Telling Stories to the Sea

The Malecón Seawall

The other evening, we took a taxi, una maquina, from Marianao to Vedado. The vintage Chrystler thundered down the street with an engine that roared amid a background of stuttering metal.  The maquinas are quite a scene here, racing back and forth across the city, picking up passersby along their route for a fee.  Most are tricked out with hover lights, ornamental mirrors and high tech pioneer sound systems that blare Latin reggaeton.

It was early evening and night soon began to fall upon the Malecón seawall that stretches along the city’s coast. The shadows danced a graceful choreography of silhouettes down the skyline of decaying colonial archways.  It was one of those evenings when the ocean was flipping ferociously, rushing up to the wall in whirlpools, pushing and pulling with fluid intensity.  The sea line that met the sky was dark and mysterious.  I often stand along the seawall and imagine the stories shared here, for there must be many…the hopes, the dreams, the longing, the tales of grief, tales of passion, tales of desire.  Like the radiant depths of my grandmother’s bosom, I always find a safe solace near the sea.  When I’m there, I often hear her “take it and tell to the sea.” In some sections of the wall, the water was completely crashing over and splashing into the street.  The night glistened with the moisture of sea foam and my mouth affectionately embraced a taste of salt that was both warm and ethereal.  In the distance, I could hear a familiar rhythm being played on a chekere.  As I drew near to the sound, my heart radiated with warmth when I happened upon a group of children with their father sitting along the wall.  In the Yoruba language, the children were laughing and singing in time with the chekere, “Yemaya shikini, ala modanse 

Ashaba shikini, ala modanse….”

Playa d’Ancon, Trinidad, Sancti Spíritus Province

Sancti Spíritus province

 The town of Trinidad in Sancti Spíritus province is an explosion of colour.  It’s not uncommon to see 2 men shouldering a large cake with pink icing, a bicycle pulling a horse, and a 1953 Buick in the same block. Oh, and the Internet.

¡Café con leche o Muerte!

Café con leche 

Let me begin by pointing out that I’m an avid tea drinker. I love myself a simple cup of Assam tea, a little milk and some honey. However, the coffee here is just so damn good that it’s become a ritual that’s been happening a few times a day.  I’m not sure if it’s socially acceptable, but I often find myself running my finger along the sides of my cup to get every last bit of flavor.  Afterwards I then want to eat my index finger every time.

Café  

We headed back to the city after visiting the Virgen de la Regla cathedral. Walking with a local resident through Havana Vieja, we decided to stop for a coffee break.  Trying to find coffee that could be purchased with the local Peso, we wandered through alleyways, through the Plaza de la Catedral and along part of the Malecón seawall. Our search was in vain.  We did find a cafeteria that took local Pesos, but they were out of coffee.  Another stand had coffee that you could purchase with the local Peso, but the machine was broken.  What does this mean?  I think the deeper ramifications speak volumes.  In a country that produces the best coffee in the world, it’s hard for locals to purchase coffee within or near this area that has a high traffic of tourists.  Imagine if local residents of the SF Bay Area could only purchase coffee for 16 times the price in the Financial District, South of Market and North Beach neighborhoods.  That’s what it would be like, except the scenario is much worse.  It’s quite disturbing and a bit distorted, as are many things here.  I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.

Latte

Cortadito

From Point A to Point B

Todo por la Revolución

In negotiating a price for a taxi from the airport, I told the driver that we were headed to Marianao.  He looked at me perplexed, saying that it wasn’t the usual tourist place.  “I guess I’m not the usual tourist”, I replied.  He quoted me a final price.  I decided to opt for a standardized state owned taxi.  After waiting for bags to emerge from the carousel, and patiently waiting in a stoic line to exchange currency, it was now mid evening.  “You’ve been here before, huh?” the driver asked as we drove through the dimly lit streets. “Yep”, I nodded.  The late November air was tranquil and cool with a dark sky dotted in gently swaying palms.  While I soon recognized the neighborhood, I couldn’t quite remember the configuration of the triangular streets where my godfather’s mom lives.  As is custom, the driver began to solicit passersby for directions to the closest corner.  I’m not one to have a sweet tooth, but by the time we located the other side of Calle 86, I found myself in the back seat with an insatiable craving for ice cream.

After 52 years of a failed policy, it’s not unusual for a US citizen to spend 16 hours in transit to travel to the largest island in the Caribbean.  Although less than 100 miles from southern Florida, we first had to literally fly over our destination to Cancún.  Like most things here, you can’t just go in a straight line from point A to point B.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that you CAN’T GET from point A to point B.  You absolutely can….but you may have to go to Q and back first. 

Boarding the national airline

Of course many things have changed since I first started coming here in the late 90’s. On my first excursion, my airline ticket was actually hand written on carbon paper.  Now there’s a computer that prints your ticket information out at the airline counter.  My first flight here was on a 1950’s Russian made propeller plane that was like a bus in the air with small circular windows.  The national airline now has a fleet of modern planes. On the island there used to be scheduled and unscheduled blackouts of electricity and water.  I have not encountered blackouts at all on this trip and was told that it’s quite rare that they occur these days.  There had been 3 currencies and 2 economies. Depending on the transaction, you could use the US dollar, a convertible peso that went between the two currencies and the local peso.  There are still 2 economies; the local Peso economy (moneda nacional) and the Convertible Peso economy (“Chavito”). The tourist industry mainly functions with the Convertible Peso and there are many goods and services that can only be purchased with this currency.  I physically blend in and can function within the local Peso economy, especially if I don’t speak too much.  The Spanish spoken here is rapid and thickly flavored.  Entire words are at times seemingly swallowed.  The Spanish that unfolds from my mouth is slow in comparison and likely has a northern California flavor of sprouts and wheat grass.  It’s a definite giveaway that I’m a foreigner. 

While many things have changed, many things have remained the same.  There are still the carts of rum and cigars that follow the beverage cart on the national airline.  The vintage cars still rumble through the streets.  In the countryside, the leaves of banana and palm trees still slowly tickle the sky amidst the seemingly endless fields of sugarcane. The music…oh my god the music!  It’s so intoxicating and irresistible; the clave runs the rhythm with the life force of a cardiac pulse.  You can’t help but want to dance. 

One of the most painful things that remains the same is the policy that my country of birth has maintained towards the island.  Political and economic ideology aside, it’s heartbreaking. I’ve seen firsthand the affect that the policy has had on people’s lives and the way that families have been separated.

52 years …there aren’t words for it really.