February 19th to March 4
So it’s now March 5th, and the last time I wrote anything was February 19th. I keep realizing when I finally get around to writing down everything that’s happened that if I really did write every day it’d be much easier to keep up with everything, instead of trying desperately to remember what interesting things I’ve done and in the meantime forgetting little interesting nuances about Cuba. So once again, after this update, I’m pledging myself to keep up to date.
In preparation for our trips to both the US Interest Section and the Cuban MINREX (Ministry of External Relations) to get a healthy dose of propaganda, we visited the Ministry of the Interior museum on Cuban history, which had a strong focus on subversion and its connection with the US/imperialism – first those who fought against the Machado and Batista regimes (including Fidel’s student group) and how brutally they were put down, and then information on all the attempts by the US government and US-based groups to overthrow Castro by various means, including all out invasion, sneaking in weapons and propaganda leaflets, and the numerous assassination attempts.
On Friday, we visited the US Interest Section, which is essentially the embassy here. Inside the building, it simply felt like the US again – strong AC, marble flooring, full fluorescent lighting; everything in tip-top shape. We had a short lecture describing the Section’s duties, and then were allowed to ask questions. By the end of the session, our speaker, a woman who had been in the Foreign Service for a little over five years, had come off as completely immature to me. After complaining about lots of little restrictions that the Cuban government had imposed on the Section employees, she reluctantly admitted that those restrictions were placed tit-for-tat only after the US had imposed the same on the Cuban employees in DC. I understood where her frustration came from and why she was so jaded about being in Cuba, but that frustration came off as unprofessional and immature. When I asked what good things she had to say about Cuba, she ignored anything regarding the government (i.e. socialized health care, education, a general level of health) and simply said that she would miss the people because they were very kind. Once again, I got the melancholy premonition of how things would be once Fidel passes away when I saw the utter excitement in our speaker’s face while she talked about how much things would change – the liberalized trade, the freedoms, the opportunities. She also was very proud of her additions to the LCD display on the outside of the building and that it had caused the Cubans to build the fifty or so extremely large flagpoles directly in front to block the view of the display. Each day, a different employee is assigned to write a theme for the display, such as her choosing to write about how Cuba has an intranet, not an internet, as well as include current events that would be censored by the Cuban government. The thing is, she didn’t really complain that the flags now blocked their LCD display, but that the flags were built over what was once their parking lot and that she now had to walk an extra couple of blocks to go to her car. Honestly, it takes a lot to pass the Foreign Service exam and get in, so there’s an inherent level of respect for those employees, but this one just came off as vindictive and immature. They sent us home with some requisite propaganda, but I also left with less respect for the US’s handling of Cuban relations.
After the US side, we saw the Cuban side. At the Minrex, they served us cookies, Cokes, water, and coffee to try to buddy up to us with food. They rambled for a little bit about what they did there, and then again opened it up to questions. Most of the questions were either not understood or skirted around, which was a good thing in one case. A student from UNC asked “Do you feel like it was a mature decision to put up the flags in front of the US Interest Section?” Looking around, four or five of us, myself included, had our mouths hanging open in surprise that someone would ask such a forward and accusatory question. Granted, it’s a question that begs answering from someone, but at the Cuban Minrex, it just came off as stupid and disrespectful. While he was at it, the student should have asked “Don’t you all know that Communism is going to fail?” or “Why do you hate freedom in Cuba?”
This week we also welcomed a new student into our classes, Marie. She goes to a university in Olympia, Washington that runs on a quarter system, so she took a quarter off to come to Cuba illegally for a month. We found out quickly that her father is a professor and will be coming to AU next semester to teach a class, and then found out that she had grown up in DC and was good friends with Philip Brenner’s daughter. It’s a very small world, indeed. We’re all waiting to see how Phil will react when he comes to visit us for Spring Break and sees his daughter’s best friend in Cuba illegally.
Friday night, we decided to flaunt authority a little bit and go hang out with the Marines that guard the Interest Section. We visited their compound, which is fenced in by razor wire, has a beach volleyball court, a basketball court, a horseshoes field, their own bar, and a pool. It was another little slice of America in Cuba, but was a nice relief to be around some ridiculous Americans for a while. We went to Club Chevere where you paid $10 for all you can drink. Not being much of a dancer, I wandered around the club for a couple of hours, and at some point had a breakdown where I became extremely lonely and homesick, and really just wanted to go sleep, so I got it in my head to walk home. I left the club and walked about 6 blocks before I realized I had no clue where I was headed, and then walked back. By this time, my compadres had noticed my absence and had come to look for me, and when they did it was time to leave.
Saturday night, Marie and I went to a baseball game – it was an exhibition game for the upcoming World Classic of Baseball. The game was between the Cuban national team and Nicaragua. The game only lasted seven innings, which was a good thing too, because Cuba beat Nicaragua 13 to 0. The game was a lot more exciting than the previous intra-Cuba game we had seen, and this time it only cost one national peso instead of four convertibles. I’m looking forward to more of these games.
Sunday, I spent the day with Professor Cuevas. We visited his 86 year old mother in a nursing home. Though she had early stages of Alzheimer’s, she was very mobile and spry, and was very excited to talk to me, though she was so bashful that she would ask Cuevas to ask me questions. We also stopped by another resident, who was equally excited to see Cuevas and me – the 92 year old aunt of Fidel Castro.
After visiting, we went to the grocery store where we ran into one of Cueva’s friends. Cuevas told me that he was the foremost biographer of Che Guevara, which was evidenced by the hundreds of original pieces of art, mostly portraits of Che, sent from all over the world. He and Cuevas talked for some time about books, specifically one with letters from Che to his wife that lent credibility to the belief that Fidel and Che had had a falling out and thus why Che had gone/been sent to Bolivia. Cuevas later confided in me that he and his wife, both authors of many books on Communism, Che, and Fidel, were devout party-members and that he himself had to watch what he said around them. I think they enjoyed my comments about the immaturity of the Interest Section employees.
We headed back to Cuevas’s apartment, where I lent him some DVDs to watch and we talked for some time. He had a message on his answering machine offering to sell him some blackmarket pork, which he passed on, though he told me that usually the sellers will take a live pig and put it on the train tracks to be slaughtered that way, since it would be illegal to take it to a butcher. He also invited me to a dinner that he was invited to that evening at the Hotel Nacional, and then another dinner the following night with two professors from Northern Ohio Univeristy.
The group at the Hotel Nacional was about twenty-five Jewish Californians who had come on a humanitarian mission, though really they were on a glorified art tour. We ate a salmon appetizer, followed by filet mignon, with several glasses of red wine, and a chocolate mousse for dessert. I met an older woman who was a graduate of AU, and told stories about our time here in Cuba so far, and was quizzed so much by the group that Cuevas had to tell them to hold on so I could eat before my food got cold. They were very sweet and interesting, especially the man across from me. While I could tell he was facing the early stages of memory loss, often not being able to find the right words or losing his train of thought entirely, he did tell me that he was going to try to start learning Spanish again. It really touched me that despite his age, despite his mental acuity, he still had a lust for learning and was ready to tackle a new language, so I encouraged him heartily.
Cuevas and I did have a good time speaking Spanish however, as very few there could speak even a remedial amount. Many people who spoke to Cuevas in English spoke slowly and over-annunciated, the tell tale sign of someone who hasn’t tried speaking another language very much. So we would make fun of some of the sillier Americans in Spanish, and cracked a lot of jokes between each other. In general, it was nice to meet a group of fun-loving, active older Americans and have a great dinner as well.
Monday night, Cuevas and I met and ate with two professors staking out places to begin their undergraduate Cuba program this coming semester, and while Cuevas was a little bit more annoying this time around and had very little of importance to say, I gave any and all help I could to the professors regarding being an American student in Cuba. I pitched the idea of passing along a revised student guide that we’re planning on making at the end of our time here, which they were very interested in, and even discussed flying several of us to Ohio during the summer to be part of a forum at their Cuban Business Center where we would discuss our time in Cuba and the environment there. The director of the Cuban Business Center had formally been the dean of the business school, and he regaled me with stories of being a lost youth in college who dropped out, then reapplied himself to become a business consultant for Kroger International, traveling five out of seven days a week, and making six figures as well, then eventually becoming dean of a top fifty business school. He gave me some hope in my own times of self-doubt and worry about academia.
That week, I acquired about ten business cards, exchanged numerous e-mail addresses, and met so many people that it felt like I was at a business convention sometimes. I owe Cuevas a lot for introducing me to so many incredible people and seeing such amazing things already.
This past week, nothing much happened in way of events. Mardi Gras doesn’t happen here, but we celebrated anyway at Club Coctel. It was a tiny club but very crowded for a Tuesday night. They played mostly hip-hop, which attracted a hip-hop crowd. Most of the Cubans there were trying to emulate the hip-hop lifestyle of the US, wearing throwback jerseys and do-rags, but even as a white boy, I could tell where they were doing it all wrong – not tying their do-rag properly for instance. I started getting hit up by a jintera, so I had Diana save me, and then we all went to Dino’s for 24hour pizza. We gorged ourselves on pizza, listened to the Marines who met us at the club making misogynistic remarks, and then all got depressed looking at a seven year old kid who was passed out sitting straight up with a half eaten pizza, a packet of cookies, and a soda in front of him. This wouldn’t be so strange if he weren’t alone and it wasn’t 2:30AM. We woke him up finally and asked if he needed a taxi. Instead, he went back to sleep, so we woke him up again, gave him five convertibles, and then tried to go outside with him to get a cab. A Cuban guy started trying to help us out, and once outside, the police, acting completely friendly and amiable, tried to get the child a cab. Instead, he flipped out, threw his food away, and started crying and pushing everyone away. He eventually got a ride somewhere, but to where I have no clue. The waiters at Dino’s told us that he came in there like that several times a week.
Wednesday was a Manu Chao concert, which is a group from Mexico, Argentina, and several other Latin American countries. There must have easily been a hundred thousand youth at this concert held in front of the US Interest Section. Spaniards, Canadians, Argentineans, Basques, Mexicans, and all the other international youth in Cuba. Anytime there’s a large gathering like this, there’s this habit of bringing your country’s flag to wave around in front of everyone and block the stage or someone’s view – I’m not really sure what it proves, because you could probably make the same effect by telling people around you that you’re from a certain country without being so visually annoying. Anyway, while I like going to concerts, I hate it when they’re packed and you ALWAYS have someone trying to push through and get closer, even though you yourself only have a half-foot’s worth of personal space. Then to make it worse, the music gets really strong and people have to create a moshpit which forces everyone to get into even closer quarters so these idiots can have enough room to jump around and push each other. The music was good, even though I only know one Manu Chao song, although it became a little formulaic after a while. I think I would appreciate them more if I listened at my leisure instead of being so annoyed with the constant hands hitting my back while people thrashed around in musical ecstasy around me. It was still a fun night to see a very popular band. The typical anti-imperialist/anti-Bush rhetoric went around, which always seems out of place in a concert, no matter what type of music you make.
So as I’ve mentioned before, we use this thing here called TransCard, which allows Americans like us to get money in Cuba by going through a Canadian company. It’s the only one of its kind, and so you think they’d make lots of money and be really good at what they do. Except that two weekends ago, they “lost communication” with Canada from Thursday until Tuesday, were back up again on Tuesday, and then lost it again until late Thursday night. I had dreams of calling TransCard and asking “So what exactly does your company do?” and when they replied “We allow people to withdraw money in Cuba” I would reply “THEN WHY CAN’T YOU DO IT!” Fortunately, it went back online and we started planning our weekend.
We decided to go to Matanzas via the Hershey train again. In Matanzas, we wanted to find a place to stay straight away so we could enjoy the town, but found that much has changed there. First, our Lonely Planet guidebook said that there was one hotel that was open and two that were closed but would be reopened for business in late 2004. The first was closed for renovations, and the other two had never made it out of renovations and were instead repossessed by Cubans. So we tried to get casa particulares, but rules prohibit more than two people per room, meaning that we would pay $20 for one room for two people, and then $20 for another room for one person. None of them would give us a discount considering the inconvenience, and so we decided to try the campismo, a KAO-like campground with cabins, seven kilometers out of town. We were pleasantly surprised as it was nestled at the base of a cliff by the side of Rio Canimar at the opening to the ocean. Plus, a six person cabin ran the three of us 39 national pesos total – less than two dollars. We unpacked and swam in the water for a little bit, which was a briny mix of the fresh river water and the salty ocean. We played volleyball with a group of 14 year old schoolchildren, and then went to go rent a motorboat across the river. Unfortunately, our six convertibles bought us three drinks and an hour with a ROWboat, not a motorboat. So we made the best of it and took our drinks on the boat and rowed around for a little bit, watching the red crabs eat algae on the bank of the river, and yelling with kids on the top of the cliff.
We headed back into Matanzas, ate a nice seafood dinner, then continued our quest to eat at every Copellias we encounter outside of Havana. I’m not quite sure what compelled me to do it, but I started a fight with a group in front of us in line. See, at Copellias (and of course, everywhere in Cuba) you wait in line to be seated in groups of four. There was a couple in front of us, a couple behind us, and then a guy by himself. The couple behind us brokered with the couple in front of us to get seated with them, which was agreed upon. I could’ve stayed silent, but I felt disrespected that they wouldn’t have the common decency to ask us if it would be alright to cut in front for convenience’s sake. I understand that they cut just to make things work out easier and nothing was really wrong with them doing it, but I told them, “If you had asked me, I would’ve said yes, but since you didn’t, you’ve disrespected me now.” I caused a big scene and amused a lot of people, which was really what I was trying to do. It worked out for the better, because the guy who was by himself was seated with us – he was a cute man in his thirties with a handlebar mustache who lived with his mother and was unmarried. He worked as a treecutter, and had his new axe with him. He told us that though he had relatives in the States, he wasn’t interested in going because he loved his life and his job. We insisted on paying for him since he was such good company (and plus the ice cream only cost a dollar).
Afterwards, we were ready to go try a club, and so we hired a bici-taxi which usually only seat two but into which all three of us squeezed into. His name was Michael, and he cracked us up by constantly telling us and everyone we passed to “Cumon, Cumon!!! (Come on, come on!)” and yelling “HEY YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” at stray dogs on the street. He suggested this club called Las Palmas, which was outdoors and had large stucco walls separating the line outside and the club. There were about a hundred people waiting to get in, and while most clubs and places in Cuba have fairly organized lines, this was a sheer mob trying to push through to the gate that would only open a foot or two every time they decided to let someone in. We were immediately latched onto by some Cubans because entrance was only granted to couples, and what better bartering material than Americans? We tried everything: yelling in English to get their attention, tapping the bouncer’s shoulder, calling his name, sneaking in a side entrance… we ended up just having to wait, and by the time we got in, it simply wasn’t worth it. Diana felt like crap, Scott wasn’t interested in drinking, and we were getting picked up in the bicitaxi in less than an hour. I danced with the girl that had grabbed me, but Diana had pointed out that with her cellphone and the way in which she knew every young girl there (which wouldn’t be strange in a small town, but Matanzas is the fourth largest city in Cuba) it was quite possible that she was a pimp/prostitute. She kept asking for drinks and suggesting that we buy a bottle of rum and a couple of cokes, but I kept my money to myself.
We left and were walking toward the corner where we were to meet Michael when we heard “Come on, come on!” before we even saw him. He intended to take the three of us all the way back to our campismo seven kilometers away, which he did. We sang “I Believe I Can Fly” all together, saw a snake on the road, which he picked up and held after being bit a couple times, and let each of us drive his bicitaxi for a little bit (which was incredibly hard – I have a lot of respect for those guys now). We sat at the 24 hour convenience store across from the entrance to our campismo for an hour or so talking about visiting again, because he had enjoyed hanging out with us. We parted ways and went to sleep fully clothed on our foot-thick bare mattresses without sheets or pillows.
We woke up at 7AM, covered with bites from either bed-bugs or mosquitos, got everything packed up, and took a relaxing breath on the shore of the river with the fierce morning sun shining on the rising. We went to the nearby castle where the student junta from the 1930s waited to get a boat to go into exile, but were instead murdered, but it wasn’t open for another two hours, so we decided to go to the nearby Cuevas Bellamar. While we were walking in the strong morning sun, already sweating with our heavy backpacks, we hear behind us “COME ON COME ON!!!” and see Michael riding up the road on his regular bicycle. It ended up that he was going to the weekly cockfights which were up the road past the caves, so he accompanied us. We bought a loaf of bread from a passerby, and shared it while we walked to the caves. Once there, we hit the caves, which were pretty incredible. They were the largest in Cuba, and had some very beautiful chambers, stalactites, stalagmites, and crystalline structures. Several small pools of water trickled through it, and we drank from the fountains of youth and love. The pictures we took don’t do much justice to the grandeur of the caves. We had a lunch of ropa vieja (stewed beef and vegetables with rice), and then solicited a ride from a local waiting to pick someone up. We thought it was pretty nice of him to take us, and when we asked how much we could give him for the ride, he charged us $3, which changed the ride from a friendly pick-up to us being taken advantage of.
The plan from here was for Diana to head back to Havana, and Scott and I to travel the 35km to Varadero for a day at the beach. Our guidebook (damn that thing) said that intra-provincial buses traveled to Varadero at 2pm for $1.50 – no such thing existed. The only options to Varadero was a big Astro charter bus for $6, or a private taxi for $20. We gave up on that idea after some frustration, and decided to head back to Havana. Our options were to wait until 4PM to take the Hershey train back for 1.60pesos, take a charter bus for $7, or get a private taxi. The private taxi was a headache – Diana was offered a price of $5, but when Scott and I expressed interest in taking it, the price suddenly went to $25 for the two of us, but still $5 for her. We started another argument about how we should be entitled to the same prices, and that it was discrimination, and all but told the driver to go get screwed. Apparently, all the private taxis had colluded on their prices, and we were planning on waiting to take the train. Then we found out that we could get a ride like the Cubans do on another bus that wasn’t there yet, but we bought our tickets after waiting for an hour for 7pesos. The bus showed up, and it turned out to be a chartered TransTur bus, with air conditioning and air-ride suspension. We got on the bus, and all three of us slept for the hour and a half drive back.
Saturday, I swam on the Malecon with all the other Cuban kids, diving off the side and swimming in the heavy waves. That night, Scott, Marie, and I went out to a club, but many were either too expensive, already full, or had too large of lines. We met a group of high-school roqueros (metal-heads) who quizzed me on what Slipknot (a metal band) meant, if I had ever heard of Marilyn Manson, Coal Chamber, Korn, etc. They asked what bands I had seen in concert, where I was from in the US, if people did a lot of drugs in the US, and a load of other questions that I’m sure have been burning up their mind for some time.
So now I’m sort of caught up, and hopefully I didn’t leave anything out. Hasta la proxima…
In preparation for our trips to both the US Interest Section and the Cuban MINREX (Ministry of External Relations) to get a healthy dose of propaganda, we visited the Ministry of the Interior museum on Cuban history, which had a strong focus on subversion and its connection with the US/imperialism – first those who fought against the Machado and Batista regimes (including Fidel’s student group) and how brutally they were put down, and then information on all the attempts by the US government and US-based groups to overthrow Castro by various means, including all out invasion, sneaking in weapons and propaganda leaflets, and the numerous assassination attempts.
On Friday, we visited the US Interest Section, which is essentially the embassy here. Inside the building, it simply felt like the US again – strong AC, marble flooring, full fluorescent lighting; everything in tip-top shape. We had a short lecture describing the Section’s duties, and then were allowed to ask questions. By the end of the session, our speaker, a woman who had been in the Foreign Service for a little over five years, had come off as completely immature to me. After complaining about lots of little restrictions that the Cuban government had imposed on the Section employees, she reluctantly admitted that those restrictions were placed tit-for-tat only after the US had imposed the same on the Cuban employees in DC. I understood where her frustration came from and why she was so jaded about being in Cuba, but that frustration came off as unprofessional and immature. When I asked what good things she had to say about Cuba, she ignored anything regarding the government (i.e. socialized health care, education, a general level of health) and simply said that she would miss the people because they were very kind. Once again, I got the melancholy premonition of how things would be once Fidel passes away when I saw the utter excitement in our speaker’s face while she talked about how much things would change – the liberalized trade, the freedoms, the opportunities. She also was very proud of her additions to the LCD display on the outside of the building and that it had caused the Cubans to build the fifty or so extremely large flagpoles directly in front to block the view of the display. Each day, a different employee is assigned to write a theme for the display, such as her choosing to write about how Cuba has an intranet, not an internet, as well as include current events that would be censored by the Cuban government. The thing is, she didn’t really complain that the flags now blocked their LCD display, but that the flags were built over what was once their parking lot and that she now had to walk an extra couple of blocks to go to her car. Honestly, it takes a lot to pass the Foreign Service exam and get in, so there’s an inherent level of respect for those employees, but this one just came off as vindictive and immature. They sent us home with some requisite propaganda, but I also left with less respect for the US’s handling of Cuban relations.
After the US side, we saw the Cuban side. At the Minrex, they served us cookies, Cokes, water, and coffee to try to buddy up to us with food. They rambled for a little bit about what they did there, and then again opened it up to questions. Most of the questions were either not understood or skirted around, which was a good thing in one case. A student from UNC asked “Do you feel like it was a mature decision to put up the flags in front of the US Interest Section?” Looking around, four or five of us, myself included, had our mouths hanging open in surprise that someone would ask such a forward and accusatory question. Granted, it’s a question that begs answering from someone, but at the Cuban Minrex, it just came off as stupid and disrespectful. While he was at it, the student should have asked “Don’t you all know that Communism is going to fail?” or “Why do you hate freedom in Cuba?”
This week we also welcomed a new student into our classes, Marie. She goes to a university in Olympia, Washington that runs on a quarter system, so she took a quarter off to come to Cuba illegally for a month. We found out quickly that her father is a professor and will be coming to AU next semester to teach a class, and then found out that she had grown up in DC and was good friends with Philip Brenner’s daughter. It’s a very small world, indeed. We’re all waiting to see how Phil will react when he comes to visit us for Spring Break and sees his daughter’s best friend in Cuba illegally.
Friday night, we decided to flaunt authority a little bit and go hang out with the Marines that guard the Interest Section. We visited their compound, which is fenced in by razor wire, has a beach volleyball court, a basketball court, a horseshoes field, their own bar, and a pool. It was another little slice of America in Cuba, but was a nice relief to be around some ridiculous Americans for a while. We went to Club Chevere where you paid $10 for all you can drink. Not being much of a dancer, I wandered around the club for a couple of hours, and at some point had a breakdown where I became extremely lonely and homesick, and really just wanted to go sleep, so I got it in my head to walk home. I left the club and walked about 6 blocks before I realized I had no clue where I was headed, and then walked back. By this time, my compadres had noticed my absence and had come to look for me, and when they did it was time to leave.
Saturday night, Marie and I went to a baseball game – it was an exhibition game for the upcoming World Classic of Baseball. The game was between the Cuban national team and Nicaragua. The game only lasted seven innings, which was a good thing too, because Cuba beat Nicaragua 13 to 0. The game was a lot more exciting than the previous intra-Cuba game we had seen, and this time it only cost one national peso instead of four convertibles. I’m looking forward to more of these games.
Sunday, I spent the day with Professor Cuevas. We visited his 86 year old mother in a nursing home. Though she had early stages of Alzheimer’s, she was very mobile and spry, and was very excited to talk to me, though she was so bashful that she would ask Cuevas to ask me questions. We also stopped by another resident, who was equally excited to see Cuevas and me – the 92 year old aunt of Fidel Castro.
After visiting, we went to the grocery store where we ran into one of Cueva’s friends. Cuevas told me that he was the foremost biographer of Che Guevara, which was evidenced by the hundreds of original pieces of art, mostly portraits of Che, sent from all over the world. He and Cuevas talked for some time about books, specifically one with letters from Che to his wife that lent credibility to the belief that Fidel and Che had had a falling out and thus why Che had gone/been sent to Bolivia. Cuevas later confided in me that he and his wife, both authors of many books on Communism, Che, and Fidel, were devout party-members and that he himself had to watch what he said around them. I think they enjoyed my comments about the immaturity of the Interest Section employees.
We headed back to Cuevas’s apartment, where I lent him some DVDs to watch and we talked for some time. He had a message on his answering machine offering to sell him some blackmarket pork, which he passed on, though he told me that usually the sellers will take a live pig and put it on the train tracks to be slaughtered that way, since it would be illegal to take it to a butcher. He also invited me to a dinner that he was invited to that evening at the Hotel Nacional, and then another dinner the following night with two professors from Northern Ohio Univeristy.
The group at the Hotel Nacional was about twenty-five Jewish Californians who had come on a humanitarian mission, though really they were on a glorified art tour. We ate a salmon appetizer, followed by filet mignon, with several glasses of red wine, and a chocolate mousse for dessert. I met an older woman who was a graduate of AU, and told stories about our time here in Cuba so far, and was quizzed so much by the group that Cuevas had to tell them to hold on so I could eat before my food got cold. They were very sweet and interesting, especially the man across from me. While I could tell he was facing the early stages of memory loss, often not being able to find the right words or losing his train of thought entirely, he did tell me that he was going to try to start learning Spanish again. It really touched me that despite his age, despite his mental acuity, he still had a lust for learning and was ready to tackle a new language, so I encouraged him heartily.
Cuevas and I did have a good time speaking Spanish however, as very few there could speak even a remedial amount. Many people who spoke to Cuevas in English spoke slowly and over-annunciated, the tell tale sign of someone who hasn’t tried speaking another language very much. So we would make fun of some of the sillier Americans in Spanish, and cracked a lot of jokes between each other. In general, it was nice to meet a group of fun-loving, active older Americans and have a great dinner as well.
Monday night, Cuevas and I met and ate with two professors staking out places to begin their undergraduate Cuba program this coming semester, and while Cuevas was a little bit more annoying this time around and had very little of importance to say, I gave any and all help I could to the professors regarding being an American student in Cuba. I pitched the idea of passing along a revised student guide that we’re planning on making at the end of our time here, which they were very interested in, and even discussed flying several of us to Ohio during the summer to be part of a forum at their Cuban Business Center where we would discuss our time in Cuba and the environment there. The director of the Cuban Business Center had formally been the dean of the business school, and he regaled me with stories of being a lost youth in college who dropped out, then reapplied himself to become a business consultant for Kroger International, traveling five out of seven days a week, and making six figures as well, then eventually becoming dean of a top fifty business school. He gave me some hope in my own times of self-doubt and worry about academia.
That week, I acquired about ten business cards, exchanged numerous e-mail addresses, and met so many people that it felt like I was at a business convention sometimes. I owe Cuevas a lot for introducing me to so many incredible people and seeing such amazing things already.
This past week, nothing much happened in way of events. Mardi Gras doesn’t happen here, but we celebrated anyway at Club Coctel. It was a tiny club but very crowded for a Tuesday night. They played mostly hip-hop, which attracted a hip-hop crowd. Most of the Cubans there were trying to emulate the hip-hop lifestyle of the US, wearing throwback jerseys and do-rags, but even as a white boy, I could tell where they were doing it all wrong – not tying their do-rag properly for instance. I started getting hit up by a jintera, so I had Diana save me, and then we all went to Dino’s for 24hour pizza. We gorged ourselves on pizza, listened to the Marines who met us at the club making misogynistic remarks, and then all got depressed looking at a seven year old kid who was passed out sitting straight up with a half eaten pizza, a packet of cookies, and a soda in front of him. This wouldn’t be so strange if he weren’t alone and it wasn’t 2:30AM. We woke him up finally and asked if he needed a taxi. Instead, he went back to sleep, so we woke him up again, gave him five convertibles, and then tried to go outside with him to get a cab. A Cuban guy started trying to help us out, and once outside, the police, acting completely friendly and amiable, tried to get the child a cab. Instead, he flipped out, threw his food away, and started crying and pushing everyone away. He eventually got a ride somewhere, but to where I have no clue. The waiters at Dino’s told us that he came in there like that several times a week.
Wednesday was a Manu Chao concert, which is a group from Mexico, Argentina, and several other Latin American countries. There must have easily been a hundred thousand youth at this concert held in front of the US Interest Section. Spaniards, Canadians, Argentineans, Basques, Mexicans, and all the other international youth in Cuba. Anytime there’s a large gathering like this, there’s this habit of bringing your country’s flag to wave around in front of everyone and block the stage or someone’s view – I’m not really sure what it proves, because you could probably make the same effect by telling people around you that you’re from a certain country without being so visually annoying. Anyway, while I like going to concerts, I hate it when they’re packed and you ALWAYS have someone trying to push through and get closer, even though you yourself only have a half-foot’s worth of personal space. Then to make it worse, the music gets really strong and people have to create a moshpit which forces everyone to get into even closer quarters so these idiots can have enough room to jump around and push each other. The music was good, even though I only know one Manu Chao song, although it became a little formulaic after a while. I think I would appreciate them more if I listened at my leisure instead of being so annoyed with the constant hands hitting my back while people thrashed around in musical ecstasy around me. It was still a fun night to see a very popular band. The typical anti-imperialist/anti-Bush rhetoric went around, which always seems out of place in a concert, no matter what type of music you make.
So as I’ve mentioned before, we use this thing here called TransCard, which allows Americans like us to get money in Cuba by going through a Canadian company. It’s the only one of its kind, and so you think they’d make lots of money and be really good at what they do. Except that two weekends ago, they “lost communication” with Canada from Thursday until Tuesday, were back up again on Tuesday, and then lost it again until late Thursday night. I had dreams of calling TransCard and asking “So what exactly does your company do?” and when they replied “We allow people to withdraw money in Cuba” I would reply “THEN WHY CAN’T YOU DO IT!” Fortunately, it went back online and we started planning our weekend.
We decided to go to Matanzas via the Hershey train again. In Matanzas, we wanted to find a place to stay straight away so we could enjoy the town, but found that much has changed there. First, our Lonely Planet guidebook said that there was one hotel that was open and two that were closed but would be reopened for business in late 2004. The first was closed for renovations, and the other two had never made it out of renovations and were instead repossessed by Cubans. So we tried to get casa particulares, but rules prohibit more than two people per room, meaning that we would pay $20 for one room for two people, and then $20 for another room for one person. None of them would give us a discount considering the inconvenience, and so we decided to try the campismo, a KAO-like campground with cabins, seven kilometers out of town. We were pleasantly surprised as it was nestled at the base of a cliff by the side of Rio Canimar at the opening to the ocean. Plus, a six person cabin ran the three of us 39 national pesos total – less than two dollars. We unpacked and swam in the water for a little bit, which was a briny mix of the fresh river water and the salty ocean. We played volleyball with a group of 14 year old schoolchildren, and then went to go rent a motorboat across the river. Unfortunately, our six convertibles bought us three drinks and an hour with a ROWboat, not a motorboat. So we made the best of it and took our drinks on the boat and rowed around for a little bit, watching the red crabs eat algae on the bank of the river, and yelling with kids on the top of the cliff.
We headed back into Matanzas, ate a nice seafood dinner, then continued our quest to eat at every Copellias we encounter outside of Havana. I’m not quite sure what compelled me to do it, but I started a fight with a group in front of us in line. See, at Copellias (and of course, everywhere in Cuba) you wait in line to be seated in groups of four. There was a couple in front of us, a couple behind us, and then a guy by himself. The couple behind us brokered with the couple in front of us to get seated with them, which was agreed upon. I could’ve stayed silent, but I felt disrespected that they wouldn’t have the common decency to ask us if it would be alright to cut in front for convenience’s sake. I understand that they cut just to make things work out easier and nothing was really wrong with them doing it, but I told them, “If you had asked me, I would’ve said yes, but since you didn’t, you’ve disrespected me now.” I caused a big scene and amused a lot of people, which was really what I was trying to do. It worked out for the better, because the guy who was by himself was seated with us – he was a cute man in his thirties with a handlebar mustache who lived with his mother and was unmarried. He worked as a treecutter, and had his new axe with him. He told us that though he had relatives in the States, he wasn’t interested in going because he loved his life and his job. We insisted on paying for him since he was such good company (and plus the ice cream only cost a dollar).
Afterwards, we were ready to go try a club, and so we hired a bici-taxi which usually only seat two but into which all three of us squeezed into. His name was Michael, and he cracked us up by constantly telling us and everyone we passed to “Cumon, Cumon!!! (Come on, come on!)” and yelling “HEY YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” at stray dogs on the street. He suggested this club called Las Palmas, which was outdoors and had large stucco walls separating the line outside and the club. There were about a hundred people waiting to get in, and while most clubs and places in Cuba have fairly organized lines, this was a sheer mob trying to push through to the gate that would only open a foot or two every time they decided to let someone in. We were immediately latched onto by some Cubans because entrance was only granted to couples, and what better bartering material than Americans? We tried everything: yelling in English to get their attention, tapping the bouncer’s shoulder, calling his name, sneaking in a side entrance… we ended up just having to wait, and by the time we got in, it simply wasn’t worth it. Diana felt like crap, Scott wasn’t interested in drinking, and we were getting picked up in the bicitaxi in less than an hour. I danced with the girl that had grabbed me, but Diana had pointed out that with her cellphone and the way in which she knew every young girl there (which wouldn’t be strange in a small town, but Matanzas is the fourth largest city in Cuba) it was quite possible that she was a pimp/prostitute. She kept asking for drinks and suggesting that we buy a bottle of rum and a couple of cokes, but I kept my money to myself.
We left and were walking toward the corner where we were to meet Michael when we heard “Come on, come on!” before we even saw him. He intended to take the three of us all the way back to our campismo seven kilometers away, which he did. We sang “I Believe I Can Fly” all together, saw a snake on the road, which he picked up and held after being bit a couple times, and let each of us drive his bicitaxi for a little bit (which was incredibly hard – I have a lot of respect for those guys now). We sat at the 24 hour convenience store across from the entrance to our campismo for an hour or so talking about visiting again, because he had enjoyed hanging out with us. We parted ways and went to sleep fully clothed on our foot-thick bare mattresses without sheets or pillows.
We woke up at 7AM, covered with bites from either bed-bugs or mosquitos, got everything packed up, and took a relaxing breath on the shore of the river with the fierce morning sun shining on the rising. We went to the nearby castle where the student junta from the 1930s waited to get a boat to go into exile, but were instead murdered, but it wasn’t open for another two hours, so we decided to go to the nearby Cuevas Bellamar. While we were walking in the strong morning sun, already sweating with our heavy backpacks, we hear behind us “COME ON COME ON!!!” and see Michael riding up the road on his regular bicycle. It ended up that he was going to the weekly cockfights which were up the road past the caves, so he accompanied us. We bought a loaf of bread from a passerby, and shared it while we walked to the caves. Once there, we hit the caves, which were pretty incredible. They were the largest in Cuba, and had some very beautiful chambers, stalactites, stalagmites, and crystalline structures. Several small pools of water trickled through it, and we drank from the fountains of youth and love. The pictures we took don’t do much justice to the grandeur of the caves. We had a lunch of ropa vieja (stewed beef and vegetables with rice), and then solicited a ride from a local waiting to pick someone up. We thought it was pretty nice of him to take us, and when we asked how much we could give him for the ride, he charged us $3, which changed the ride from a friendly pick-up to us being taken advantage of.
The plan from here was for Diana to head back to Havana, and Scott and I to travel the 35km to Varadero for a day at the beach. Our guidebook (damn that thing) said that intra-provincial buses traveled to Varadero at 2pm for $1.50 – no such thing existed. The only options to Varadero was a big Astro charter bus for $6, or a private taxi for $20. We gave up on that idea after some frustration, and decided to head back to Havana. Our options were to wait until 4PM to take the Hershey train back for 1.60pesos, take a charter bus for $7, or get a private taxi. The private taxi was a headache – Diana was offered a price of $5, but when Scott and I expressed interest in taking it, the price suddenly went to $25 for the two of us, but still $5 for her. We started another argument about how we should be entitled to the same prices, and that it was discrimination, and all but told the driver to go get screwed. Apparently, all the private taxis had colluded on their prices, and we were planning on waiting to take the train. Then we found out that we could get a ride like the Cubans do on another bus that wasn’t there yet, but we bought our tickets after waiting for an hour for 7pesos. The bus showed up, and it turned out to be a chartered TransTur bus, with air conditioning and air-ride suspension. We got on the bus, and all three of us slept for the hour and a half drive back.
Saturday, I swam on the Malecon with all the other Cuban kids, diving off the side and swimming in the heavy waves. That night, Scott, Marie, and I went out to a club, but many were either too expensive, already full, or had too large of lines. We met a group of high-school roqueros (metal-heads) who quizzed me on what Slipknot (a metal band) meant, if I had ever heard of Marilyn Manson, Coal Chamber, Korn, etc. They asked what bands I had seen in concert, where I was from in the US, if people did a lot of drugs in the US, and a load of other questions that I’m sure have been burning up their mind for some time.
So now I’m sort of caught up, and hopefully I didn’t leave anything out. Hasta la proxima…
posted by Jake at 5:54 PM
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