First Encounters
On the hellish taxi ride from the airport to my hotel (the driver must have been going over 100 mph), I asked him what might be open at that late hour. He informed me that several bars and nightspots would be open near my hotel and pointed some out on the way. After checking into the hotel, I quickly left for the Malecon, the main drive that goes along the Havana harbor coast. Along the street were many outdoor tables and chairs with a concession stand selling beer and soft drinks. Before I could make my way to a seat, I was greeted by a young man who introduced himself as Lazaro. He quickly introduced me to his circle of friends as his Mexican friend.
After having a beer or two, I felt comfortable enough to tell him that I was actually American and referred to myself as being Chicano, a term which he knew and understood. Lazaro and his friends were mainly musicians who would break into a song in the middle of a conversation after some vague reference to its title or lyric. During my trip, many people had a hard time either believing or grasping that I was American since I speak Spanish fluently. That first night there I partied at the Malecon till the sun came up, then went to Lazaro's apartment where we continued till around 10 am.
On this first night there I was struck by two things, the first of which was the fact that the beers and rum in Cuba were not exactly inexpensive, at least not as I would have expected if this were Mexico. Second was the expectation that I would be paying for everything, the rum, sodas, and food. Additionally, at the Malecon I encountered people who would walk up to me and say something to the effect of today is my birthday, give me a dollar, or worse yet, an older woman pulled her shirt down to show me her mastectomy scar before asking me for a dollar. As I was leaving Lazaro's house, he too asked me for a few dollars. At that point I asked him how he viewed our relationship. Was I actually the friend he was telling me I was, or was I simply someone from whom he could get money? I could see that the bluntness of my questions took him by surprise and he quickly backed off asking me for more money. Needless to say, I went back to my room with a strange mixture of emotions. I was glad to finally be there, I felt I had made a connection with real Cubans, but I also felt bad that I was seen as having the money to pay for everything, and guilty for having confronted Lazaro about that.
While at Lazaro's apartment, I got into a discussion of politics and its real life effects
on people with Julian, Lazaro's brother. Julian's feeling was that communism and every other form of government falls short of meeting the needs of the people. Without any fear of speaking his mind, he told me of the wages so low that he could not afford to have a roof over his head, so low that most Cubans generally cannot afford to eat properly. While he had no illusions of the US being his idea of opportunity or freedom, he effectively made the point that at least I was not burdened with the daily struggle of having enough to eat and a place to sleep.
The next day I spent the morning just walking around the streets of old Havana, La Habana Vieja. Being the cynical, guarded US city-dweller that I am, it took me a while to relax to the genuinely friendly greetings and attempts at conversation I had just walking down the street. Although some of the people I encountered had some
sort of monetary motive (buy cigars, rum, drugs, women) I soon saw that not all were jineteros. People were generally interested in asking where I was from, and about the tattoos on my arms. By the time Antonio and his son Franc (pictured here) arrived from Chicago (via Mexico City), they were surprised at how many people on the streets seemed to know me already. As it turned out, we would all become pretty well known just from being around that week.
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