Pictures

These are not in any chronological order at all, but I thought I'd put up some choice pictures for y'all to enjoy. Click on the pictures to make them larger.


This is the University historian and me. He is my good buddy now: he's given me two little souvenirs, and wants me to call him to have dinner with him.


Me at the Hotel Nacional, enjoying some Cristal.


This is a group of three of us at Alexei's house where we danced to reggaeton, some rumba, and drank watered down rum. The guy in the hat is the one who was sent to Angola in the Cuban army and was shot three times in the leg.


Che at night.


A student concert for Jose Marti. The picture doesn't do the amount of people there justice.


They don't like Bush or Posada here.


No, really, they don't like Bush here.


Bush + Hitler = Posada.


The crew at the baseball game. Look at all of the UNC kids in the back not having a good time.


The front of the University.


Goat cart for the kids.


A military man taking a break.


Me in front of the Capitol.


A typical night on the Malecon.


Salud to the beach! (Santa Maria)

That's it for now. I have hundreds more, plus movies that give a better idea of a bunch of things. Unfortunately, the internet costs money and is a bit too slow to upload that kind of stuff. Hope this was enjoyable!

January 28th

Today was essentially the most perfect day I’ve spent in Cuba. We slept in, which was great, and finally started moving around noon. We hit the streets to grab some lunch, and ended up at a place called G-Café, which had all of these crazy drawings on the wall that reminded me of (I think) Dali. Although the food wasn’t superb (no Malta soda, what seemed to be undercooked chicken, bland rice, a decent cappuchino, and a pretty bad price), we had a good time talking and for a while fell into the Cuban speed of life and stopped caring about when the food was coming or when we could get our check to leave. Although it was late in the day, we agreed that maybe if time permitted we would check out the Playas del Oeste today.

Afterward, we headed for Coppelias to endure what we had read would be a forty minute to two hour wait. Thankfully, it wasn’t that at all, considering there are five to six different lines and locations to eat at in the some complex, and we only ended up waiting about twenty to thirty minutes. When we got seated, we were pretty much only offered one thing: ensalada. But this wasn’t lettuce salad, this was ice cream salad: five scoops of ice cream, three vanilla, two chocolate, with chocolate sauce poured over it. It was awesome. I can’t really place what it was that made it so great, but perhaps the insane amounts of cream was it. We all devoured it in about ten minutes. In the meantime, Scott told us a story of his love for banana bread, and how he would eat banana bread at least twice daily for the majority of his life. He loved the Pennsylvania-Dutch banana bread and ate it constantly, to the point where he was called the Banana Bread Kid. He was sad to learn when he came to college that there was a kid that enjoyed banana bread more than him, enough to have it shipped to him at college. We cracked up the entire time Scott was telling this story, because he was being so absolutely serious. We all lost it when he told us they called him the Banana Bread Kid, like some retarded Western hero who had an affinity for banana bread instead of whiskey or loose women.

Probably what made the ice cream even sweeter after it had already been ingested was the price – we paid 45 national pesos for all of the ice cream, which amounted to about 6 pesos each. Take into account 24 national pesos makes one dollar, and we each ate all that ice cream for less than fifty cents.

After ice cream, we headed over to the music store to scope out some songs we had been hearing since we got here. There was a dance contest going on outside between a bunch of local kids, and we watched them dance for a little bit, and then went inside the store. Inside, we made fun of a lot of the covers of the albums because they were so old, and Scott kept going up to the workers with different albums going “Es bueno?” Although the dance contest had ended outside, there were still a ton of people waiting around and so I went back outside to see what was up. Apparently, Eddy-K, the most popular reggaeton act in Cuba right now, was there, signing autographs. Danielle, one of the three tallest girls in our group all tied at 5’11”, got in line with the other twelve and thirteen year olds to get her CD signed. Sticking out like a sore thumb, the bouncer/organizer took her and bumped her to the front of the lines to get the autographs of the two MCs, the DJ, and the keyboardist. Scott stood in line as well to get his receipt autographed, though he didn’t actually buy their album.

Valerie was tired, and Scott wanted to go listen to his music, so they headed back to the casa while we went to check out the movie times at the theatre. Then we figured since it was too cold to hit the beach, we’d head to the Hotel Nacional to grab some cocktails and check it out. While the Hotel Melia Cohiba is decadence, the Nacional is decadence in a different fashion. This is the old hotel that used to be frequented by mob bosses and bigwigs in the fifties (and even afterwards). Mercedes Benz taxis waited outside, and marble, hardwoods, and gold adorned the interior. We went straight for the outside gardens in the back, and I grabbed a beer and soaked up the view. The Nacional sits on a small cliff above the Malecon looking out onto the ocean, with a view of the old forts to the right. There were small lounging couches everywhere, as well as those quaint whitewashed iron tables. We walked around and marveled at the huge cannons aimed out at the sea, and how perfect a location this was to defend the island from Northern invaders.

We found this thing called the “Cueva de Taganana”, which was an underground trench area made in the early 1900s. It was adorned with posters talking about all the crises between the States and Cuba, and Russia’s involvement. What was the coolest about these pictures were all the photos of Castro and Che, especially those with other world leaders like Jruschov (Krushev in Spanish). While we were looking around, the old security guard told Danielle, “Senorita” and waved his hand to follow him. She did, down these stairs into these other tunnels, and so we all followed suit. He unlocked a small gate and we walked through a hundred yards or so of trenches and tunnels dug through the grounds of the Hotel Nacional. About halfway, they had a small display of a piece of the U-2 spy plane that they had shot down, as well as two uniforms of Cuban military that had been killed in some activity (unfortunately I didn’t catch what it had been). It was a really cool little tour, and whether or not it was given to everyone, it seemed like we had done something not many people got to do.

We emerged back into the light, tipped the guard for the experience, and then decided to have some pina coladas on the veranda, while watching people walk the Malecon. At one point, we heard lots of honking and looked to see an old Buick convertible carrying a bride and groom, while people waved as they drove by. It was really nice to just enjoy the sea breeze and the green grass and the good company. We headed back to the casa to grab dinner, which was pasta with alfredo sauce, a ham and tomato sauce, and some tomato glazed ham cutlets. They served the alfredo sauce in a little cup which they usually serve the soup in, so we all dove into it before they brought out the actual pasta. We all felt like idiots when we realized it was sauce for the pasta. After dinner decided to head to the baseball game between Santa Maria and Guantamo.

We took cabs to the stadium, and grabbed some five centavo popcorn outside and tried to get our tickets. But since it was obvious that we were a bunch of mostly white students, they deterred us and made us go to a different entrance around the side. There we were told to come to that side in the future for student seating. We paid three convertible pesos, which is exponentially more expensive than what everyone else paid. Still, our seats were pretty decent – the second section back from behind the plate, and we sat in front of the UNC students. It was a great section, but the whole stadium had less than two hundred people in it because of the teams – Santa Maria (who was supposedly decent) and Guantanamo (supposedly last). Also, during a game earlier in the week between Santiago and Havana, two of the best and biggest teams in the league, a riot between the rivalries broke out in the stadium and they had temporarily imposed a no alcohol rule in the stadium. The vendors were selling peanuts, candy canes, chips, and coffee, but no sodas and no beer or alcohol. Considering we were in dire straits here, we decided that we had to take matters into our own hands. Diana and I borrowed someone’s bag and went to find a grocery store. When we finally found one, we only saw beer, and realized that there’d be no way to buy enough beer to satiate everyone, so we asked someone else where we could buy some rum around the stadium. They said the store we were at sold it, and they held up a small box like a Juicy Juice box. We were ecstatic, and promptly bought six, along with a two liter bottle of orange soda (the coke was warm). From then on, the celebration was on. We hid our illegal liquid well, and passed around strong orange soda while cheering on our underdogs, Guantanamo. UNC was cheering for Santa Maria, and considering how poorly everyone had heard Guantanamo was doing in the league, we made a bet with UNC that Guantanamo would win. They felt so bad for us, they gave us a 3 point lead – the final score was 2-1 in Santa Maria’s favor, but that still meant we won the bet. During the game, we cheered on our batters, trash talked the pitchers, and sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” at the 7^th inning stretch. We were easily the rowdiest bunch in the crowd, and it wasn’t helped by the echo-y acoustics of the stadium. Still, we had a blast at the game, and once they start serving alcohol again, our attendance will be an assured party.

After the game, a few of us went and drank some beers at a local establishment, listened to a traveling guitarist who played some mariachi and other classic songs for us. We headed back to the casa, shared another box of rum, and hit the hay. It really was a great evening and was a blast for all of us.

January 27th

We had our Spanish placement test that everyone has been freaking out about all week. There were three levels of difficulty to the test, and we were told to do it all to the best of our ability. I realized how much a lack of knowledge of grammar can hamper your test taking skills – mixing up prepositions and articles and tenses can impede your ability to do well. All the same, I still left a few sections completely blank, not being able to remember certain rules about the language. I didn’t mind so much, because if I had to push myself to remember it, then I obviously didn’t know it and it would do me well to relearn it.

There is so much walking in this city. If there was one problem to be had with our location, it would be that it’s at least 15 blocks from the university and a good ten blocks from a central part of the city. The only things close to us that aren’t close to the UNC residents are the Malecon and the Fundacion Ludwig. Still, the quaintness of our neighborhood and the comparatively not-so-luxurious accommodations of our digs allows us to be Cuban elitists vis a vis the UNC students.

To get back on subject, I say that there is too much walking because between 8:30AM and 3PM, I walked to the university, walked back from the university, walked to the university, walked halfway back to the residence, walked back to the university, and then walked back to the residence. I would say that in that time alone I easily walked three miles, but I can’t complain too much because I get to immerse myself more in the Cuban culture.

I finally got money from my Amigo Card, which is a deceptive name. Not many banks take it here, and even when they do, there’s yet ANOTHER charge to change money over. They get you coming and going here. I finally got to gorge myself on some food though – I ate a sandwich from a nearby stand, then got a Cuban pizza, and drank some Malta, the molasses flavored cola that is made by the beer company. The only problem was that I KNEW I was getting screwed on prices – while everything was only one convertible peso per item, that equals 24 national pesos. A sandwich or pizza usually only costs 10-15 national pesos. But most Cubans know they can get away with ripping off tourists and travelers, and I’m no exception. So I naturally went and changed 20 CUC to national pesos and received 470 national pesos. I feel insanely wealthy holding a wad of bills that large, and the funny thing is that although it was all in twenties, many establishments can’t break a bill as large as a twenty.

I worked out today at a gym that is located under one of the Jewish temples in Havana. It was Spartan and older, but it did the job. I feel like after my digestive battles, I’ve lost ten pounds, so I’m looking to start putting that back on. Plus it was only a one peso entrance fee (CUC peso, not national).

I finally used the internet tonight in the Hotel Melia Cohiba, which was definitely awkward. It is Cuban decadence, with elevators, escalators, marble, and wifi access in the lobby. Their computers are located in the smoking room, with a huge walk-in humidor; the whole room smelled like old wood and cigars. Unfortunately I didn’t have a way to bring my pictures, so I just had time to catch up with a few people and see what was going on in the States (hooray for UT being ranked #4 and prepicked for the Final Four).

We ran back to the hotel to put on our red shirts that our University of Havana student guides had requested we put on before we went out tonight, and headed towards the university. About half a block away, we realized that there were hundreds of people in this square, listening to this musician. We found one of the student leaders and we created a human chain as he wound us through the thick crowd of students and around to the side of the stage. After he flashed some credentials, we realized we were going to the very front of the stage, on the other side of a gated partition, with another group of students in uniforms with red patches on their arms (the Young Communists?). Our group combined with the UNC students created a little splotch of red at the front of this sea of students listening to some live music comprised of classic Cuban salsas, sons, and rumbas.

Naturally, we started dancing and singing along, and it was an absolute blast getting caught up in the music, although I’m not sure how the Cubans have the energy to dance nonstop. I wonder if we were allowed up front in all red as a special gift from the University of Havana, or if they were more than willing to have all the American students up front in Communist Red in order to kind of show us off and use us. We lost ourselves in the whole thing though, and when the music had ended, we all joined in the final call and response shouts. “VIVA FIDEL!” “VIVA!” “VIVA LA REVOLUCION!” “VIVA!” “VIVA JOSE MARTI!” (It’s his birthday tomorrow and this whole thing was kind of for him) “VIVA!” “PATRIA O MUERTE!” “VENCEREMOS!” After this staple closing of any Cuban event, everyone started leaving, but in the same direction. We followed, but on a parallel street in order not to get lost in the crowd. While our student guides took us one block too far and we got stuck behind the new speaking podium, the crowd had walked en masse to Jose Marti’s grave where they read some of his speeches and remembered his achievements.

That was essentially the end of the night for me, around 12:15AM, as I was absolutely dog-tired. I reflected on how often these large public events are voluntarily attended and how often they’re obligatory (while I think tonight’s event was voluntary and fun, the march on Tuesday was most definitely mandatory). Still, it blew me away how much fun the Cubans have. They are always ready to have a good time, as evidenced earlier in the week with Alexei, and are unequivocally bound by their patria. Despite any shortcomings of their political system, the pride for their country that links all of them together is amazing; it is felt rather than seen.

January 26th

We had a class this morning on some basic statistics of Cuba, such as land size, population, age groups, etc. It wasn’t terrible exciting, but I talked with the professor afterwards about possible misrepresentations in the 2002 census, as I had been under the impression before I came that some 60% or more of Cubans were either black or mulatto, but in her presentation that 60% was white. She said that she understood my confusion and that it was a matter of how the people were polled – it wasn’t necessarily how the people answered for themselves, but how the officials answered for them. Still, it was difficult for me to understand how you can mistake a white person for a black/mixed race, though I think that comes from my idea of Caucasian white versus non-whites, as opposed to the Cuban idea of Hispanic white versus African black, Cuban black, Caribbean black, Indian, and the hundreds of other shades of skin color here.

This is a good time to throw out another reflection I’ve had on globalization. Cubans are extremely proud that there is little to no racism or discrimination here. Pre-revolution Coppelias, the famous ice creamery, was only for whites; all other skin colors were forced to walk to another neighborhood to get ice cream. After the revolution, Coppelias was opened to be enjoyed by all races. The Communist party tries to abolish classes, and especially classes based on race. They’re proud of their African, Caribbean, native, and Hispanic heritage.

This brings to mind one of the constant criticisms of globalization in our day: the loss and degradation of culture. Yet Cuba is an absolute shining example of how mixing cultures and groups can create a completely different and unique culture that thrives on itself and respects itself. Yes, there’s pizza here, but it’s a Cuban version of pizza. There is black beans and rice. There is Santeria. There is son and there is salsa. There is hip-hop and there is reggateon. All of these things are mixes of old influences and new influences that convolute to create something uniquely its own.

Ok, I understand that that criticism of globalization usually refers to the homogenization of cultures when certain overbearing and powerful entities spread throughout the world and prevent a natural mixing (e.g., Coca-Cola, Wal-Mart, McDonalds). Then, it goes to show that there is undoubtedly something to be said for some control at some level of government to prevent the spread of these bad seeds of globalized culture, and to instead allow for a natural growth of a culture unperturbed.

Back to the day at hand, after the class, I came back to the casa and essentially slept from about noon to four. Whereas previously I had been feeling crabby and a little depressed, after my deep sleep I felt refreshed and ready for the day again. Ariana stopped by my room to tell me that everyone had gone to the Fundacion Ludwig to go watch an independent film festival. I walked over, and to make a long story short, the movies had already begun, I waited for them to come out to catch back up with them, I never saw them (though I did see the UNC students), so I walked back to the casa to eat dinner, where I found all of the group eating already, so I guilt tripped them about forgetting about me.

After dinner, we headed to the UNC residence to meet up with Wilmer, the vice-president of the student body, and his friends to go to a classic military ceremony of dance at one of the fortresses at the far end of Havana. We were going to take the bus, but unfortunately it didn’t come in time, so after talking to some locals at the bus stop (we told one guy wearing an old Ohio State sweater about the college, and I talked to another guy about the beach, where he told me he worked at the hotel), we started walking back to this party we had seen going on. It turned out to be a private party, but the ten or fifteen guys and two or three women were more than willing to have a group of 25 Americans, 18 of which were women, come in and dance.

I was finally taught the rudiments of salsa, and was actually commended on picking it up so quickly, though as soon as I start adding extra steps, or twirls or anything like it, I immediately lose my concentration and have to go back to the basic steps. There was a hilarious Cuban guy dressed to kill for the clubs who started a dance circle. He would go in and pop and lock, and then pull one of us or one of his friends in to dance a little bit. We each had our turn and embarrassed ourselves pretty well, but it was all in the name of fun. At one point, they offered us some of their cake (it had been a birthday party), which we were excited to try out. Expectations did not meet realizations, and everyone tossed their piece – it was like sweet bread with some way too sticky “frosting”.

We danced for an hour and a half, and some people absolutely blew me away with how well they could dance. The Cuban guys were loving it, getting to dance with a bunch of white American girls, but when a few of the students started going home and the Cubans got a little more pushy, we left as well.

While it wasn’t a hugely eventful day, the dancing was a lot of fun, as it really showed a lot of what Cuba is about. Impromptu fun, accommodating people, and a great atmosphere are the ingredients for perfection here.

January 25th

Today I awoke feeling partly refreshed, but I stayed away from the eggs, ham, and cheese of breakfast and stuck to fresh fruit. Apparently, I wasn’t the only fallen soldier. Four others in the group had gotten sick, and I was the only one who had overcome it so quickly.

We headed to the university for a tour with the head university historian, whom was not only funny but incredibly intelligent. For some odd reason, he singled me out to try out Spanish phrases on, and to help him up and down stairs. When I told him I was from Texas, he had me repeat the phrase “Me cayo los llaves en la calle” to determine if I had a Mexican accent or not (a non-Mexican accent might pronounce the y and the double-Ls as Js). It blew me away how much of a Renaissance man this historian was: he could quote Latin phrases of Aristotle and Socrates, he knew more about international relations than a lot of us did even though he was a law professor, and he was able to determine that I had a Russian face (Ukranian/Polish isn’t too far away), a girl was Jewish by her nose, and that another girl had an Ohioan accent. Whether or not it was true, he said he was good friends with Fidel, and told us some anecdotes about their times together.

This was also our first meeting with the UNC students. We all kind of felt like veterans already since we had been here for two days prior, and so we shared some advice, as well as scared the whole group with our tales of our sickness knocking out half of our own group. Apparently, several of the students flat out cannot speak Spanish, and although some of our students kind of suck at it, all of them know it quite well enough to get by.

Afterwards, we had the majority of the afternoon off, so three or four of us decided it would be a great day to go to the beach. Ariana had told us it would only take 30-45 minutes to get to the Playas Del Este, while a deskclerk said an hour and a half to two hours. We decided that instead we’d go to the Playas del Oeste, which while not as beautiful, were closer. When we hailed a cab, he insisted that we go to El Este, because it was mas Linda and only took 30 minutes. See what I mean about having to ask several times to really get the right answer? Thankfully he was right, and we were so excited about going to the beach that we didn’t mind paying the 30pesos (split 4 ways) for a roundtrip to Santa Maria. The beach was pretty much everything everyone had always said – blue, beautiful, and warm. Unfortunately, it IS winter, and clouds came rolling in and prevented us from playing in the water more – as well as the fear of man-o-wars, which were present, that had been instilled in me from being previously stung in Mexico. We were a little disappointed that surfing wasn’t a bigger deal in Cuba, because a lot of the waves were perfectly beginner/intermediate sized. We definitely planned to go back that Saturday however.

Upon our return, we attended a cocktail party/mixer at the Ludwig Foundation, an art depository/cultural incubator. Our now-complete group got to meet the rest of the UNC students, and like a middle school dance, it was extremely awkward. There was a lot of showing off on our parts to show that we knew so much about Cuba already, which was pretty lame of us. I talked to a med student from UNC who was mostly separate of their main group about a tour he took of a Cuban biotech lab. Apparently, Cuba is near the forefront of biotechnology and similar ventures and is giving the United States a run for its money. It sounded extremely interesting, and he was in a great position to be working with the Cubans to capitalize on the intellectual property they were creating. I also talked to Sarah _____ , the director of AU Abroad, about how she got her job and what she thinks about certain programs and such. I never realized how incredibly awesome her job is, but she was complaining that as she got older it was getting a lot harder to do because of the odd amounts of time she spent abroad and then having to come back and take care of loads of administrative tasks. We also met our professors and were encouraged to talk to them further, but I refrained out of intimidation.

We planned to later meet up with the UNC students to go out to a club. The certain club was chosen by a Cuban at the UNC residence, and I really should’ve recognized that I wasn’t feeling well again and taken the night off, because I didn’t feel like drinking nor dancing, so I mostly sat in a corner and moped for the evening. The club kind of sucked too – it started off with decent rap and reggaeton, then there was an intermission for a bad cabaret wherein the singer had little vocal skills and even less skills of entertainment, and when we left the music was in a solid hour long block of techno. Definitely not the salsa or rumba or any kind of Latin American flavor we were looking for. We headed back to the residence and turned in for the night around midnight.

January 24th

Unfortunately, Castro spoke at 8AM, about an hour earlier than we headed down to the anti-Bush rally. When asking people when El Comandante was to speak, you discover one of the peculiarities of Cubans – often times you’ll get two or three different answers that you’ll have to ask numerous people until you have a consensus. In this case, several people said he had already spoken; others said he would speak later in the day. We confirmed that he had already spoken, but we joked that he wouldn’t have finished in an hour, as his speeches are typically three hours long or more. The rally itself was both impressive and trite – there were thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people participating, with representatives from other Latin American countries yet at the same time it was an obligatory march for Cuban citizens, with hundreds of buses lining the inner city streets that had bussed in students and workers from across the nation. We walked up the Malecon until we were stopped by some officials and told we couldn’t go further, so we were unintentionally forced to march in the rally, hoping no international cameras caught our picture. One of the best chants during the march was “Bush Fascista / Suportan terrorista”. Through the entire thing, different groups and people could be heard denouncing Bush, from military officials to children yelling “Viva Fidel! Viva la revolucion!” To show support, paper Cuban flags had been handed out, and at one point a small kid handed me about six flags that he had collected. After awhile it appeared that it would be mostly the same type of speeches and chants for the rest of the day, so we went back to the hotelito to escape the heat and get some food.

Once again, asking people where to go for certain things can be unsuccessful. We asked the sweet old security guard at our dorm where we could eat, and he told us of a place around the corner and down two blocks. It turned out that it was another Ditu stand, where I swore after my first trip there that I’d never go back. So we trekked on, asking others where we could find a quick lunch. A lot of the people couldn’t answer because they were from out of town and were just waiting for their bus drivers to come back. Finally, after another twenty minutes of extraneous walking we found a Pan.com, a local chain that plays on the ubiquitous internet domain. Once again, they were out of pizza, despite the fact I had seen several Cubans walking from the general direction of the restaurant minutes before with pizza.

After lunch, I started feeling light headed, so I came back to my bed and took a nap. This nap was interrupted by the immediate need to diarrhea like crazy. As a double whammy, while I was on the toilet, the need to throw up hit me. So I did, into the trashcan. And I did so again two more times that day. So from about one or two in the afternoon until the next morning, I was sleeping or dead in the bathroom. Kind of anticlimactic.

January 23rd

I woke up this morning at 6:10, instead of what was supposed to be 7:40. We were told that the alarm clocks may get reset because of power outages at night, but I can’t figure out how ours was reset to be faster. I was shaving, and realized how dark outside it was and how there was no noise outside. Checking my cell phone and watch, I realized that I was up early and tried to sleep for another hour.

It appears to me that the biggest problem of the semester will be that the showers don’t really have hot water. That’s great if we’ve just gotten back from walking a mile or so in 100% humidity in 80 degree weather, but it’s not so nice to wake up to. Apparently, Scott and I weren’t the only ones though, so now we’re on to depending on batteries.

Breakfast was fresh fruit, a sunny side up egg, a slice of ham and cheese, and some orange juice.

We walked the half hour to the University at 9AM; by the time we got there, I was already sweating. Seeing Havana by day was beautiful, however. It seems every corner you turn here is an automatic photo op.

The University has been around since 1733, and has over 35,000 students. We were given a speech on what is expected of us, when our classes are, and general info on the professors and the university. Surprisingly, everything I heard or expected about Cubans viewing Americans as rare was mostly not true. We walked through the university quad and drew few, if any, second glances.

Later, we went to a photo developer shop to get pictures taken for our ID cards, and while we waited (like I said, Cuba is a lot of waiting), I went to a café next door and had a large jam and cheese sandwich with mustard and a little bit of jam, as well as a coke. While there, the waitress and her cute friend started talking to me, asking to see my Nalgene water bottle. I submitted, and they took it behind the counter, and then jokingly brought out an empty plastic bottle to trade. I talked to the waitress’s friend, and found out that though she was only 19, she had already attended four years of art school. She gave me some tips on the beaches and Cuba in general.

After getting our pictures taken, we split up into smaller groups to self-tour the city. I went with Scott, Alex, and Danielle to check out Havana Vieja and Bario Chino on the way. Walking through the city brings you through poor areas where children run around in their underwear, to busy cross streets where sexually-androgynous Europeans and their Cuban imitators mixed with the general population. Stopping at a restaurant so the rest of my group could eat, we realized how rusty our Spanish was, but that was set to change later.

I saw a couple of Chinese signs here and there, but for the most part we either missed Chinatown or there really isn’t much of one to speak of anymore. When we arrived at the capitol, its size blew me away. Perhaps it’s because it’s such a large, singular building in the midst of so many smaller, connected ones, but I enjoyed the Cuba capitol more than the US capitol. Across the street, and on the way to the university, stood an old movie theatre still showing current Cuban movies. After admiring the size of the building, we continued on to the central train station, from whence we visited Jose Marti’s childhood home. Although I’m not very familiar with Jose Marti or his works, I understood that he was a well-read, well-educated, well-traveled adventurer and originator of the first Cuban revolution. It was nice seeing other Cubans paying respect to him as well.

From there, we intended to head to the Malecón to grab some ice cream and head back towards our dormitory, but I was delayed by a younger man asking a few questions. I didn’t catch them at first, but I did understand he wanted me to take a draught from his Havana Club rum bottle – and of course, when in Rome, do as the Romans. With a laugh, he asked me more questions about where I was from, so I introduced him to the rest of my group. He informed us his name was Alexei (pronounced Ahl-eh-say) and that it was his birthday tomorrow, but he was celebrating today with his brothers. He invited us to celebrate with him at his house, and realizing that this would be more interesting and educative than walking the Malecón with ice cream, I took him up on the offer (after my compadres concurred). We took three two-seat bike-taxis to his place, although one bike’s chain broke half-way through the journey and we had to hire a new one. At his house, we met his grandmother, his sister, his nephew, and another sister. There, we shared some more rum and danced some salsa, reggaeton, mambo, and some other Latin flavors. Alexei showed us great hospitality, and it was our first real taste of Cuba.

We walked back, talking about everything from the weather (Alexei enjoyed winter the most because he didn’t sweat, but laughed at me for sweating) to wanting to hang out tomorrow (he claimed we could go to Trinidad, which is at least a six hour bus ride – but he could do it in an hour and a half, as well as carry 10 people in a small Russian car). All the same, we really appreciated spending time with him.

By the time we got back just in time for dinner, I was almost too tired to eat. We had lightly fried chicken, a chickpea/yam soup, rice, and fresh fruit. I went upstairs to crash in our rocking chairs.

When I woke up, I watched a little bit of Cuban TV, and absolutely marveled at the propaganda. A cartoon that resembled a Flash movie played a sing-along about Bush hiding terrorists, and another program had a male and female anchor discussing Bush (with the male anchor dominating the broadcast). Scott and a few others in the program told me about a large rally that was going to occur the next morning to protest Bush. Diana and Valerie showed me some posters they picked up while they walked the Malecon of anti-Bush propaganda that was surprisingly well-produced. After experiencing our first black-out of about ten minutes, we headed down to the Malecón to drink a few beers and then check out what else they had set up for the rally tomorrow. Naturally, the rally area was set up directly across from the US Special Interest Section. By eleven thirty PM, groups were already beginning to congregate. I plan on getting up at 8 tomorrow to go head down there and hopefully see Castro speak.

January 22nd

We arrived at Jose Marti (the famous Cuban poet-revolutionary-everyman) Int’l Airport about 100 yards from the terminal, walked down the stairs from the prop plane, and walked the rest of the distance into la aduana. Going through customs in Cuba is your first taste of the lifestyle. While waiting for our turn to process our passports, some people in the line only took a couple of minutes; others were processed for ten minutes or so. Then when they’d move through and you thought it was your turn to talk to the immigration officials, they’d tell you to stand back in the line. An older man two lines over began to wink at Courtney, presumably because of her blonde hair, and shared a few words with Ariana, then went back to winking at Courtney. Danielle was the only one who reciprocated, which obviously made the man’s day. In the baggage claim area (which is all part of the same large warehouse-like building), many of the Cubans immediately lit up their cigarettes, while we grabbed bags, switched Canadian dollars to Convertible Pesos, and watched the wandering kitten and the female Cuban officials with their curiously short-skirted uniforms. A large family waited outside for what seemed to be their grandmother – as soon as they saw her through the main doors out of the airport, they all yelled and cheered. I assumed she had been gone from Cuba for a long time, as one Cuban man lamented to one of our students: He had not been back to Cuba for twenty years, and had had much trouble finally returning, yet here was a group of 10 Americans who essentially came on a whim. He had a point.

Driving from el aeropuerto to Vedado, the neighborhood of Havana we’re situated in, we marveled at the cars, the packed buses, the ever-optimistic propaganda painted on billboards and walls, and the variety of the people. When we started to come into Vedado, I was amazed at the size of the houses, with beautiful columns, marble steps, and tranquil tropical plants. We stopped at one house, and I waited to see who would come out to jump on our bus, but was absolutely stunned to realize that this was going to be our apartment building.

We’re situated across from the Chinese embassy. Marble steps lead up to a beautiful marble porch. On the ground floor, we have a bar, a small office, and a small concierge’s desk. At the very back, you walk down some steps to reach the restaurant. On the second floor are all the rooms. We are split among five rooms, each with its own bathroom. We also have a second floor marble veranda with rocking chairs. At the rear of the main hallway, a door leads to a fire escape that goes down, as well as up to the roof which has already been claimed as the tanning/study spot. Scott’s and my room has a small wicker table, a desk, a TV (which I hope never to have to resort to watching), a small closet, and a window that looks out onto a tall tree.

We sat around for about an hour after unpacking, just soaking it in and realizing how incredible this location was. Dinner soon arrived, and we went down to our restaurant, where we were greeted with fresh pineapple, watermelon, orange juice, cabbage with peas and green beans, yams with garlic, and bread and butter. I was already amazed, but what really blew us away was when five minutes later, they brought out black beans, and then five minutes after that fried fish (the name of which I’ll have to get later and translate) with friend plantains and rice, all finished up with pureed, thickened mango and a small cup of strong coffee. I asked if we should expect meals this large every day, and they replied casually that yes, we should. Everything was fresh, wonderful, and I ate as much as I could. I think I’m the only one on this trip looking forward to gaining weight from all this food.

As all this paradise and decadence set in, I was tempted to comment to the Cubans around us that they must thank God everyday for the incredible place they live in, but I caught myself when I remembered the words of my fellow student Molly the night before in Miami: Despite how beautiful Cuba is, how incredible their lives may be, how easy they may be, they still live in a sort of prison. Only select officials and academics are allowed to leave the country, they still live under all types of censorship to an extent that I know not yet but will surely find out, and they still must deal with many third world injustices. One of the professors from the university ate with us, and she shared how excited she was to have visited AU a few years ago on a Latin American Council convention. I realized that that trip was truly a once in a lifetime opportunity for her.

After dinner, we obviously had to take a trip down to the Malecon. I grabbed a Cristal on the way over there, one of the national beers. The Malecon was fairly empty for a Sunday night (unless we weren’t there early enough), but the people that did dot the area were mostly lovers of all ages oblivious to all around them. A few families walked together, enjoying the sea spray.

We came back, enjoyed a very well made mojito, some beers, and one of the longest cigars I had ever seen and smoothest I had ever smoked. I tipped the bartender one CUC for which he thanked me profusely later in the night. After placticando on the front porch, it was lights out for me.

Caveats

First of all, these entries are extremely poorly edited. I just jotted down thoughts and such, so maybe when I come back from Cuba nad have the time, I will edit them, add more stories, etc. but for now, you have to make due with what is there. So that includes spelling errors, grammatical errors, logic errors, and anything else.

I will aim for every Sunday to update. I feel like I had other caveats for this, but I guess that is it for now. Enjoy the first weeks entries.

Leaving tomorrow for Cuba Segunda

I am currently (and hectically) making my last minute preparations to head to Miami, the second largest concentration of Cubans outside of Cuba, where I am limited to 44lbs of total baggage, checked and carry-on at the airport.
I'm also looking for a camera charger (the two closest Best Buys are sold out) and a new razor for my electric shaver. Then there's setting up the voicemail account in Cuba, reading my required pre-departure articles, saying good-bye to the people I haven't yet, making sure I've got money on my Amigo card (and finding a cheaper way to have money deposited), finding the two books for my classes that we were given the list of at most five days ago, and getting any other little necessities.

Just as a quick explanation of how I chose this journal name... A lot of my friends that have a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish pronounce Jake literally - "Ha-kay". When I tell native Spanish speakers that they can call me "Jaque" if they'd like, they laugh because in Spanish, "jaquemate" means "checkmate". In Spanish shorthand, they change "qu" or "que" to "k", so I'm now JakeMate, which sounds sillier in English than in Spanish. I put Cuban in front of it because someone else already took jakemate.blogspot.com plus it signifies what this thing is all about a little better.

I probably won't update again until I get settled into Habana and figure out where the internet cafes are. I will try to make this a weekly or twice-weekly journal, and hopefully I'll be consistent about that. I'll also add pictures discriminately, so be ready for a bunch of those next update.

Hasta...