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