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.
