6/4 - Hola, baby! It's my first Friday in Cuba and boy was it a doozy. I’ll jump right into it: so we start the day in class getting a lecture on Cuban art, literature, and culture. It's extremely interesting and I’ve got a bunch of names of artists and novelists we've got to check out (movies, too!) when I get back. Once this is done a bunch of us trudge over to the market near school to get some prezzies. I buy myself some dominoes, I get your mommy a Cuban casita for the kitchen, and I get a couple of things for you too. (But not the, "Boy, I hope you have sex with me again. Here is an item I hope will sway your decision." kind of gift, more on the friends side. I’m still searching for a nice girlfriend gift. Unless you want a giant sword made of cow bone or a big wooden fist, I might be in trouble. I’ll keep looking, though...)
Our afternoon excursion is to the museum of fine arts -- sticking with our tema del dia of culture -- and I get to see a bunch of cool stuff. Again, I’ve got a bunch more names for us to check out, but I was somewhat surprised at the lack (it borders on non-existence here) of revolutionary art. You’d think in a country so rah-rah happy clap over its triumph over tyranny and continual system of resistance there'd be more stuff to see, but you'd be wrong.
Once done here we go to the museum of the revolution, an exhaustive (and exhausting) account of virtually every fight and figure who rebelled against the state over the last 100-plus years. There is a ton of interesting stuff here -- clothing worn by key people upon triumph or defeat, weapons, photos and newspaper clippings, etc -- but after awhile you start to lose the thread of who's fighting who and why. Still, there are great rooms on Camilo and Che (plus wrenching pictures of the latter's body after he'd been killed), cool old vehicles, tanks, and missiles used in the '59 revolution and during the Cuban missile crisis (including the boat used to first transport Fidel, Che, and company to Cuba from Mexico, the hallowed Granma), all of it finely filtered through the propaganda machine and thus slightly distorted. All in all, though, it's a great experience, one I feel like you need to have if you come here. (If for nothing more than to laugh at the enormous cojones of Fidel for the placement and content of the museum -- besides the boat, I should tell you the museum is in the former presidential palace of Batista and is chock full of disparaging descriptions of him on the placards in the displays. Putting it there is just the final F.U. to the previous regime. Hilarious.)
Now’s when things get interesting. After a brief dinner of ropa vieja (the traditional Cuban dish, consisting of pulled, slow roasted beef, onions, and peppers) and arroz moro, I go for a walk. As I’m walking down towards the Malecon I meet two guys who come up to me and start talking. We do the usual routine -- where am I from? Oh, America! What city? What am I here for? Etc. It's some variation and combination of these that are the standard opening moves from the jinetero handbook and are in high circulation everywhere in the city. But it's a little different this time. The one guy keeps talking to me in Spanish (which they never do if they're trying to sell you something) and the other guy is wearing a shirt that says, "Architecture Camp, Southern Illinois University," so I figure they probably just want to talk. That’s what I was looking to do anyway, so we decide to head to this bar around the corner to chat.
On the way there we get stopped by this cop who asks them for their identification (an annoyance, but not all that unusual. the cops often stop those who appear to be hassling tourists.) Usually he calls in the names, makes sure they're not wanted for anything, and then lets them go. Not tonight. Instead, tonight, after making the same preliminary calls, he decides -- despite what they, in fluent, and I in broken Spanish, are telling him -- they are harassing me and that they need to be arrested. We stand there for twenty minutes trying to convince him, to no avail. Then the paddywagon comes -- he frisks them, puts them inside, and llets them stew for 20, 25 minutes before taking them away. (It's a rather hot night and I know the back of that truck doesn't have air conditioning, so they're in the back sweltering until the two cops are done laughing and chatting outside and decide to take them to the station.) Finally the truck pulls away and we set up a meeting to talk again later that night once they've been released. (Their idea, not mine, crazy as it sounds.) I head back to the hotel, grab a buddy up for an adventure, and head back to the rendezvous point to meet the guys after an hour or so.
Sure enough, they're sitting there waiting for us, and so we go to the bar, this time with us following them from a distance -- fifty, sixty feet behind, on the opposite side of the road kind of stuff -- and spend the rest of the night learning about the real Havana from our new informants. The information gleaned here was incredible and creates a starkly different picture than the sanitized version we've been getting in class. Bernardo and Santiago painted a much grimmer picture of life today, and especially during the special period, than we'd been led to understand. For the latter: theaters, clubs, bars, restaurants, stores, etc. all closed. The only thing open being the ration shops to get your meager monthly supplies. (Some markets were open, they said, but not many, as they either had no access to supplies or had nothing people could afford. Street vendors were the main source people used, as they were cheaper and more reliable, often only selling one or two items.) Prices on food, beer, et al were sky high, people had less to do at work and had no outlet for their energy or frustration outside of it. This obviously was a powderkeg ready to blow and led to an increase in crime and standoffs with the police, in addition to drinking. (Which is somewhat surprising, given that this is a highly alcohol-lubricated society as it is. The sight of men buying beer at 7, 8 in the morning not a strange occurrence here, for example.) Campesinos were flooding into the city to get a foothold in the bourgeoning tourism industry, but increasingly wound up in the police force, native habaneros were becoming increasingly agitated and looking to vent, often drunk on rum or homemade hooch. (Bernardo said this was the one thing they could do to forget their troubles. They would pool their limited funds together and buy a bottle of rum to share, or if that was too expensive they'd drink diluted rubbing alcohol swiped from a hospital or filtered kerosene, among other things.) The latter group bristled at the crackdowns by the outsiders and wound up in an increased number of showdowns with the police, leading to more arrests and beatings. People were dying of hunger or ever-close to that state, hundreds were slapping together rafts and taking their chances on the water, and those that stayed behind had to deal with a steadily worsening situation. This is the stuff I had suspected happened and have been working so hard to verify, and now I have a little more ammo for my interviews and paper, which is comforting.
Since we have to get up early tomorrow, we bid our friends adieu for the evening, but set up a time to meet them again on Monday when we get back from the countryside. Ben and I go back to the hotel, pick up some meds and personal care items to give the guys since these things are still so scarce (I give them some multi-vitamins and ibuprofen and Benny gives children's versions of the same) and then turn in for the night. (Not together. :) Quite an evening, eh? Hasta…
6/5 - Happy Saturday, all. Ugh. Today was kind of lousy. We took an overnight trip out to the country and it was beautiful, but it rained a lot, I still feel kind of lousy physically, and the things we're doing and seeing were all things that were tortuous to do without V. Honestly, this was probably my worst day in terms of missing her. All I could think about was A) how much she would have loved the day's activities and vistas (you'll see why when I you see the pictures) and B) I have two more weeks to go. This has lost the positive aspect of it that was there before -- that two weeks mean a ton more to see and do -- and is only ringing true on the other end, the one pointing out that this is a rather large period of time to gut out. I am going to attach myself to her hip once I get back – she has been warned.
Anyway, so here's why today was so difficult. We left Havana for a trip to Pinar del Rio and the town of Vinales, a tiny town in the middle of the country's key tobacco growing region. Our first stop is the Cueva del Indio, the Indian’s cave, a massive cave system in the middle of the bogotes -- lush, green mounds the size of mini-mountains that are everywhere. The cave is cool, all carved out by water over the centuries, and we have to take a boat to get out the other side because of the underground river blocking our path. (We leave our mangy canine companion, the one who has been following us since the moment we stepped foot off the bus, behind on the shore (much to the chagrin of the females on board), whimpering and pacing trying to find a way to join us on the boat. He'll eventually circle around and meet us on the other side when we're holed up in the restaurant.) It’s pretty cool to do a little spelunking -- the naturalist and outdoorsman in me smmiles at the opportunity to stretch his legs -- and when we get out we wander the grounds a bit admiring the valley.
It’s breathtaking -- these series of brilliant green bumps mixed in with the larger, more mountainous structures, the scattered barragonas, pot-bellied palms whose trunks look like boa constrictors that just swallowed pigs, dotting the landscape, the bright red dirt of the farm plots dotted with tiny splashes of green signaling the tobacco seedlings: it's a scene from Steinbeck aglow in Latin color and vibrancy; an explosion of intense hues that you would have loved. The bohios, the tobacco drying houses made entirely out of palm trees -- the frame from the trunk, the roof (which covers its entire outer surface) from its dried fronds -- are sprinkled throughout the landscape as well. No wonder it's on UNESCO's protected list. It’s almost too much and it kills me V wasn't there. (The other thing she would have loved was when I rode Tomas, the water buffalo. It was hilarious. He was trained to respond to his handler's Spanish commands -- forward, Tomas. Backward, Tomas. Turn around, Tomas... -- and was a great looking animal. You've gotta see the pics. I’m such a tool.)
A serious storm appears over the horizon, so we hightail it back to the restaurant just before the skies rip apart and dump gallons of water on the valley. We sit there eating, watching the rain smash down on the palms, listening to this mariachi play (it was cool -- I got to try malanga, a root/potato-like thing similar to taro that's key to cuisine here, and to hear the guy play Quizas, Quizas, Quizas. Needless to say, I was a happy camper.)
Once things dry out a bit we hop back on the bus and drive over to our hotel, Los Jazmines, which continues the day's agonies. We get there and it's nestled atop one of the hills overlooking the entire Valle del Bogotes. It is absolutely beautiful, and my heart sinks again. All those things I just described for you are here, spread out below our feet atop the hill, stretching as far as the eye can see. You see the entire range of the formation, several good-sized vegas (tobacco plantations) are nestled at the foot of our hill -- ugh. It’s so romantic I want to brain myself with a coconut. This isn't fair.
In between several more torrential downpours, the boys hold up in one of the rooms and play some dominoes on the porch, some of the girls go walking, and I (after bones, of course) go horseback riding with two of my amigos. Severe heart-wrenching moment #3. UGH!!! We go FOR ONE HOUR riding in the valley, passing all the beautiful stuff I mentioned before, now only feet from my face. (There's cows and pigs roaming around, the bohios smell incredible when you get close, and the bogotes sky above you as you trek around at their feet.) FOR FIVE DOLLARS (!!!) and I’m thinking to myself, "Somebody shoot me now. Please. Put me out of my misery. I cannot TAKE this anymore!"
Sigh. Nobody heeds my call, so Sebastien (my caballo) takes us around some more before we eventually head back. Before we go inside, Pablo, our guide, stops to show us the dormideras, these tiny fern-like plants that fold together in a flash when you touch them (hence the name), and then, after a brief meal, the boys meet back up on the balcony to play bones, smoke cigars, and drink Cuba libres (rum and cokes) while we while the night away. It’s a wonderful moment, but when another downpour comes and we're sitting there watching the lightning explode in the valley and the sharp rise and fall of light -- from blackness to stark illumination and back to total darkness -- it's too much for me to take. I decide to go to bed before my head (and heart) explode. Emotionally exhausted, I turn in for the night and hopefully some sweet dreams.
ps. I’ve been dreaming in Spanish -- how crazy is that?!?