Naúfraga: Mis Aventuras en Cuba!

I'm Busy

2008-01-29T08:01:00.000-08:00

In which I'm busy, busy, terribly busy!

OK, so I really have been intending to post something on here... but it looks like my priorities are going to be shifting towards the academic department for the next several weeks. Because I do tend to need an outlet for writing I am considering re-opening my former weblog so that I can post about the other things that are absorbing my time at the moment. When I learn how to balance my 400 pages a night reading load and the pending doom of my unemployment I will return to reading and blogging about Cuba. I have been taking Environmental Sociology and I am very interested in examining Cuba in an environmental context, so occasionally class and Cuba may coincide. For the time being, however, it appears that adding any more reading to my already obscene reading load would be impossible. So I am sorry but this blog will have to be retired until further notice. This weekend I will post the address to my (revamped) general site. Again, thank you all for reading and supporting me! Hope to see you all back here some day...

Chau,
Liz

Reaching Out

2008-01-17T19:16:00.000-08:00

In Which Things May Finally Be Getting Started...

It's been a difficult few weeks for me. I've been frantically job-searching and trying not to go crazy in my big, empty house. I seem to be suffering from a streak of inconvenient luck with finances and I am starting to stress out about having no income. As is almost to be expected during periods of money-stress, a few days ago my beloved Phoebe started having difficulty urinating and I had to take her into the vet. A vet bill of around $200 dollars left me feeling a little demoralized.

It's always good to remind oneself that good things are found in unexpected places. While the doctor was examining my kitten, we small talked a little about school and work. My study-abroad program came up and he seemed very excited about my visit to Cuba. He asked a lot of questions and mentioned that he had been considering doing some work in the Caribbean himself. We talked about my veterinary research and he suggested that we grab coffee sometime when he wasn't on the clock so I could show him my slide show and paper. He mentioned a friend who does veterinary work in the Cook Islands who might be able to help us set up a donation fund and proposed starting a website for donations and discussion among local veterinarians. I have a follow-up appointment next week to make sure my Pheebs is doing better, so we'll see what comes of this.

Also, I grabbed a copy of a local pet magazine to which I plan on submitting a short article about stray dogs and animal health care in Cuba. I haven't had as much time or motivation as I would like to do more reading about Cuba, but for now it looks like things may be jumping off from what I already know.

I'll keep you all posted about what comes of this!

Resolution Revolution

2008-01-06T19:46:00.000-08:00

In Which I Make A Resolution

"Ideas are capable of more than arms." Photo courtesy of Issac Holeman
(for more political art, check out his flikr)

It is a brand new year, and as with every flip of life's old odometer I like to take a step back from things and see how far I've come. The year 2007 stands out in my two-decade lifespan as one of many changes, and thus this year the processing of life's events is taking more time and more toll. I must admit that my blog, though always lingering at the back of my mind as a little voice saying "Please feed me!”, has not been a priority this Holiday season. That is not to say that I do not have many things to write- many more adventures to tell and many more ideas to propose. Readers, do not fear- if you've stuck with me this far, I won't let you down. There is so much more to come. I just need to find the time and the words.

This chilly January finds me one again in a new home, once again living with strangers, and once again hunting for new employment in a competitive job market. If it weren't for my Phoebe-Kitty keeping me company in my nearly empty house I would be going crazy in this college-town still waiting for her students to come home. Portland seems lonelier and colder than I remember, a stark field of grays in contrast to the warmth and vibrancy of Havana. My priorities now lie in getting settled into my new-old life. I need an income to pay my bills and a little preemptive preparation for the heavy load of classes in my penultimate college semester. As soon as some of the anxiety of errand running and my own pending poverty wanes, I will find myself entering the New Year with an important resolution.

I suppose it is because I have never had anything "important" to say before, but I have never found myself much inspired by the prospect of resolutions. I usually just hang up a new calendar with the same vague promise that this year I will figure myself out. I neglect to make any concrete goals with the knowledge that after three weeks I will stop going running, start wasting time watching YouTube videos again, and still not have gotten any closer to finishing that beaded silk scarf I started knitting three years ago. Resolutions have never really worked for me. I never had much motivation to make changes. This year, things are going to be a little different.

For those of you who are asking through emails and comments: Yes, I plan on continuing to blog here (and most likely will not be re-opening my previous blog, as I have enough hungry mouths to feed with this one and my cat). I have seen too many things and done too much thinking about it to waste the experience and not share it. I was given a gift by being one of twenty-seven privileged Lewis and Clark students permitted to study in Cuba with a legal visa. The other bloggers on the trip have moved on to other things (one is in the Dominican Republic and another has taken a blogging hiatus, the others seem to have faded away), so I feel more obligated than ever to speak about what I have learned. Very few people I have encountered know anything at all about Cuba, and with CNN being one of few sources of Cuba information American citizens have access to I feel a significant duty to tell "the other side of the story".

That being said, I am still processing my experience. As is my nature, I will probably never stop processing it. And because I feel such an obligation to share my thoughts about Cuba, I intend to do so with as much eloquence and responsibility as I can. I refuse to continue to conduct a blog about Cuba with the limited scope of my experience there as my only resource. I am not an expert. Honestly, I know very little about Cuba to be able say the types of things I wish to say. Therefore, to avoid being a hypocrite I will do what my conscience bids me and set this blog aside for a while. I need some time to read, research and process. When I put my fingers back on this keyboard to write about Cuba, I mean to do so seriously. As I am no longer traveling, this is no longer a "travel blog".

Back in early August as I fiddled with headings and HTML I titled this blog "Naúfraga", the Spanish word for "castaway". I had picked it out of a Neruda poem I liked and I slapped a picture of the beautiful Malecón behind it, not yet knowing how intimately I would come to love it. When I stepped off the plane in the Jose Marti International Airport I felt like an adventurous traveler on a foreign island. A star on Survivor, scared but excited, enchanted and enthralled. I hadn't the slightest idea that I would feel ever so much more the castaway upon arriving home. And now that I am back in the world that is supposed to be familiar, I feel a lot more like I am drowning. I feel a lot more alone.

I don't intend to pass judgment. I am simply still "overwhelmed by the opulence of our own society" (as Gran put it). I really do enjoy the comforts of my life here. I like living about 0.05 miles away from Starbucks, Market of Choice and my trusted hair stylist. I'm glad it doesn't take me all day to shop for vegetables. I always fit on the bus, and it comes more or less every fifteen minutes. I haven't even gotten robbed or sexually harassed yet. Life is great. I shouldn't take it for granted or pretend that I don't thank my lucky stars every single day that I live in the upper middle class in the richest first world country of them all. If anything, Cuba has made me so much more grateful for the things I have (and so much more patient for those yet to come). Before Cuba happened, I would have been pretty mad that I never got to see the end of Juno because of some unexplained "emergency alarm". I've gotten a lot better at just saying "these things happen" and "I'll try again tomorrow, there's still time". I suppose what I am trying to say is that Cuba has slowed me down enough to look at my surroundings. It has taken the urgency out of those unimportant things and put more urgency into my desire to help people to find what I have found.

With that, I am going to slow down for a while. I need a week or two to read and breathe and think. If you can be patient with me, I will be back. Thank you everyone for reading and commenting over the last five months. It is your feedback and emails that have kept me going. I wish everyone success in the New Year.

Nos vemos. ¡Chau!

[EDIT: In the meantime, keep yourselves busy with the new albums posted in the sidebar. There are photos from my trip to the Havana Zoo, the first baseball game of the season, my visit to the Morro Castle and two albums of shared photos taken by friends on the trip. Enjoy!]

Responsibility: What's That?

2007-12-14T13:18:00.000-08:00

In Which I Am Overwhelmed Upon Returning

I have a lot of back writing to do about what has happened since Thanksgiving Day when I last had the time to sit down and write about things, but I find that sitting in my friend’s apartment drinking a Chai latte and shivering in my new LC sweatshirt that cost me about 40 Cuban meals worth of money, I frankly can’t concentrate on what I experienced. Everything seems like a strange dream that I remember so distinctly but that loses meaning upon describing it to someone else. The thrum of Cuban life, the people I knew there, the things I felt have no context on the Lewis and Clark campus where people don’t know and don’t really care about what the world is like outside of this bubble. They pretend to be conscious but they go on in their consumer driven lifestyles without thinking of what another experience of this world could possibly be like. It’s not that I blame them… its just that watching the world from this different perspective is so profoundly unsettling and I can’t help but look on with a slight feeling of disgust.

The four star hotel we stayed at in Cancun was overwhelming and horrifying. Palco was a four star hotel so you’d think we’d be used to it, but there is something different about a Cuban four star with leaky ceilings, bad food and a noisy parrot. This plushy monstrosity was a monument to capitalism that I didn’t know how to interact with. Dinner cost me 115 pesos ($15 USD) and I paid the check with a vague feeling of shock that that could have bought me 15 meals at Antonio’s or 360 ice creams. $15 CUC, if you remember, is a salary.

The airport in Canun was worse, if possible. As we waited in the check-in line a TV screen in front of me advised me, “They’re expecting more than hugs! Relax. Shop for last minute gifts at the airport”. I did not relax, and instead felt more than sickened by the suggestion that returning home wasn’t enough without some material compensation as well. I wondered if my modest last-minute purchases would be enough. After we checked our bags we walked through the security checkpoint into the sickest shrine to materialism I have ever seen. We had stepped out into a wall of displays and advertisements for perfume, alcohol, clothing, souvenirs- I started with an open mouth at the rows upon rows of things that no one really needs and I wanted to turn around and run back to Havana. It’s not that I am going to idealize a world of governmental corruption and grave economic crisis- I just learned how to live a simpler life in Cuba. The overwhelming barrage of advertisement ordering me to buy, to consume, to fill my life with unnecessary things confuses and saddens me. I was perfectly happy washing the same seven shirts in my bathtub and hanging them to dry. I was perfectly happy without videogames and electronic entertainment. I was perfectly happy without so much clutter everywhere. And now I don’t know what to do with all these things.

The strangest part about being back, perhaps, is that I can’t figure out how I fit into the hole I left behind for myself. My friends attacked me at the airport with hugs and kisses and they helped me drag my bags to the car and whisked me away to Lewis and Clark where things were supposed to feel familiar but instead felt fake. It’s too cold in this country, too loud with electronic noise and too quiet without the constant thrum of drums and music. I feel different and awkward and I’m not sure that other people are willing to see that I have changed. I, who was once another apathetic college student without a real reason to be politicized, can’t make people understand that I have seen things that have made me think differently. There are a million stories to tell that have no meaning in this world.

I can’t stop talking about Cuba. I feel like I’m shouting to people about this place I’ve been trying to make it feel real. The more days pass, the more I feel like I have simply been dreaming up a strange and different place and that I haven’t left Portland at all. I can’t stop talking about Cuba, and yet I don’t want to talk about it at all. I am tired of listening to myself tell these stories and watching people nod politely at what they can’t understand. I want to let them believe I have been on a beach for three months, I want to let them assume what they will and keep the real Havana to myself. I want to hoard away the sad complexities of the city that has changed me. I want to keep it to myself in case sharing it will make it fade away faster.

And so as I try to write in hindsight about what happened the last two weeks in Havana I keep stopping and starting, not knowing how to put things in words, not being able to remember events, not being able to stop myself from closing my eyes and trying to return to Havana. I miss it terribly. I miss it more than I ever thought I would. Up until the last second I thought I wouldn’t cry when I left, but I’m still tearing up now thinking about the friends I left behind. They say “reverse culture shock” wears off after a few weeks. They say I will start to feel normal, start to forget, start to fit in again. And yet there is a part of me that wants to hang on to the remnants of discomfort, that doesn’t want this world to be completely “normal” again. There is a part of me that I know will always be affected by Havana, a part of me that will never stop wanting to go back.

Other people who have traveled abroad in the past have not been very sensitive with me. They tell me that I should “get over myself” and that in time I’ll stop feeling judgmental of the extravagance of life here. I don’t feel like I want to hold myself above anyone for the experience I had, but I don’t understand how someone could waste such a valuable chance to make a difference. I see the material wealth our country has and remember that we are largely responsible for the poverty that I witnessed in Cuba. When a child would come up to me and beg me for a CUC, I never felt more ashamed of the politics of my country. Being back here and seeing the extravagance of a simple dorm room in comparison to the homes of my Cuban friends makes me want to shake people by the shoulders as tell them to at least stop taking it for granted. Since I’ve been back I’ve encountered people who didn’t even know we have a trade embargo against Cuba. This is why I don’t want to just suddenly “feel better”. I want to take the discomfort I feel right now and use it to remind people to take responsibility. The overwhelming attitude I sense from people is that they just don’t want to think about it. And what I feel right now is that I just can’t shut up and let that go…

Responsibility, what's that?
Responsibility, not quite yet.
Responsibility, what's that?
I don't want to think about it,
We'd be better off without it,
I don't want to think about it!

Thanks, MXPX.

Thanksgiving, Giving Thanks

2007-11-28T20:41:00.000-08:00

In Which I Count My Blessings

Every year on Thanksgiving I am used to participating in the hustle bustle of the kitchen from dawn till dusk. I love to be a part of the construction of a Thanksgiving feast. There is nothing more satisfying to me than seeing a meal through from raw ingredients to finished product and serving it to family and friends. I was worried that this year, with 27 people all dying to make their special Thanksgiving dishes I would get pushed out of the already too-full kitchen and not get to be a part of the production. People get so stressed about holidays that I was ready to back down in the name of peacekeeping. Early in the morning, however, I decided to help one of the other girls get a head start on her pies (and make some stuffing since in my opinion there is NEVER enough). We headed to the agricultural stands by the bus stop to find some ingredients and were in our professor’s house cooking by a little after 8:30AM.

Cooking Thanksgiving dinner in Cuba is a little different than your traditional Hometown, USA. There is no Safeway with piles of produce and aisles of ingredients. We had to do a scavenger hunt of sorts to get the flower and vegetables together (as well as the pots and pans to cook everything in). The agricultural market by Julie’s house, however, turned out to be a blessing for last minute additions. Together we cooked from 8:30 until 2:30 and no one else showed up to help. We made stuffing, squash soup, squash croquettes, two pumpkin pies, a key lime pie, green beans and a salad. Finally some backup chefs showed up and I was allowed to head home, get off my feet and find myself a meal and a shower. When I came back the two huge turkeys and stuffing provided by the hotel kitchen had arrived (looking wonderful despite a lot of confusion on the cook’s part about how to stuff a turkey), and a few others had brought their offerings. We fit over 35 people into our professors tiny home and with plates full of food and about a bottle of wine each, we celebrated and gave thanks.

Maybe it’s all the red wine, but on Thanksgiving I always get a severe case of the warm fuzzies remembering what I am thankful for. Here in Cuba, as with everything else, the experience was a thousand times more intense. Living in a third world country has reminded us all, I think, how fortunate we are to have the conveniences we so take for granted every day. Cooking a feast for a huge group certainly reminded me how thankful I am for grocery stores that are well stocked and five minutes away. Every day the contrast of our material world to this world of such limited resources is striking one. But not only did Thanksgiving remind me of the things I have to be thankful for at home, but the things I have here as well. Celebrating a holiday away from family is always a little bit tough, and suddenly towards the end of this trip I realize that despite differences I have found a sort of family here. I was thankful for my Cuban friends who showed up to see what all the fuss was about. Later that night I was thankful for the beautiful Malecón and the crashing waves I have come to love.

With so little time left I am now in a continual flux of anticipating getting home where I belong and dreading leaving this place that has so profoundly changed and shaken me. Every landmark moment has found my perspective on this place altered yet again, so that I am not sure how I will feel when we take off (less than ten days now…) But I can be sure that after this trip I will find myself more thankful for where I’ve come from, more thankful for where I am now, and more thankful for the opportunities I have to continue forward to where I one day will be…

Havana Blues

2007-11-21T19:33:00.000-08:00

In Which I Know That to Live is to Choose

Three months here is not enough. I thought when I came that I would be ready to leave when the time came for me to fly away. I thought a few weeks ago that I would be relieved to find it over. I wanted peanut butter and hot showers, my washing machine and some phad-khe-mau. I wanted my friends, and a little understanding. I wanted my world back. But now that I am counting down the days instead of the weeks, I am finding that I am not ready to leave this one. I’ve found something here that I am afraid to lose, and I’m still not sure exactly what it is. I just wish that I had more time.

We watched Habana Blues in class on Tuesday. Maybe it was because I was too tired from staying up to write a paper the night before, but when it was over I felt so drained and so lonely. It filled me with an overwhelming love and sadness for this place so full of music and heartbreak. I could feel the inevitable end nagging at me. It feels like an unwelcome awakening, which the dreamer tries to fight at all costs though the fantasy world just won’t stay.

The 2005 movie was directed by Spanish director Zambrano. It tells the story of two young Cuban musicians, Ruy and Tito, who are consumed by their lifelong dream to become stars. Ruy lives with the mother of his two children and, though poverty forces them to share the same bed they fight the downfall of their relationship. Tito lives on his own with his musician grandmother. The plot thickens when a pair of producers from Spain arrive in Cuba looking for fresh talent to take on tour. They discover Ruy and Tito, and offer them a contract to make their music famous. The catch is that becoming an international star would mean abandoning and denouncing home and country for a world unknown. This movie beautifully depicts the richness and passion of Cuban relationships without being blind to the intense hardships of life in Havana. It plays the soul of art against the gratification of commerce. It forces the characters to choose between ardent nationalism and the allure of globalism. It pits the failures of communism against the vices of capitalism.

The reason it left me so raw is because after living here and talking to so many people, to me it is more than just a sad film about love, longing and loss in the lives of some fictional musicians. It is real life on this island. Ruy’s wife’s decision to take her children and escape to Miami is a choice so many have made here, abandoning loved ones and the familiarity of home for the dream of a better life. The struggle between Ruy and Tito as they weigh their dreams against the betrayal of their country is a potent bitterness that saturates the lives of anyone who yearns to leave. I have only been here for three months, and already my heart feels torn about leaving.

I will be glad to get back to a world where things make a little more sense. In some ways I am very ready to find my place in my own life again. But at the same time I have fallen in love with the rhythm of life here. I love the warmth of the people and the heat of the air. I love the Malcón, and I know I will walk along it in my dreams for the rest of my life. Portland will seem empty without the constant music. Portland will seem too big, too full of too many things that are so unimportant. I am ready for everything to feel wrong for a very long time while I try to figure out what it is about Havana that has affected me so much. For now, while I think about how soon I have to leave, I have a case of the Havana blues.

Veradero

2007-11-20T17:38:00.000-08:00

In Which I Take Advantage of the Sand and Sun

Vacations for me have always consisted of something like Pacific Northwest backpacking or going back to the Great Lakes for the summer to visit my Midwestern family. Not to say that I haven't exceedingly enjoyed the excursions I have been on, but I've always felt a little left out of the typical "tropical paradise" vacations my friends always went on with their families. They always came back with tans from Christmas break, and tons of photos of beautiful beaches. After Cancun at the beginning of this trip I wasn't sure I was really missing out that much- manicured Hotel beaches are OK but all said, they can get pretty boring after a few days of basking in the sun. But this Sunday the International students of ISA piled into (yet another) bus and made our way to the famously beautiful eastern beaches of Cuba. After 20 years of my life without the tropics, I feel like I really deserved this. Damn, it was gorgeous there.

We got up ungodly early to meet at the ISA gates and climb sleepy-eyed into the bus. At around 9 AM we made a pit-stop at a tourist overlook. I don't feel at all guilty saying that even though it was before noon, I couldn't quite resist buying a cocktail while we waited. It may have been one of the best drinking-at-an-inappropriate-time decisions I have made here yet. This was probably the most delicious piña colada I will ever have the fortune to taste in my entire life. It was made of fresh pineapple blended right there, and they let me add the rum myself (which might have been a bad idea on their part, but I enjoyed myself immensely). Sometimes I'm perfectly happy to just be a tourist.

We arrived at the beach around 10 and were greeted with a vast expanse of white sand, palm trees and crystal clear blue water. Sometimes I need to pinch myself to remind myself I am actually studying here. I think it was raining and about 40 degrees in Portland that day... Needless to say I ran straight from the bus into the warm Caribbean waves. I spent the entire day listening to the ISA kids play guitar and sing while I read Harry Potter (in Spanish!) in the sun. We stayed all day until the sun went down, and then piled back into the bus to head home. On the bus ride home for no particular reason the driver played bad disco music and turned on the (quite convenient) red and blue party lights for atmosphere. Everyone jumped into the aisles to dance gringo-style, and I thought to myself "God, I love Cuba!"

Two and a half weeks to go... (Check out the Veradero album to get real jealous....)

Updates

2007-11-15T16:05:00.001-08:00

Just wanted to point out a few updates:

1. There are LOTS of new posts!

2. Someone let me know that I had the commenting set for only Blogger users- that's now been fixed, so please comment!!

3. I've added some more tags to help me organize posts so that people can search by interests. Check out the tags in you don't have the time to read everything.

Three more weeks here in Havana! I'll try to keep up the posting and get some more photos up soon! Chau!

Asociación Para la Proteción de Animales

2007-11-15T15:29:00.000-08:00

In Which I Conduct Yet Another Interview about Vetty Things

On Friday I met with yet another “protectora” for an interview about the stray animal situation in Cuba. This time I met with Profesora Amparo of the University of Havana to chat about la Asociación para la Proteción de Animales, a private effort by animal lovers in a variety of professions to improve the conditions of animals around Havana.

According to Amparo, it has always been the Cuban tradition to love their dogs. Such atrocities as dogfights have never been a cultural commonality; rather they emerged out of financial necessity during the Special Period as a means of procuring a little extra cash for food. In general, a culture of pet abuse in the strictest sense is not the problem here. The problem is instead a lack of education on the community level of how to properly care for pets in a way that ensures their health and safety. The Association has set out to understand and alleviate this problem to help get dogs off the street and into caring homes.

In recent years, sociology students set out to get some statistical data about how big the problem really is. The thing is, there are so many stray dogs in Havana that to tackle the city as a whole would be daunting, and downright impossible. Instead, armed with statistics, the Association chose to focus on the municipality of the greatest need. In this case, the chosen area was the Dragones region near the Capitolio, where a large concentration of people live in relatively poor conditions and thus there is also a massive population of dogs wandering the streets.

Door to door census sought out quantitative information indicating how many pets each household owned, of what genders, and whether or not they were sterilized. Surveys also asked questions such as “Do you keep your dog tied?” and “Do you let your dog wander free?” etc. One of the goals of these more qualitative data was to discover what sorts of attitudes there were about cruelty to animals. A broad question “What is animal abuse?” was asked to better understand how conscious the population was about the necessary treatment of animals. What the surveys discovered was that in general people only considered it animal abuse when animals were physically attacked by a person with the intent to case pain. Leaving a dog chained up in the sun all day, neglecting to feed it, letting it wander the streets- all these things were not generally considered animal cruelty.

The quantitative data collected through census was brought to the local CDR (Committees for the Defense of the Revolution) so that the population of animals could be kept track of. The Association now intends to work in steps to begin to alleviate the stray animal problem in the neighborhood. The first step towards success is sterilization. By providing sponsored spay and neuter campaigns to provide free surgeries for the neighborhood, the number of stray animals wandering in the streets will decrease drastically. An effort is being made to encourage neuters as well as spays to prevent male animals from wandering to other regions and impregnating unsprayed females. Next, the group is working with the CDR to implement a requirement that people register all new pets and get them spayed so that census data stays current. Each dog that is sterilized will then be given a mark to indicate who owns it and where they live, so that if it wanders away or is picked up by Zoonosis (a sector of Salud Publica) it can be sent back instead of euthanized.

The next step after sterilization is education. As I have talked about before, education has proved difficult because television programs, primary school classes and printing are all prohibitively expensive and difficult to put into action. Nevertheless, the group has been passing around Humane Society brochures about pet sterilization in Spanish, as well as trying to find a way to get a consistent radio or television program. Much of the animal abuse and neglect that occurs is based in simple ignorance. For example, many people fear that their health is in danger when their pet becomes ill and will just throw it out into the street. Informing people that most canine illnesses are not transferable to people could in itself drastically decrease the number of abandoned pets. Likewise, people often fear the spread of rabies when in actuality rabies has almost been eliminated from the Cuban island.

One of the primary barriers to the Association is the fact that it is illegal for there to be more than one government sponsored organization per cause. The existence of Aniplant forces the Association to function on a private level only. It remains a separate organization because of internal conflict and inefficiencies that necessitated a schism in the groups. But, as Amparo said quite eloquently, “It is not our function to criticize. We have two goals: the first is to create laws for the protection of animals and the environment. The second is to organize protectoras and save animals.

A specific goal of Amparo’s group is to open up animal shelters in Havana. As of now there is no place to put the thousands of homeless animals in need of care. Animal lovers known as “protectoras” take in strays, clean them up and house them until they can be adopted out. A shelter would be expensive, and without significant donations would be nearly impossible to run. A long-term plan would be needed to find ways to keep the program running. Someone donated money to run a shelter for four years, but as Amparo pointed out this brings up the problem of what happens when that money is gone. It is one thing to establish a shelter, and another entirely to continue maintaining it.

The mantra seems to be “step by step”- a sort of “slow and steady wins the race” attitude. Before the big things such as building shelters and revolutionizing veterinary care can be tackled, people must be set into motion. When I asked Amparo about what the cat situation is like in Cuba (since the dialogue always seems to be primarily about dogs), her answer was a perfect example of what sort of changes need to be made in the community outlook on pets in order to achieve change. “Here, there’s a big problem with cats. In the United States it seems that people in general like cats. In movies, you always see that there are cats in people’s homes. They’re good pets- self-maintaining and sweet. In Cuba, there are bad stories about cats. We’re superstitious. Cats are the thieves and tricksters of legends. They’re evil. They can do things that dogs can’t, like jump on the table and climb the fence- this makes them untrustworthy. What is sad is that children commonly mistreat them because of this.” In addition, we discussed the education of children about animals. Young children often do not realize that animals are living creatures or that their actions can cause them pain. Education could help decrease the abuse of animals by children, who may later grow up to be abusive adults and pass on their own ignorance to future generations (and so on.)

The efforts of Amparo and her association are therefore not only to help animals. Though the primary goal is to save the thousands of dogs who are abused and neglected in the city of Havana, it is a humanitarian aid project as well. As Amparo said, “Abuse not only hurts the victim. It does harm to the abuser as well.”

[If anyone would like to donate to help Amparo’s cause, please check out the link to Terry Shewchuk’s “Spanky Project”.]

Overcoming Intolerance

2007-11-15T12:40:00.000-08:00

In Which I See A Movie and Do Some Thinking

On Saturday night I went downtown to the Pabellion Cuba to watch a seven o’clock showing of the movie Fresa y Chocolate. I hadn’t had the opportunity to watch it in class, and so I was very much looking forward to finally getting to see the film that has interested me so much. After having done a six-month project for Qualitative Research Methods last year about alternative sexuality in Portland, I have been very interested in concepts of ignorance, tolerance, and acceptance of different expressions of sexuality. I knew that in Cuba attitudes towards sexuality, especially non-heterosexual sexuality, would be quite different from what I found at home. Because I tend to surround myself with generally open-minded individuals at home, it is strange being in a culture where machismo reigns and eroticism, though prominently displayed, is very strictly heterosexually defined. Talking about things like Fresa y Chocolate has opened up interesting discourse among my Cuban friends and the Lewis and Clark group about homosexuality and sexuality in general.

I very much enjoyed the movie itself. In Cuba, I can see how it would be a totally revolutionary film, especially because in the end it doesn’t end up being about sexuality so much as friendship. As a brief synopsis, the story takes place in Havana in the 1970s. It is about a boy who goes to Coppelia and meets a man named Diego, who is possibly hitting on him. The title refers to that David said he knew immediately that Diego was gay when he chose strawberry ice cream over chocolate. David goes to his house with him to borrow some books, but then leaves abruptly when Diego confirms that he is a indeed a “maricón” (offensive term for gay). David's classmate Miguel encourages David to spy on Diego to take notes on a person they see as dangerous to the communist cause. Instead, David and Diego end up forming a close friendship. Reviewer Roger Ebert comments that "nothing unfolds as we expect. Strawberry and Chocolate is not a movie about the seduction of a body, but about the seduction of a mind. It is more interested in politics than sex — unless you count sexual politics, since to be homosexual in Cuba is to make an anti-authoritarian statement whether you intend it or not.” (Wikipedia).

The thing is, despite the fact that tolerance of sexuality is opening up homophobia is still rampant here. Outright discrimination is not as common, but the general ignorance and misunderstanding of the population at large is obvious even (or especially) in my young Cuban friends. During the movie people in the crowd snickered at the use of the word maricón (fag). Here it is a commonly used insult among young people. I grow really tired of hearing them constantly throwing the word about like it isn’t offensive at all.

Today in class we had a speaker froma group called the Martin Luther King Foundation. Basically, it is a group that encourages community education and social work projects. He talked briefly about homosexuality and homophobia, and I found his words very hopeful and inspiring. He said that the MLK Foundation is a group of people who are strong anti-Capitalists but never the less find that Socialism is always in need of perfection. “Homophobes,” he said, “are not communists. In our Socialist project we aim to get education and healthcare free for everyone. Equality. We constantly need new men and women of new ideals to help us to grow. Every relationship between human beings is a relationship of domination- of power. Exclusion is an abuse of this power relationship in the form or race, gender, orientation, economics. Humanity is in danger if we aren’t careful with these relationships of power. We need to respect the rights of individuals to express their own desires.”

This is why I think that Fresa y Chocolate is such an important film for the Cuban people. It shows more than just tolerance of homosexuality and friendship between a “good communist” and an openly gay man. In some ways Diego is portrayed as even more of a communist for openly expressing himself even though it is considered subversive. In the movie he just serenely said, “You love women, and I love men.” He is portrayed with such dignity and self-acceptance that one can’t help but come away admiring him.

Hopefully over time more films like this, and broader education of the public by groups such as the MLK foundation and the Centro Nacional de Education Sexual (CENESEX) will help Cuba to become a less homophobic place. When I come back here next, I hope to see Cuba well on its way to overcoming intolerance and incomprehension.

"Tastes Like Cuba"

2007-11-14T15:24:00.000-08:00

In Which I Wonder Why Someone Would Ever Miss the Food Here…

As I have complained about at length to anyone who will listen to me, the food in Cuba is pretty much boring. Sometimes our lunch at “El Sauce”(which actually means “The Willow” and not “The Sauce” like we call it here…) is downright gross. It’s not that Cuban food is always bad. Rice, beans and a little bit of meat will keep a person alive and healthy for a long time. Put in the perspective of the poverty that reigns here, we eat really well and it could be so much worse. We could be eating just bread. We could be starving. It’s just that the food here is rarely really good. And it’s always, always, always the same. The general lack of spices and variety makes me crave Thai food and burritos to the point of insanity. But, according to a recent Seattle Times article my mom sent me via email not everyone feels this way.

"Eduardo Machado loves green plantains. He craves yuca with lime, and Moros y Cristianos (Moors and Christians), a mixture of bacon, tomato sauce, rice and black beans. Whenever Machado eats such dishes, he experiences the kind of memory rush that swept over Marcel Proust when he munched on a madeleine. ‘I eat the food, and I really feel like I'm back in Cuba,’ says the Cuban-American playwright” (Berson, 2007).

I suppose there’s something to be said for eating the food you grew up with. He left Cuba when he was eight years old (which is my rationale as to why he misses it so much…. he can’t remember how bad it was!). The tastes and smells of childhood have always been for me the most memory provoking. Sometimes I can eat something I haven’t had in a long time and be taken over by the most vivid memories. They say also that the foods your mother ate while you were in the womb will be your comfort foods. For him, it was fried plantains and Cuban beef-stew.

For Machado, most of his food memories of Cuba probably come from before the Special Period in the 90’s where food was scarce and eating was more for living than for recreation. He remembers omelettes from fresh eggs and sweet café con leche. The food he finds in paladares (home based restauraunts) reminds him of the home cooking of his youth.

The thing is, people in Cuba don’t eat like that anymore. We go to a paladar called Antonio’s down the street three times a week to get a full meal for only $1 CUC. The food that Antonio makes is probably the most satisfying food I’ve eaten here. He makes moros and yucca and serves bistek that melts in your mouth. Lord knows Antonio can only afford to buy those ingredients because all twenty-seven of us American students eat there so often. Nobody else in Cuba can afford to buy steak for themselves after their monthly ration of rice and beans runs out.

I can imagine, like Machado, missing a few things about Cuban food. I love the plaintains; I eat bananas on everything. I love guyava juice. I love peso ice cream. I love arroz con leche. I will probably even miss moros y cristianos since I’ve been eating them every day for three months. But I get so frustrated with the monotony of it all that I can’t Imagine waking up in the night craving Cuban food. Sometimes at dinner I’m not even sure what I’m eating. Half the time I’m pretty sure it’s pork, because there’s pork in everything. And nothing ever tastes quite right. One in a while we’ll get spaghetti or lasagna or pizza and it’s just off for no particular reason. I desperately miss apples, peanut butter, macaroni and cheese and tomato soup. I miss my dad’s chile verede and my mom’s spaghetti sauce. I miss sushi and salad and wheat bread and granola.

I know that I shouldn’t complain. I really should be grateful that every night I eat a meal that to the rest of Havana would be gourmet. I thank my lucky stars every day that I have enough food to keep me full, and that it doesn’t taste all that terrible. It’s just that I am realizing how important food really is to me. Machado might miss the food of Cuba. It reminds him of a world that to him is home. I personally just can’t wait to sink my teeth into a real burger. All I am going to do when I get home is eat and eat and eat.

Free Drugs, Drug Free

2007-11-13T21:40:00.000-08:00

In Which I Just Say “No”

What we commonly refer to as our friend Equis’ ‘uniform’ is a black sweatshirt that says “Drug Free” on the front and “Poison Free” on the back. The funny thing about this sweatshirt is that it doesn’t mean what it might translate to literally in Spanish, “drogas gratis” or “free drugs” as Equis had thought, but rather “libre de drogas”. The irony of the sweatshirt being that while it’s being worn, its wearer is often quite the opposite of “drug free”.

[disclaimer] Now, just so that frightened grownups and/or trip leaders don’t get nervous I am going to state right here and now that I DID sign the little piece of paper that stated I would not do any drugs in Cuba, and I HAVE stuck to my word one hundred percent. I don’t intend to get myself arrested in Cuba, thank you very much, and I would never take a nameless substance in a strange place with people I didn’t know and trust. Those who have helped raise me rejoice: I have morals and common sense! But, despite my having signed away my right to recreational substance abuse, I have been quite interested in the youth culture here in Cuba including the purchase and usage of drugs. Again, don’t worry; I am not putting myself into any situations in which I feel that my safety or personal well-being has been compromised. I’m just a sociologist. Look at Philippe Bourgois’ In Search of Respect: Selling Crack in el Barrio. Everyone’s doing it. [/disclaimer]

As a college student whether I wanted to or not I have been witness to a variety of different kinds of recreational substance usage. I’m pretty familiar with what American youth drug culture looks like. Anyone who has been to one of those impromptu college house parties (you know, the kind you call the cops on because those ruffians are being too loud and some kid is puking in your begonias?) has at least some sort of familiarity with pop culture drinking and pot usage (not to mention other possible substances). The type of substance usage I’ve witnessed in Cuba has both its similarities to and its differences from the drug culture of Portland youth.

On one hand, I’d say that drinking has a similar appeal here as it does in the US. It’s not quite a party without a little bit of rum. Heck, it’s not quite “hanging out” without a bottle or two. Walking on the Malecón, hanging out in Parque G, heading out to a disco (doing homework…)- someone’s always got a little something to drink. On the other hand, I’ve noticed that getting absolutely mind numbingly wasted doesn’t seem to be the goal. I’ve watched a lot of my gringo friends puking in the bushes. I’ve even overdone it once or twice. But it seems like my Cuban friends are always done before their bodies have to rebel. I’ve seen them get pretty silly, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen them smashed. The age of legal alcohol purchase here is eighteen (lightly enforced) and I’ve definitely seen younger kids publicly drinking without consequence. Maybe getting trashed gets old before people reach their twenties. Or maybe its got to do with being able to afford getting wasted. A bottle of rum costs $3.85 CUC at the local gas station. That’s cheap for us (who are used to paying about $20 bucks at home at least), but $3 CUC is $62 moneda nacional, which for someone without a whole lot of cash is a bit of an investment. $40 MN can get a bottle of nasty essence-of-rum premixed with soda, which is what the kids here usually drink. A $1 CUC beer is already starting to seem like a waste of money to me. It could also just be that rum runs in their bloodstreams. After getting offered “welcome cocktails” at every place we go (even at 10 AM), I’m beginning to notice that a few drinks just doesn’t do it for me any more. Whatever it is, I just haven’t seen anything in Cuba that is reminiscent of a frat party kegger.

Drug use, too, seems a little different. When I was told that drug usage in Cuba was illegal, I have to say I didn’t expect to see any first hand. I was a little surprised to get offered pot while wandering around Havana Vieja during my first week here (I declined, of course). I was more surprised when I found out that my Cuban friends were doing quite a bit of drugs. In fact, one of my friends was even in rehab for abuse of Ketamine (a muscle relaxant). After my second time hanging out in Parque G I got a phone call from one of our Cuban friends asking if I had gotten home all right. “Yeah of course,” I told him. Just to be polite, I asked, “Did you?” He said that apparently he did, but he wasn’t entirely sure how. He “just woke up in his house but couldn’t remember getting there.” “But you weren’t even drinking with us!” I said. He replied that he had taken a pill after we left and ended up having a really crazy night. I just kind of said “Oh, well be careful,” and changed the subject. I didn’t think I knew him well enough to ask more about it, and it seemed like none of my business.

After mixing with this group for a while I’ve gotten a little bit more of an inside look at what kind of drugs they are in to and how they do them. Mostly they seem to pool together their money ($15 MN more or less) to buy one pill and split it up between three or four of them. They grind it up into power, divide it up and eat it. Once in a while they might buy a small amount of pot, unroll a cigarette and use the paper to roll a joint. They pass it around a group for four until it’s gone. There’s usually so little in there that it barely even smells like marijuana when they smoke it. As a sober bystander, I’ve almost never been able to tell a difference in their behavior after taking something. Maybe once or twice I’ve heard some slurring of speech or noticed someone walking a little less straight, but nothing that would immediately tip me off to the fact that they are on drugs.

In general it makes me really uncomfortable when we’re hanging out and they decide they’re going to do drugs. A few times I’ve criticized them for wasting their money on pointless drugged up wandering around. The way it was rationalized to me was as follows: One of them can work really hard for a week and make a few pesos. They could save up for a few weeks and maybe one of them could go to the Casa de Música to hear some music for 5 CUC. Or, with a few pesos they could all get together, buy a bottle of rum and maybe some pot and all of them could have a good night. For someone without any money, there really is nothing to do in Havana. They hang out in Parque G almost every night of the year hanging out with the same people doing the same things all the time. In some ways it really feels like we’re the most “different” thing to happen to them in a while.

It is kind of a sad existence in some ways. These guys all still live at home because in Cuba you just can’t rent an apartment and move out. They can’t listen to rock music at home or hang out there with a large group of friends. Being twenty in Havana isn’t much different from being a senior in high school, just wanting more than anything to get out of your parent’s control. So to feel a little sense of agency in their own lives they go out to Parque G and smoke a joint and feel a little freedom for a few hours. At least none of them are smoking pot eight times a day like a few people I know at school. They couldn’t afford to, and they wouldn’t be able to get that much anyways. Maybe once or twice a week they take a quarter of a pill that hardly does anything to them and that’s that. Granted, it is still “abuse of substances”. It doesn’t make it “right” that they do less quantitatively. But I’m here in this third world country where most of my Cuban friends are poor as dirt, and I can’t pass judgment on them for popping a pill when I go to school with people who get trashed three days a week and smoke pot at least once a day. They don’t seem to be heavy abusers, maybe mostly out of financial reasons or maybe because there just isn’t the same culture of extravagance. And the drugs have a cost more than just the $15 MN price (parents worried that their children are useless drugged up frikis- “freaks”). So I guess as the story goes, they are neither “libre de drogas” nor are the “drogas gratis”.

Ajiaco

2007-11-13T13:57:00.000-08:00

In Which I Reflect On What it Means to Be “Cuban”

In class a few weeks ago we had a guest speaker come in to talk about race. Just like the books we have read about Cuba and the documentaries we have been shown in class, he talked about the three part racial history of Cuba (indigenous, European, African). But he said something that struck me as odd. He declared that “Ahora, no hay diversidad étnico en Cuba, solo hay diversidad cultural (Today, there is no ethnic diversity in Cuba, only cultural diversity.)” I didn’t really understand what he meant by that but lately I have been realizing that his statement is a shared sentiment that the Cuban people have about the racial and cultural history of their country. Despite the blatant racism I have already talked about, Cubans tend to view their racial identity as a Cuban version of the “melting pot”.

Almost a month ago now, I was invited to the birthday party of my friend’s sister in law. I went out to their house in Diez de Octubre and celebrated with them family-style: dancing, sharing rum and eating. The food they served us there was a traditional Cuban dish called ajiaco, which is a sort of stew made from whatever ingredients the cook can find. It was full of corn and potatoes and chicken all cooked down into a thick soupy sauce. Ajiaco is a sort of Creole blend of African and European cooking styles that has become something that is considered very fundamentally “Cuban”. According to Fernando Ortiz (who essentially created the Cuban discussion on race), “Cuba is an ajiaco; a miscegenation of cooking styles, a miscegenation of races, a miscegenation of cultures. A thick broth of civilization that bubbles in the Caribbean stove.” Cuban culture is made up of a mixture of ingredients all cooked and stirred until they created something entirely unique and so blended that it is almost, but not quite, impossible to sort out the ingredients.

These are the ingredients, according to Ortiz: First there were the Spaniards- conquistadors and colonizers bringing with them European mannerisms and Christian ideals.

“With them also came a sustained impermanence: that constant restlessness, that fickle impulsiveness, that temporary nature of attitudes were the primary inspirations of our collective character, fond of impulse and the adventure of excitability and of luck, of the achievement and hope of chance” (Ortiz: 1997).

Next there were the African slaves, brought to do the labor of building a colony, stolen against their wills from their homelands to become the captives of the landowners. According to Ortiz:

“The culture and soul of the blacks, always undergoing a transition crisis, penetrates Cubanness in the miscegenation of flesh and cultures, imbuing it with the juicy, sensual, frolicsome, tolerant, accommodating, talkative emotionality that is their gracefulness, their charm and their strongest resistance strength to survive in the constant boil of upsetting experiences that has been the history of this country” (ibid.).

The indigenous people of Cuba, it seems, leave barely a shadow of an impression on people’s notions of Cubanness. Soon after colonization the Spaniards had almost completely erased indigenous culture from the island, leaving mostly the colonists and the slaves to create the new cultural identity of the nation.

According to Maria D. Córdova Llorca:

“Cuban men and women, heirs of these roots who grew up in a perennial struggle, first to obtain and later to maintain their independence, always in defense of their mixed-blood culture, nowadays consider themselves satisfied for being Cuban, characterized by: joy and mockery, openness, sensibility, spontaneity, sociability, liveliness, mischievousness, and intelligence, as well as the bad manners on occasion, impulsiveness, a bit of superficiality, and not much self-criticism.”

It might seem that both Llorca and Ortiz have severely over generalized the Cuban culture by applying stereotypical racial judgments and generalities to their observations of what makes “Cubanness” today. However, these sentiments seem to be widely shared among Cubans, who always seem eager to describe what la cubanidad means to them. When I went to the sterilization campaigns in Diez de Octubre last week, I spent a considerable amount of time talking to the pet owners sitting in the waiting area. One woman seemed particularly interested in dissecting Cuban culture for me, describing in a manner much like Ortiz the roots of cubanidad. She said something that particularly reminded me of the class speaker’s assertion that there is no ethnic diversity in Cuba. She talked about how most other countries have certain physical characteristics that can easily distinguish someone who is from there. Cubans, on the other hand, don’t. Cubans are such a mixture of things that you won’t see a person somewhere and guess, “that person must be Cuban.” She said, “In Cuba there are no puros. There are hardly any who don’t have mixed roots. Even most of those who look all white have slave ancestors.” This comment got the entire line of people talking about how far back their African heritage was.

At first I had interpreted the speaker’s comment that there was no “ethnic diversity” in Cuba as totally incorrect. In fact there seem to be people of many different ethnic backgrounds in Cuba and part of why it’s difficult to determine who is “Cuban” and who is not is because anyone could be Cuban regardless of the color of their skin. What I think he was trying to get at was the point that the lady at the vet was also making, which is that regardless of an appearance of ethnic diversity (especially the divide between white and black) Cuba is a country of shared roots. Though there are different cultures in Cuba that interact and intertwine in different ways, and though there is still a sense of racial segregation, there is no longer a “purity” of bloodlines. Everyone’s history and genealogy interacts at some point such that there are no longer separate “Spaniards”, “Africans”, “Indians” and “Chinese”, but rather “Cubans” of a mixed shared ethnicity.

I think what it comes down to is the definition and understanding of ethnicity. While in the United States it is common to refer to someone by their ethnicity (“African-American”, “Japanese-American”, “Mexican-American”), in Cuba there isn’t as much of a tradition of labeling people as such. “Afro-Cuban” is more a cultural than a racial distinction, and I have never heard someone referred to as “Spanish-Cuban”. So perhaps what the speaker was referring to is the Cuban tendency to view themselves as Cubans, rather than choosing to focus on their foreign roots.

Either way the discussion of race, culture and ethnicity is a complicated one in Cuba. There are many levels of interaction between the different roots of “Cubanness”, which include a range of syncretism and segregation. Depending on the context discourse about racial issues is continuously changing.

Itsy-Bitsy Teeny-Weenie Little... Che Guevara Bikini?

2007-11-12T08:08:00.000-08:00

In Which I Do Even More Thinking About Che

As a student of a west coast Private Liberal Arts College, perhaps especially Lewis and Clark, I am used to seeing the face of Che Guevara peering at me from the fronts of t-shirts. Self-proclaimed liberals frequently tout the image of the handsomely bearded Marxist guerilla. He’s made it onto posters and tote bags, belts and bumper stickers. His chiseled jaw line and distant gaze are now a popular icon worldwide, appearing in paintings and on postcards everywhere. Without knowing what Che stands for, I can guarantee that most people could pick his face out of a lineup. Before Cuba, I really had no stance on the wearing of Che either in terms of fashion sense or ideals. Now, after living here for almost three months already, it is impossible not to do some reflection on what brandishing the famous image really means.

In early October, Cuba observed the 40th anniversary of Che Guevara’s death. Many Che admirers made pilgrimages to Santa Clara where his remains are kept. The image of Che’s face was everywhere; Che t-shirts flew off the shelves that week, I’m sure. When you think about the death of a man and why so many people would travel across the world to pay him homage it becomes really important to understand what ideas his life represented. The problem with most Che t-shirt wearers is they have only a vague understanding of what it means to be a “revolutionary” and have very little knowledge of the details of his existence at all. They like the concept of “fighting for your ideals” but perhaps don’t even know what ideals Che himself set out to fight for.

The thing about Che shirts is that it has created two separate schools of thought about the revolutionary hero and what he stood for (and whether wearing shirts with his image is the right things to do). Recently a designer decided to put Che Guevara’s face on a bikini and more than one person thought that this was taking the whole Che obsession a bit far.

Che’s daughter Aleida Guevara March is more or less resigned to accept the t-shirts, postcards and other merchandise that is so popular in Cuba and all over the rest of the world as well. At this point it would be too difficult to try to stop the tidal wave of Che products being released. She has taken certain precautions, however, to prevent the misuse of his image. Shirts for admirers are one thing. Putting his face on the fanny of supermodel Gisele Bundchen in the name of high fashion is another entirely. For the children of Che, it’s an issue of respect.

True Che supporters (who knew what he stood for) might find some comical irony in the commercialization of his image. According to the New York Times article on Oct. 8 (“A Revolutionary Icon, and Now, a Bikini”) “Even in Cuba, one of the world’s last Communist bastions, Che is used both to make a buck and to make a point.” People who wear Che shirts are wearing their liberal politics quite literally on their sleeves, declaring themselves in support of a revolutionary mindset and for some perhaps communism itself. A lot of Che shirt wearers think that the face simply represents the concept of rebellion. For others, it represents complete rejection of capitalism in the name of socialist revolution. Paradoxically the vendors realize that they can capitalize on the popularity of the communist icon by marketing it to the very people who purport to endorse his ideals. The thing is, Che probably wouldn’t have supported the consumerist culture that has been created by his image. In all likelihood the whole thing has him rolling in his metaphorical grave. But, whether or not it is in accordance with the messages he was trying to broadcast in his life, in death, Che sells. Whether it is his handsome face and his piercing eyes or the inspiration his ideals instill, the famous portrait of Che is everywhere.

The idea of putting Che’s face on a designer bikini did not only offend Che’s strongest supporters. Rather than just enraging those who viewed the bikini as a mark of blatant disrespect, it also alighted the attention of those who are in general offended by the marketing of Che’s image as a form of “tyrant-chic” fashion. A CD case with Che’s face was recalled from Target stores because angry critics viewed the widespread marketing of Che’s face as the marketing of a murderer. According to one writer on a forum discussing the Young America Foundation’s new “Victims of Che Guevara” poster, “Che was a book burner, thug, tyrant, coward, sadist, thief, and a serial murderer. The lefty worship of him demonstrates their own ignorance, masochism, anti-democratic character, and self-destructive compulsion.” Many of the other respondents agreed that Che was responsible for many deaths and for upholding the ideals of what was to become “an oppressive regime”. They liken the wearing of a Che shirt to open support of Hitler. Only an idiot who didn’t read their history books, they say, would be dumb enough to sport a “murderer-emblazoned bikini”.

I still really don’t know what to think about wearing Che shirts. On one hand I simply find the inherent contradiction of commodifiying a communist image laughable. I think that whether Che was a good guy or a bad guy it is fairly obvious that making his face a capitalist tool is in direct opposition to what he stood for. On the other hand I find it difficult to agree with assertions that Che was just like Hitler or that he helped a horrible tyrannical regime to gain power. For one thing living here in Cuba after the revolution I don’t see at all the same kind of widespread terror that one can associate with Hitler. There aren’t “disappearances” here, much less are there mass murders in the street or firing squads shooting into crowds. Sure there are grave economical problems, issues of racism, and a lot of corruption. I will not say that I think this communist country is even close to an anti-capitalist paradise. I’m not sure, after seeing the outcome of Che’s work, that I could wear a Che shirt as a support of his ideals. If I were ever to wear one it would be as a simple nod to my other gringo friends about our time spent here in Cuba.

As a sociology student, I’ve done a lot of reading about Che’s revolutionary movements. I have in fact done research specifically about his flaws. But, as I said after I got back from his memorial in Santa Clara, I cannot help but feel at least a little respect for him as well. The reason I don’t think Che and Hitler can be likened is because I don't beleive Che killed out of sadistic delight in murder. He was fighting for a cause that he truly believed would better the lives of those he saw suffering from starvation and oppression. A quote from Che's Essay "Socialism and Man in Cuba" says, "Let me say, at the risk of appearing ridiculous, that the true revolutionary is guided by strong feelings of love. It is impossible to think of a true revolutionary without this quality. . . . Our vanguard revolutionaries must idealize their love for the people." Maybe he was wrong in interpreting the needs of these people he claimed to love. Maybe not. I understand that he was directly responsible for the violent deaths of many people and that as a guerrilla warrior he pursued his ideals with brutality. In my opinion, it’s often really hard to differentiate the “good guys” from the “bad guys” in war history. There are indeed obvious violations of human rights that make someone like Hitler an instant and permanent “bad guy”. But take any of those who fought for the American Revolution and ask yourself what makes the deaths they caused any different from the deaths associated with the Cuban Revolution? What makes them any less responsible for the politics of the United States today than Che is for the politics of Cuba 40 years after his death? Any revolution is going to cause death, turmoil and unrest. The line that separates revolutionaries from terrorists can at times be very fine. Che is dead, and no one will ever know now what was in his head fifty years ago when he fought in the Cuban revolution, but I personally would like to believe that Che was not fundamentally a monster. In my vision of Che, he was a man consumed by his revolutionary destiny. As with any hero, he was a flawed individual who made mistakes in his missions. Perhaps he chose unduly violent measures to achieve his mission. All said, Che was obviously not a pacifist. Though he cherished his ideals, it is safe to say that he may have been misguided in their actualization.

A short while before we left on our trip to Pinar del Rio, my roommate and I went out for dinner with an older Cuban friend. As we were walking along the Malecón, Kat said something about wanting to visit the museum nearby that held the Granma (the yacht that Fidel and Che took to Cuba at the start of the Revolution). Roger commented that we seemed to be enamored of all things related to Che, and he wanted to know why. We explained that though many college students do have a blind and uneducated love affair with Che’s image, we understand that the history of Che’s involvement in the Cuban Revolution is quite complicated. Our interest in Che remains academic, and we fully recognize that every hero has his downfalls. We all agreed that were Che alive today, people might not want to be wearing shirts with his face on it. Likewise had it been Fidel who died during the revolution, it could very well be his face on the shirts. People just want a revolutionary rock-star to worship.

The thing is, Che shirts really have nothing to do anymore with the actual person. Ernesto “Che” Guevara de la Serna was only a man. Like every other man who has ever lived, he had his flaws. As a key participant in a few revolutionary movements, the man Ernesto was transformed into the symbol we call Che. Crystallized by death in the fiery idealism of youth, he will always be remembered for the ideals he was fighting for whether or not we support them.

For me now when I see someone wearing a Che shirt it will just remind me of the ironies of life and of the complicated histories behind those that are both hated and admired.

2007-11-11T12:28:00.000-08:00

In Which We Do What We Can To Keep a Tradition

[Yes, I realize this is now VERY late. It’s been a busy two weeks. This will probably be a post-heavy week since I have some catching up on writing to do and I’m now sick again so I might take a few days off.]

I’ve never been that much of a holiday person. As a matter of fact, I can be somewhat of a humbug when it comes time for large family gatherings and lots of hassle over decorations and meal planning. For the most part I just don’t like to be bothered by buying into a commercial field day in the name of consumerism. It never occurred to me until I ended up here how attached to the “traditional” aspects of holidays I really am. When October 31st rolled around we all knew that back at home we were missing Halloween and something had to be done to bring it here to Cuba. I personally haven’t missed trick-or-treating once since I was old enough to walk. If I were in Portland you can bet I would have had no shame about dressing up and going door to door to get my fair share of free candy. Being in Cuba wasn’t about to stop me from having a good time.

Everything was a little last minute (as it always seems to be here), but about half of our group managed to scrape together some semblance of the familiar holiday and have our own “Cuban style” Halloween. As is the Cuban way, we had to do quite a bit of invention to make our American holiday come to life. Of course it didn’t occur to anyone to bring costumes with them so we had to make do with what little we had. I employed my white bed sheets and some shiny accessories to create an impromptu “Spartan woman” costume. Others showed up as a ninja turtle, a baseball player, a tourist, a Cuban, a superhero (“Capitalist Kid”), a revolutionary soldier, a butterfly, Spiderman and of course Fidel Castro. A few people even traded clothes and dressed up as other people in our group. The creativity of everyone’s outfits was impressive.

After costumes, the next most important part of Halloween is candy. Instead of going door to door to get candy (trick-or-treating only works when everyone knows it’s a holiday, unfortunately) we took a box of candies around the hotel and passed them out to everyone we saw. Some people didn’t seem amused by our antics, but the restaurant staff loved our costumes and wanted us to explain how Halloween works in the States. They said it made them feel like family to be included in our little tradition. They even tried to offer us some food and asked if there was anything they could do for us, though we told them they should just enjoy their candy and have a good night. For me, reverse trick-or-treating was more fun than the usual way. We had a blast sharing our candy and our holiday with the people that help make Cuba “home”.

Of course, Cuban Halloween had to include a significant amount of rum as well. Nothing makes an impromptu party quite like a lot of candy and some Cuba Libres. We threw a mini-dance party in someone’s hotel room, rocking out to a variety of bad American dance songs until we got shut down for being too loud. After that everyone went their own ways. A few people went down to the bar to show off their costumes to our Cuban friends (who were very amused) and a few of us fell asleep watching 28 Days Later. The next day we had to explain to our Spanish professor why we all looked like the living dead.

There are a lot of times when I am not proud to be an American citizen. For the most part I would say I lack a certain amount of patriotism or attachment to American traditions. But being in a foreign country has made me realize that sharing celebrations is important. Being the only Americans in the hotel scraping together a small tribute to a national holiday reminded me of the importance of community. Now that it’s already November I’m looking forward to getting together to celebrate Thanksgiving.

Diez de Octubre

2007-11-05T20:54:00.000-08:00

In Which I Finally See the Inside of the Campaigns (and Some Insides in General)

On Sunday morning even though Saturday night left me with only three hours of sleep to work on I dragged myself out of bed and onto the gua-gua with only one cup of coffee to keep me going. Earlier in the week Nora García called to tell me there was a sterilization campaign happening that I shouldn’t miss, so I suffered the two hours of bumping around by myself in a covered truck all the way to the last stop in Diez de Octubre. It was a long ride and I had no idea where I was going but at this point I no longer have any qualms about striking out on my own. I found the place without a problem. I walked up to the bright yellow house and tried knocking on the door but no one answered. I would have been very frustrated coming all that way (and skipping lunch) to have yet another of those days where things get cancelled and no one bothers to call so I decided to see if there might be a back door just in case. I peeked into the side garden and was instantly reassured that I was in the right place. People sat with dogs under their chairs and cats in their arms chatting and laughing as they waited to see the veterinarian. I didn’t see Nora so I just let myself into the house and introduced myself to Caridad Hernandez, the leader of the campaign.

You wouldn’t know from the welcome I got that I was about two hours away from the part of town I was familiar with or that I didn’t know a single soul in the house. As is the nature of Cubans, I suppose, I was accepted like a family member. They even insisted on feeding me lunch, saying that it was part of the campaign. Caridad announced me to the waiting clients as a student from the United States and they were very friendly about letting me take pictures and ask questions.

The sterilization campaign itself was fascinating. It took place in a man’s private house. Clients waited with their pets in the courtyard and one by one the animals were taken back to be spayed. The surgery itself took place right on the kitchen table. An assistant sedated and shaved the animal and then he and the doctor went to work. Many of the animals spayed that day were pregnant. According to Caridad, this is a common occurrence. “There is not a culture of operating on animals here,” she said. She explained that most dogs have had at least one litter of puppies before they get spayed, and many come in to get spayed because they have failed pregnancies. Knowledge about the benefits of early spaying is not widespread. The myth that a dog must whelp at least once before being sterilized is common, and spaying puppies is rare.

The campaign happens in a roughly bi-monthly fashion. Diez de Octubre is a more rural area of Havana and therefore there are many dogs in the region (from people’s farms, etc.). Having the campaign in this part of Havana reaches a different population of people who would otherwise be unable to bring their dogs to get sterilized. Dogs are not allowed on the gua-gua and since most people do not have cars bringing their pets to the clinic in Centro is impossible. Because of this there is a waiting list of animals needing to be spayed. About a dozen animals were spayed on Sunday, and according to Caridad almost two hundred have been seen since the end of January (think about eating at a kitchen table that has had 200 dogs spayed on it). Most of the patients spayed are female and almost all are dogs. As Nora said when I visited her at the Aniplant headquarters, “Cats are a hidden problem.” Because they are more self-maintaining and a generally less visible problem than dogs, they are less often seen in the clinics. Only two cats were spayed during Sunday’s campaign.

In general going to the campaign was yet another surreal Cuba experience. I sat on a stool by the doctor and watched the surgeries, taking photos and asking questions. From the other room salsa music blared on the stereo and less then ten feet away from the operating table the owner of the house was cooking our lunch and making coffee. Caridad smoked cigarette after cigarette as she buzzed between the kitchen and the waiting area. As goes for any vet I’ve seen yet, the conditions were not quite sanitary though they seemed perhaps slightly better than the emergency clinic. The doctors at least had gloves which they washed after every use, and used different drapes under each dog. I just know that I’m starting to get used to being here when something as surreal as preparing food in the same room as someone sterilizing a dog fails to phase me.

[Please check out the new photos in the Diez de Octubre Campaign album. Just as a general disclaimer, these photos are not for the faint of heart and some are quite graphic. Have fun!]

Back in the Game

2007-11-05T14:55:00.000-08:00

Dearest friends and family who may (or may not) have been worried by my week of silence. I didn't fall prey to the hurricane (which missed us completely- we barely had rain) but rather a 12 page essay for my Making of Modern Cuba class. No, you all don't get to read it because it was really bad, but should anyone be interested it was about Sexuality and Sex Education and I would be more than happy to write a short post about it later. Other than essay-writing, not much important activity has been going on. We did celebrate Halloween last Wednesday, which I will try to post about. Other than that, I've been holing up in the hotel translating research or bumming around Parque G with my Cuban friends.

Yesterday, however, I had a rather exciting journey out to the Diez de Octubre district to photograph a bi-monthly spay and neuter campaign. As soon as I have had a small break from staring at a computer screen I will get back to my regular posting to tell you all about it, and to upload the lovely album of surgery photos I am working on editing.

So, hello everyone. I'm alive and I'll be back in business soon!

(The photo above was taken about a 10 minutes walk from my house. A few more shots of the AWESOME sunset I saw as I was walking home from the gua-gua on Sunday can be found in the October 2007 album. Enjoy!)

Pretty as a Pic-tcha

2007-10-30T15:31:00.000-07:00

Check out the new Vinales, Maria la Gorda and Orchid Garden albums!

Home Again Home Again Jiggity-Jig

2007-10-28T12:05:00.001-07:00

I'm back home in Havana after a week long vacation to the west. There are several new posts (starting with "Colorblind") and as soon as the internet connection is stable enough I will post the pile of new photos I have from the trip. Enjoy, everyone!

Maria la Gorda

2007-10-28T12:03:00.002-07:00

III. In Which There is Mud and Music

Just after the boat docked following our scuba excursion and we headed onshore for lunch, the rain hit. The rest of the afternoon was given up to reading and napping and the evening was surrendered to sitting at the bar watching the ongoing dominoes competitions. Thursday was also dominated by the tropical storm-front and I had no qualms about continuing to nap and read and relax because there was not much else to do. Knowing that we have limited time in Havana, every one of us has admitted to shaving off resting time to pack more into our days. For once, we had nowhere to go and no option but to put our feet up and slow down. The rain was a good reminder of the benefits of relaxation. Luckily our final day in Maria la Gorda showed us a rainless but cloudy morning that was well taken advantage of with a hike to an underground cave.

The cave was exactly the sort of thing I would have loved to discover as a child. It was full of all manner of bats and crabs and slimy things. It was delightfully piratey and deliciously dank. The land around was a former seascape grown over by forest. The ground was made up of porous rocks that held hermit crabs and colonies of leafcutter ants among other treasures. The cave itself was a dark maze of caverns carved through the stone by water. Dripping stalagmites and stalactites (which I can never tell apart) served as sounding boards for the flutter of bats’ wings and the echoes of our voices in the shadows. Everything inside was coated with a slick covering of mud, which left me sliding and sprawling on my back more than once as I wound my way through tunnels and clearings.

The cave was full of all sorts of magical finds. We discovered las perlas (the pearls), a shiny mineral rock that glittered like treasure in the darkness and a blue underground pool that looked like it should have held a forgotten hoard of jewels. We saw a small owl hiding in a tangle of roots. But best of all, perhaps, was the musical quality of the cave itself. Tapping the rocky protrusions of the walls produced a peculiar percussion that sounded exactly like musical instruments. Different rocks emitted different pitches, some hollow like drums and others resonant like bells. The wall of the cave could have been the perfect tool for an impromptu marimba band. I found myself wishing I had a sense of rhythm, but I was happy enough to just randomly tap the rocks and enjoy the odd rhythm-less reverberation.

We mucked around in the cave until hunger and humidity got the best of us and then hiked back. After lunch there was enough of a sunbreak to redefine my increasingly strange tan lines before the rain started up again and the sun set quite spectacularly over the waves. Too suddenly vacation was over and I headed to bed, very much not looking forward to my seven AM wake up call. I spent the last night dreaming of underwater adventures and pirate’s treasure and woke up unready to rejoin the real world.

Maria la Gorda

2007-10-28T12:03:00.001-07:00

II. In Which I Take the Plunge

The second morning I joined three other girls for a little under the table scuba diving trip. For $25 CUC we got to “get our feet wet” in the world of scuba (paying directly to the guides instead of whatever exorbitant fee the hotel would have charged). I am not scuba certified and have barely even snorkeled before so I was a little nervous about the general group chatter of, “Why would you ever go uncertified? It’s so dangerous! I heard that you’re not even supposed to be allowed to do it on abroad trips because some guy almost died.” True enough being uneducated and nervous while underneath fifty feet of water is probably not a wonderful idea. But, anyone who knows me knows how stubborn I can be (even at my own risk) and it should come as no surprise that I fastened on those flippers and went for it. Heck, I’m probably only going to be in Cuba once and I was damnwell going to make the best of the opportunity at hand.

I boarded the boat uncertainly and watched the other divers suit up as I waited for my gear. One of the guides shamelessly shimmied along to the radio in his Speedo with his fat belly hanging out. It was kind of surreal and the casual manner of the guides didn't help my nerve. Our instructions were pretty much "Remember to breathe out of your mouth only, and don't forget the hand signals." All of this was in "Spanglish", and I couldn't help but feel that there was more to it.

It was totally worth everything. Sure the first few minutes of breathing underwater were a little anxious. The dive instructor took me down first and left me alone, clinging to a rock while he helped Carly descend. As his form faded into a shadowy blue above me and I realized I was sitting on the ocean floor by myself it occurred to me to panic. I could have freaked out and burst back to the surface where everything made more sense. Instead I took a deep breath to remind myself that I had plenty of air on my back and looked around at the schools of curious fish congregating near me. They were no doubt wondering what kind of strange creature I was interrupting their soundless watery world. Soon the other two divers reappeared and we set off to explore the seafloor sights. We meandered in and out of coral-covered rocks examining the colorful fish and the surplus of slimy things surrounding us. Most of the fish ignored us completely, oblivious to the dangers of mankind. We were simply alien creatures passing through. Breathing artificial air Darth-Vader-like through my mouthpiece, it occurred to me that I was somewhere I really didn’t belong. We were space-invaders exploring a liquid landscape full of tentacled monsters and fantastical beasts. At the same time, it felt strangely natural to me to be floating, weightless, with the only sound being the bubbles of my breath rising past my ears. Maybe it was the womblike comfort of being suspended in the warm ocean water or the peaceful slowness of underwater motion. Breaking the surface to the sound of my splashing and sputtering companions and the constant raggaetón beat of Cuba was somewhat of a rude awakening.

Maria la Gorda

2007-10-28T12:00:00.000-07:00

I. In Which Everything is Purr-fect

The first day in Maria la Gorda was the perfect day of vacation. The sun was shining and the ocean water was warm and clear. All afternoon I swam and sunbathed, enjoying the taste of tropical touring I have been missing out on in a lifetime of Pacific Northwest camping during school breaks. This trip was clearly strategically placed to remind us of how fortunate we are to be here just as life in Havana was beginning to get frustrating. Lying on the white coral sand with a piña colada in hand, it was pretty hard to think anything negative about Cuba. I borrowed some snorkeling gear from a friend and lay facedown in the ocean watching a world of colorful fish busily flitting back and forth below me and I didn’t have a care in the world.

As the sun went down I walked along the beach alone breathing in the salty air and soaking up the sound of waves. As soon as the pounding reggaetón beat of the hotel bar faded out of hearing I found a comfortable plot of sand and parked myself in front of the expansive shore. Over the last few weeks I have felt the intensity of living in a new city with new people speaking a new language creeping up on me. In the hustle-bustle of Havana I have been forgetting to take care of myself; there has been so much to do that spare moments are mostly for sleeping. The muscles along my spine had long since hardened into knots and the self-consciousness of group living was starting to make my nerves raw. I could feel the abrasiveness of stress creeping back into my interactions. I badly needed this opportunity to relax because in the next six weeks stolen moments for meditation might be rare. I took a deep breath and let my consciousness slip away into the rhythm of the surf. I breathed in and out with the ocean and pushed away the barrage of thoughts, seeking a few minutes of calm.

All of a sudden I felt a soft, warm presence in my lap. Opening my eyes I saw that a small white cat had crawled into the center of my crossed legs and was sleeping there, purring softly. I shrugged and let the comfortable companionship wash over me as I closed my eyes again. Her purrs resonated pleasantly in my bones and her warmth made a perfect feeling to focus on. She stayed there perfectly still for roughly thirty minutes as I continued to meditate, and when I rose to stretch she waited for me and followed me back to my cabin. For the next three days every time I opened my door she was there (sometimes with her kitty boyfriend too), waiting to greet me and walk with me to the end of the boardwalk. In the mornings or evenings as I relaxed with a book on our back deck the two cats curled up in my lap, probably happy for whatever affection they could get. They became my cabin doorbell as they enthusiastically hailed everyone who walked by my cabin with loud meows, leaving no question as to why people started calling me the “cat lady”. I’ve been feeling a little lonely without my Phoebe-kitty so their feline friendship was more than welcome. Sadly I couldn’t think of a way to sneak the noisy creatures onto the bus when we left, so they were only temporary companions. The last morning the white cat was waiting outside of my door ready to walk me down the boardwalk for the last time.

Viñales

2007-10-28T11:54:00.000-07:00

In Which We Visit the Countryside

Last Saturday we set off with Angelito and Jesús on yet another tour of Cuba, this time to the Western portion of the Island. We passed through Viñales and stayed two nights at Las Terrazas hotel in the countryside. After eight weeks of thick pollution, breathing a little fresh air did me a lot of good.

On the first day we took a tour of some old coffee plantations and had lunch on a farm. I must say I felt a little weird feasting on chicken while chicken ran around under our feet pecking our toes under the table, but the food was delicious and I was more than happy to indulge in a little overeating. The following day we took a hike through the countryside, passing through farms where the campesinos gave us fresh plantains and coconut. We trekked through the fields and climbed hundreds of stairs carved into a cliff wall up to a mountain cave where we could look out over the patchwork landscape.

After the hike we went to another cave (Cueva de los Indios) to take a boat ride through underground caverns. As another testimony to the surrealism of my life (in general and especially in Cuba), the weirdest thing happened while we were waiting to catch our boat through the cave. Some students were crawling around in unlit caverns trying to see how deep the cave went. All of a sudden we heard a resounding splash and a lot of sputtering. Thinking it was one of our group that fell in, I ran to the edge to see if I could help. We already lost part of a finger in Trinidad, and leaving someone behind in Viñales would have been the icing on the cake. It turned out that it wasn’t one of us, but rather a Mexican tourist who had been drunkenly standing on the edge to pee and lost his balance on the slippery stone. It was pitch black and nobody had flashlights so we couldn’t even see him in the inky blackness below. He fell about eight feet, but luckily there was a pool of water and eventually with the combined effort of his friends and some of our group he was pulled to safety. The weirdest part about the whole thing was that neither he nor his friends seemed phased at all that he almost disappeared into the darkness of an underground cave never to be seen again. If he had hit his head he could have drown, or an underground current could simply have pulled him away where no one would ever find him. We were all a little shocked that such a thing had even happened (and thankful there was water there to break his fall). They all just laughed it off and waved to us as our boat pulled away from the dock. We just shouted ironically back to them “Ten cuidado (be careful)!” We toured the cave in our boats and headed back to the hotel to rest for a short while.

That evening a few of the girls in the group went horseback riding together. Two campesinos rode with us down the dirt roads yipping at our horses and making awkward marriage proposals to the girls in the back of the group. At the halfway point we dismounted for a cup of coffee and some plantanitos (the sweetest baby bananas ever), then we turned around and headed back to the hotel again. As is true of most things in Cuba it was a lot of fun but also the slightest bit off. The guides never bothered to wait for us to adjust our stirrups, they just handed us horses and headed out so that everyone was bumping along uncomfortably as the horses trotted, herded along by the careless campesinos. Nevertheless the scenery was beautiful and I had a wonderful time riding after not having been on a horse in years. We went back to the hotel smelling of sweet horse sweat and strong Cuban espresso, walking like cowboys because of our saddle sores. Even though I paid for that for several days after with muscle soreness and a bruised bottom, it was more than worth it. The next morning we traveled onwards to Pinar del Rio and then to the diving resort at Maria la Gorda where we would stay for four days.

Colorblind

2007-10-28T08:39:00.000-07:00

In Which Cuba Isn’t

There are times that being in Cuba is wonderful. Things are always crazy and unpredictable and the number of bizarre and amazing experiences I am having is ever growing. Often being here feels vaguely like being in Paradise. There’s sun and beach and rum and music always within reach. It’s pretty easy to be a tourist and never see an unsavory thing here, if you so desire. But living here is another story. After six weeks here, I have seen some major flaws behind the façade.

In particular, I wish to speak about the blatant segregation that goes on every day here. I have talked before about the dual currency economy that fortifies the separation between tourists and natives. On top of that, the colonial history of Cuba also perpetuates the continuation of an unconcealed racist sentimentality.

In the late 1600s the Cuban population was basically a mixture of European, Indian and African people. By the 17^th century the Indian population was nearly extinguished, its decline inversely related to the increase of imported African slaves. The percentage of the population made up of slaves grew rapidly between the 1500s and 1700s. As Cuba was a colony without many European women, European landowners began to turn to the Indian and slave populations for female companionship. A population of mixed-race Creoles emerged, as did a class of free people of color. The concept of the white elite, the Creole middle-class and the African slaves formed Cuba’s early history and even after the abolition of slavery in the 1860s a mentality of racial class segregation persevered. Even into the late 1950s Afro-Cubans had a difficult time gaining seats in the House of Representatives as well as professional jobs. Not only did they earn lower wages and suffer from poorer living conditions, they were subjected to systematic racial discrimination that is still apparent today. Though legal discrimination was abolished after the revolution in 1959, Cubans with darker skin still have a harder time entering hotels, resorts, clubs, and restaurants. (Pérez: 1995)

It is one thing to read about a history of racism and discrimination in a textbook, but a completely different (and very unnerving) thing to experience it up-close and personal. Every day here we see signs of subtle racism in even our friends and professors. When Kat and I were robbed, the first question asked of us by our friend Adrian was, “Were they black?” Even our Cuban Art and Culture professor makes racist remarks, suggesting that crime is mainly the fault of those with darker skin (even as she teaches us about the roots of Afro-Cuban culture). Some days, the racism becomes even more apparent than questionable statements or subtle attitudes. Unfortunately, my birthday was one of those days.

After the jazz show on my birthday my roommate and I headed back towards the University of Havana to see if we could catch up with our friends. As we were walking through the late-night rain-deserted streets a boy called to us. “¡Oye! El concierto se acabó hace un rato. La fiesta ahora está en el Malecón.” (Hey! The concert ended a while ago. The party’s on the Malecón now.) We told him we were looking for our friends and wanted to check if they were still at the University, but thanked him for letting us know. We walked on and wandered around the empty campus looking for our friends, who had clearly already left. As we turned around to check la Rampa we saw the boy and his two friends talking to a police officer on the corner as we walked past. Later as we searched around Parque G for our friends we were approached by two boys who wanted us to accompany them to the police station. Apparently the three boys had been arrested for “harassing” us. It took me a second to register that someone had been arrested on my behalf for no reason. Where were the cops when we got robbed? Who asked them to but in now when there was no problem at all?

The thing is, the three boys were all black. Anywhere we go here with our Cuban friends, those with darker skin constantly get carded and harassed by the police on “suspicion” of being jineteros (hustlers) bothering white tourists. Cubans with more Spanish descent and thus lighter skin get hassled significantly less often. Even when we pull out our carnets and tell the cops we’re students and that these black Cubans are our friends we often have a hard time convincing them to leave us alone. They insist that it is for our protection that they threaten them. They are “looking out for our safety”. Personally, it enrages me that they aren’t looking out for the good of the people that call this country home and that they are using us as an excuse to impose racist judgment on our friends, who have every right to walk on the street as freely as we do (more so because they actually live here and we’re essentially tourists).

The two boys who approached us at Parque G wanted us to go with them to tell the police that their friends were not bothering us. We explained to them that this situation has happened before and the police don’t care what we have to say about it. A week prior Kat went to the beach with several other US girls and one black Cuban boy from ISA. He was arrested for “hustling tourists” (twice in the same day, in fact) and the police were deaf to their insistence that he was a friend. The police wouldn’t have listened to us if we tried to break out these boys we didn’t even know either. (Luckily they were able to get a Spanish friend to help them out of jail. In these situations, being a North American student doesn’t help bureaucratic negotiations).

On top of struggling with discrimination against our black Cuban friends, many of us are also experiencing for the first time what it feels like to be a racial minority. As white-skinned students we are assumed to be ignorant tourists and repeatedly ripped off and hustled. Our fair skin marks us as an easy target for harassment and theft. Wherever we go people call out after us asking where we are from and offering to sell us things, hoping to gain access to whatever wealth me may be carrying around with us. Máquina drivers hesitate to take us because they can be arrested for offering rides to foreigners. Some restaurants that charge in pesos will not serve us because we look like tourists (though we have carnets). Anywhere we go that’s not specifically set aside for tourism, there is a vague sense that we are “our of place.” As a six-foot-tall white woman, it’s impossible for me to ever blend in. At the same time because of our “tourist” status, we can enter into any Hotel or Club without trouble while darker skinned Cubans cannot. Foreigners can use Internet and buy cars while Cubans cannot. Our white skin places us in a strange dual position of discrimination contrasting with privilege and access.

It’s so different to be in a place where racial issues are at the front of one’s consciousness all the time. Many “average white college kids” pass through life in the States without ever experiencing racial discrimination firsthand. Here racial profiling happens left and right, both to our Cuban friends and to us. In both regards, it is extremely frustrating and discouraging. We’re in a place where concepts of racism and racial equality are much different from what most of us experience at home, and unfortunately there isn’t much that we can do about it here.

Pinar del Rio

2007-10-20T03:55:00.000-07:00

In Which We Embark On Yet Another Journey

I awoke this morning to the sound of my alarm and the pattering of rain on my window. The air conditioned room was cold and for a moment it felt just like Portland. I felt around the head of my bed looking groggily for Phoebe-Kitty wondering why she wasn't already jumping on my face. Then I remembered, "I'm Still in Cuba!"

Today we embark on another week-long trip with the Holy Trinity (and now Bruce's wife is here, so I suppose we have a Mother Mary as well. It's pretty Catholic here, so its about time.) I left major packing to do until today so I probably shouldn't be dawdling on the internet. I just enjoy the occasional comfort of my routine AM email check and I happen to still have internet in my room. But, without further ado, this is good-bye for a week. I will watch out for barracudas of course, and try not to strain myself soaking up the Caribbean sun. Have a good week everyone! Chau-chau!

La Zorra y el Cuervo

2007-10-19T22:02:00.000-07:00

In Which I Remember That I am Jazzed to Be Here

Thursday night was my twentieth birthday. It seemed a significant number to me, as does any age change that brings one into a new life stage, I suppose. I remember turning ten and finally possessing those double digits. I remember turning thirteen and gaining that important “teen” ending. Back then I thought I would be married by twenty-three and having kids by twenty-five. Twenties seemed so old. I never imagined that at twenty I would in still feel so little like a real “adult”, or that I wouldn’t even be close to wanting marriage or kids or anything that looked like settling down. And I never, ever would have imagined that I would be celebrating my twentieth birthday in Cuba. But here I am, entering into a new decade in a new country wondering where thirty will find me.

I suppose I failed somewhat in creating the same party atmosphere that has accompanied the other birthdays here. No one seemed to feel quite as obligated to get wasted or go to a discotec this time around. Maybe its because I’m sick again and I’ve managed to get conjunctivitis from too much pollution interacting badly with my contact lenses. Or maybe its just because hitting the emotional slump right around my birthday put a damper on the party-animal spirit. A good amount of people chose to spend a quiet evening in the hotel rather than celebrate. Given that it was my birthday, I felt obliged to be at least a little social and have some fun. I needed a little push to turn my inertia into motion, so I tagged along with some friends heading to the University of Havana for another concert. We met Amaro and company at Parque G and drank rum and danced by the University Steps.

After a few hours of dancing, my roommate and I headed off to la Zorra y el Cuervo, a Cuban jazz club nearby. It’s a pricey place, but I felt like treating myself to something a little different. I heard the show was excellent, and true to the rumors it was definitely well worth the $10 CUC entry fee. The pianist Roberto Fonseca was a member of the Buena Vista Social Club and could play the piano like nobody’s business. As I watched the musicians play (while sipping excellent mojitos), it struck me how comically similar jazz improvisation is to spiritual possession. Each piece was a full body manifestation of the Holy Spirit of Jazz. The pianist would go rigid, craning his head backward with his face contorted in painful ecstasy as a musical form of glossolalia poured from his fingers and onto the keys. He yowled lyrical nonsense into the mic along with the clarinet while his hands danced over the keyboard. When his solo was spent he collapsed forward and eased back into the steady rhythm of the piece with the exhaustion of one who had just channeled the Holy Ghost and spoken in tongues. I faded in and out of clear consciousness, captivated by the music. At one point I snapped back into reality and thought, “My God, where am I? I’m in a Cuban jazz club sitting ten feet away from a member of the Buena Vista Social Club drinking mojitos on my twentieth birthday.” Every once in a while it strikes me that I’m having the time of my life, and there’s no where else I’d rather be.

It’s hard to remember how lucky you are sometimes when you’re immersed in something so amazing that’s impossible to step back from. Every once in a while I snap out of the every-day life and remember where I am and I’ll walk around for a few hours with a huge stupid grin on my face saying “Oh my gosh, I’m in Cuba!” Sure I’ve been crabby lately. Life gets me sometimes. There are some things here that are hard to bear. But when it comes down to it I know I’m damn lucky to be here and I love every moment of it- the good and the bad. I couldn’t possibly be learning more or having more fun. Really, forgive the pun, but last night I was feeling pretty jazzed.

Updated

2007-10-18T14:44:00.000-07:00

In Which... I Update Things?

First of all, there are several new posts which I have been too lazy to put up until now. Feel free to read/comment.

Second, I thought this would be the best way to notify family and friends that after Saturday I will be in Pinar del Rio for a week scuba-diving and working on my tan (we call this "midterms"). So, I appologize for falling off the edge of the earth and I will certainly have lots more exciting stories to tell when I return.

Also, thank you to everyone who sent me messages today, I love you and miss you all!

One Hundred Days of Solitude

2007-10-18T14:40:00.000-07:00

In Which I Reflect on the Solitary Nature of Man

A race condemned to a hundred years of solitude does not have a second chance.

~Gabriel García Márquez

It seems like it would be hard to feel alone when one hasn’t been in a room without another warm body for six weeks aside from stolen moments for personal sanitation and (god willing) a glimpse here and there for sanity. On the contrary among the warm bodies it is all too easy to find the heart cold without the touch of a sole companion to share the contents of a solitary mind. We have arrived at the text-book-predicted “six-week-slump” and increasingly I find myself suffering from a nagging anxiety that comes from often having no one to talk to but myself.

It’s not that I isolate myself. In fact, over the last few days I’ve been meeting a lot of people I get along with quite well. My room phone even rings once in a while with people wanting to invite me out. I no longer feel so secluded from the group. It’s just that at this halfway point I suddenly find myself stranded in the middle of a hundred-day exile from any sort of emotional intimacy. Maybe I just shouldn’t be reading Márquez and pondering the solitary nature of the human soul. But magical realism aside, we are at the point of making lists of things we miss and apart from certain specific food items I would say that what I’m most longing for is a decent hug. I have never felt less connected to people in my life. Cuba is an island, and for the next two months so am I.

I spent a long time the other day talking to Fran about the nature of friendship. It often comes up that despite the lack of resources Cuban people in a general sense are very amicable. Americans have a reputation here for being highly individual people who don’t place as much value on personal interaction as material fulfillment. The upscale suburban neighborhood I spent the last ten years growing up in echoes with emptiness when compared to a bustling Cuban barrio.

I told Fran that I envied the Cuban concept of friendship, and that I was hoping to make some good friends here. This turned into a discussion of the difference between the words amigo and conocido (“friend” and “aquaintance”). “You are not my amiga,” Fran said. “I can count my amigos on one hand. Amigos are like brothers; if they have a problem I would do anything for them. Cubans value their amigos very much. Conocidos are people you like to hang out with. They are not like family. Right now, you are a conocida.” Later he asked me what I wanted to do at the party we were planning for my birthday. I responded that it didn’t matter, and that I was happy to be spending it with friends. “With conocidos,” he corrected me. It hit me like a ton of bricks that I don’t have a single “friend” here.

Fran is perhaps not the one to ask about friendship. He’s a surly, cynical metal-head determined to one day get out of Cuba and see the world. Asking the anarchistic youth about social attachments never returns a warm-fuzzy answer. But all biases considered, Fran was right. I can spend all day exploring the city and drinking rum with the people I’ve met here, but at the end of the day there is still no one who knows me. I try not to think myself into these lonely corners, but once in a while I’m just not in the mood to play social games with strangers. It’s probably just because it’s my birthday and I have never felt less inclined to celebrate the inevitable passage of time alone.

There’s something to be said for setting sail for a distant land with the clothes on your back and little else besides. Navigating an unfamiliar place among unfamiliar faces leaves one along to contemplate what is left of us when the world we know and cling to falls away. Solitude can reveal the little-knows secrets of the soul. But when all is said and done, what solitude most reveals is the necessity of human interaction.

My time here is limited, and my birthday marking the halfway point finds me melancholy for a multitude of reasons. I am starting to miss the comforts of home and the people (and pets) I left behind. At the same time I am beginning to see that we will not be here long enough to ever achieve any sort of intimacy with Havana, or the people here. Six weeks went by in a flash, and the rest of time will rush by too. In December we’ll fly out of here on the tail-ends of the hurricane winds and I will be a battleground of conflicted desires. Half of me will be celebrating the long awaited return to a place where things make a little more sense, waiting for someone to greet me at the airport and break the hundred days of solitude. The other part of me will wish that I could live an alternate ending in Havana forever, solving the solitude by having the time to finally fit in.

Parque G

2007-10-18T13:53:00.000-07:00

In Which I Make Friends With Some Metal-Heads

During the day if you wander down la Rampa, the long city park on Avenida de las Presidentes (commonly referred to as Calle G) looks like a peaceful place to pause in your walk and sit on a bench among the sculpted trees and well-maintained grass (which you are prohibited by law to walk on). There may be a few other Cubans and tourists resting there, but it is generally a quiet location for reflection in the middle of a busy street.

Not so after dusk. When the sun goes down the infamous Calle G becomes the hang-out place for alternative youth. Scores of kids in tight jeans and Metallica t-shirts with piercings and spiked hair mill about the park with bottles of rum (and possibly other recreational substances) to hang out with their friends. Parque G at night could be just about anywhere in the world- the scruffy, rebellious teen-and-twenty-somethings look like any other group of defiant youth. For me, missing my surly Indie-rock coffee shops in Portland, Parque G at night feels like home.
Back before the trip to Santiago some of the Lewis and Clark students on the trip went to a concert at the University of Havana. There they made friends with some Cuban boys who are part of the alternative youth crowd. On Saturday night I tagged along to Parque G to meet them.

Amaro is a twenty-something socialite who makes friends with everyone. He has a dirty mouth, an opinion about everything and an enormous personality that might be described with the letters “ADHD”. He’s a clown and the center of attention at all times.

Alejandro is younger than the rest of them. He has gauged ears, is always holding a cigarette and perpetuates for me the image of the high school bad boy. He’s handsome, and probably knows it. More than anything, he’s downright surly. Then again, they’re metal-heads. They’re all surly.

Fran might be my favorite. He’s tall and lanky without being awkward. He’s a fantastic dancer (who at one point was paid to attend quinceañeras to dance with the girls), and has promised to teach me to dance casino like a Cuban. The typical anarchist, he seems determined to maintain a healthy dose of cynicism and independence from others. But underneath it all, he has a good sense of humor and a happy disposition. He desperately wants someone to invite him to travel anywhere outside of the island he has always known.

Michel seems older then the rest, and more determined to be polite. He doesn’t smoke or drink hard liquor (“anymore”). He asks questions and listens for the answers. He likes American country music and has two left feet. He volunteered his house for my twentieth birthday party.

I have only known these guys for a few days now, but I’m already very fond of them. Despite being metal heads, they insist on paying for everything (to the point that we avoid eating out around them because they can’t possibly afford to feed us all) and always call us to make sure we get home safely. It’s a strange balance between aloofness and manners that you wouldn’t expect a “metal-head” to have. Above all, I don’t get the sense (as I do with many other boys I’ve met here) that they want anything from me. They seem to be interested in conversation and company and nothing more. I’m mostly just excited to finally have a few Cuban “friends” to hang out with. We get along fairly well communicating in Spanglish, and hopefully I will see a lot more of them as the weeks go by.

No Oyes Ladrar Los Perros

2007-10-18T13:04:00.000-07:00

In Which We Talk About the Importance of a Dream

I met with Nora again today. After a few hours of phone tag (and several weeks of internet tag), I finally set out on my way to view the headquarters-in-construction of Aniplant. When I arrived I was sure that I had been given the wrong address. I caught a máquina from Playa to the Malecón and picked my way down Infanta towards the address I had been given. I arrived at the number I had rapidly scribbled on a damp piece of notebook paper and wondered if I had misheard it somehow. My Spanish is improving, but I still hate talking on the phone where there are no visual cues to fill in the language blanks. Confusing numbers is a common mistake, but I was sure I heard the street intersection right. Yet there I was standing on a run-down looking residential corner staring at a boarded-up door that didn’t look anything like a headquarters. I asked a few of the people on the street (who were staring at me as if wondering what this gringo-Amazon was doing wandering off the tourist track) where I might find Nora García and her vet headquarters. Finally someone confirmed that I had been knocking on the right door and with a little more forceful knocking and bell-ringing I heard the distant bark of dogs and knew I was in the right place. Nora opened the door and welcomed me inside.

The headquarters was in a state of complete disrepair. Apparently the former location had been traded for this one because it had ground-level access and was thus more convenient. Until a few days ago it didn’t even have running water but bit-by-bit it is coming together. With a lot of work it will eventually be used as a clinic with a groomer’s in the back to clean up the stray dogs that stay there before being put up for adoption. The entire project is being done without any government funding. In a place where the average income isn’t enough for basic survival, donations are hard to come by. Even among Cubans who have the resources to contribute to a cause, charity of this sort is not a cultural habit here. Because of this, the going is very slow.

Officially there are about four hundred members of Aniplant. There were formerly three thousand but because Aniplant is a legal organization, in order to meet government standards over half of the group must be present at meetings for them to continue. Official membership was decreased because many of the members could not travel to attend every meeting. Each member (finances willing) pays a 1 peso monthly dues (thus 1 CUC per every 24 people). Those who can’t afford to pay are exempt. Even with dues, there is very little money for the group to work with. Foreign donations of supplies or money are a godsend.

Nora showed me around the building, which was essentially in shambles. There is a room currently taken up by scaffolding that will one day be an exam room and courtyard that will one day be a place to bathe filthy dogs. Eight dogs call the headquarters home and contribute to the mess. A crude kitchen had pots bubbling on the stove full of the dogs’ daily meal. After the “tour”, Nora and I bathed a shabby stray dog that had been brought in the day before. She explained to me that the small, timid puppy would be an easy dog to adopt out (and in fact already had a new father waiting for her to see a vet so he could take her home). There are many dogs on the street and certain types of dogs make better candidates for rescues than others. Nora’s fourteen dogs and the eight dogs that live at the headquarters are rescued dogs that for reasons of age or behavior are not adoptable. This little one was young, female, sweet-tempered, and small, making her a more desirable pet than an older or more unwieldy stray.

Nora and I had plans to visit the weekly spay-and-neuter campaigns in the afternoon but as always in Cuba things worked out a little differently than planed. The campaigns were canceled due to rain because transportation with pets is already exceedingly difficult and it would be a waste to open up the clinic on a day where few people would come. On-call vets were made available for emergency situations and the campaign was rescheduled for next week. After bathing the pup, we fed the other dogs and just chatted about the organization and its goals.

One of the biggest impediments to progress in Cuban veterinary medicine is education. As Dr. Betancourt said before, without TV programs or classes in school people are in general uninformed about veterinary health issues. Nora added that printing is very expensive and difficult, making things like informational pamphlets and posters rare. I asked if there was a public interest in education and she said that motivation is not the issue. Aniplant occasionally advertises group discussions about animal care that are well attended by interested citizens. Public access to information is the main problem. One of the most common problems is general misinformation that leads to neglect and abuse. Additionally, the essential nature of the Cuban lifestyle makes prioritizing pet healthcare impossible. People get fed before dogs, and dogs get thrown to the streets to fend for themselves when food is scare. People would like to care for their pets but lack both the informational and financial resources to improve standards.

Just when we were getting ready to lock up the headquarters and go our separate ways, there was a knock on the front door. A woman visiting from the Bahamas had stopped by with questions about Aniplant and how she could donate money or supplies to the cause. She worked with a spay-and-neuter campaign in the Bahamas and had brought a bag of flea and tick medication and antibiotics with her to donate. She preferred not to give it to a vet for fear that they would make a profit off of reselling it. Because she didn’t speak Spanish and Nora doesn’t speak English I played translator (with the help of the woman’s Cuban companion) between their attempts at primitive miming and pointing.

The woman had arrived at Aniplant searching for a place to bring a stray dog she found near her hotel. She seemed surprised that there are no shelters in Cuba and that Nora was only willing to accept the new dog if it was in adoptable condition. I tried to explain to her that saving that one dog was not the solution to the stray dog problem. There is simply not enough room or food at Aniplant for every stray dog in Havana that needs a home. If there were an animal shelter, who would feed them and care for them? Food for dogs is as scarce as food for people and when money is tight there are few who will donate what little they have to feed a collection of stray dogs. She suggested that what the dog really needs might be euthanasia, and didn’t understand why the vets she had talked to were so opposed to the idea. I had to explain to her that the method of euthanasia in Cuba is feeding dogs strychnine. Stray dogs are better off taking their chances on the street. For dogs in Cuba there is no humane death.

Every time I see a dead animal on the sidewalk or a walking skeletal shell of a dog dodging traffic I feel a pang of regret with the realization that it is impossible to save all of the neglected creatures in the world. Saving them one by one will not solve the problem that places them on the street to begin with. What Cuba needs is to continue expanding sterilization campaigns to decrease the volume of stray animals being born every year while developing public education to help people care for the animals they own. In order to do that, Cuba needs a lot of help.

It’s sad to see dogs like the little one we bathed (named “Suzi” because she was súcia –dirty) out on the street starving and underfoot. It’s difficult not the have the ability to help them because money is short and volunteers are scarce. But Nora reminded me of the crucial root of every form of activism. “No puedes perder la capacidad de sonar.”(You can’t lose the capacity to dream.”) One day, with a lot of help and with the continued dedication of people like Nora who won’t give up no matter the difficulty, it will begin to make a difference.

The Little Things

2007-10-14T12:29:00.000-07:00

In Which I Have Not Much To Say

I don't have much to update today, except that I am making lots of new friends and having a very good weekend just hanging out. I'm very much enjoying the little things in life, like Cuba Libres and 4 cent ice creams and having people to invite to my 20th birthday party on Thursday. Soon it will be November which will melt into December and all of a sudden I will be freezing in the chilly rain of Portland once again. I'm taking the time now to get out and enjoy life in Havana while I can.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

2007-10-11T14:34:00.000-07:00

In Which I Have a Right to Be Grouchy

There are days I really enjoy being here. Usually it’s a pleasure to wake up knowing I’m here in Havana with a whole day to see wonderful sights. The work is fairly easy and the rewards are plentiful. We’re living “the life”. Friends from home are moaning about midterms and papers while our Spanish teacher just told us she didn’t want to burden us with a written final exam. In many ways, I couldn’t possibly have it better.

Other days, I really hate it here. This past week has been one of those weeks where Cuba has gotten to my last nerve. I try to stay in good spirits. I take in stride every awkward moment and fluke accident that happens. I really didn’t start this blog to whine about the discomforts of being somewhere far from home. But, in pursuit of intellectual honesty I would like to avoid sugarcoating my experiences here. Sometimes, Cuba freaking sucks.

I’m sick of the bland food, the perpetual lateness, the chronic disappointment of failed outings and botched directions. I have been suffering for the past week or so from the terrible pollution. Inhaling diesel fumes with every breath outside of the hotel has given me an incurable burning in my lungs and a persistent dry cough. In general I am sick of being sick- I haven’t felt entirely well since the day I left Portland and I don’t expect to escape from the plethora of gastrointestinal discomforts and flu-like ailments that plague our group.

Earlier this week I had the pleasure of learning the Spanish verb for “getting unidentifiable gross slime on your feet” in a very hands-on way (enfangar means “to get muddy”, or “to get involved in dirty business”). Trekking to Spanish class in the morning I managed to plant my foot just barely off the paved path. I was rewarded with a squelchy covering of stinky mud all over my besandaled foot (which provided brief amusement for the class). It was funny, and like all other random things that have happened so far I passed if off as “just one of those things. Pase lo que pase (What happens happens). But in collection with the hundreds of other times I’ve fallen into hidden holes, stubbed my toes on sidewalk protrusions, slipped in scummy water and turned my ankles on treacherous pathways, it was pretty annoying. A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of walking around most of Vedado barefoot (for several hours) because my shoe broke a few paces out of the taxi and there wasn’t anything to be done about it.

It’s not that I’m accident-prone. Sometimes I just feel like I’m a magnet for silly inconveniences, which for the most part I try to laugh off and get over. But for some reason or other these annoyances seem to happen more frequently in Cuba, with a heightened probability of happening specifically to me.

Well, yesterday I had the honor of experiencing first-hand the rare occurrence of Cuban crime. Because yesterday was a national holiday, almost our entire group went to the Gran Teatro for the opening of the ballet festival. My roommate and I dressed up for the show and made plans to go out for dinner with our Cuban friend Adrian Unfortunately we arrived too late to eat before the ballet started, so we arranged to meet him afterwards for some pizza instead. After the ballet we walked the few blocks from the Capitolio to his house. As we walked through the neighborhood we went by a group of young men who catcalled us as we passed. Both Kat and I noticed that as we continued onward they began to follow us. Knowing that in the dark barrio we were a shining beacon of tourist wealth, we pulled our purses close in front of us and walked faster. Unfortunately the boys had flanked us. Before we could do anything about it, they grabbed my arms behind my back and tore my purse from my hands, breaking the shoulder strap and spilling change all over the ground (which they scrambled to collect). I put up a fight but they were already running down the street with their plunder. They tried to grab Kat’s purse as well but as soon as they snatched mine they all ran away into the night leaving us swearing and shaken up.

The worst part about the situation wasn’t the loss of money. They didn’t take much, and there was nothing important in my purse. It wasn’t even the robbery itself, necessarily. They probably needed the cash more than I did and it probably went into buying them dinner or a pair of shoes. Their intent was solely in grabbing the bags- while they were rough in their action there was no indication of violent motives. In some other place we could have been far worse off, and I took small comfort in knowing that violent crime is even more rare here than theft. The most awful part about the whole thing was the sense of violation and the terrible feeling of being targeted. The thing is, we were not on a deserted street. There were men and women standing outside of their homes watching the entire thing happen. But just as we couldn’t have gained anything by striking out at our attackers, the neighborhood remained passively removed from the situation. They merely stared silently as I shouted after the thieves and then went on with their lives. The possibility of making enemies who could return to give them trouble for the sake of helping tourists was not worth it. In the case of violence, I’m sure someone would have intervened. They weren’t watching with pleasure. There was simply nothing to be done. Anyone who has even passed through a residential Havana neighborhood would understand that everyone in Cuba could sympathize with a little desperation. Most people don’t steal, but everyone understands why someone might. We angrily stormed the next block or two to Adrian’s house still acutely aware of the places their fingers had grabbed us.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. We ate dinner with our friend and sang along to his collection of old 90’s hits. He insisted upon walking us to catch a car back to the hotel and apologized for our bad experience. We went home tired and a still a little shaken up but otherwise uninjured.

All in all, I refuse to let a collection of bad experiences ruin my vision of Cuba. Stepping in holes and beating up my feet won’t stop me from walking. Fear of getting robbed won’t stop me from going out. I’ll continue to take it in stride and try to simply be more aware of where I’m putting my feet or holding my purse. For the most part it is impossible to stop the random unfortunate events that befall everyone.

But, for at least a little while, I think I am entitled to feeling a little ruffled. It’s just so hard to be here sticking out like a sore thumb everywhere I go, getting catcalled and harassed while I sweat in the incessant heat and scratch the fleabites that cover my feet and legs. Every once in a while, I do feel just a little homesick.

Gringo Train

2007-10-11T14:30:00.000-07:00

In Which I Try To Think About Perspectives

Way back in the beginning when twenty-seven Lewis and Clark students embarked on this trip to Cuba, Bruce presented us with a vague set of behavioral guidelines to ease our transition into Cuban life. After over a month living in Havana, I can no longer remember what most of those instructions were. Many of them were simply forgettable safety suggestions and travel tips of the common-sense variety. But jokes are still made frequently about the infamous and unforgettable “Rule Number Four” which more-or-less read “Don’t Behave Like A Stupid American”. In general what this was trying to say was “Don’t draw unnecessary negative attention to yourself by being blatantly loud, self-righteous and ignorant.” Most of us do a pretty good job of avoiding acting like vapid insensitive tourists. But it doesn’t matter how hard we try; every single footstep outside of our hotel rooms is a Rule Number Four infraction of the highest degree. It has virtually nothing to do with intentions and virtually everything to do with impressions.

The fact is we are a large group of mostly girls and one-hundred-percent gringos. We stand out everywhere we go. We speak limited Spanish and from first glance we’re obviously not from around here. And, lets face it, we’re pretty loud. You try keeping twenty-seven college students quiet. When we traveled around the Western part of the Island in an enormous tour bus we appeared no different than any other sun-screened, photo-taking, post-card-buying tourists visiting Trinidad and Santiago. Now that we’re living in Havana we try to go out in smaller groups, which vastly decreases the staring and begging. But on certain occasions we are once again a walking gringo-train. Twenty-seven foreign students are bound to be carrying a lot of cash, and cash is a precious commodity in Cuba. Any pockets of wealth in Cuba come directly from the tourist economy. When we go out together, what many people see is an opportunity for business.

I don’t mean to imply that there aren’t people looking for friendship or conversation. As I have said before, people in Cuba generally value human interactions very highly. Our friend Adrian even insists on paying for dinner when we eat out, knowing full well that we have a lot more money than he does. It’s just that in general, we are a potential source of income that people don’t want to pass up.

We live in a hotel. Businessmen and other important people pass through here all the time. The staff are used to dealing with people who are loaded with free flowing cash. When we go to the bar to get a drink or buy a snack they have no qualms in nonchalantly overcharging us or shortchanging us. It’s not that they’re cruel. It’s just a way to get by, and their normal clientele are none the worse for losing a dollar here or there. The problem is, we live here. Getting cheated on a daily basis inside of what we view as our “home” can be frustrating. Unfortunately the poverty problem in Cuba is not a manner of right or wrong. It’s all a manner of perspectives.

To someone who lives in a tiny shanty in Centro with hardly enough food to fill the table and a salary we could spend in the blink of an eye without thinking about it, we no doubt look downright ungrateful. We are a crowd of scruffy, un-groomed and casual-to-a-fault liberal arts students. None of us are rude, but in the eyes of someone who will never be handed the type of opportunity we were born with, we probably come off as a little ungrateful.

It’s difficult to be in a place where there is such segregation and instant judgment. The dual-economy instantly sets up an environment of entitlement. People assume that we don’t want to see Havana for what it really is; we, as foreigners, are here to spend money and see only the beautiful and the clean. For the most part all we want is to wait in line with everyone else, pay in pesos like the people who live here and take the gua-gua with the regular citizens. We’re here to experience Cuba, not have a Caribbean vacation. Our close friends understand this and show us things we would never see without them.

We just have to come to terms with the way we appear and understand that no matter where we go we carry with us the assumption that we have no “Rule Number Four” and are here to be loud and to spend. As hard as we work to be polite and speak clearly and wear our intentions on our sleeves, we will always be seen for what we are: wealthy foreigners. It’s just another of those things we need to learn to deal with.

New photos!

2007-10-09T09:09:00.001-07:00

There are two new albums to look at- October 2007 and Dog Days. Check them out! Feel free to leave comments! :)

Under the Table

2007-10-09T09:04:00.003-07:00

In Which We Enjoy Immensely What is On the Table While Discussing What Goes On Under It

Saturday was another full day. After a quiet morning relaxing after Friday’s long walk, my roommate Kat invited me to head back to the city with her. Our mission was to visit the cemetery in Centro Habana, check out the weekly art market by the Capitolio and walk to our Cuban friend’s house in time for dinner.

After I grabbed some lunch from a street vendor (pizza and ice cream for less than 40 cents) we caught a car over to the Necrópolis Cristóbal Colón. Lonely planet declares this cemetery the most important in Cuba. It describes it as a “minicity of granite, marble, and loved ones”, which is a strange but accurate way of depicting the enormous avenues of monuments and monoliths dedicated to the near million dead at rest there. We wandered through the maze of Christs and cherubs taking photographs of the beautiful tombs.

(An interesting fact about cemeteries in Cuba: the dead are neither buried nor cremated. Instead, the bodies are left in the tombs to decompose and are exhumed two years later, at which time the bones are cleaned and removed.)

Next we took a cab to Centro Habana and browsed the art market. We weren’t there long when it started to rain so we hid under our umbrellas and picked our way through wet and winding roads to our friend’s house. As we wandered the residential streets we were catcalled at by men and generally hailed by everyone to take photos or give money. When we heard an insistent pst-pst and a call of Oye, mira! (“Hey, look here!”) my roommate and I at first ignored it, until we realized that the calls were not piropos but rather policemen. An officer jumped out of his car and asked us where we were from. We told him and he tried to talk to us in English and then gave up, telling me he didn’t speak very well. I said “It’s fine, I speak Spanish, what do you want?”

“Look ladies,” he said. “This is a neighborhood not a tourist area. You shouldn’t be walking around with your cameras out. We don’t want you taking pictures of these streets. Havana is a beautiful city and you shouldn’t be taking photos of the poor areas and taking them home. People won’t want to come here if they see this. We’re not going to do anything, this is just a warning, but put your cameras away.” I dropped my camera in my bag, said, “We understand officer. We won’t take any more photos,” and stepped around him to continue on our way. He looked slightly put off that we didn’t look more intimidated but got back into his car and drove away.

In some ways maybe his fear of showing off the poorer parts of Havana was justifiable. The entire economy leans on tourism and without it Cuba would have even less than it does now. However, I am tired of the segregation between tourists and Cuban citizens. I wanted to be in that poor neighborhood with the everyday citizens wading through the murky rainwater like everyone else. I don’t want to cut in line at restaurants because I’m white or have people assume I don’t want to see the way that people live behind the fixed-up facades of Havana Vieja just because I live in a Hotel. I hate that I can buy Internet and watch satellite TV when my Cuban friends aren’t allowed even if they could afford it.

I arrived at our friend’s house thoughtful. We wiped off our feet and stepped inside his tiny apartment and chatted while he cooked us dinner (pork chops, home-made fries, salad with avocado and cucumber, rice, and guayava juice. Delicious!!!). Our friend is well off for a twenty-something Cuban citizen. After two years and eight months working at a restaurant, he is now head waiter. Like other people who work with tourists, waiters make tips in CUC making them some of the wealthiest in Havana. Because of this he could afford to eat well (and feed us). He works hard for his money and invests it in fixing up his one-bedroom loft (which he bought illegally from a friend for $3,000. Like 85% of Cubans, he owns his own property.).

While we waited for our delicious meal we witnessed a number of illegal interactions. First, Our friend turned off all the lights in the house and went outside with a box. He came back in and explained to us that he owns an illegal air conditioner. Air conditioners are sold only to foreigners, but he bought one on the black market. His electric bill is usually $20 pesos a month but when the air conditioner is running it can reach up to $400 a month. Since he makes only $300 a month salary, he steals his electricity. He pulled the dial that counts the hours of electricity he uses and hid it under the box so it wouldn’t record the time he had the air conditioner on at night. A few minutes later, he made an under-the-table deal with a government worker to buy some cheap electric cable to rewire his apartment.

He explained the trend for illegal business. “A salary alone is not enough to survive on,” he told us. “Ninety-nine percent of Cubans do something on the side. My aunt works for a pharmacy. On the side she sells drugs that she buys for cheap from her company so she can make a profit. She would make $200 pesos a month on her salary. Now she makes $19 CUC a month. ($450 pesos).” Only people who make tips in CUC can afford not to have two jobs. Furthermore, CUC are hard to access for Cuban citizens. Our friend’s aunt exchanges pesos for CUC with him (24:1) so that she can buy the items that are only sold in CUC.

While we ate, we talked about what kind of future our friend expected as a twenty-something trying to make a life in Havana. He said if he could, he would love to live in the US (and has plans to immigrate illegally if he can). Many tourists in his restaurant tell him he has the mindset of a businessman (after talking to him, I quite agree). He is very dedicated to working hard for his money and earning the nicer things he has. His friends, he said, all waste their money on booze and discotecs. When they ask him how he gets all of his nice things in his apartment, he tells them “When you are sleeping, I am working.” Rather than going out expensively, he invests in eating well and living comfortably. If he could live in the United States, he said he would like to have the opportunity to work hard for a good salary and send home money to help his family in Cuba.

We talked about how some people (such as Adria) had positive things to say about the social networking, education and healthcare in Cuba. We asked if he had anything good to say about it. In general he said that life in Cuba was sad. Struggling to make enough money to survive, not being able to have access to things that only foreigners could get, being unable to travel even inside the country (much less outside of it) because of the cost: these things, he said, made Cuba a difficult place to live. In his more youthful rebelliousness he seemed to have fewer sentimental attachments to home and country, and was seeking instead opportunity and profit. “I don’t like to say it, but life here, it is very bad,” he said.

We finished up our dinner and chatted until it was dark outside. We rode the P4 bus home and as Kat and I dozed, our friend Alex talked to a Cuban man who was telling him about reading illegal books critiquing the government. It seems to me that everyone here is doing something under-the-table. Strangely enough, they don’t seem averse to talking to us about it. Everyone appears to be eager to share the unfairness of their living situation and detail the clever ways they get around it. At times when we’re with our friends it feels like we are being let in on a secret: like we’re “in the know.” At other times these secrets feel like little pleas for help.

I Would Walk 5000 Miles

2007-10-09T09:04:00.001-07:00

In Which I Walk Across the Entire City of Havana in One Afternoon

Friday was an eventful day. Even though I was out late with Dr. Joe on Thursday I had to get up early to sign some paperwork at the Immigration Office with my fellow students. The taxi driver barely knew where the office was located and we spent quite a while winding around random residential streets almost running over pedestrians. Luckily people in Cuba are exceedingly helpful when it comes to asking for directions, and we finally made it to our destination. A few signatures and a thumbprint later and the entire day was mine for the taking.

From the immigration office I walked with four other girls down to the Plaza de la Revolución. We shot some photos of our favorite revolutionary heroes (Ché and Martí of course!) and made our way to la Rampa and then to the Malecón. On our winding journey through neighborhoods we found ourselves getting hungry. Luckily just as our tummies were starting to rumble there seemed to be a lot of people around carrying what looked like very delicious pizza. We asked some guys where they got it from and they started to give us directions and then just said, “Never mind, we’ll show you.” They turned around and led us to an unlabeled doorway into an apartment complex. Down the corridor and around the corner we found ourselves in a man’s private kitchen ordering lunch in a place we never would have discovered but for a wonderful stroke of lucky timing. For 10 pesos (less than 50 cents) we got all the pizza we could handle. By far, it was one of my favorite meals here; random hole-in-the-wall places really deliver!

After lunch we wandered the Malecón sweating and sun-burning and taking troves of photos. Our vague mission was to find an all-natural perfume shop in Habana Vieja that Vanessa had read about in her guidebook, but we had a great time dallying around in markets and neighborhoods on our way there. From about 10:30 AM until 4PM we walked all the way from the edge of Vedado to Habana Vieja. We eventually even found the perfumería we were aiming for (ending up where you intended is a rare treat in Cuba). It was full of all sorts of good-smelling things which by then I was entirely too tired to appreciate. But, for me a day of walking the city and taking photos was all I needed.

From Habana Vieja we walked to the Capitolio to catch a botero home. While we were there we ended up buying tickets for the Friday night ballet. (We paid 2 CUC apiece for excellent floor seats!) We headed home to shower and eat a quick meal at a private home near school that sells a full dinner for only 1 CUC. With barely any time to rest our feet we jumped in a cab back to the Capitolio dressed up for a night at the ballet.

The Gran Teatro was beautiful inside. I tried to imagine what it must have looked like many years ago when it was in better repair and full of ladies and gentlemen dressed to the nines. The show itself was wonderfully done, though there was no live orchestra. The dancers were talented and it was a treat to watch. Unfortunately theater etiquette in Cuba (at least for the Friday night showing) was considerably more lax than any performance I have been to before. People chattered away during the show and wandered in late (and loudly) after the intermissions. The couple in front of us took advantage of the dark for a steamy make out session. Despite distractions, however, it was more than worth the two dollars we paid to go.

After the ballet ended we drowsily headed home and collapsed into bed just after midnight. My feet were too sore to take another step in the waking world, but I danced the night away in my dreams.

Life Cycle of Neglect

2007-10-07T13:15:00.000-07:00

In Which There are Dead Dogs and Puppies (from Thursday 10/7/2007)

Walking to lunch today I passed by a dead dog on the sidewalk. It lay on its back with its paws tucked stiffly to its chest in a tragically cartoony caricature of rigor-mortis. This is the second dead dog to plant itself on my standard walking route and like the other it will probably linger there until it stinks and rots and melts away into the soil. Somehow each time I pass them I cannot bring myself to look away. I wonder why nobody takes the time to move them, but I suppose there is no better place to leave a corpse. They just lay there belly-up, their mouths hanging open in a silent declaration of neglect.

This evening I journeyed into the night, alone, to find out more about this dead-dog problem. I couldn’t convince anyone to come with me to the clinic and so I gritted my teeth and wandered off nervously to catch a botero alone and join Dr. Joemal Betancourt for a couple hours of his all-night shift at the emergency clinic in Centro Habana. I was greeted with enthusiasm at the clinic and immediately forgot about being nervous as I sat and watched the doctor work.

The average exam takes no more than a couple of minutes. Dog after dog came in, saw the doctor and went out the door back into the night. After working as a receptionist in a vet clinic I am baffled by a world of veterinary care without phoning for records, searching for x-rays and running labs. The dogs come in and leave a few minutes later with a set of recommendations and perhaps a prescription or two.

I asked Dr. Joe what types of cases he sees the most (having a pretty solid guess of what he would say). He confirmed my observations by answering, “Almost every dog that comes in here is here for diarrhea and vomiting. A lot of it is the heat.” The other top hits are skin issues, car accidents and illnesses carried by ticks or fleas.

In Cuba the Institute of Veterinary Medicine is a part of the Ministry of Agriculture. According to the Pan-American Organization of Health the overall function of veterinary medicine in Cuba is to improve the general health of animals in Cuba with the final objective of improving the health and well being of mankind (OPS, 6:2005). Thus the primary focus of veterinary healthcare is on working animals and animals used for food. In a 155 page document detailing the functions of the IVM, companion animals are barely mentioned and only as a source of transmitting diseases to humans through close contact. In a world where the human population barely has enough to get by, the focus of veterinary medicine is not necessarily on the well being of the animal population but on controlling diseases that may affect the people. Veterinary care for the specific purpose of improving the lives of companion animals is increasing, driven by the select few with an interest and education in the proper care and treatment of animals.

According to Dr. Joe, the Cuban population in general is accustomed to getting most of its education from public school or television. When I asked him if he thought people were well informed about how to care for their pets, he said definitely not. There is no education in school about animal healthcare, and little is released on television either. “The only way people can learn about how to take care of their pets is when they take them to the vet. Even then, it’s mostly only if they ask. The relationship between the vet and the client is much less intimate; more superficial. If someone comes in with one problem and that is the only thing they ask about, most vets won’t take the time to bring up other things they notice. There are too many dogs waiting.”

At the clinic on Thursday a woman brought in a dog that was whelping. One puppy had already been delivered, but the rest were not coming. They had the option of doing a cesarean in the emergency clinic or waiting until the morning to see if the dog would deliver during the night. Waiting would mean the puppies would probably die if not delivered, but might mean that they didn’t have to spend the money. Doing the cesarean in the clinic would put the mother dog at risk of infection because of the unsanitary condition. The woman decided to wait on the operation because the puppies were unwanted anyways. About an hour later another whelping dog came in. This one had already had an litter through cesarean. The owner had not bothered to get her spayed the last time and would now have to pay for another surgery. According to Dr. Joe people are very undereducated about the importance of spaying and neutering pets. A common myth is that a female dog must have one litter before being spayed. Many people are under the misconception that spaying a young dog is detrimental to her health.

One thing I found very bizarre during my visit to the clinic was that people were smoking during the exams. The image of someone holding an injured dog with one hand and a cigarette with the other was a striking contradiction.

On the other hand, the fact that people do bring their dogs in to the vet for care suggests that there is an interest in animal health. There is just not a place for people to learn. However, it is also clear that the value people place on their pets is drastically different here than in the United States. Jesús, our tour guide, laughed at me when I told him I missed my kitten. He said here people know the difference between a pet and a child. While there are people who “spoil” their pets, most people can’t afford to think of their pets on the same level as family. In Cuba, everything becomes an issue of priorities.

Veterinary care in Cuba is growing, however. According to Dr. Joe there are four veterinary schools in Cuba. Between sixty and eighty new vets graduate from the Havana veterinary school every year. True enough that quality of care is more important that quantity of veterinarians, but interest in animal health care is increasing through the hard work of a few dedicated organizations. With the devotion of people like Dr. Joe, in time there will be fewer dead dogs decomposing on the streets of Havana.

“Here, We Survive”

2007-10-02T14:55:00.000-07:00

In Which I Finally See The Inside of a Veterinary Clinic

Today I met with Terry Shewchuk from Canada, founder of a program called the Spanky Project. He took me over to visit a friend of his (Dr. Joemel Betancourt) at an emergency veterinary clinic in Centro Habana. When we arrived there were no patients, so I had the opportunity to look around the facility a little and ask questions. There were very few drugs, and it seemed very much a “you take what you can get” type atmosphere. Sometimes there were anesthetics and antibiotics, and sometimes not. There was a tray of sterile needles and a tray for used needles. If the sterile needles ran out, used needles were reused out of necessity. There were no surgical drapes used on the tables and the doctor said during surgery he did not use gloves. (“I know that one day I am going to pay for this,” he said). Veterinarians in Cuba are not allowed to write prescriptions (they aren’t considered the same as doctors) so if a dog needs a medication they have to write a note that the client brings to the hospital and shows to a technician who writes a prescription for the person to get the medicine (which seems to work well enough.)

Even in a non-sterile and ill-equipped location, Dr. Joe does excellent work. I told him Terry had informed me he could spay a dog in eight minutes and asked if this was true. He laughed, and said the fastest he had ever done a cat was just over three and a half minutes. For dogs, if all goes well he can do it in an average of six. “Sometimes if it’s a fat one, I take eight,” he said. Despite the primitive conditions of thee clinic, his mortality rate is better than statistics taken in Europe. He had recently celebrated his 5,000^th surgery since 2003 and said, “I have the scar to prove it.” Holding out his hand, he showed me a scar on his wrist where he has been operated on for carpal-tunnel syndrome.

Spay surgeries here are done a little differently than in the United States. In the US the incision is usually made on the belly of the dog (ventral). Dr. Joe preferred small incisions on the dog’s side (lateral). While this requires entering through several layers of muscle, he said the incision could be made smaller and thus risk of infection could be decreased. Also, should a dog chew out the stitches there is no risk of evisceration. This allows for safer recovery of the dog, though it doesn’t have the aesthetic benefits of the less visible ventral spay. Dr. Joe does his surgeries with only one assistant to help him, and therefore must keep one eye on the dog and one eye on the surgery at all times (so he can give more anesthesia if needed, etc.). Conditions are not exactly perfect, but all of this hard work means that the births millions of stray dogs have been prevented.

To connect this glimpse of the Cuban veterinary world back to my own experiences in the US, I talked to Dr. Joe a little about the vet rehab clinic I worked at during the summer this year. He said that as an orthopedic surgeon, he recommends rehabilitation for dogs too. In reference to Back on Track’s underwater treadmills, he said he often recommends that people take their dogs to swim for strengthening. In Cuba, however, the focus remains on basic veterinary care until supplies, education, and interest allow for more specific and more costly care.

I will return to the clinic again on Thursday night, and hopefully be expanding my connections to the veterinary world now that I have finally had the opportunity to get out there. More to come…

Casa Rogelio

2007-09-30T11:39:00.000-07:00

In Which I Go To A Drag Show

Last night some students and I went to a place called “Casa Rogelio”. The taxi drive was long and as we wound deeper and deeper into dark residential neighborhoods I was almost worried that we would end up driving to another place that didn’t exist. This was something I was determined not to miss, but disappointment is something one has to get used to in Cuba. Finally we pulled up to a colorful house and Bruce recognized it as the location he had visited last year with Elliot Young and their friend who was writing a book on sexuality in Cuba. We had arrived at “Casa Rogelio” in time for the weekly drag show.

What one must first recognize to understand why I was so excited to have the opportunity to attend this show is the machista nature of Latin American societies. Especially in Cuba where African and Spanish social structures (both of which are strongly masculine) combined, concepts of masculinity and gender roles have been solidified for hundreds of years. Until 1959 in Cuba women were not even allowed to attend the theater or walk the streets alone- they were restricted to the duties of a housewife and had few rights. The formation of the FMC (Federation of Cuban Women) as a crucial part of the Revolution changed the role of Cuban women drastically. Women began to enter the work force and concepts of gender inequality slowly began to change. With the door opening for changes in gender conceptualization, acceptance of alternative sexualities is also growing.

In part because of the controversial film “Fresa y Chocolate” (“Strawberry and Chocolate”) released in 1993, tolerance of homosexuality in Cuba has been getting better. There is still a noticeable difference between “tolerance” and “acceptance”. Violent crime and public rejection has lessened but there is still a lingering lack of understanding present in the general population. But Thursday night as we walked down the Malecón we stumbled across the popular street hangout for gay/lesbian/trans youth and the general atmosphere seemed very open. Likewise, “Casa Rogelio” has been hosting drag shows for sixteen years, and while it would never appear in a phonebook or newspaper it wasn’t exactly “underground” either.

The show itself was a total spectacle. The drag queens were dressed to the nines in glitzy costumes and they sang and danced to popular songs about love and acceptance. I found it impossible not to be moved by these people expressing themselves so boldly in a society where they have everything to lose. To me they all looked beautiful. As they sang friends came up (mostly male couples) and tucked dollars in their dresses and kissed them on the cheeks. Everyone sang along and cheered. (I was happy when they played one song that I knew the words to.) The performers were very involved in the audience- my professor got a shiny red kiss mark on the top of his head and I had my cheek brushed seductively by a dancer. It was so over-the-top that it was a little overwhelming.

Overall, it was an experience that is difficult to describe without cheapening. What I got most out of it was inspiration and a sense of community. One of the songs perfectly encompassed the importance of the night so I will close with that.

Estoy viviendo a diario/ I am living day by day
Lo que cada dia me ofrece/ What each day has to offer me
Tomando los segundos /Taking the seconds
Sin pensarlo tres veces / Without thinking three times
Ya estoy harta de sufrir /I am full of suffering
Y de dar todo de mi /And of giving all of myself
Ahora quiero recibir/ Now I want to receive
Ahora yo voy a vivir /Now I want to live

Guardare lo que he sufrido/ I store what I have suffered
Como buenas experiencias /Like good experiences
Disfrutare el minuto /I enjoy the minute
De alegria o de tristeza /Of happiness or sadness
Pues ese que se nos va /That which I know leaves us
Ya nunca jamas regresa/ And already will never ever return
Estoy viviendo a diario /I am living day by day
Lo que cada dia me ofrezca/ That which every day offers me

Vivir, vivir /Live, Live
Pues no se si mañana /Though I don't know if tomorrow
Pueda seguir /I can go on
Vivir, vivir /Live, Live
Pues no se si mañana/ Though I don't know if tomorrow
Pueda existir /I can exist
Vivir, vivir /Live, Live
Con los brazos abiertos/ With open arms
Vivir, vivir /Live, Live
Vivir sin mañana/ Live without tomorrow
Vivir el momento / Live the moment
La posees tú / That possesses you

Limón, Limonada

2007-09-30T11:36:00.000-07:00

In Which I Feel a Little Better About Being a Girl

I came here well warned that in Cuba I would encounter excessive flirting. Having entertained the idea of a Latin American Studies minor, I’ve done a fair share of reading about machista culture and was prepared to encounter some different ideas of gender equality and “sexual harassment”. As one friend put it “You will literally get hollered at from the rooftops, especially because you’re a freaking Amazon” (thanks Shaun!). But understanding the catcalls and putting up with them are completely different things.

Everywhere any of the LC girls go on the streets there’s a constant “pst-pst” behind us. I’m not the only one who has had my butt unexpectedly slapped. We’re all a continual source of very un-subtle appreciation. In Cienfuegos a guy walked up to me out of no-where and just straight out said, “Hey, tall girl. Wow, you have great body. I like. Do you have a boyfriend?” After having just walked down a street of old men hissing at me like cockroaches, I felt like I might as well have been standing in the public square naked in front of this creepy guy. I told him I had plenty of Cuban boyfriends by now and I didn’t need another one and stormed off.
In the hotel that night I moodily drank a mojito with Jesús and Angelito and asked them why I couldn’t just be a boy in Cuba. I was tired of being harassed everywhere I went. “I just want to talk to people and take pictures and explore without being ogled all the time.” Jesús helped me to change my opinion on things a little bit. “They are just being Cuban,” he said. Cuban people in a general sense are just more direct. Asking a total stranger if they have a boyfriend is not necessarily a come-on; it’s just a common conversation starter (come to think of it, Jesús asked me, and so did our Spanish teacher Gladys). It’s not considered rude to comment on someone’s appearance either positively or negatively. “You’re looking fat today,” is as acceptable as “You have beautiful eyes”. The frustration comes from the fact that most Cubans are severely restricted from traveling and do not “tone down” their interactions with foreign people. Many people just don’t have a concept that foreigners may have different boundaries than Cubans. Furthermore, Angelito reminded me that many of the piropos come from older men who see it as a customary interaction between men and women. They’re just doing what they’ve always done. I still felt frustrated but more tolerant of what I knew was mostly a product of my own cultural upbringing getting in the way of rational thinking.

Later on in Julie Portella’s first lecture at ISA we learned about the concept of the piropo as a manifestation of an oral cultural tradition. The incredible metaphors that get hollered at women on the street are considered a Cuban cultural symbol. Instead of looking at it as objectification, we were told to see it as “celebration”.

I still find it pretty irritating to go out sometimes- it’s not that I feel unsafe so much as severely awkward about some of the interactions I’ve had. But now I look at the piropos as somewhat of an expression of creativity. In the US you don’t really have men crossing themselves when you enter a room or begging mother nature for “a flower to grant to a beautiful princess” (Or, less romantically, asking me where I bought my face). The other day I had someone follow me for three blocks singing James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful” in very poor English. Honestly, it was pretty funny and the ridiculousness of it all made me smile.

Fresa y Chocolate

2007-09-28T13:29:00.000-07:00

In which I consume a lot of ice cream

To be blunt, the food here kind of sucks. We eat some form of rice, beans and pork almost every meal. Spices are expensive and hard to come by, so everything either tastes like nothing, or just like salt. Some restaurants are better than others, and I’ve had a few great meals here. But over all, Cuban food is not entirely memorable. “Bland” would be my friendliest observation.

Ice cream kind of makes up for it. Maybe it’s because it’s hot here, or maybe it’s just one of those things, but Cubans love their ice cream. Yesterday I went to the famous Coppelia, a must-do on the list of Havana hotspots. There is nothing I can think of in the US that would be anything like Coppelia- the experience was simply bizarre. What it is is essentially an ice cream shop the size of a small shopping mall. At one point in time they served 29 flavors of ice cream, but probably because of the “Special Period” crash in the 90s and the US trade embargo they now pretty much serve strawberry or chocolate (sometimes coconut if you’re lucky). So what you end up with is a multi-floor ice-cream parlor that serves two flavors of ice cream. That’s it. The thing is, everyone goes. It’s packed. You wouldn’t think so many people could ever want ice cream at the same time. Sometimes there are lines out the door of people waiting for their ice cream. The only think I can think of that is even remotely similar to the Coppelia phenomenon here is Krispy Kreme donuts. Only this would be a Krispy Kreme the size of Powells bookstore that is always full of customers.

Four of us grabbed a table on the second floor (the patio was full) and ordered our ice cream. 4 pesos cubanos paid for four massive scoops of delicious chocolate ice cream. That comes out to about 15 cents. Five of us ate an obscene quantity of ice cream for less than a dollar.

Afterwards we went to a restaurant called La Roca, where I had a burger that, while it didn’t necessarily taste like a real hamburger, had flavor. For my first day back out on the town, I was pretty pleased. Taking the P-4 gua-gua home I contentedly people-watched and la Habana felt a remarkable amount like home.

Vale la Pena

2007-09-28T13:20:00.000-07:00

In Which I Learn What It Means to Be Worth It

(This is going to be long. Sorry.)

I want to comment more articulately on last Sunday’s post. I touched a little on the sense of a Cuban attitude which I find particularly thought provoking, and I will try the best I can to find words to communicate a little more about what I feel makes Cuba… Cuba. I’ve gotten a lot of emails asking me about the paradoxical nature of things here: the pristine looking architecture of Habana Vieja contrasted with my posts about poverty and need. We had a lecture on Wednesday with a well-known Cuban actress who answered our questions about what it means to live in Cuba (and be an actress)… Inspired by her (and holed up in my room sick while everyone else partied) I’ve been doing a little thinking.

Cuba is so much more than, as our textbook opens, “…the largest and western-most island in the Antillean archipelago… 90 miles south of the Florida Keys, 130 miles east of the Yucatán peninsula and 40 miles west of Haiti” (Pérez, 3: 1994). Why you would even open a book about Cuba with a topic so mundane as its geography is completely beyond me. Never in my wildest imaginings of what it could possibly be like to be here could I have imagined a place so vibrant and alive. I don’t know a lot about Cuba- I’ve only been here for a month. But I already know that if I were going to write a book about Cuba it would have to begin with the people. Cuba isn’t just this island; it’s a completely intangible and incredible social phenomenon. There is a sincerity of spirit and intensity of idealism here that makes this place (and these people) nothing short of inspiring. It’s got a lot less to do with location of a landmass, and a little more to do with location of heart.

To backtrack a little on the sentimentality, there are a lot of things “wrong” with Cuba. When I’m sitting on a park bench with children begging me for school supplies, old women begging me for soap and a former college professor heckling my friend to trade shoes with him, it’s hard not to feel pity. I was musing today that I wish I had brought a hot plate so I could cook some food of my own for once (what we’ve been eating is very bland) and my friend quipped “Yeah, and what would you cook on it?” Good point. Some of the markets here are the size of a normal Safeway but all they have inside are yards of empty shelving and a sparse collection of the same flavorless foods. It’s not exactly full of spices and produce. From a US citizen’s eyes it’s easy to say that Cuba needs a lot of things.

But I came away from listening to Adria’s lecture wondering if in some ways it isn’t the United States that’s missing out on a lot. Adria, as an actress, achieved with her words a summary of Cuba I never could have thought of.

We asked her, of course, what anyone would ask someone in Cuba; the unavoidable question in a place with a living history: “What do you think of the Revolution? Do you support it despite the downfalls?” Her response was intense.

“Fidel is a man who has done a lot. He is a man whom even his enemies admire because he is brilliant ma., And not only is he a brilliant man, he is a man who has mounted Cuba as a part of history. He is a brave man. He took on, as you know, the United States. I believe he is a person who has illuminated the sense of independence that you have to have to make a country, and a sentiment of respect towards that independence. And for this I admire him extraordinarily. I think that these values are so important.”

In the US we do a lot of demonizing of Fidel. We expect everyone in Cuba to be suffering under his dictatorial rule, dying to build rafts to escape to Miami. Obviously Cuba is suffering from some severe social and economic problems. I wouldn’t say everyone blindly loves Fidel. That’s certainly not the case. But people are considerably more thoughtful about what Fidel has done for Cuba than I expected. Adria is well traveled (which, for a Cuban, is rare) and I didn’t expect her first response to our question about the Revolution to be so positive. Coming from a place where reactionary politics are the norm, the care with which people discuss politics here is refreshing.

Of course, Adria had more to say about Fidel.

“But I think that over time… well, I think that when a person is in power for such a long time it’s not a good thing. You lose objectivity. What happens to a man when the whole world is looking at him and thinks he’s a genius? The human race is weak this way. In my personal opinion I think he has just spent too much time in power. And what I think now is that Raul has found himself with a country that has a lot of economic problems, a lot of structural problems.”

Cuba’s economic problems are overwhelming. The country works on two currencies, which in and of itself causes economic chaos. And, as Adria discussed at length, salaries are extremely unbalanced in Cuba. As an actress, she makes a bigger salary than most people. Her husband, a musician, also makes good money. But even they struggle to get by on their wages. In Cuba tour guides, taxi drivers and waiters make more money than anyone else because tourists tip them in CUC. When the average person makes a salary of 15 CUC a month, this makes a huge difference. Professionals quit their jobs to work in the tourism industry in order to make a better living. Doctors have been banned from applying for jobs in tourism because it became such a problem. A lot of the beggars I have talked to on the street used to be professors.

"Vale la pena.” This is a phrase I’ve been hearing more and more when I ask people to tell me about what it is like to live here. It means, “It’s worth the trouble.” When the tour guide Jesús and I talked our first night in Cienfuegos, I asked him the same question we asked Adria. He told me about how his daughter contracted meningitis when she was four months old. “She almost died,” he said. “In the US my family wouldn’t have been able to afford the medical care. Cuba has a lot of things I don’t like but, vale la pena.” (His daughter is deaf, but now 12 years old and absolutely beautiful). Adria told a similarly moving story about what being “worth it” meant to her.

“I want to tell you a personal story. I am a cancer survivor. I was diagnosed in 1992; I had an operation, they did chemotherapy and gave me a medicine called tamoxicin. 1992 was in the Special Period, during which we had nothing. I don’t know why they call it the “Special Period”. “Special” usually means wonderful. But no, it was horrible. Horrible. You guys don’t know the meaning of “nothing”. Sometimes we ate just white rice with oil. And my husband, who is North American, never called his mother to tell her “Mom, we have no money, we don’t have shoes.” Never. He said, “I chose to live here and my problems are my own.” So in ’92 the food ration was minimal.

When they operated on me, all of my coworkers gave me their rationed fish, their rationed chicken- protein so that I could get better. This is worth it. This is worth so much more than money. And I got all of my medical care for free. When I was in the US I had a friend who had terrible cancer and the chemotherapy cost her so much she couldn’t pay for it. The tamoxicin was costing her $499 a month. I took it for ten years for free. I have never had to pay a cent. And now they have me on a drug that costs $800 a month and I couldn’t live without it. So of course there are things that are worth it. There are good things that are worth fighting for.
Nobody has to say “I’m going to die because I can’t pay.” How awful for someone to say “I won’t get treatment because I can’t pay.”And that the US, such a powerful country, doesn’t have a medical system that can take care of the health of its people, well that’s terrible, no?”

What Adria said next is a perfect description of what makes Cuba so unique. It’s what makes this little island off the Gulf of Mexico so important in the world. It’s what, to me, makes the concept of Revolution so powerful. It’s so tempting to feel pity for a country that materially has so little, but there is a richness of spirit that I have never been able to put words to. Adria did so beautifully.

“I know that Cuba has a lot of problems. Tons. I never, ever said that Cuba is perfect. I’m not religious. I don’t believe in perfection. I believe that all human beings have to fight to make life better. This I believe in. And I believe that people are good. And you can’t convince me of the opposite.

I believe that Cuba has achieved a crucial social interaction. We help each other out- everyone. We share, we lend each other clothes. I don’t have much. But if someone needs something I’ll give them everything I have. We have learned in the way to be more human I believe. We know that we have to help everyone and not just ourselves. I think that his has helped Cuba a lot. This is the truth. We have learned that people are different for different reasons, not for racial reasons or religious or sexual. We are more than just that. And these are values that I hope we don’t lose to materialism, this is the spiritual material that we have to fight to maintain. These are so much more important than material values. And I understand material values. I love things, I love them. And I think it’s pretty important to have something to eat, too. But you have to fight more for those spiritual things- the things you believe in.”

The pause before the next question was asked echoed with her words. I thought about the materialism that is so ingrained in our society. I thought about my laptop and the iPod with which I was recording her interview and all of the things that I can so easily buy without thinking. I thought about the fact that I brought with me enough money to pay the average Cuban salary for 10 years. Listening to Adria describe what it meant to her to be “worth it” to go without all of those things, I have never felt poorer in my life.

[All quotes are interpretations of a transcribed interview with Adria translated from Spanish.]

Breif Update

2007-09-24T15:23:00.000-07:00

In which I update the general public on my health:

Just so people don't worry too much (not that anyone is worrying about me...):

I went to the clinic again today after a nasty relapse of illness that kept me up all night last night. A new round of anti-biotics, pro-biotics, anti-nausia drugs etc. seems to be helping me somewhat, though I'm taking recovery in small steps. (All prescriptions, medical exams, labwork, injections etc. were free! Yay Cuba.) I've kept down a total of eight saltine crackers today (a major improvement) and am planning on making an appearance at dinner for the first time since Wednesday afternoon. I'm many poundss thinner (a scary thought, I know) but finally feeling ready to be social again.

So this week I plan to reenter the world of Cuba and make some new discoveries that don't involve the inside of my hotel room. But I am alive, and plan to be so for thee remainder of this trip.

I miss everyone and hope everything is going well Stateside. Much love to all!

Some Unformed Musings

2007-09-22T17:29:00.001-07:00

In which I comment a little on the embargo, but rather inarticulately.

People in Cuba are some of the most wonderful people anywhere in the world. They are open, friendly and so eager to share what little they have with total strangers. True, the jineteros try to take advantage of easily conned gringos, but for the most part friendship here equates family. So many people told me to “be careful” when I left for Cuba, but their warnings were misguided. Cuban-American relations are tense, but only on a political plane. When people discover we are from the United States, all they want to do is talk and talk.

In truth, Cubans have every reason to hate Americans. The relative squalor in which so many people are forced to live, the scarcity of resources, the lack of money to complete government projects: these things are all partially attributable to the US embargo against trade with Cuba. The veterinarian with whom I work asked me to bring AA batteries “if I had any that I could get easily” because her store had run out. I didn’t understand what that meant until I went to the mercado down the street from our hotel and saw the empty shelves for myself. I will never enter a Safeway (or, God forbid, CostCo) again without being overwhelmed by the enormous variety and availability of so many things. How can we be less than 100 miles from a country with nothing and not trade with them?

One day Jesús, our tour guide, broke into an impassioned speech about how Cubans view Americans. “I am being totally honest with you. We don’t hate Americans,” he said. “It’s just so hard not to be able to trade with this economic superpower that’s right next door. If we want rice or chicken we have to trade with Europe. That gets so expensive and it’s frustrating. It doesn’t make sense that we can’t just get our food from Florida. But it’s not that we don’t like anything American. We love American movies. Good, bad, all of them. Even Fidel has seen Titanic. And we like Coca Cola, and even McDonalds. Yes, I’ve had it once or twice. It’s OK. Just once in a while, it’s not going to kill you.” People here in Cuba know the difference between politics and people. I have been told more than a few times by frustrated Cubans that President Bush is a “complicated man.” I just tell them they’re being polite and if I had my choice of words I would have said cabrón. (I’ll let you look that one up).

I didn't have a lot of time to edit this or add to it. I'm positive I will come back to the subject again soon. But having been sick, I wanted to post before it slipped by me. There will be so many more things to post about once I get better.

Something in the Water

2007-09-22T17:21:00.000-07:00

In which I throw up a lot, buy some drugs, and get a shot in my rear.

As I mentioned a few days ago, I have been feeling sick. At first it seemed like a little upset stomach and then all of a sudden I was power sleeping for about 30 hours between Thursday and Friday. In bed yesterday I watched Alien with Sigourney Weaver (in Spanish… so bad!) and I started worrying that the intense pain in my abdomen was going to result in some freakish alien birth. Fortunately all it came to was lots of vomiting.

Today, after not having been able to eat for 48 hours, Bruce took me to the small emergency room nearby. The taxi ride was absolutely nauseating- Cuban driver’s aren’t the best and I already felt terrible. Once I got to the clinic the first sight I saw was an old woman who looked like she had taken a nasty fall. Her head was heavily bandaged and her entire front was covered in blood. She seemed in good spirits, however, and was on her way out of the clinic as I filled out my paperwork. I wondered if she would have gotten such good care in the US- thankfully everyone here gets the same privileges in the medical world.

I was seen relatively quickly after that as I was the only one in the waiting room at the time I entered the clinic. I hopped onto the table and tried very hard to concentrate enough to understand medical jargon in Spanish as my head spun. All I could really think about was laying down. The nurse asked me if I had had any water or drinks with ice, if I ate raw vegetables, what kind of symptoms I had, etc. It was a fairly standard exam. She did comment as I lay down on the exam table that I was “Muy grande” (very big), because my feet hung off the table by a good two feet. Cubans like to tell me I’m tall even more than Americans do (and that’s saying something. I don’t go a day without a comment). She prescribed me some anti-viral and anti-microbial drugs, an anti-nausea tincture and sent me off to get an injection so I would start feeling well enough to eat sooner.

I followed the male nurse and sat on the table with my arm ready to get my shot and he gestured for me to lay down while patting his hip. Great. A shot in the butt sounds great right now. I was a good sport and just went along with it, but right as he was giving me the shot the electricity in the room went out. God, I love Cuba sometimes. It was over with soon enough and I found my way out of the room in the dark.

As Bruce got my meds for me I chatted with the nurse for a while in Spanish. He seemed to speak English fairly well so I asked him if it was required for all medical professionals. In this particular clinic it was because they saw primarily international patients and it was the most common second language. “If someone from China comes in here, for example, they probably speak English,” he said. He also spoke French, which he was finding easy to learn because of it’s similarity to Spanish.

After Bruce got my medication we waited outside for our taxi. All of a sudden across the street a woman was screaming. I and several others jumped up to see what was going on, and we saw that there was a man whose pants had caught fire standing on his porch. Several people rushed to help put him out and he was taken to the clinic in a wheelchair. Our taxi came so I didn’t get to hear what happened, but I was betting they were thankful to live across from an emergency clinic.

All in all despite vomiting and other unpleasantries being sick here turned out to at least be an interesting adventure. I’ve taken a plethora of nasty tasting medications and now I will try to go to sleep. Hopefully I will be back in the game soon- watching everyone else go out our first weekend back in Havana has been a bit depressing. But for now, my energy must be spent trying to get better and keep food down.

Home Sweet Home

2007-09-20T17:34:00.001-07:00

In Which Real Life Starts Back Up Again

In nine days outside of Havana we saw a lot of things. We went from a crocodile farm to Playa Girón (the Bay of Pigs) to the city of Cienfuegos. We went from artsy Trinidad to quiet Camagüey and then onwards to Santiago. In Santiago we saw the Moncada Barracks and the José Martí memorial and traveled onwards to Santa Clara, the city that celebrates Ché. One final bus ride took us back to Havana. A hotel room has never felt more like home (and I’ve been in a lot of them lately).

School started on Monday, and finally, finally, finally I don’t feel like such a tourist. When people at the supermarcado ask me where I’m from I point down the street and say “Here. I go to el ISA (Instituto Superior de Arte).” I can jump into a botero with other Cubans, confidently call out my destination and pay in pesos like everyone else (instead of getting overcharged in CUC). For the next few months Havana is open for me to explore, this time from outside the confines of a tour bus.

Classes at ISA are going to be absolutely amazing. Bruce’s course “The Making of Modern Cuba” is mainly guest-speaker based on a wide range of current cultural, social and political affairs in Cuba. Today, for example, we had a lecture on the religion Santería. Julie Portela teaches Cuban Art and Culture (all in Spanish), and though she’s sometimes difficult to understand I really enjoyed her lecture on the piropo (flirting) Tuesday. [Definitely more on this later!] Spanish promises to be a little dull (I feel I was placed a little lower than I should have been, so I space out) but the professor is nice and I am learning new “Cuban” ways to say things. We also have salsa classes, which I am thoroughly enjoying. Since I already know the basics, I am taking the opportunity to follow along with the class playing the part of a guy (we’re short on men anyways). Learning to lead will make it easier for me to teach people to salsa in the future, and is a very useful skill to have.

Unfortunately I have managed to get myself sick. I passed off my nausea yesterday as a disagreement with lunch (which happens often), but last night I felt so sick that I barely slept. Today I almost fainted in a Santería museum and so now I think I will try to take it easy. I probably picked something up from the water or some food. And, as is my luck always, our ceiling just started leaking and now instead of peace and quiet I’m getting construction noise.

But… no matter. I’m in Havana and I have a lot of fun things planned for the next week.

Feeling slightly miserable here is better than feeling slightly miserable anywhere else, I suppose.

Traveling the Forbidden Island: Part Four

2007-09-20T17:09:00.000-07:00

IV: Walking in a Hero’s Footsteps: In Which I Feel a Bit Like Ché

I never understood the obsession with Ché. To me he always seemed as far away as any battle hero. He was an idealist, a doctor, and a commander preserved for eternity as words in textbooks and a face printed on millions of T-shirts. I couldn’t understand why everyone was so hypnotized by the Revolution, and by him. I guess I’ve always been skeptical of those the masses choose to blindly follow. At the end of our journey, however, I found my opinion of him quite changed.

I have seen the movie Motorcycle Diaries too many times to count (and read the original book in two languages as well). As we watched it on the bus on the final leg of our journey to Santa Clara (the city of Ché) I didn’t think I could possibly get any more out of it than I had in the previous half dozen viewings. I appreciated the idealistic romanticism of the youthful revolutionary but I was tired, and it was nothing new. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep instead. But later that day as I stood in silence before the grave of Ernesto “Ché” Guevara, I couldn’t get the film out of my head.

In the museum I saw all these candid photographs of the famous revolutionary playing baseball, taking catnaps, and joking around. I was haunted by how young he seemed. Ché certainly was an inspiring historical figure for the textbooks, but as with anyone who has created an idea so enormous, it became easy to forget Ché was a man. In the memorial cavern I thought of the “Ché” whose face is plastered everywhere here “hasta victoria siempre”(until victory, always), and thought of the young man “Ernesto” who set out on a journey without knowing it would take him so far and I felt tremendous respect. I can’t imagine my ideals ever reaching so far.

Ending the trip with a visit to Ché’s memorial also instilled me with a sense of sympathy for him. Just as Ernesto Guevara de la Serna had been transformed by his nine-month journey across the Americas, I too felt changed at the end of our nine-day tour.

Excerpt from The Motorcycle Diaries by Ché Guevara:
“In nine months a man can think a lot of thoughts, from the height of philosophical conjecture to the most abject longing for a bowl of soup - in perfect harmony with the state of his stomach…

“Any book on photographic technique can show you the image of a nocturnal landscape with the full moon shining and the accompanying text revealing the secret of sunlit darkness. But the reader doesn't know what kind of sensitive fluid covers my retina...”

I couldn’t help but think about how traveling in Cuba made me feel just a little like the young (over analytical) Ché. Here I was in Cuba seeking travel and excitement and a new kind of adventure on every stretch of road (just like his cross-continent journey with Alberto Granada), but coming through with a slightly heavier burden of thought saddled next to the superficial musings about food, lodgings and entertainment. Everywhere I looked, even in millisecond-glimpses out the tour bus window, I found something to reflect on. I never feel articulate enough when I try to describe even a moment in Cuba. My mind is so weighed down with observations and I wish constantly that my eyes could take photographs so I could pass on these images just as they are. Like Guevara’s ambitious cross-country motorcycle ride, our tour for me became much less a vacation and more of a vaguely unsettling time for thoughts inspired by the conversations and observations I made along the way.

I came through the trip in a pensive mood, inspired by Ché’s legacy. I don’t believe there was ever a time in my life I would have described myself as “politically incensed.” I have managed to maintain my own liberal set of politics without having much desire to impart them on anyone. But just as Ernesto Guevara could not remain unaffected after his journey across America, I find myself thinking more and more about things like injustice and inequality and change. It’s hard to watch Cuba struggling to survive with such limited resources and know that a lot of the suffering is a direct result of complicated (and basically nonsensical) politics between my country and theirs. I will never leave as big of a footprint on this world as Ché, but I feel as though I am being presented with an opportunity to let myself be affected in order to make a difference.

Traveling the Forbidden Island: Part Three

2007-09-16T09:08:00.000-07:00

III: The Colors of Cuba: In Which I Reflect on the Landscape and Speak to an Artist

We spent a lot of the last nine days watching rural Cuba flash by through the tour bus window. There would be miles of green and brown peppered with royal palms followed by the faded colors of a small town and its bustling inhabitants. It’s hard to put to words the intense paradoxes of normal Cuban life and the strange beauty of the images trapped in my mind.

Once as we were driving I saw a white horse galloping across a field, keeping pace with our bus. Its mane and bridle flowed out behind it and its head was held high as it raced the wind. This, I thought, is Cuba. Cuba is a rebellious spirit, an untamed soul, a vibrant being. Cuba is stubborn and brave. Cuba is going somewhere. As we reached the end of the pasture I saw on the other side of the fence a skeletal brown mare standing over her dead companion. Sadly, I thought this too is Cuba. Cuba is starvation and stagnancy. Cuba is the potential to run cut short by sadness. Cuba is fenced in. Cuba is wasting away.

In Trinidad I met an artist named Fernandez. While everyone else was dancing on the steps of the Casa de Música my roommate and I snuck away to view the private galleries glowing like beacons on the darkened streets. Fernandez spoke to us for a long time about what it means to be an artist in Cuba. Unlike in the United States, he was not scraping to make a living. Like everyone else, he was paid by the government. Day in and day out he painted, waiting for people to buy. Mostly he painted four tourists. “Cubans can’t afford to buy art,” he said. “The Cuban lifestyle is very essential. We have only what we need. If we were to buy a painting, it would mean that we would have to go without.”

He showed us his signature stylized paintings and the abstract works he used to clear his mind when the images became too much. He shared with us his desire for inspiration. He wanted to paint like Botero, who painted political images of Colombia, but he was waiting for something truly Cuban to inspire him. He took his camera with him into the city to photograph people and bring them home to paint. When I commented on the beautiful colors of his work, he said, “Cuban people are all colors. They are black, white, brown, yellow. Blue.” Looking around at his work, I wished that I had the ability to express the enormity of color here as well as he had.

2007-09-15T14:04:00.001-07:00

Also, for those who are asking, pictures are coming! I PROMISE! They take FOREVER to upload so forgive me for stalling. I bought 24 hours of internet today and they are slowly making their way onto the internet. Check the sidebar soon for the first album (Havana 2007) on my Picasa account soon.

Cheers!

Traveling the Forbidden Island: Part Two

2007-09-15T13:42:00.000-07:00

II: The Young Man and the Sea: In Which We Rejoice in Socialist Medicine

We stopped along the way at a trove of touristy locations: a crocodile farm, a re-enactment of an Indian village, and a variety of museums. We spent nights relaxing in all-inclusive resort Hotels. School at Lewis and Clark was starting and there we were watching the sun set on the Caribbean Sea clutching Cuba Libres. It seemed a little too good to be true. Three nights into the trip in the city of Trinidad reality caught up to us. In fact, it took a bite and ran.

After a day spent browsing museums and street markets in the artsy town of Trinidad we returned to Hotel to relax in the sun. I brought a book to the lobby to catch some well-needed alone time; several other students headed to the beach. It was a fairly standard afternoon until I was startled from my reading by a lifeguard and the beachgoers racing past, one of them trailing blood from his hand with a look of shock on his face.

As it turned out one of the boys on our trip was swimming about chest-deep in the ocean with some friends when he suddenly ran out of the water screaming. The bizarre rumors were confirmed to be true: a barracuda had bitten off the top joint of his right ring finger. They disinfected the wound at the Hotel infirmary and rushed him to the nearest clinic where he was given stitches to repair a gash in his hand. The skin of his finger had to be stretched over the exposed bone. Luckily there seemed to be no tendon damage. He was returned to Havana for more medical care (later, a skin-graft surgery). A friend joined him as did our professor and we moved on with our trip severely shaken up and three travelers short.

The boy’s parents flew to Cuba (after frantically trying to get permission to enter the country) to be with him. They had an interesting predicament that we discussed at dinner today: medicine is free in Cuba. They didn’t have to pay a dime for the surgery. Of course in the states even after insurance they would have willingly spent whatever it took (thousands) to help their son. Here they had only to tip the hospital staff. Bruce had already tipped them $20 CUC (Cuban Convertible Pesos- roughly 25 USD). They wanted to tip more but here’s the catch: in a society where people make a monthly salary of about $350 Cuban Pesos ($15 CUC), tipping exorbitantly doesn’t work. You simply can’t come barreling in from your capitalist country and tip your son’s nurse 10 times her monthly salary. Overall it would be misdirected charity. They had to settle on tipping another $20 CUC and are trying instead to thank the hospital by sending medical supplies through Miami.

In a socialist country, things involving money work quite differently. (more on this later)

[DISCLAIMER FOR WORRIED PARENTS AND SUCH: This is a rare occurrence. It's happened less than 30 times in 100 years. I'm pretty sure its not going to happen again. Besides everyone is fine. Don't worry so much!]

Traveling the Forbidden Island

2007-09-15T13:34:00.000-07:00

Our route: Havana to Cienfuegos to Trinidad to Camagüey to Santiago de Cuba to Santa Clara to Havana

Nine days ago 27 sleepy students, one professor, one driver and a tour guide set out for Santiago de Cuba, the second largest city in Cuba located in the far southeast corner of the island. Today 25 students and two heroes returned, bedraggled, to la Habana. It’s been an adventure and an eye opener journeying down the National Highway, and we’ve all come back with stories. (I will post in several separate installments)

I. The Holy Trinity: In Which We Embark on a Journey

On September 4^th we piled unceremoniously onto our tour bus, hoping to have the chance to make up for the sleep we missed out on the night before. As we pulled away from the Palco, our guide introduced the tour in accented English. “Hello everybody, welcome to Cuba. I am going to be your guide on this nine-day trip to Santiago de Cuba. My name is Jesús. Like the baby Jesus. Your driver here is Angelito. In English, that means “Little Angel”. So you might say you have the most blessed touring team in all of Cuba. So, let’s have an amazing trip!” After this, the trip leader Bruce, guide Jesús and driver Angelito came to be referred to as the father, the son and the Holy Spirit. Bruce watched over us, Jesús educated us (and performed miracles) and Angelito guided us wherever we needed to go. This was all in jest, of course, but by the end we knew we were blessed to have them all.

Post the Second

2007-09-05T11:20:00.001-07:00

II. In which I accidentally agree to be someone’s girlfriend, get bitten by a parrot, dance a lot, and get my ass slapped by some random guy.

We went to the American Interest Section the evening of our first day here to go to an anti-imperialist celebration. From what I deciphered through conversations with Cubans, the government throws these huge patriotic parties every so often to keep morale up. This one was to ease the students into the start of the school season. It was basically a huge talent show where students performed traditional Cuban songs and dances. Interestingly enough, one of the shows was an acrobatics act performed to the Spanish version of “A Whole New World”. I found Walt Disney to be a strange presence at an anti-imperialist function. Every so often I have an “Oh my God I’m In Cuba” moment, and that was one of them; right then I thought “I really am in a whole new world…”

After the talent show a popular band played and we danced with the Cuban boys who descended on us like hungry wolves. I’m not going to lie, we weren’t exactly opposed to it- Cuban men are gorgeous. Everywhere you look you see tall, toned boys with handsome faces and beautiful skin. Better yet, they all know how to dance. I ended up hanging out with a Cuban boy named Edgar. We danced (and I sweated a lot, which made him laugh) while he told me all about the band- where each member was from and who played which instruments. As the night progressed Edgar got closer and closer to me (insisting that I dance en estilo romantico to a slow song with him). Unlike in America, Cuban boys tend to keep their hands well out of dangerous territory while dancing so I wasn’t terribly offended by his advances. However, and quite unfortunately, due to the loud music and language barrier he seemed to have interpreted that I wanted to be his novia temporaria (temporary girlfriend) during our stay. I’ve been pretty consistently telling all the boys “Sí, tengo novio (yes I have a boyfriend)” just to get them to leave me alone. He must have only heard “Sí” and “novio” and imagined the rest. While I was flattered that he told me a million times in English and Spanish that I was beautiful, I wasn’t exactly looking for a complicated bilingual fling on my first day in Havana. It took quite a bit of backtracking to explain that we were just friends. Saying “No” or “I’m not available” doesn’t mean much in Cuba. Cuban boys were “falling in love” with the girls from America (or our pocketbooks) left and right which made it very difficult to break away and find a botero (taxi) to the Hotel.

The next day we went on a trip to Habana Vieja (Old Havana), one of the two social hubs in the city of Habana. This district is close to the Malecón and generally viewed as a tourist location. Here the colonial buildings have been renovated and are brilliantly colored and very beautiful. I almost immediately got separated from our tour group and spent a good hour wandering around the streets of Habana alone. A year or two ago I probably would have panicked, but I ended up really enjoying the opportunity to take photos and talk with Cubans without having to follow anyone. Despite the constant pst-pst of men hissing to get my attention, I didn’t felt too threatened even when alone. Eventually I came across some other students from my group and we had ice cream in a neat little café and then piled into the tour bus and headed home.

When we got home from the trip I made a new friend at the Hotel. Right next to the huge koi pond in the center of our hotel was a Macaw sitting on a tree. I ventured down to him to snap some photos (as the bird squawked “¡Hola!”). The bellhop came down to tell me all about him. He pressured me into trying to get the bird to perch on my arm (“Dice ‘¡Sube, Paco!’” or “Say ‘Up, Paco!’”), insisting that Paco was a friendly bird. Paco didn’t seem impressed and indignantly pecked both the bellhop and myself leaving some pretty little beak marks on our hands. But, having worked with birds before as a pet shop employee I wasn’t perturbed and managed to gain Paco’s trust enough to scratch his feathers a little. The bellhop walked me back to the lobby and rambled enthusiastically about the birds he owned at home, promising to bring me some pretty feathers.

Later that evening we broke rule No. 4 which is “Don’t look like a stupid American”. It was someone’s birthday so we drank many Cuba Libres and caught boteros to a nightclub in Habana. Our group took up most of the club and danced drunkenly to reggaetón all night. A few people even got up and sang rather terrible karaoke to the Beetles. At one point there was a standup comedian performing (whom the Cubans seemed to find hilarious) but humor is one of the hardest things to interpret in a foreign language and none of us got the jokes.

After a few unsatisfactory hours of sleep I awoke again to my alarm. We were to separate into small groups and find our own way around Habana Vieja to meet for an art show in the evening. This was my first experience with Cuban public transportation. For about 5 cents you can play the fun game called “riding the gua-gua” (so named for the sound of the horn) with the rest of the Cuban public. The first part of the game was finding the end of the complicated line formed at the bus stop. Next was the task of fitting the whole line into the bus. We piled in tightly against a wall of sweating bodies, egged on by the driver’s shouts of “¡Sigue caminando!” (“Keep walking!”) and the passenger’s shouts of “¡Permiso!” (“Excuse me!”). Behind me a man and woman joked in Spanish, “Los gordos no deben viajar por gua-gua”(Essentially “Fat people shouldn’t ride the gua-gua”). But small or large, everyone packed into the aisles of the bus and for about an hour we stood and sweated together. Piling out of the bus on the streets of Habana Vieja the outside air felt cool and refreshing.

After the ride on the gua-gua I wandered around Habana with a few other girls. We managed to get ourselves severely lost but enjoyed meandering though the residential areas where children dressed in their uniforms were just returning home from school. We met a woman going shopping with her friend who was overjoyed to meet a group of Americans. She had letters she wanted to send to her family in Miami and Boston (the post system here is terrible). I took down her address and will look for her again when I return from our week-long trip to Santiago.

Many others approached us to ask “¿De Canada?” At our response of “Estados Unidos” they immediately wanted to stay and talk. One man wanted very badly to take a picture with me (and then charge me for it). When I ignored his insistent pst-pst and walked on he whistled and slapped me forcefully on the butt. I was so shocked and offended that I just kept right on walking. I haven’t encountered much rudeness here (merely distant hissing and catcalling) and I’m still not sure how I should have responded. In retrospect it was fairly harmless and makes for a funny anecdote. I’ve encountered at least as bad in American clubs. Besides, the pick up lines I’ve had used on me here are fantastic. My favorite so far was “Where did you buy your beautiful face?” I’m starting a list of outrageous things people ask me.

After some complicated map-reading mishaps we arrived at the art show in El Centro de Diseño. The art was very darkly political with cryptically misspelled messages such as “No ipomtra que peiness, no lo dgais” (‘No importa que pienses, no lo digas’ or ‘It doesn’t matter what you think, so don’t say it’). Strangely the information about the artist said nothing about politics, probably because direct criticism of the Cuban government is illegal. I would be intrigued to learn more about how Cuban artists go about expressing political opinions without getting in trouble.

After the art show we returned to the Hotel for dinner and celebrated the 39^th birthday of our trip leader by drinking rum and sharing wild and embarrassing stories. The entire group crammed into one hotel room and we talked and played music until three in the morning. Bruce told some amazing stories about several near-arrests and about getting married after 10 days on an exchange trip in Peru. Now that we’re story swapping it finally feels like the cliques are loosening. Falling asleep last night all warm from the rum and very tired from the long day I felt much less alone.

Post the First

2007-09-02T17:49:00.000-07:00

I. In which I lose my international-travelginity, get forced to drink a mysterious shot of hard alcohol in Cancun and finally land in Havana, Cuba.

On August the 31^st I woke up at the ungodly hour of three AM to shower, finish packing and get to the airport by 5:30. I use the term “woke up” roughly because I lay down at a quarter to one to try to sleep and was only barely drifting off an hour and a half or so later when I decided falling asleep was pointless. The PDX airport was a numb bustle of weighing bags and getting tickets. I sat in the middle seat all the way to Atlanta and discovered the physical impossibility of finding a comfortable way to sleep without leg room or space to lean back. Airplanes always make me regret letting myself grow so tall…

Atlanta to Cancun was a short flight (2 hours 10 minutes) and I got the entire row to myself. I watched the USA coastline disappear behind us and then sprawled across the seats to try to sleep. I still couldn’t manage to get comfortable and instead drowsily watched the unique cloud formations casting shadows over the tilted horizon until a new landmass appeared over the wing of the plane and suddenly we were landing in Mexico. I thought somehow that there would be a chorus of angels greeting me on the other side of the airplane door, or at least some small tribute to the fact that I had stepped across an invisible border into a new stage of my life. Cancun had a lot of noises but none of them were quite that romantic. Instead we immediately got heckled and hissed at by tour guides. Like losing other forms of virginity, I suppose, there’s a hell of a lot of buildup around traveling and the event itself ends up being something rather casual and not nearly as life changing. Eventually, in fact, it becomes another habit taken for granted; still fun but not always intimate.

Cancun itself was a disappointment to me. We passed hundreds of neon signs inviting us to the most exciting discotecas and the cheapest bars. We passed Starbucks and Hooters and McDonalds, all classic symbols of American capitalism I will be happy to leave far behind me. We passed Señor Frog’s and I felt slightly nauseous thinking about high school girls consuming massive amounts of free beer on spring break. Cancun didn’t feel like another country to me. It felt like being in Vegas where the change of currency and the sporadic use of Spanish were all part of the fun Mexican theme. We ate dinner at “Margaritas y Marijuana”, a dingy and sticky-hot restaurant open all night (where there were many margaritas and no marijuana at all). Someone bought a round of mysterious fizzy pink shots for the group and somehow the waiters pressured me into speed-drinking two of them in a row. My headache from the airplanes and lack of sleep got worse, and I felt a little cranky. We headed back to the hotel and climbed into the swimming pool hoping that the cool water would make the heavy humid heat feel a little less oppressive. We were those noisy stupid Americans drinking coronas in the pool even though it was technically closed for the night. I felt isolated from the group (which seems already fairly clique-y) with my lack of interest for boozing. I went to bed early. The next day we all got severely sunburned laying on the beach drinking Margaritas. I can’t say swimming in the warm ocean was anything but wonderful. As much as I hated Cancun on principal, it was fun for two days. Hell, we all needed to relax.

That night the real trip was put into motion. At 8:40 we lifted off from Cancun and left it behind us, a twinkling galaxy of temptations against a black backdrop. I have never before noticed stars from an airplane but last night I saw the big dipper floating along beside us, pouring us out of the sky and into a smaller puddle of stars that was the José Martí International Airport in Havana. I almost cried when the wheels touched down. The superficial “vacation” feelings from Cancun fell away and suddenly the reality of staying here for four months hit me. Standing outside of the airport waiting for our ride I breathed deep. For me, scent is the first way I assess something new so I closed my eyes and inhaled. Havana smells like rain, and the gentle heat and humidity agrees with me far more than the thick liquid air in Mexico. It smells earthy and slightly sweet here. Cancun smelled like beer and money.

It was too dark on the ride home to see anything of the city, but from our bus I saw a group of teenagers sitting on a long skateboard giggling as they wobbled down the slanted sidewalk. I wondered when I would make my first Cuban friends and what kinds of adventures we might be having around midnight on a future Saturday night. And then, all of a sudden we were stopping at the Hotel Palco: our new home.

I immediately felt like I needed a 1950’s halter dress and some clicky high-heeled shoes. This place is far fancier than anywhere I have even been in my life (besides a museum), and far fancier than anywhere I would probably choose to go if I had the choice. I would have preferred the Kohly, which is in the center of downtown and a little less posh. But the Palco is a very short walk to school (you can see el ISA from the front door) so the lap of luxury is where we’ll stay. The center of the hotel is a waterfall and koi pond surrounded by a garden, and there is a pool, sauna and a number of other amenities I have yet to discover. Honestly, I am slightly embarrassed to bring any Cuban friends here so the fact that they are not allowed inside seems less important now. I would far rather go with them and see Havana up close and personal, not from this marble pedestal. Having this much wealth makes me nervous.

Today we awoke early, had a lovely breakfast of fruit and bread in the diner next to the pool gardens and finally ventured out to see the city in daylight for the first time. Even in the daylight the temperature was pleasantly warm after yesterday’s rain. We piled into a tour bus and started our first adventure into Havana.

Seeing Havana for the first time was just like falling in love. My stomach dropped and I caught myself holding my breath as we passed by one indescribably beautiful sight after the next. Like a new lover, Havana was full of romantic possibilities and memories not yet made. I could already imagine myself in the airport crying to be parted with her; four months will not be enough time to discover all the secrets of her personality and when I return (if ever) she will have been changed beyond recognition. I have to take advantage of the time I have been blessed with. She is beautiful and mysterious, colorful yet occasionally sad, complex but forward. Havana is a paradox. The crumbling stone facades of the decrepit bungalows and the vines climbing up the rusty latticework of garden gates reminded me of an ancient ruin, and yet Havana is full of vibrant life. There are people (and animals) everywhere riding in cars, bikes, horse-drawn carriages, motorcycles or just walking, waiting, or congregating in huge groups in the sporadic shade. Blue sky contrasting with colorful murals made the streets feel so alive.

We visited the Malecón (the long Havana coast) today, and our tour dropped us off at the exclusive Club Havana. Again I felt embarrassed to be in a ritzy exclusive club that I would never have put on my individual travel itinerary. We spent the afternoon dining and laying on the beach below the palms with the rich tourists and their young Cuban wives.

Now I am back in my hotel room listening to the rumbling thunder coming from the late afternoon cloud cover. Lightning is jumping from cloud to cloud somewhere in the distance but there is no rain yet. I want to nap but dinner will be soon, and hopefully I will have some time to buy an hour of Internet. Later I will head downtown with Bruce (the trip leader) for some sort of anti-imperialism concert held in the public square by the Malecón. For now I think I will lie down and listen to the storm and process the last couple of days in my first real moments of down-time. The thunder is getting louder by the minute.

Airport Wi-Fi

2007-08-31T06:11:00.001-07:00

I'm in the PDX airport waiting at the gate with the other sleepy eyed Cuba travelers. I didn't sleep at all last night but at the moment I'm too excited to care. Everything is going smoothly so far, and soon I will be on the way to Atlanta, and then Cancun.

The general sentiment seems to be "Holy crap guys, we're going to Cuba!!!" What more is there to say after that?

Setting Sail

2007-08-30T23:21:00.000-07:00

LXVIII
por Pablo Neruda

Mascarón de Proa
La niña de madera no llegó caminando:
allí de pronto estuvo sentada en los ladrillos,
viejas flores del mar cubrían su cabeza,
su Mirada tenía tristeza de raíces

Allí quedó mirando nuestras vidas abiertas,
el ir y ser y andar y volver por la tierra,
el día destiñendo sus pétalos graduales.
Vigilaba sin vernos la niña de madera.

La niña coronada por las antiguas olas,
allí miraba con sus ojos derroteados:
sabía que vivimos en una red remota

de tiempo y agua y olas y sonidos y lluvia,
sin saber si exisistimos o si somos su sueño.
Ésta es la historia de la muchacha de madera.

LXVIII
by Pablo Neruda

Figurehead of a Ship
The girl of wood did not come here on foot;
suddenly there she was on the beach, sitting on the cobbles,
her head covered with old sea flowers,
her expression the sadness of roots.

There she stayed, watching over our open lives,
the moving and being and going and coming, over the earth
as the day faded its gradual petals. She watched
over us without seeing us, the girl made of wood:

crowned by ancient waves, she looked out
through her shipwrecked eyes.
She knew we live in a distant net

of time and water and waves and noise and rain,
without knowing if we exist or if we are her dream.
This is the story of the girl made of wood.

I set sail for Cancun in roughly 5 hours. I don't have a lot more to say about how I feel other than the same old stressed-but-so-excited that's been posted for the last week or so. I will post as I can from Cancun and then Havana. For now, I am going to try to lay down (if not sleep) until I have to get up and head to the airport. So long, everyone!

Hours

2007-08-30T00:14:00.000-07:00

I'm no longer counting in days. It's hours at this point. I have twenty-eight hours and thirty minutes to be exact; a little over a day until I will roll out of bed, crawl to the car and drag myself onto an airplane to CUBA.

Everyone asks, "Well, are you packed? Are you ready to go?" The answer to both questions: "HELL NO!"

I chose Lewis and Clark College specifically because of this trip. I became a SO/AN Major because of this trip. I have spent the last year dreaming about going on this trip. Right now I feel like I am being dragged on it kicking and screaming. My ability to transform into a stress induced basket-case maniac at the drop of a hat never fails to impress me.

I'm what you might call a nester. Nothing makes me happier than finding a new place and making it my own. I can construct a cozy niche anywhere and be perfectly content. Arriving in Havana and having to adjust to a new place? No problem. Leaving on the other hand- ask anyone who has stayed with me in the last week and they'll agree that packing and Liz don't get along. I feel like I should have a little emoticon posted somewhere on this blog like every highschooler's Livejournal. Right now mine would read "Current Emotional State: WIGGING OUT".

44 lbs

2007-08-29T09:41:00.000-07:00

44 lbs of luggage for four months is kind of ridiculous. I'm pretty sure I take more than that when I go backpacking for a week. Subtract a tent a sleeping bag and and a stove and add in the batteries, school supplies and other various gifts I'm bringing for friends in Cuba and that's what I'm bringing: exactly what I need to survive and not much more. In some ways I suppose it makes packing easy. I just ask myself "Will I use this every day?" If the answer is no, I toss it. I just can't shake the feeling that I'm forgetting to bring something really important that I won't be able to buy in Cuba. Sometimes I ask myself why I didn't choose a country that's a little easier to travel to. Then I think of the priceless knowledge in Douglas Adams' Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy and tell myself "DON'T PANIC". I know where my towel is. Everything else is extra anyways. Going four months with a little less will be so worth it when I'm sitting on the Malecón sipping rum with some new friends and looking out over the warm Caribbean sea.

Salsa en la Calle

2007-08-27T09:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday some friends of mine from Seattle popped in semi-unexpectedly to visit me. They are both heading abroad to the UK for the next year of their studies and we had a lot of goodbyes to say after six years of solid friendship. They accompanied me on my downtown wanderings and we ended up at the Salsa en la Calle (Salsa in the street) festival on the river.

For the most part the band announced songs and talked to the crowd in Spanish- I gave up trying to translate for my friends because there was too much to listen to. I was pleased to find that with so much Spanish being spoken around me my brain switched seamlessly out of English speaking and I spoke to my dance partners in Spanish instead.

Dancing in the streets made me so excited for Cuba (only 4 more days!). The music and the Spanish and the dancing made me itch to just get on a plane and be there already. I've been waiting for this trip for over a year. I've been through the roller coaster of phases of excitement and nervousness ten times over. Thankfully the roulette-wheel seems to have stopped spinning at anticipation and not fear.

Last Minute

2007-08-25T12:57:00.001-07:00

I've just received notice that our living accommodations in Havana have changed AGAIN.

For those who don't know the story, in the early days of the Cuba Fall 2007 program, we were supposed to live in a schmancy villa with beautiful neo-colonial architecture, gardens, and only a short walk to the beach. Obviously that turned out to be "prohibitively expensive" so we were then told we would be living in the dormitories of the Institute (which originally were condemned and were not supposed to be there when we arrived). Those were apparently not the most friendly towards lower-class Cubans and students complained about not being allowed to socialize with Cubans inside of their dorm building. We settled instead on the Hotel Kohly, a friendly-looking place right next to a large park. I was really looking forward to living at the Kohly after reading positive reviews and hearing good feedback from my contacts in Cuba. I finally had a place in Havana that I could picture.

Yesterday our plan changed yet again, and I have little confidence that this will remain the same for much longer either. Now we are to live in the Hotel Palco. It is much closer to the school (only a few block's walk, thus far more convenient), and seems like it will be a lovely place to live. Honestly, it means very little to me where I will live while I am there. All that matters is that somehow I get there and have a roof over my head. I just hope that when we arrive in Havana there is somewhere for 27 American students to sleep at night...

T Minus Seven Days

2007-08-24T19:27:00.000-07:00

... and counting.

Things here in PDX are coming to a close. I'm finally finished with work for the summer and I have one last week to tie up loose ends. Everyone seems to want a piece of my limited time, and all want to do is pretend I don't have a million errands to run and people to say goodbye to. I can't imagine what it will be like to be there (no matter how many times I've seen Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights and pretended that that's exactly how it will be), so I'm not even thinking about it. I have neither the energy nor the time to be nervous.

My plan for the next week or so is to wander around downtown like I used to when I had spare time (ah, back in the day...). Cuba won't have block-long bookstores or hipster coffee shops. I'll have to say a temporary goodbye to my typical Portland haunts. Havana will be a new city with different charms that I will have only four months to discover. At this point all I can do is count the days until I'm there.

Off to Cuba

2007-08-14T12:02:00.000-07:00

In ten days I will suddenly find myself getting on a plane to many places I have never been before. First, Atlanta, Georgia. Next, Cancun, Mexico. And finally Havana, Cuba. Everything in my apartment has been boxed up and is waiting for my folks to pick it up and store it for me until I return to the United States in sixteen weeks. I am left with only a little more than the 44 lbs (and one carry-on item) that I will be allowed to take with me to Cuba. It feels a little lonely in my white-walled room with nothing more than a mattress and a suitcase of clothes. In a few days even my kitten Phoebe will find a new place to live while I am gone and I will be off into the big world on my own.

For those of you readers who don't know much about my trip, I am a student at Lewis and Clark College and I will be participating in a study abroad program in Havana for fifteen weeks. As a Sociology/Anthropology major, I will be primarily studying Cuban cultural dynamics. In this time of political transition and instability (Fidel Castro, who has been in power since he overthrew Fulgencio Batista in 1959, is currently too ill to rule and has transferred his duties to his brother Raul), being in Cuba should be quite an experience.

In addition to my classes on Cuban language, culture and history I will be conducting a photo-journalistic research project of my choice. For the past several months I have been in contact with Nora García, director of an NGO called ANIPLANT. I have volunteered to assist with a new veterinary clinic opening near my school in Havana as well as help Nora conduct dog training classes with Cuban citizens. This article can help to give some idea of what conditions I will be helping out with in terms of animal health and treatment in Havana.

For the next week and a half I will be trying to remember everything I need to get done before I go. I've got packing to do and money to exchange and tickets to keep track of. At the moment it hasn't quite hit me that I will soon be living in Havana but bit by bit the concept is sinking in. Every morning I wake up with just a little bit more panic and a lot more excitement. One day not to far off from now I will wake up and be there. I'm hoping then it will finally start to feel real.