The Gang Goes American: Part 2

When at the US Interest Section, the person behind the dark glass invited us to the US Marines' house in Miramar for their St. Patrick's Day party that night. The thought of such an event had such potential for hilarity, we tossed all other plans aside and added that to the ol' Cuban palmpilot (a piece of paper in one's pocket).

The woman we were standing with at the Interest Section told us the address of the house, and then said that it would be easy to find "because it's the only one in the area with concrete walls and barbed wall around it. It's very safe." As we walked out of the building, Steph turned to me and said, "Is the barbed wire to keep people out, or to keep them in?" I had no answer to that one.

Sporting our most festive green shirts, the group took a cab out to Miramar and, sure enough, the concrete and barbed wire came into view. "Yeah, we're going there," Chelsea said to the cab driver. He pulled over the cab, and chuckled at us. Apparently this was a unique destination.

When we walked in (and signed in with security) the first area that we reached was a patch of grassy area and a pool. We then gravitated to the bar area where some of the younger (non-family) crowd was. The staff sergeant (whose name I do not remember) made sure to first corner us and announce that the drinking age is 21 and over. "Are you all 21?" he asked. Everyone nodded their heads except for me, as I was the closest one to him and couldn't see what everyone behind me was doing. "You? You 21?" he said to me specifically. "Oh, yes. Yes I am." I answered. Not that drinking was that important, but the principle of the situation required that answer. We ain't in America, honey.

Later, we went and sat out at one of the tables and started chatting with a couple of the Marines. The conversation began to divide in two, and at a moment I didn't hear, one of them asked Steph, "How do you find communism?"

He's been in Cuba for more time than us, but that's what he asked. Scary.

I was chatting with a different Marine. His name was Chris, and he went to a private Catholic high school in Michigan. He was the person in the booth earlier that day, and admitted that he was bored and decided to go through our passports during our meeting. "So we all knew who you were before you got here," he said. I wasn't quite sure what to say in response to that.

Later on, the conversation moved to the Cubans who ask for money on the street. I said to him that I can never find it in my heart to deny someone a CUC if it means that they will eat for a couple days, especially when an amount of money that small means so little to me. "I actually pride myself on not having given any money to anyone since I've been here," he said. "So many are just scamming you." That's when I said that sure, some may be scamming, but the majority of the time if someone is at the point where they're asking for money on the street, they're really, really hungry. And they look hungry. And even the Cubans who don't look hungry are hungry. "Yeah, well, I feel like I already help people so much, you know? It's like I can't give any more of myself," he said, sitting back with his beer. He then made a comment about the Cuban government starving the people.

"Well, it's not like the US is helping very much either," I said. "In fact, the US is the majority of the problem in that respect."
"Oh really? What do you mean?" he asked in response, trying to ask casually yet not reveal that he was completely clueless.
"Well, the embargo, for one. The US is keeping these people from getting the food and the medicine they need to survive. They're strangling these people in order to get to the government."
"Huh," he said. Then he started talking about how large the Russian embassy is (and of course it is - it was the USSR embassy). He was then saying that we have no idea what's going on, and what the Cuban government is doing with the Russians, and that the government is always watching us because we're Americans. "The Cuban government's so good, sometimes we don't even know what they're doing, but they're always doing something."

By the end of our discussion I was getting angry, and was at my wits end saying, "Do you even know what the Helms-Burton Bill is?! Do you even understand any of this?"

No, they don't. The US Marines are stationed in Cuba and are not allowed to talk to Cubans. Their only job is to sit behind a box of dark glass with a bumper sticker on the front. They have never talked to Cubans, and therefore they do not know anything about Cuba. At one point, one of them said that they have had the same Cuban maid for a year, "And I'm sure she's picked up some English by now," he said. "She must be an informant for the government." None of the Marines except for the Staff Sergeant knew Spanish, so they couldn't really talk to Cubans if they wanted to. Instead they stay inside their cement box and continue to believe the lies that they've been told. The officials at the US Interest Section live similarly.

Conclusion: The only US officials that are in Cuba are not allowed to know what Cuba is like. They influence the US/Cuban policies that affect millions of people in both countries, most critically the Cuban people.

I wish I could express this more eloquently, but at the moment I can't find a way. The situation is relatively simple, however: how can the US and Cuba move forward if the people in charge don't know what's going on? Or, more terrifyingly, they THINK they know what is going on, but have no idea. The Marines we talked to tried to tell us that we were wrong about things that we know first-hand. This, to me, is the scariest part of it all. Cubans' lives are depending on these people, and the Americans are letting them down by reducing them to stereotypes.

On the Go, and Getting into Trouble

Since Saturday the gang's been involved in several adventures, all involving some sort of water and some sort of transportation.

1. Soroa

A few of us decided to get gutsy, and we rented a car for a day in order to have a roadtrip to Soroa in the western province of Pinar del Rio. Guidebooks made mention of waterfall swimmin', and that's one thing I just can't turn down.

The car situation was interesting. Four to the backseat meant for close quarters, but we managed. A trip that should take approximately 45 minutes ended up taking four hours because of the lack of signs around the city. It took two hours to finally get on the highway leading out of Havana.
Finally reaching our destination, the swimming was great fun, and it was really neat to see another part of the country. All in all, it was a successful roadtrip.and a photo taken by tara of chelsea, steph, and me:
2. Beach day.

On Sunday the gang decided to head out to the beach for the afternoon, as all of us were distracted by the all-too-lovely sunshine outside. After breakfast set out in search of a cab.

That was when we ran into a man driving a "cab," a coche particular (privately owned car) which he uses to make extra money on the side. True to the communist mentality, such side enterprises are illegal in Cuba. All official (and legal) taxis in Cuba are monitored by the government (cab drivers must keep a log of all of their clients and trips and profits) and all of the money is turned over. Anyway, we all jumped in (two in the front seat, four in the back) and took off for the beach.

The driver, Emilio, chatted with us a bit, and then informed Emma (who was sitting next to me in the front seat) that when we went by check points she should duck down. Oh dear.

So the first check point went fine, but the second wasn't so lucky, as Emma thought that Emilio told her she could sit up again, but it was too early, and immediately the police pulled us over. Emilio got out, got fined, and then we were on the road again. Great.

Then as we were cruisin' down the highway, a truck with several men in the back began to yell at us to pull over. This is rather common in Cuba, as there's always cars falling apart on the road, and everyone's looking out for each other. So, we pulled over to find that the screws had fallen off of the back right tire. Emilio got out the jack, and as soon as the car was raised a bit off the ground the tire fell off without hesitation. After some switching around of the screws from the other tires (in true socialist fashion) we got back in the car, this time with one in the front seat, and five of us in the back. For whatever reason, this was better weight distribution for the tires. Ookay.

A couple photos courtesy of Danny. The first is of us standing on the side of the road as Emilio fixed the tire. The second is of us all in the backseat (and I look a little... special).
Feeling a tad bit anxious but trying to play it cool, we were back on the highway again. Approximately five minutes after we were up to normal speed, we passed another police check point, at which time we were pulled over again, and Emilio was fined again. Great.

So then we finally made it to the beach (all safe and unharmed) and Emilio still made a large profit from driving us there despite the fines because they are in moneda nacional, so they barely detract from our payment in CUC. We were saying after how in the US if that sort of thing happened, we'd want to get the ride for free.. but in Cuba, we almost feel the need to pay the driver extra just for going through all of that for us.

3. The Flood of '09

Monday morning we were all walking to school down tercera, admiring the water which had reached our street thanks to the overactive malecón. The sidewalks were dry, so we were happily traipsing down them, remarking on the Venice-esque dynamics of our neighborhood. After a block, however, we reached the corner of tercera and B street to see a knee-high river running down the street that we needed to cross. The current was formidable, and we were slightly unmotivated, so we then turned around to head home. This was when we realized that the water had raised onto the sidewalk, and we had no choice but to wade through the water. Taking off my sneakers and socks and rolling up my jeans, I tried to think of other things besides the floating dog poop that accompanied us on our stroll.

So we made it back to the building, then sat around outside for a while, playing in the water (which was infinitely cleaner when closer to the malecón) until the Casa bus came to cart us to school. It was fun while it lasted.

Geovani carrying a woman from our building across the street:Horse and carriage:A man walking his dog and drinking a beer at 10 am:
Oh, Cuba.

Squirrels, Milkshakes, and The Closest I'll Ever Get to Meeting a Cinematic Cannibal

Yesterday was bright and sunny, and we had gotten out of class early. Subsequently, we were hungry and bored and had an afternoon free to cause some trouble.

The Melía Cohiba Hotel is about a block away from our building. It is a five-star hotel with a pool and several restaurants of a non-Cuban variety. We decided that we would try to infiltrate said location for an afternoon ('cause we're troublemakers like that).

Strolling into the pizzeria (which is conveniently very close to the pool) we sauntered toward the host, waiting to be seated. Then we noticed that we were the only customers in the whole place.
"We don't open until one," the host told us. It was 12:15. "Oh, okay, thank you," one of us said, and we left, our confidence unshaken by the event. We were still playing it cool.

Sauntering out to the pool area, we surveyed the astroturf-surrounded oasis and looked around for some good lounge chairs on which we could wait until one o'clock (at which time we would feast). Choosing a snazzy cabana with wooden sunchairs, we sat down and tried hard to look as five-star-hotel-guest-esque as humanly possible (even though we're just four gals between the ages 20 and 23 who have been in Cuba so long that the mere sight of olive oil makes us misty-eyed with joy, and the thought of public toilet seats and toilet paper makes us go to the bathroom even when we don't have to, just to support the cause).

Having been to the pizzeria before, we had scoped out the protocol for the pool situation. The pasty, rich Europeans in question would walk to the towel counter where they would present their room key, permitting them to have a royal blue towel which says the hotel's name upon it (vertically). Knowing the protocol did not mean that we had a plan. We were just planning on playing dumb.

Soon after assuming our sophisticated stances in the chosen chairs, a surly man in a white polo came over to us, asking if we needed towels. (Once again, this was in Spanish, but I'm too lazy to translate.)
"Oh no, we're fine," I said, attempting to look as comfortable as possible on the wooden-plank chair unadorned by terrycloth.
"Yeah, we're good," said Courtney.
"Room number and key?" white polo asked.
"Uh"
"Well"
(Steph made the genius decision to stare at her purse blankly, as if to desperately wish for a room key's appearance from within.)
"We don't have one."
"Oh no?" said white polo, visions of power trips dancing in his head.
"Look, here's the situation. We're here to have lunch, but the place isn't open yet, so we thought we could sit here for a bit until then," Courtney admitted. It was a good story, but our clearly-visible bathing suits underneath our clothes may have tipped white polo off to our malicious intent.
"The pool area is for guests only. You're going to have to leave."

He had won the battle, but we would win the war. We ended up going to a different restaurant that was directly poolside and was already open, and ate there. We befriended the waiter who was a delightful, friendly, chubby Cuban man who didn't hate us like white polo did. We decided to ask him about the whole using-the-pool-even-though-we're-not-guests situation. He went and talked to a different towel guy, then returned to the table, saying that one of us should go talk to the guy there after we're done eating.

Friendly, chubby had an honest face, so we decided to trust him as an informant in our mission. Going over to talk to the other towel guy, we were playing it cool, but made sure to smile and giggle a tad. Other towel guy turned out to be a good ally - give him a "tip," and he would give us towels for the day. Done and done.

So we triumphantly found ourselves some new chairs right up by the pool, and settled in with our royal blue Melía Cohiba towels and reading assignment for class. Life was good.

A couple hours later, an eager young chap decided to strike up a conversation with the group of us. Everyone else ignored him and his annoying calls over to us, leaving me to the proverbial wolves. Awkward conversation ensued, including a discussion of Barcelona (where he and the group of [presumably ridiculously rich business]men he was with are from) and how I should really go there some time (gag). And also Boston we discussed, or really just how overjoyed he was to see SQUIRRELS CLIMB UP THE TREES there. (I've noticed this before, too: Europeans LOVE squirrels.)

"My English is not that good," he said to me in Spanish.
"Somehow I don't have trouble believing that," I answered in English and Steph laughed. Young Chap (whom I found out was named Valentine) was still eager to keep the conversation going, but I managed to ignore him after he introduced me to all the other men he was with, including a man who looked exactly like Anthony Hopkins (circa Silence of The Lambs). He introduced me to him as Anthony, and told me immediately of his similarity to Mr. Hopkins. "Yup, Hannibal Lector," I replied.

A little while later, the men when swimming, at which time they figured conversation should be attempted yet again. Anthony Hopkins had taken a liking to Emma, whom he decided to direct his catcalls toward for awhile. Anthony proved to be the most enthusiastic of the group of men, yelling things to us quite frequently after we were introduced.

When they were about to go, Anthony decided to make one final attempt at courting us/his soulmate Emma. That was when I lost my temper and I decided to say something. First I said it in English to him, which he did not understand. Then I said it in Spanish:

Me: I wish you knew English so that I would be able to tell you all the things I am thinking.
[All five men, intrigued, crowd around]
Anthony: ¿Sí?
Me: Sí. I would tell you that you lack respect for women
Anthony: No, no, no.
Me: And, I don't know the word in Spanish,
Anthony: Mmm?
Me: But I would tell you that you are disgusting.
Anthony: Eh?
Me: Repulsive.
One of them who understands suddenly: Oh, no no no.
Me: Sí, sí.
Anthony: Ah, I see the American women are prudes, eh?
Other guys: Oh, whoaaa.

(Anthony has a telephone conversation whilst the other four have a [slightly anxious] pow-wow)

Anthony: I do not lack respect for women.
Me: Oh no?
Anthony: I am merely telling a woman that she is pretty [the Spanish word for pretty is linda]. It is part of our culture. How is that lack of respect?
Me: You guys were bothering us the whole time you've been here.
Anthony: I am not bothering you if I say that you are pretty.
Me: Well..
Anthony: Yes?
Me: Well, in my mind, all humans are equal. And I would never start bothering you and your friends, harassing them, telling them that they are pretty.
Anthony: Do you know what "linda" means?
Me: Yes, of course.
Anthony: What does it mean?
Me: Pretty.
Anthony: Um, yeah, you're right.
Steph: And when you stand there HISSING at us?
Anthony: Um, well..
Valentine: C'mon, lindo, time to go.

The group of them then began to retreat to the hotel, the Cuban one turning back to us trying to apologize for the other ones' behavior, calling them crazy. Oh, but we know better. There's no doubt that he does the same exact thing to women on other occasions.

As the men ran away, we resumed our nonchalant sunbathing on our royal blue towels, reading our reading assignments, and sipping on strawberry-banana milkshakes (double the amount free, courtesy of the delightful, friendly, chubby waiter). Win.


Just an idea what kind of men were at the pool (though they weren't the ones that harassed us):

John Adams, meet Carlos Marx.

Yesterday as we were about to catch a cab to the book fair, I received the pleasant news that I had mail. I opened the envelope quickly, and to my surprise and delight, it was a letter and present from Chessie Monks. Chessie works in the rare books department at the Boston Public Library, and is working on a project promoting a traveling collection on John Adams through having John Adams bookmarks travel around the world. ( Check it out here! ) Tucking my own personal patriot into my purse, we went to the fair, and I couldn't help but take some pictures of him there.

The book fair was incredible. There were so many books there, and so so so many people there eager to see what was offered. It was an amazing thing to see - people of all ages enthusiastic about books. A lot of the ones that were sold in Moneda Nacional were second-hand so that they were affordable for everyone. I wish Americans could get that excited about books, but I feel like the whole country is so saturated in consumerism and hyperstimulation that most just simply aren't interested.

And now for the John Adams pictures!

Eager to be a part of the action:
Getting cozy with some of the books:Surveying the Havana skyline at the end of an exciting day:And another photo (without John) solely for its intellectual value:

Love the smell of pesticides in the morning.

Walking down the stairs yesterday morning to go to the art museum, there seemed to be a cloud of chemical-smelling smoke that increased in density with every flight. By the time we reached the sixth or seventh floor, we were sprinting to get to the bottom to breathe the outside air. We were dizzy, nauseous, and our eyes were burning.

Several hours later we were informed that they had been fumigating the building. So yes, we walked through a thick haze of pesticide to start our day. You'd think that'd be a bit of info that we would be informed of, but apparently here that isn't so important. Morning poisoning? No big.

-

This weekend is the Jazz festival in Havana. Being the intellectual that I am, I can't hear jazz music featuring saxophones without feeling like I'm perusing the cereal aisle at Market Basket, but I still really enjoyed myself.

On Thursday evening we went to see Chucho Valdés who was absolutely wonderful. As he walked on stage, the entire audience greeted him with a standing ovation. I immediately began to feel guilty for sitting in such good seats, and not being excited enough to defecate in my knickers, which was exactly what the majority of the Cubans looked like they were excited enough to do. Events like this have different tickets that are of different costs depending on what you are (student, Cuban resident, foreigner, all that). We had bought ours in CUC (though we had a student discount) but found ourselves in the seating section with all of the elderly pasty Europeans (in the best spot of the theater). I felt a little self-conscious, but of course there was nothing we could do. The best part of the concert though was Omara Portuando's performance. In a country where women are daily reduced to mere objects, Omara held her own on a stage filled with talented Cuban men. She was sassy, she was stylin', and damn could she sing.
Last night we went to see the Buena Vista Social Club, which was very good too. Apparently the majority of the original members have kicked the bucket, so this is the new group. Almost like a Danity Kane situation, it seemed slightly artificial, but they were still very talented. A trend in jazz groups seems to be the token female in sexy clothing that plays one of those gourd instrument things that we used to rock in 1st-grade music class, though her main job is to swivel her hips and look pretty.
Today is the book fair which I'm rather excited about. It's also Valentine's Day, which, to my dismay, is celebrated here with even more enthusiasm than it is in the US. I was crossing my fingers that Cubans hadn't heard of it, but no no, they love their mushy, romantic, chivalrous holidays as much as Americans love their commercialized ones. Machismo is Cuba's Hallmark. Let the fun begin!


Here are a couple shots I took last night when we got home from the concert. The moon was lovely, and if you look closely in the second shot, you can see the stars. One thing that's amazing about this city is that even though it's the capital of the country and has 2 million residents, you can still see all of the stars at night. These weren't photoshopped or altered in any way.

A conversation this morning before leaving for class...

Chelsea: Why do you have so much aspirin?
Tara: Because Profe said that I should bring aspirin because people need it here! But what am I gonna do, shake some into their hands? So far since I've been here the only thing I've been asked for is a F*&KIN' CARAMELO and I don't have any of those! "Oh here, little boy, I don't have any candy, but I have DRUGS!"
Chelsea: Hm. Well, why do you have so many band-aids?
Tara: I have SIX HUNDRED AND TWO! That was another thing he said that they don't have a lot of here. So I have SIX HUNDRED AND TWO band-aids... y'know, just to out-do the Orishas by one.

I can now say that I know why people say this country requires a sense of humor. There are so many bizarre things about it, I think you'd go crazy if you didn't laugh.