Cuba--Travel!

New essay direction. Many of you indicated that I was writing about three essays, and I agree. I've decided to make this first incarnation more of a travel piece. I may or not make it topical, including this week's announcement that Obama will lift travel restrictions to Cuba. (Thoughts on whether to begin with this current event or not?):

In the summer of 2002, I spent three months in Cuba. Six weeks studying in Havana and six weeks volunteering at an organic farm in Cardenas, a city just east of Havana. The college required a semester abroad in a second or third world country. Each group spends six weeks in the country's capital city, studying language and culture. The second six weeks of the term is spent volunteering in a rural area—at schools, construction sites and farms. Our group was the first to travel to Cuba; we were among the first Americans students to study in the country for more than two weeks.

Havana, Cuba:

In Havana, our evenings were free and I spent most nights ambling down el Malecón. El Malecón is a wide walkway that runs along the north shore of Havana. The sidewalk is the width of a lane of traffic and follows the sea wall from Habana Viejo (Old Havana) to Vedado, the university district, where we were staying. On el Malecón, the breeze off the sea was cool and salty. The houses that line the walkway are old world mansions with stone arches and balconies; most of them are crumbling, held up by support beams and scaffolding. They aren’t safe, but I’d often see lines of laundry hung across the balconies of these disintegrating structures. Some afternoons, I’d see sweaty teenage boys tear off their shirts and dive off the sea wall, into the choppy ocean.

In our first few weeks in Cuba, we wandered the streets together, a mass of bright white students stumbling over Havana’s crumbled sidewalks and past brightly colored mansions, divided into apartments after the revolution in 1959. Cubans are known for their resourcefulness. They keep cars running decades longer than most—-the country is held together by duct tape and baling wire. Most of the cars on the streets were 1950s Chevrolets or boxy Russian Ladas, imported from the USSR in the 1980s. Downtown we heard camellos shift gears and roar down the main streets of the city. Camellos are a uniquely Cuban creation—-semi-trucks used for public transportation. Passengers ride in the trailers, which have been redone with bus windows and benches. Most of the trailers are painted pink and the trucks spray diesel fumes into the air as they haul passengers throughout the city.

During our six weeks in Havana, we lived in a Baptist Church. After the revolution, what Cubans call “el triunfo de la revolución” (“the triumph of the revolution”), Cuba became an officially atheistic state. From 1959 to 1961 most Catholic priests and Protestant ministers left Cuba for the United States. The new Cuban government was suspicious of church operations, but over time relations between churches and the government have improved. In 1998, Pope John Paul II visited the island, invited by the Cuban government and the Catholic Church.

The church had two rooms upstairs with ten twin beds in each. Before bed we’d change into pajamas. The atmosphere was very much like a sleepover. We braided each other’s hair and traded CD’s to listen to before bed. On Sunday mornings, I could hear the congregation singing hymns in Spanish over the hum of our window air conditioner. Some of our group went to the service, but I didn’t. I was content to lie in my bed against crisp white sheets, the morning sun on my face as I listened to the music through the walls of the sanctuary.

Each morning, the church served French bread and strong black coffee. After breakfast, we’d gather in groups for language study. On the first day of class, the instructors asked us each a few questions. The instructor said to me, “Hola, me llamo Ava. Como te llamas?” (Hello, I’m Ava. Who are you?) I answered with a simple, “Hola, me llamo Emilia. Estoy una estudiante de la Universidad de Goshen en los Ustados Unidos.” (Hi, my name is Emily. I am a student from Goshen College in the United States). My accent was impeccable. After one sentence Ava sent me to the advanced class. I could pronounce anything with poise, but my vocabulary was stunted.

During each lesson, Ava would ask me the same question again and again. I couldn’t answer her because I didn't understand the question. Often, a more advanced student would take pity on me and translate the question, but Ava spoke no English and after three weeks I could tell she was no longer fond of me. I spent six weeks of language study on a single bit of grammar— el subjuntivo. (the subjunctive). When Ava pronounced “subjuntivo,” she drew out the word, “El subjuntiiiiivo.” The sentences all went like this--“Si yo fuera hambre, quiero comer” (“If I were hungry, I would eat”). “Si yo fuera un perro, yo la corteza” (“If I were a dog, I would bark”). After two week, her voice had begun to grate, and I'd grown tired of this confusing tense with an endless variety of irregular verbs.

I’d never like language study, but I was able to function in Havana. I told Cuban friends,“En el pasado, nado. (“In the past, I swim”) and “En el pasado, yo tengo un perro morendo y blanco.” (“In the past, I have a brown and white dog”). Students in the college’s study abroad program normally live with families, but the Cuban government would not allow students to live with families. Instead, on Saturdays Cuban families from the church would take us in for the day. The first Saturday, I spent the day with Jorge. He was in his 50s, with dark thinning hair and light caramel skin. He wore a blue t-shirt tucked into jeans. We didn’t speak much, just smiled at each other as we walked the two miles from the church to his neighborhood. When we crossed busy city streets, Jorge would absentmindedly take my hand in a fatherly gestire as we hurryied across four lanes of traffic.

We stopped at the market near his house. Vendors were set up under a canvas roof selling tomatoes, cucumbers, and pork. Whole skinned hogs hung on meat hooks from the ceiling. Jorge pointed to the cut he wanted. The vendor sliced off a piece of meat with a tarnished steel knife. He wrapped it in a piece of white butcher paper through which blood began to seep.

Outside the market, Jorge pointed to a park bench. The bench was wrought iron and on its left side was a bronze statue of John Lennon which the Cuban government constructed in 2000, on the 20th anniversary of his death. The Beatles had once been frowned upon by the government as a decadent Western influence. Cubans would hold clandestine parties, listening to smuggled tapes with the lights off. But now Castro calls John Lennon "a fellow dreamer," a born rebel who was a constant victim of U.S. harassment. who was a born rebel and a constant victim of U.S. harassment.

Jorge ushered me over to the bench and took my camera which dangled from my wrist. I smiled and wrapped my arm around John Lennon’s shoulder as my little plastic camera wound forward with a low grinding sound. On the way home, we stopped at the Cementerio de Cristóbal Colón. The cemetery was made up of elaborate stone mausoleums, chapels and family vaults. The cemetery looked like pictures I’d seen of New Orleans graveyards, each grave above ground. Jorge sent me to a white stone statue of an angel on its knees, hands raised to the heavens. I tucked my hands in my pockets and smiled broadly for the photo.