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.

Messiah Doctors, Flying Nurses, and Killin' Amoebas

Listening to Elliott Smith, watching the room slowly cleanse itself in warm, orange light, darkening elegantly into a subtle rose wash.

I'm just a waxing-emo-poetic. (Have I mentioned that I didn't pack my skinny jeans?) I'll just blame it on the lack of food today. Why lacking food? Oh, let me tell you.

Early this morning I was awakened by my delightful digestive system, which is far from unusual as of late. This morning, however, the enthusiasm of said system was notably increased, and it was at this moment that I promised myself that I would visit the friendly commie hospital today.

Being such a wonderful, steadfast person, I did not break this promise to myself. The adventure known as Clínica Centra Cira García was about to begin.

Immediately upon walking in the entrance, I felt like the sliding doors which had allowed our arrival acted secondly as a time machine. The nurses all had skirts on, tights, white shoes, and.. most notably... WHITE FUNNY HATS. I was reminded of Mom's nursing school picture. Okay, I can't remember if there actually was such a picture, but that is how I imagine such a photograph to look.

Quickly recovering from the shock of the hats (and chuckling when Chelsea turned to me and whispered, "are those hats what your mom wears at work?") we went up to the registration desk. The girl was very much the Cuban version of Mariah... perfectly coifed hair, meticulously accessorized outfit, very professional. Not kidding, I thought about how you'd fit right in, Ry (except for the whole flaming-ginger thing, of course). Anyway, some nurse asked me about my complaints, and then we sat down in the waiting room. (The waiting room had a ginormous cloudy fish tank with two goldfish that were the size of cats.) A few minutes later a man came up to me, handed me a plastic container with a top on it, and told me to go to the bathroom and produce a present. I found this kind notably lacking in subtly, but that's okay. I went to the bathroom (which had not only toilet seats, but TOILET PAPER, AAAND SOAP!) but sadly couldn't live up to his expectations.

After such a disappointing performance, I got called in to talk to Dr. Jesús González. He was a wonderful old man. His office was a strange combination: his desk with paperwork and chairs, the examination table right behind, a sink, and all other amenities. "Stick a toilet in here, and you'd never have to leave," Chelsea said. He examined me, saw nothing wrong, sent me off to have my blood drawn, then said that he'd give me some time to chill in the hospital area with the hopes of delivering. So then Chelsea, Honorio and I went to the hospital cafetería where I had two ice creams and café con leche in hopes of agitating my digestive system enough for it to cooperate. No luck. Instead all I got was a wicked stomachache. C'est la vie. We returned to the ER waiting room again, where the same man who had handed me the container originally looked very excited to see me, then immediately walked away. A few minutes later, Jesús came out to call me back into the office. Despite my incompetence, he gave me some meds for amoebas, some electrolyte packets to put in some water (no gatorade here!), and a scrip for peptobismol. (No joke, that's what he called it - with a thick Cuban accent, of course. That name's not on the bottle, but that really made me laugh that he called it that.) So yes, we went to the farmacía to get the meds, looked around to see what else they were selling, got a little depressed that Listerine cost around $8, then ended up getting handed the bill for 35 CUC for my loot.

Half hour later, the insurance situation got figured out. Turns out they just automatically assumed that I was uninsured, and treated me as such. Poor Jesús had to go through and fill out a whole new set of papers once I was counted as insured.

In conclusion, I ended up paying nothing but the cab fare both ways (5 CUC total which isn't so bad considering the clinic's out in Míramar). I have two rounds of amoeba killers (parasites, of course, but I like how he used the word amoeba) to take, some other pills that have some other purpose that I need to figure out before taking, and some pink shiny peptobismol to boot. Oh, and some coco flavored electrolyte packets. Yess.

This was a very exciting Friday, as I'm sure you'll agree. Today proved to be yet another reminder of how difficult my name is for Cuban people to pronounce. Everyone gets it the first time, repeating after me, sounding it out, but then immediately they forget it. I think it's because they can't visualize how to spell it. I've taken to saying "MEH-gahn" when I think to do so, but sometimes it's hard to remember to say my name incorrectly when someone asks me. After twenty years of pronouncing my name the same way, it's kind of hard to change now.

Anyway. It's now dark in the room, and I have yet to turn a light on. Dinner's in a half hour!

Love you and miss you all!