to me.

Novelas y Piña

“Mira. Él es malo. Malo. Y ella, ella es buena. No no, ella es buena, es buena. (puffs on her cigar) She was in an accident and lost her husband and son. Sí, sí en un acidente. Now she’s in love with this one. Y ese. (Gestures at the television) Ese. He was married to that one, but when he became crippled, she left. Yes. And now she’s back to get her daughter and bring her to the United States. But this one. (points to the TV) Esa, she doesn’t want to go because she is in love. ’Perate, ’Perate, I’ll show you who when they come on. ’Perate. It’s this one. Him. Él es bueno. Eh? No no no, es bueno, es bueno. Te gustan las novelas? Ayy te gustan las novelas! Las novelas Cubanas son muy buenas no? Sí son buenas. They’re good because they talk about real life and real problems here. This one is on, hmm, a ver, (counting on her fingers) Lunes. Miercoles. Viernes. Yes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. At 9. Yes, a las nueve y pico. ’Perate. Ah, se acabó.

Mira. (Smiling) La pelicula last night fue muy buena. Yes yes. Fue buena. There was this one, about snakes that were on a plane. Yes. They were on a plane and they killed so many people. I turned it off because I don’t like that kind of violence. Na, I don’t like that kind of movie. But the other one. It was Brazilian. It was from Brazil. It was about this man who was married and his wife, his wife was muy mala. Era mala. Muy mala. She killed her friend. Sí she killed her friend and then her husband found out and tried to stop her. Pero. But when he tried to stop her she tried to kill him too. But he. He, he was able to stop her. But he had to kill her. La mató. Sí, fue muy buena. I watched both of the novelas and then this movie and then went to bed. I didn’t go to bed till late. I don’t know why I just didn’t. Eh? I couldn’t sleep don’t ask me why. I don’t know why but I couldn’t sleep. But tonight me voy a acostar temprano. Sí, temprano. I’m so tired.

But tonight, mira, tonight, mira, tonight there’s another novella. The Brazilian one. Called Paradise Island. Yes it’s good. It’s good but not as good as the other one. The one you like. You’ll see almost all the actors in this one are the same as that one. Casi todos. And him, he’s the same in almost every Brazilian novelas. Yes the Brazilian novelas are very good. They’re good because they talk about history. About what life used to be like. Mira, this is how life used to be. This is how slaves were treated. Verda. There was one. Oh it was on for a while. I used to watch it. But it ended, and now this one just started. It’s on a las diez. A las diez y pica.

And Listen, tomorrow voy hacer jugo de piña. You like pineapple juice? Ah sí es muy rico. Jugo de piña es riquísima, but I don’t drink it. Na, na, I don’t drink it. Ay, I have to peel the pineapple. Yes. Careful of the ants. La’ Hormiga’. Buscan dulce. La’ Hormiga’ buscan dulce. Y pican tambien. Hormiga’ pican cantida. But they just look for sweets.

Ay bueno, tengo que pelar la piña. Hasta luego mi vida.”

Postscript

Over the past weeks I have spent lots of time with Maria and we have shared various conversations about a variety of subjects from politics to relationships to looking at the cars that pass below on the Malecon. I chose to write this narrative about Maria and the ways in which she explains and talks about novelas and movies. Maria loves television and is frequently watching novelas, news, movies, and a variety of shows. She is an expert on any show and it is real source of joy for her. Recently she has let me watch two novelas with her in her room and she would take it upon herself to make sure I was up to date, even though sometimes it got in the way of her own enjoyment. I love watching the novelas with her, and I think she does too, although she has said I talk too much. But Maria always makes sure that I understand who is who, their stories, and especially makes note of who is good and who is bad. Although I could have chosen to write a narrative of Maria discussing politics or giving advice or recounting her personal history, I chose instead to include a dialogue of a normal conversation between us based on something we share and do for fun together.

I didn’t have to exclude many questions because Maria will just explain things to me without much prompting. It was also very hard to write in English because I always think of Maria speaking in Spanish. However, I made a point to include a number of her common expressions in my attempt to recreate her voice. When Maria and I watch the novelas together, normally, she will constantly shift the conversation and change subject as she just says what she thinks and what she is feeling. Also, normally after we finish watching TV together, we will head into the kitchen, and I will watch and try to help her peel pineapple for the juice for breakfast. She takes extreme pride in her juice and works very hard to make it each day and keep it fresh. My favorite part of our time together is how when I go off to bed, she will say hasta luego mi vida. It’s such a sweet caring and loving expression, it reminds me of how much she cares about us and how lucky we are to have her with us.

Yuma or Compay

As I walk the streets of Vedado and Habana Vieja, I find myself constantly torn between my dream to integrate into Cuban society and the reality that I will forever remain an outsider looking in. Dressed in shorts or jeans, and a plain white t-shirt, I attempt to blend in with the rest of Cuba, but am constantly betrayed by my out-of-place pale white freckled skin and short red hair. Although I continue confidently down the street, I am harangued by shouts of, “Taxi! Oh Americano? Hey my friend!” the list goes on. Even though I remind everyone that I am here to study, I am still labeled as a tourist and constantly find myself struggling between the two identities. I constantly fight between pulling out my digital camera to capture an interesting building or to leaving it in my bag in an attempt to hide my position as an outsider. As a result, rarely do I photograph what is usually a stunning scene, confining my picture-taking to when we are all on trips around the city. Although I know I should have no fear and simply snap away, the battle wages on as I strain to define my role here in Cuba.

As each day goes by, it becomes apparent to me that no matter what I do, I will never be Cuban. An obvious notion, but the desired goal for any traveler is to fit in. Even though as a student, I live in an apartment and not a hotel, I am reminded that my living situation is much better than that of the average Cuban. While I get two full meals a day, instant internet access, a penthouse view of the Malecón and Atlantic Ocean, working bathrooms and showers, and purified water to name a few, Cubans, including those who take care of us at the Residencia, in comparison have a much poorer standard of living. Not to say that it is an inferior or worse situation, just that everyday I am more and more aware of just how privileged we are here and even more back home in the United States.

However, that being said, despite the fact that I automatically stick out as a yuma, I have found it particularly easy to integrate myself into Cuban society through my interactions with the people here. Everyday, as I walk through the streets, I go by everyone with a smile on my face and, to those that meet my gaze, a friendly, “Hola, buenas. ¿Como ehta?” I have discovered that a smile goes a long way, and for the majority of the time, even those with the biggest frown on their face will brighten up and respond with a, “Hola hola” as I pass. Also, everyday I make it my business to talk to someone different, not only to practice my Spanish, but to learn more and more about life in Cuba. What I find is that this island is full of people who love to talk and are as willing to chat with me as I am with them. At one Movie Theater, after I tried to ask a few questions, a woman rushed out from behind the plastic window where she worked to ask me, “Where are you from?” What followed was an unsuspected but extremely pleasant conversation where she told me all about her family and the history of her daughter’s name. Additionally, through my encounters with the changing faces at the stadium de Jose Marti not only do I share my passion for soccer, but meet new people and continue to learn about Cuban culture.

Poco a poco, bit by bit, I learn just what my role here is. I now understand that I will never be a Cubano, will never appear to have lived here and should stop trying to fool myself into believing that I can hide my blatant American identity. But why try to hide? What I have learned is that rather than attempt to be something I’m not, I have to embrace my identity as an extranjero¸ thus integrating myself into Cuban society not as a Cuban, but as a foreigner. In this way, in the oncoming weeks that will rapidly seem to turn into months, I will continue to walk and talk to anyone and everyone I meet, not worrying about how I don’t fit in, but instead concentrating on embracing my identity as an outsider not just looking in, but seeking to understand and become close with what surrounds me. Although I forever remain a yuma and will never truly be a Cubano, hopefully in the months to come, I can become a friend or compay.

“In a short time, we will be a memory"

I going to esplain you some-thing, some-thing about my life from my experience. I’m not politics, I’m not economist. But I am sick, we are all sick, of Castro this and Castro that; sick of ‘the Revolution.’ It is the eh-same espeech, over and over again. For us, no, the buses are not like a party. The music, maybe; but the mood, no. Fifty years of this… it is not a party. But, it is what, how do you say this? What God… choose? Chose? Fue lo que dios nos destinó. But to let people be free, buy a car, and go somewhere, travel. If I could travel and come back, for esample, if I could go a semester abroad, to study, and come back. No need to stay, you know? That is the problem. They want to control you, control control control, all the time, no? Like if I wanted to start my own bakery, and I could use my own recipes and ingredients, and it would be really good. But no. This country doesn’t allow you to become rich.

There is something the Cuban rap group, Aldeanos, says in a song. They says in a short time we will be remind… ah how can I esplain this in English…In a short time we will be a memory… Who? We, The Archipelago, Cuba, the youth, ehrybo-dy. Lo que nos queda es nada para ser un recuerdo. They are my fa-vo-rite because they speak what the Cubans want to hear, they say what it is that Cubans, we, are thinking. A lot of it is ‘counter-Revolutionary’ and complaints, but they continue because they are good and people can relate. Like Ché, an image, a memory - that is what will be, what will happen, to Cuba. This country is destroying, everyday everyday everyday, the necessities. Is a general feeling, you know? Is anger that I feel. Everybody feels… frustrated. It’s are the common feelings of a mayority of Cubans.

Not all, not every Cuban wants to leave but the mayority of the youth want to leave. The intelligent ones. The ones that want to… improve their life. The… stu-pid ones, are here; maybe drinking alcohol, or stealing. Wasting time. But the mayority want to leave. Minus Haiti, I would go anywhere really. Really anywhere. Jes! Who knows? Iran might be better than here. I do not know because I was not alive, I only know what I have lived, but, since my childhood, since I was growing up – is correct, ‘growing up’? Estaba creciendo - as far as I can remember, any change in Cuba has been for the worse. I haven’t enjoyed anything of the Revolution. At least my father took advontage of the relationship between the Soviet Union that we had. I did not have that. Because of the relations with the Soviet Union, we had things like gas, and more food. We are so hungry all we think about is food food food, make love, food food food, money, food food food. At the beginning of the Revolution, those things – clothes, material things – were belong to [*points across the Ocean, north towards the United States*] ‘consumerism,’ ‘capitalism,’ to “them.” But now, with more advances, we want these things too, no?

We are like Indians here. We have no idea how developed country are outside. We only think in food. I tell you, the most important thing in Cuba is food. You ahre a teacher, in a classroom, but you are only thinking in what you are going to fix for your children. Everyone in this country survives stealing, that’s why the economy is so bad. They steal to survive, of course, jes, of course. They steal, for esample, if you work at a bakohry, you will steal the sugar, the how do you say this? Is like powder? Harina? Flour! Jes jes, flowh-urr. Or, for esample, maybe I am not so good in school because when I leave, I might not have anything to do. The TV here are shit. They only show you what they want to show you. If in Italy was an explosion, they will show you that. Not about the museums or the good places, the downtowns or children’s parks, no. Nothing here works.

I am take advantage of what good things are, there are, in Cuba. Which is over and over again said- the eh ‘universal healthcare,’ the ‘free education.’ To prepare for the future, you know? I do not know what I want to do for the future. To be successful, you know? No, not ne-cess-arily in acting, maybe I will work in something else. It is not good to always be thinking in the future. You need to live in the present. If you are always thinking in the future, is no good. Things I like about my country are amistad, friendship. The people. The people are very caring, no? We have necessity here, but we are, how do you say… alegres? Happy! Jes – happy. We are good dancers, nice, we are good people, and intelligent. When Cuban arrive in any other country, they will be educated. I just feel like there is nothing here for me.

Postscript

-When choosing what to write about, there really was no question that I would generally give a narrative that reveals his nationality and feelings towards his country. He speaks about these things most of the time. The problems – social, political, economic, governmental – that Cuba faces today are very much a lived reality for him and affect his future.

-I am choosing to leave out any information that would link the interview directly to him. There were some remarks he made, mostly in jest, about/against the Cuban government or specific government persons that I purposely omitted. I did this both to potentially protect him and because sometimes, after these remarks, he would laugh, wave his hands, point at me while I was writing in my notebook and say “¡ahh no no no! Jaja ¡No escribas eso!” More than out of fear I think he wanted these remarks to be left out because they were jokes and that in some way takes away from the seriousness and sincerity of what he shared.

-I felt that since he told me most of this in English, I should write it in English. To take the narrative further, I felt that keeping the broken English/grammatical errors was important for three main reasons. The first reason is because it evokes a more true and accurate depiction of how he sounds. I think the reader can ‘hear’ his voice more when it is written this way. Second, much of what he said is his translation, to the best of his abilities. It may not have been exactly what he meant; it might not have portrayed exactly what he felt. So writing it as he said it keeps from a misinterpretation and again is more accurate. Last, I think his speaking in English is symbolic of his desires and goals to leave the country. He actually said that he was sick of Spanish, which I did not specifically note in the narrative, but I thought it was very interesting. He seems to be ‘sick’ of many aspects of Cuba and his motivation to speak English and desire to break from Spanish is symbolic of his frustrations.

-I wanted to weave what he said over the course of three meetings (hours of discussion) into a story. I wanted to explain his life as he has expressed it to me through his frustrations.

-I tried to write the way he pronounces certain words with bold used where he would emphasize a sound and say it louder (almost always done because he was struggling with the pronunciation, not necessarily done on purpose), a – was used where he would break up a word, … when there was a pause in his speech (either thinking of what the word was that he wanted to use, how to conjugate, or just how to explain what he was thinking), and italics were used where he would put a lot of emotion into a word, drag a word out, spoke in Spanish, and in general where a word was given more significance in his speech. Words were misspelled to try to portray the way he said them.

“Cuba is Not for Us Cubans”

An implicit testimony:

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were Cuban, but you’re American! Let me give you a hug still. Your country is much better. My father left us. He is in a much better place, in Miami. I was born here in Havana. My daughter and I stay here. We belong here. But yes, the United States is better. The good public health is not enough. As you can tell by the looks of things, it just isn’t enough. We need more. I don’t know about the next president being better. We Cubans are tired of hearing the same thing over and over. I wish to be able to see the snow that you guys are getting now. But, this country is like a prison. I know that that’s a dream. But, I still have to work, my friend. I still have to live my life. I’m not like you. I don’t have money to eat at the restaurants. Right not it’s raining and cold. I don’t have a jacket to wear like you do. I try to go to the free events here in Cuba because I don’t have that much money. But, don’t worry about me, my friend. Do not worry about all that. Enjoy your visit here. There are some good things about Cuba although we still need a change. The people are very caring and friendly here. We have a good community. And yes, public health is good. However, the government still needs to give us more.”

I term this testimony “implicit” because I do not believe the people, on whom I’m basing this testimony, intended for it to be such. I believe these individuals were simply expressing their feelings and releasing some frustration about the state of Cuba. I actually decided to put three voices into one for this testimony. From the beginning until the discussion on public health, I relay the words of a drunken woman whom I was talking with one night out for Salsa dancing. The woman seemed to be in her forties. From the topic of public health to where the speaker compares himself to me, “the rich American,” are the words of a young man that my colleagues and I have befriended. He is 22 years old and studies theatre. He is quite an ambitious young man. The discourse on the difference in how a Cuban lives in comparison to an American was taken from a conversation I had with a young man while we were out on a date. He was 22 years of age, just a year my senior. And finally, when the speaker wishes for me to enjoy my time in Cuba, we return to some words from the young man studying theatre. The purpose behind me pulling these three voices into one is to emphasize how some Cuban citizens have lost hope in bettering conditions for their country. They don’t believe that the government is doing all it can to improve the lives of its citizens. I have also shown that some Cubans acknowledge that foreigners, such as me, are able to enjoy themselves more in their excursions to Cuba than the natives. I was fortunate that these individuals didn’t hold animosity toward me due to this fact and were still willing to open up to me in our conversations. One will notice that I have not included any questions. For instance, the comment by one of the speakers that Cubans are tired of hearing the same thing from the government came after I asked if the notion that Fidel Castro’s nephew-who is supposedly next in line to be the leader of Cuba (after Raúl Castro, Fidel’s brother)-was going to improve the conditions of Cuba was true. I decided not to include the questions because, frankly, they are not so crucial. Many Cuban individuals, as I was hoping to exemplify with the individuals I have discussed, will continue to discuss the politics of their country without a question or any other type of initiation. This further elicits the agitation of some Cubans with their country’s system. A popular slogan in Cuba is “Cuba para los Cubanos” (Cuba for the Cubans). However, I have presented a testimony where the Cuban feels that Cuba is not for him.

Ifá and Cabaret

The drive from Havana to Matanzas was beautiful. In a matter of a few miles, the landscape drastically changed from crowded buildings bursting with people to hills, fields, and palm trees as far as the eye could see. The artificial colors of Havana’s noisy cars and aging buildings vanished in favor of natural deep greens across the land and bright blue skies above. Together our group barely took up half of the space on the air-conditioned, tourist coach bus making it a comfortable ride. With so much room to stretch it was easy to slip into a deep sleep, waking only at the jerk of a bump in the road. I could stay awake for just a moment - squinting out at the Cuban countryside would quickly lull me back into my dreams.

It was after this semi-conscious, in-and-out of sleep, daydream-like drive that we arrived in the beautiful city of Matanzas. The rest of the time in the provincial city would follow the car ride with a similar surreal sentiment. After leaving Ediciones Vigía (a world known publishing company that distributes hand-made books) and seeing the amazing studio of Vigía’s artistic director Rolando Estévez, we arrived at the Ifá (an Afro-Cuban religion with Yoruba roots) house-temple. Still a bit drowsy from the car ride and stillprocessing the original, creative artwork of Estévez, we arrived apprehensively. Outside the door were the remains of previous offerings to orishas, now a collection of bones, flies, and feathers coming out of a black mass of rotting fruit and sacrificial offerings. We were greeted with atraditional welcome song; I could feel the deep bass of the drums vibrate the floor under my feet as we entered. Flies nipped at my exposed calves and feet. The smell of rotting foods, chickens, and stale liquor (all forofferings) was slightly nauseating at first. The chickens flapped their wings and clucked together, overcrowded in a small metal cage a few feet from where we sat down. Ernesto, the leader of the temple, pulled out a beaded necklace with six tree seeds from Africa. He explained how it is used to reveal premonitions depending on how the beads land when thrown. Where am I? What is going on? What have we gotten ourselves into? Furthermore, are those chickens for what I think they are for?

Once the first ceremony (a cleansing and offering for the deceased) was complete, a heavy rain came in. The storm seemed to wash all of our apprehensions away. I actually am not sure if it was the rain, the rhythmic drumming, or the hypnotic chanting and singing, (might have been the celebratory cups of straight rum distributed between the ceremonies), but we all loosened up. Nervous eye contact developed into hip-heavy dancing and shared laughter. After the third ceremony the electricity went out. It was at this moment of literal darkness that the true character of all the members of the temple came to light. Even before the candles hadbeen found and brought down stairs, the men grabbed their drums and began a spontaneous Rumba. Random passersby heard the music and stepped in fromthe wet streets and joined. Everyone began to sing. Men took turns on the various drums. People began to dance. It was a performance of sorts, but I felt included. With limited visibility, for which the candles only provided no more than the outlines of figures and faces, I engaged with the music in a new way. I could not see much, but I certainly could hear and feel all of the drumming and singing. With the encouragement of Karel, one of the ceremony leaders, two of us got up from the bench where we were sitting and began to dance. He showed us how to step and move our hips so as not to make complete fools of ourselves, but the environment was so welcoming that I really don’t think I could have been embarrassed. What should have been a setback (the power outage) instantly turned into the most invigorating music celebration I have ever experienced. The energy grew tremendously and everyone seemed to have bonded.

It felt like well over an hour had passed before the lights came back on. We huddled together on the floor of a small room for the fourth and final ceremony of the night. The space was bland in its color scheme with beige tiles making up the floor and white walls, blood-stained from past sacrifices. The montuno (call and response) vocals began amidst steady, jangling bells and the soothing sound of Yoruba (the African language of the religion). The Ifá practitioners, one at a time, strung out the necks of the birds like they were rope, swiftly twisted them to break bone, put the head under their big toe and ripped it off. The animals were then held over the ceramic pot to collect its blood as an offering for Ochun (goddess associated with prosperity, women’s fertility and health).

After this ceremony, it was time for the final music performance – Violin for Ochún. Ernesto (who was a musician with the Matanzas orchestra until retirement) went upstairs to fetch his violin and the men (most his sons or grandsons) grabbed their respective instruments. The contrast between the traditional hypnotic drumming and the graceful, emotional sound of the violin created some of the bestmusic I had ever heard. The music went on for nearly an hour and the drumming never stopped. They were extremely talented and drifted seamlessly between songs from one rhythm to the next, communicating through eye contact and quick hand motions. At one point a drummer briefly answered his cell phone and was able to maintain the rhythm during the call. The space was small and people were sitting on whatever stool or stair they could find room on. The close proximity of the audience and the musicians allowed the music to fill the room and lead us to feel like we were active participants in the music performance.

So the next morning we set off for a ‘day of gluttony’ at an all-inclusive hotel in Varadero (a resort town in the province of Matanzas known internationally for its beautiful beaches). At night, a group of musicians played some ‘original Cuban music’ of well known Salsa and other mainstream songs in the bar area, dressed in matching pink plaid tops. Only one tiny old, old man was brave enough to get up and dance. The quality of the music was fine, but the atmosphere did not call for much participation from the guests. At one point I turned to watch the band and made eye contact with the singer who motioned for me with his head to please get up and dance. There was a sense of desperation in his eyes. After they finished, he walked around to each table asking if anyone wanted to buy their CD of ‘original Cuban music,’ an example of how consumerism has infiltrated the culture of Cuba and led the music to be commodified; literally packaged up and marketed – matching outfits and all.

Most striking was the cabaret which took place in the main bar area of the hotel a little after the band had left. Three pairs of Cuban dancers entered the room in skimpy outfits. The men wore tight, white, spandex-like full body suits with a neon orange-pink frills running up the sides. The girls’ outfits were neon orange-pink shorts (which looked more like underwear) and frilly long-sleeved tops bearing their midriffs. Their outfits created a blinding visual separation between them and the audience as well as giving their performance a highly sexual tone. What followed was a series of tacky renditions of popular North American songs and equally tacky choreography. At one point, a version of ‘Phantom of the Opera’ came on and one of the female dancers was dramatically thrown, spun, tossed and twirled back and forth both violently and sexually, between two of the male dancers. All of the guests had gathered in the bar area which, considering the size of the whole hotel, was not that big. The dancers performed on the floor at eye level with the vacationers who were all fixated on the show. None of the women looked like they wanted to be there. Wide-eyes, concerned brows. There was hardly a hint of a smile on their faces. In fact, I would say their expressions were those of pain, discomfort, embarrassment.

Between the costume and the choreography, the Cubandancers were exoticized and eroticized. The guests were being presented with an extremely stereotypical representation of Cubans through these dancers, all of whom were ‘mulattos’ (traditionally defined as a person of African and Spanish parents) or Black Cubans - another aspect which made me uncomfortable. The cookie-cutter band that had come before was tolerable, but the cabaret ruined my mood. I decided to go to bed early and left before the show was over.

Similar to the performances at Ifá, everyone was close together and the ‘audience’ was in very close proximity to the ‘performers.’ Still, the performances were not inclusive. The people in the audience at the hotel were spectators, and we (the ‘audience’) were participants at the Ifá temple. At one point or another, each of us grabbed a drum or a bell and contributed to the music at the temple. We all danced. We had been welcomed into their home and openly accepted to join and learn from their beliefs and practices. In contrast, the performers at the hotel were performing for money. Their music - their art - had been affected by the consumerist culture of tourism, leaving it awkward and sad. The hotel had much ‘better’ facilities – electricity, speakers, more floor space, etc. – yet the power outage at the Ifá temple led to a much more emotional, heartfelt, spontaneous and powerful presentation both for the performers and the audience alike.

Cuba Program in the News

According to the 2010 Open Doors Report, as cited by this article in the Michigan Review, less than .001% of U.S. college students study abroad in Cuba. Read more on this trend and reasons why it could be increasing.

Pain and Glory

I enjoyed staying at the beach resort hotel in Varadero, Cuba. The soft, tan colored sand was a great contrast to the aquamarine Caribbean Sea. I loved the sound of the contemporary Salsa music inside the 1950s-architectured lobby of the hotel in contrast to the sound of the large movements of the ocean waves on the outside. I also found myself in a meditational state at times as I sat at the seaside and felt the warm winds brush across the brown hairs of my hands and feet. Yes, life as a touring ethnographer can be mesmerizing. However, part of me feels guilty being a tourist/ethnographer. What I find myself remembering most, and thus wanting to recount in this narrative, is the time I spent with the Afrocubans in a neighborhood of Matanzas, a town just a few miles away from Varadero. I know that some of the people I met there haven’t, and probably never will, have the opportunity to luxuriate at any beach resort of any town in Cuba. Here I am-a foreigner-receiving a chance to explore “the paradise” of Cuba before natives of the country. As an African American who knows a thing or two about lacking some opportunities within your native country, I empathized with those in the Afrocuban neighborhood. Perhaps they empathized with me as well, which is what made my experience with them so harmonious and urged me to find where my true paradise of Cuba is: in the authentic neighborhoods with the people who have African roots just as I do, and not in the centers that have been tailored for foreigners.

The Afrocuban neighborhoods of Cuba are not considered the places of beauty and “paradise” of Cuba, or places to attract tourists. Yet, in the Afrocuban neighborhood is where I have my most fond memories. One of those memories is of the last day my travel companions and I spent at the Ifá house in Matanzas to say our goodbyes to some of the residents we met. Ifá is a traditional African religion of Yoruba origin (no found in Nigeria) that only few of African descent still practice today. The neighborhood in which this house is located used to be a slave quarter location. One can figure this by the looks of the neighborhood. The landscape is not leveled. There are no cemented sidewalks, just semi-paved rocks and sand that make for the roads and walkways. The houses are at low elevation and the doors of the houses are covered with eroding gates (perhaps the gates used to lock in the slaves in the past). One can witness that the small homes are cramped as people are trying to fit their biological and religious family members in them. Besides practicing religion such as Ifá, another cultural element the Afrocubans have continued is song and dance. The day of my last visit, I watched this man perform traditional African dance moves with electrifying energy. From a previous visit, some of the people learned that I was part of a Congolese dance company. The people urged me to dance with the man. Without hesitation, I headed out…

The man I shared the dance with isn’t what society would consider beauty either. He was old, maybe in his fifties or sixties. He was very black. He was also missing teeth. Later that evening, my travel companions and I were eating dinner. I made the comment that I needed to take a shower. My reasoning was due to the salt from the water of the beach in Varadero. One of my companions exclaimed, “If an old man was grinding on me, I would need a shower too!” Afterwards, everyone at the table erupted in laughter. I didn’t find the comment funny at all. I believe my companions misunderstood what the dance between the old man and I meant. All blacks, not just Africans or Afrocubans, use song and dance as a manner to escape their worries of oppression and discrimination and celebrate being black. Song and dance is a cultural aspect blacks take pride in. I believe the Afrocubans in Matanzas knew that they would not be seeing me again and that I would be returning to the United States soon. Therefore, they wanted me to share the special moment with the talented dancer. The dancing was a celebration between a black brother and sister of African descent, not a sexual interaction between an older man and a younger woman. I didn’t bother to tell my colleagues what the man had whispered to me. He said, “God bless you, my sister.” That is the main memory I have of Cuba thus far. I rarely think about swimming in Varadero. To this day, I try to understand why the man wanted to bless me. He was the poor islander. He was the one who may never be able to see the beaches of the tourist cities. Perhaps that part isn’t important. Perhaps the most important thing is that we share the pain and glory of being black.

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.