3/20
Days days days. Another Saturday gone, as I sit down to update this journal, which is becoming a love-hate relationship. I hate that it has become mandatory, something that I obligate myself to do because, well, it might be worth reading later, it might be worth remember. I love it because it is just that, something that might be worth reading and remembering. I like to remember back over my recent past and try to capture it just right, while I still can recall how it feels, how it felt.
To give a pointless update from my last entry, I did end up breaking down and buying that 2-hour internet card. I figured after all that writing and time I might as well post. I also didn’t want to have to return that following day to send out the messages I had intended to send. It was so very difficult to walk back into the IT office and hand over those CUCs that I so desperately wanted to keep in my pocket in protestation. But alas!
On Tuesday I passed my morning in regular routine (which, I’ve been thinking and hoping that I will integrate into my summer life and beyond, if at all feasible), before my meeting with Celia. We were scheduled to sit in on another María Antonia rehearsal that afternoon, and, since Teatro Caribe is closer to my home than her’s, Celia had planned to come to Paseo and Calle 27 around 1:15. Due to a hold up at a meeting at the Ministry of Culture, she didn’t arrive until about an hour later (this had made me very antsy), so we hopped a cab passed the Plaza de la Revolución and were dropped off near the theater.
Tuesday’s rehearsal differed from the previous one that I had seen in that they weren’t running the entire show but working through problem spots. The show premiers next Friday night, and it seems as if Eugenio is still not satisfied with the final scenes, which they were running over and over again. Most of the main parts are double cast, so the player on stage often switched in and out, acting as both actors and directors to their counterparts, but all working with Eugenio and the assistant director, Roberto. Eugenio (who is well into his 70s) would often jump out of his seat, run onstage, and show the actors the quality of movement and voice that he wanted to see. This happened most frequently during the scene in which María Antonia is stabbed by a wronged lover and continues to dance through the pain of her fatal wound (sorry for ruining any suspense, but if you see any part of the play its pretty clear this girl’s working towards an epic death scene from the get-go). Eugenio would run, leap, yell around the stage, then gather his actors and speak in hushed tones to them about the importance of the scene and his specific direction. It is the most active I’ve ever seen anyone in this age range. It is amazing, aside from the fact that he is just a very talented and intuitive director. Throughout the whole business I circled around the stage with my small camera, hoping to death that I wasn’t getting in the way or throwing anybody off game.
Their rehearsal began to break off, and Celia wrangled the assistant director towards me for an interview—
Let me pause here for a moment to reiterate a point that I don’t think I’ve made enough in this journal: Celia is absolutely wonderful. She is smart, sweet, aggressive (in the most helpful and persuasive way possible), supportive…she’s just the best. The best thing is I can tell she sincerely cares about my project and my work over this semester, she isn’t merely participating because it is her current job. As of right now, she is planning on being at Hampshire next semester (her husband is going to be a visiting professor), and I am endlessly happy that I will be able to work with her (and just see her) passed this isolated experience.
So, now that I’ve gloated about my fantastic luck in choice of tutor, back to what I was saying. I sat down with Roberto and began what was my first real (sit down) interview for my final project. It didn’t go nearly as bad as I thought it would. Actually, I think it went really well. I had my questions all written out but I had worked through them enough times that I only used them as a guide and didn’t hide behind my notebook – I made it conversational. And my Spanish wasn’t terrible. And I riffed. And I clarified. Eye contact. Eye contact was made. His answers were articulate and the lighting was great (hopefully the sound will be ok), and before I knew it we were wrapping it up. Celia had run away halfway through my interview (she had stationed herself facing both me and Roberto, as a kind of audience to our conversation) to hunt down one of the lead actors in the play. By the time Roberto vacated his seat across from me, Celia was guiding the actor right into it (Arby? I’m pretty sure his name is Arby, I should really know this, its slightly embarrassing, let’s just call him Arby and I’ll verify this in my next post). She smiled, proud that she was bringing in more subjects for my project.
Arby plays María Antonia’s sometimes-lover/employer? (she’s a prostitute), Julian, a champion boxer that provides her male foil in the show, who she ultimately ends up poisoning (there’s a lot of murdering of ex-lovers going on). That’s an awful sentence structure but I’m going to keep writing instead of correcting it. Arby gave me more great answers, in-depth and eloquent, addressing all points that I hoped my questions would gather. Again, I was having a very productive day working on my final project. By the time we wrapped up, Eugenio had already ducked out of the building so my main interview with him was again postponed. By the time I finally end up talking to him, I’m going to be ridiculously prepared. Since it seemed like my work for the day was as over as rehearsal, Celia and I cut through the box office and out of the building with Roberto and Arby, and I continued my conversation with him that had been spurred by our interview.
While I couldn’t film our talk, it was extremely interesting and thought-provoking, giving me my first real insight into the life of a professional actor in Cuba. Arby talked about his relationship with acting, with Teatro Caribe, with cinema. He talked about the acting style and how sometimes he wished it were different, less performative and more “real”. He talked about working with Eugenio, and how important and helpful it is to work with a director who has also written and acted. I continued to realize that some things were passed translation, theater being one of them; his concerns were my concerns.
The four of us reached the intersection where I had to split off and walk back to Paseo, Arby offered to walk me back, Celia thanked him for his chivalry and I parted ways with Celia and Roberto. Over the half hour walk I learned more about Arby’s experiences in Cuban theater and I exhausted my Spanish telling him about my experiences in North American theater. I asked him about his interest in traveling – its very difficult for Cubans to leave the country, but most often happens in the professions of the arts when they are invited to perform/work somewhere else. He seemed very passionate about visiting the US and seeing as much theater as possible, seemingly upset that he was “cut off” from a major working history of drama.
We also talked about the fact that I haven’t been out to a lot of clubs to hear and dance to the music – he informed me (and I know, quite validly) that I haven’t experienced Cuba until I’ve done this. He invited me, Andrew, and anyone else within out group to join him at a few of his favorite salsa clubs whenever we had time on the weekends. As we got to Paseo, we exchanged emails and bid adieu (or ciao). I was happy that I had made a new friend, as after-school-special as that sounds.
That was the major news of the day, at least the most worthwhile thing to write about. The other big event of the day was that I finished writing my first full essay in Spanish! Its difficult to write with gusto about the composition of a paper, but don’t let my brevity fool you – this was a big moment for me. While it was far from my best work in English, I believe I adequately got my point across and, more than anything, I tried. We had the option of writing in English or Spanish, and I opted for Spanish. Because I had to prove to myself that I could do it. We also have a long and short paper assigned for this class (one due this past week, the other due as our final in April), which we could choose to tackle in whichever order. And I wrote the longer one. Huzzah. Soy una campeon.
Wednesday, for me, passed without major incidence. I had my morning routine. I had my Literature class (I understood more Spanish again this week), I returned home for dinner. But Andrew and Oskar had some major excitement.
Before I go any further, I’m putting in a word for my father, who warns me every time he talks to me for me and Andrew to “avoid getting political, avoid the law.” Dad: Andrew didn’t do anything wrong, he didn’t do anything overtly political… ok? Ok. I’m sure that he’ll post something about his experience at some point that will further clarify this. Actually, I’m not sure, but I’m going to bother him to do it because I contribute way more to this blog than he does and its high time he posted!
So, Andrew and Oskar had set out with Gangy and the driver at Casa Silvia (Silvia’s son), Ale, to go to a Haitian shantytown outside of Habana proper. It is the same place they had visited a few weeks ago for rara performances one Sunday afternoon: Oskar was returning to film and Andrew was returning in hopes of drumming once again with some of the citizens. As they were finishing up their visit and returning to their car, they noticed a motorcycle cop talking to Ale about why he was here. Oskar showing up with his camera didn’t help the situation much. He was irritated that students (moreover American students) were filming this illegal shantytown.
Yes, illegal, its technically not supposed to be there, but groups of 200-300 Cubans (in this case, Haitian Cubans) often set up permanent camps in open areas without permission from the state. They are rarely broken up because then it becomes a problem as to where to house them. These towns are often extremely poor, with many of their citizens relying on odd jobs and gathering of raw materials to sell in order to make end’s meat.
Oskar was there filming, which is technically ok but the police officer decided he wanted to take the four of them to the police station anyway, so it was off to the Cuban police station for Andrew and Oskar. As the motorcycle guided their car to the station, Oskar and Andrew plotted about the fate of that day’s footage, with Oskar ultimately slipping his videotape out of the camera and into an empty cigarette pack. Like a boss.
They were held at the police station for about 45 minutes, with their passports taken and Gangy pulled outside for questioning. Eventually, they verified that yes, they were UNEAC and yes, what they were doing was legitimate and ok, and with an apology sent out to our program, they were released. But I guess technically, they were arrested in Cuba. But they did nothing wrong and are not in any way facing any future trouble, Dad. Ok, Dad?
Another routine Thursday morning followed by Spanish class (which has now been reduced to 2 hours per class as opposed to the three-hour classes that occurred in February.
At an early dinner before our Thursday night seminar, Baby told me that Celia had called earlier in the day while I was in class. While I was unable to take the call, Baby and Celia had a short conversation, which seemingly included talking about me. Baby kindly and eagerly informed me that Celia is very impressed with the work that I’ve been doing thus far, that I’m very intuitive and intelligent, and that she’s excited to see my final project come together. Baby beamed and said something along the lines of “that’s my girl”. It made my day to hear that I was getting positive feedback about my project, that someone had faith in the hard work that I was doing here.
Half an hour later at Casa Silvia, it was my turn to present my project work to the rest of the students. It was helpful if for no other reason than it allowed me to collect all the threads of my work and try to make sense of where I was going next. I realized just how much time I had put into this, how much footage I had already collected, how far I had already come. I poured myself a Cuba Libre after my presentation. I deserved it.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to brag or gloat. My project is far from complete, and still won’t be complete by the end of April, I’m sure. But it just feels so good, after so much anxiety, after so much struggling to find myself a place here, to see my work progressing towards something real and worthwhile.
When I got home 4 hours later, Baby informed me that Celia had called again, switching our meeting time from 9:30 in the morning to 3:00 in the afternoon. She told me to bring any and all of my filming equipment I had tomorrow, she made it sound as if something big were going to happen. I felt excited instead of nervous.
Friday morning came and went, and before I knew it I was walking over to Celia’s. When I got there she informed me we were going to Playa (the neighborhood, not the beach) to interview Hilda Oates, the first actress to play María Antonia in the original premier. I reorganized my interview questions to make them relevant to her work, then it was time to head off.
After a peso cab ride and a short walk, we were at Hilda’s apartment complex. She was waiting for us, her door open and sitting in a large chair – sitting like a queen. Hilda is 86 years old.
As she tried to quiet her puppy, Wendy, so that we could conduct the interview, I got to look around her apartment. The far wall was covered in frames. A few were pictures of her on stage when she was younger, a beautiful Afro-Cuban woman, always in poses that emoted strength, independence and sass. But most of the wall was covered in certificates and awards, declaring Hilda one of the best actresses in the country. Certificates from theaters across the state, from UNEAC, the Ministry of Culture and there, in the middle of it all, was her Premio Naciónal Award from 2005, the highest honor for a theater maker in Cuba. Only one is awarded each year. Eugenio has one too.
Deciding that there was no use trying to calm her dog, Hilda attempted to keep Wendy in her lap and begin the interview. This only lasted a short while, since the dog was struggling against her with ferocity as she tried to answer questions about her career in theater. Most of my footage has Wendy jumping up at Hilda, running over the couches, basically going crazy, which is a great contrast to Hilda’s responses. For Hilda’s own part, she would stretch her answers as far as they would go, beginning to go off on tangents, tell other stories of her adventures in theater. I probably asked her only 4 or 5 questions over the course of 2 and a half hours. She also performed parts of her María Antonia monologues for me (do I really have that on camera? The original actress performing the monologues verbatim over 40 years later?!). At the end of the interview/performance, she dug out her own copy of the play for me to read. I still can hardly believe it, that I have her copy with her notes. We made plans for me to return at some point in the future, to talk more about theater and also because she wants me to teach her a little English (her mother was Jamaican and spoke English at home when she was younger).
Celia and I left the apartment and caught a bus back to Vedado, where we parted ways. So much more progress on my final project. The editing process (which will occupy most of April) is becoming more and more daunting.
After dinner, Andrew and I grabbed a taxi to Habana Vieja where we were going to see a music performance. One of the band members is a female artist that another of our classmates, Dani, is working with for her own project. After poking our heads around for the small venue for about a half an hour, we finally found Patio Amarillo on a vacant side street. We walked into the vaguely open-air garden restaurant, where the band was setting up. Dani and her Cuban novio, Mel, were already there. We joined them at a table, ordered Mojitos, and waited for the band to start. Their work is based out of classic Cuban music (which is strange for a band made entirely of jovenes), but has been spiced up, kind of Fusion-y. Now, I’m not the biggest fan of fusion music, but they were pretty good. The keyboardist was pretty bad though. They wrapped their set and Andrew went to go talk to the tres player before we departed. 2 hours after the band began, we were walking back out of the venue and in search of another peso cab to take back to Vedado. We got home and watched “Goldfinger” before heading off to bed.
Saturday passed in a lazy manner, with Andrew and I having our first outing to a Cuban beach, Playa Santa María. It was warm but windy, and the water was the perfect temperature. It felt so good to be back on a beach, especially in March. We stayed until late afternoon, hoping to have time to return again in the near future. On our return walk home, we stopped at Perro Caliente for hot dogs, which are of poor soggy quality but were extremely satisfying after a few hours in the beach-sun. As we hit Paseo we ran into Oskar, who was waiting for La Fina (one of the raperas we had met during Orientation). They were going to the Cuban Rap Video Awards later that night, and Oskar was meeting her at a bus stop. We stopped and talked for a while until he was safely in her hands, then walked back home and watched “Deliverance” until it was dinnertime. What a great movie. Cinematic achievement, if only for Burt Reynold’s rubber/leather vest.
We spent the night vaguely working, taking a break to go out for coffee and pastries at a nearby bakery.
And that brings us to today. The clocks lost an hour (daylight savings time happens a week later here than it does in the US), so we were up a little later than usual. After breakfast we headed to Central Habana for a rumba drum and dance performance on Calle Hamon. The narrow street is covered in the community’s artwork, with tubs sawed in half, painted brightly and turned into public seating. The walls are covered in murals, and there is a really cool garden for children that was created entirely out of found objects.
We headed back to our home stay, where we are now, writing journals and letters before heading out to lunch and then to the Cohiba to use the internet.
There are 38 days left, and, while I miss home and family and friends, I’m wondering if that is enough time.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Journal Entries IV
3/12
Much sooner than I usually wait to update this, but I’m consciously trying to keep an even more detailed account, hoping that it will come in handy for my Division III or something else in the future. This will probably be a much more brief entry.
Thursday, I ventured back to the Cohiba hotel to use the internet, with blog posts and messages to family and friends ready and waiting to be sent. I realized that I hadn’t used the Internet in over a week and a half, and that I’ve probably used it no more than 4 or 5 times (for an hour or 2 each session) this semester. I thought about the fact that, at most, that adds up to 10 hours of internet use, which I could probably tackle at Hampshire within 2 or 3 days. For obvious reasons, it baffled me to think of how much time I waste online, and how much more active thinking I’ve been able to do here with that distraction wholly nonexistent. Here, the internet has become a tool of work instead of play – I use it only to do what is absolutely necessary – get in touch with Hampshire, and my closest family and friends. It feels good. I with I could say that it will continue when I’m back in the states, but I know it will not (although I’m sure I’ll heavily cut back on my use no matter what).
While checking my messages at the Cohiba, I noticed I had a string of them from my mother, and opened them excitedly, as I now open any messages from my close contacts in the outside world. I read them chronologically, each mounting my excitement as she informed me she had her passport, was trying to find a way to visit, asked me where I staying and then finally – the dates were set, she was coming to see me in April.
What?
Despite knowing of my mother’s ingenuity, I couldn’t help but be surprised that this plan was coming to fruition, knowing how difficult it is for Americans (non-students) to come here and then get back into our country. But it was just the lift I didn’t know I needed. I had something to look forward to in the second half of the trip, that would break up the tedium of all the work that I’ll be doing on my final project. It was also a chance to share all the places I’ve started to frequent with someone in my family. I was and continue to be so excited. I can’t help but worry it won’t pan out, that something unforeseen will go wrong. But I honestly hope it doesn’t, since I’ve already started a list of things that I want to show her and David.
I finished my brief work at the Cohiba and headed back up Paseo towards my home stay. On the way back it began to rain, and as I bopped along in the light drizzle, listening to Beach House on my headphones, I couldn’t help but feel at home.
Thursday meant a return to the final project seminar, which passed with no real conflict or event to talk about. As always, people talked in depth about their projects, and I continued to be impressed with the work of my peers – nearly all the projects sound outstanding, tackling work that has not widely approached in English academia as of yet. While the class always goes on for too long (3 ½ hours or more), it is always a good means to become re-inspired by each other’s work.
After the class, Andrew and I set out in search of food, walking down to 23 and Calle J for a late night hot dog at the 24 “Perrito Caliente” stand (which, while satisfying, could never beat the quality or variety of my summer employment, Top Dog). We sat by the street and inhaled our food, exchanging current anxieties about our semesters and projects.
Friday was going to mark the start of a crammed filming schedule for my final project. I had already told Celia that I wanted to make sure that most of my filming was done by the end of March so I could spend April struggling through my first editing process. That being said, she had begun setting up meetings, interviews, and rehearsal that I could attend and film, all within the next 2 and a half weeks. As the schedule was laid out, Friday would mean my attendance at another Maria Antonia rehearsal, followed (over the weekend) with interviews with Eugenio Hernandez, Hilda Oates, and Roberto Blanco.
Yesterday (Friday), I showed up at Celia’s with my mindset prepared for the swift work weekend. But when I arrived, Celia informed me that there had been a few changes of plans, due to the fact that Eugenio had to suspend rehearsal due to a talk he was giving at UNEAC. The schedule (as it stands now) is as follows:
Friday: 1:30-2:45 – Meeting with Celia to go over new schedule, interview questions, afro-cuban myths; 3:00-4:00 – View/film 3 short shows at Teatro Guinol (Teatro para ninos); 4:00-5:30 – UNEAC to watch Eugenio’s talk on Maria Antonia.
Saturday: 5:00 – Go to park on Calzada and Calle D to view performance of Medea de Barro, figure out time to meet with Hilda Oates (perhaps on Tuesday).
Tuesday: 2:00 – Go to Maria Antonia rehearsal, interview Eugenio (and possibly Hilda), set up short interviews with cast members.
Wednesday: 9:30 – Go to Roberto Blanco’s house to talk and look over his direction work from original performance of Maria Antonia as well as seminal work with Electra Garrigo.
While it is nice that the schedule is now more spread out, it is still a very daunting agenda. I’m trying to take it one day at a time instead of seeing it all as one huge list of things to do. More than anything, I feel as if I am underqualified to have access to these amazingly talented people, and am worried that I am going to waste their time. I know that if I am to take a “big picture” approach, these worries won’t even matter 2 months down the line, but it is still very difficult to think that way.
Anyways, we carried out the prescribed Friday schedule without incidence, going to both Teatro Guinol and UNEAC – both of which were extremely enjoyable and worthwhile. At Teatro Guinol, in particular, we sat in on the shows that are designated for elementary school groups to come visit, so I was amongst a large group of younger Cuban children, who were extremely energetic and quick to participate. The performances were primarily puppet shows, which were also great to see (and different from a lot of other shows I’ve watched – already I’ve seen and filmed a wide variety of performances for my final project, which is very exciting).
After UNEAC, I parted ways with Celia and walked back home. I feel bad, because I address walking home and around so often, but I never really explain it in a way that truly captures how I feel towards it. Walking around Habana is one of my favorite parts of this semester, and probably the thing I will miss most about this experience once it is over. It is perfect to feel that you are physically moving your body somewhere, more slowly than in a car but also more satisfying when you reach your destination. It is the perfect time to merely think, gather thoughts, analyze past, present and future events. I can people watch, I can be out in the sun, I can stop whenever I want to find a bench, or an outdoor book shop, or some peso-coffee. It is a space I can be left alone with my thoughts, but not feel the weight of loneliness.
That is really all I can update as of right now. The only other real noteworthy news to share is that Andrew found a pastry shop, which was the destination of my walking last night with him and Oskar, to eat flaky cannoli-like treats before they went out to find other people and I headed home to watch a movie and get some more sleep.
Today is Saturday, and its already proving to be a lazy one at that. We’ve just finished breakfast and it seems that I’m just now finishing my update. We have plans to walk to Habana Vieja so that Andrew can get in touch with more musicians for his project, but as of now it seems like those plans are on hold, since he’s fallen back to sleep.
I think I will go wake him up.
3/14
Here I am writing more frequently once again – this time due to the arbitrary policies of the Melia-Cohiba’s wifi system. To explain again for those who may have forgotten (aka vent my frustrations) – the IT office has again decided that they “don’t” sell the cheaper 1-hour time card and only sell the 2-hour one…despite the fact that I have been here multiple times and know for a fact that they do. They change this policy as they see fit and, since I arrived with a group of clearly foreign students, they are trying to get us to pay the highest amount. Its frustrating because even the cheaper price is excessively expensive for the shitty service, and I just really want to get in touch with my family. I also just don’t like the feeling of being “had”, “taken”, or “ripped off”.
Anyways, as I await for someone to split the more expensive card, I suppose I should use this time constructively. So allow me to pick up where I left off: Saturday.
After waking Andrew up, we exercised, showered, and set out for food and a taxi to Habana Vieja. After enjoying a few personal pizzas, we arrived around Parque Central, on the hunt for musicians that Andrew could talk to for his project. I was tagging along to enjoy the sunny afternoon and his company. We walked through the narrow streets of Habana Vieja, listening for the particular sound of a tres. After looking at a few bands playing in outdoor cafes, we headed back to the hostel that we had visited during Orientation so many weeks ago, in search of the tres player that performed there in the afternoons.
Unfortunately, his schedule had been interrupted by a special event being held at the hostel…that event being the gathering of Cuban Harley-Davidson enthusiasts. I kid you not. I continue to be confused as to the facets of American culture that make it past the embargo: Ed Hardy clothing (and “Jersey Shore” fashion in general), Nickleback and Guns & Roses music, and mediocre television shows (“One Tree Hill” and “Young Hercules”). I could now add Harley-Davidson culture and fashion to that list. There were bikes and leather vests and vaguely-terrifying-facial-hair everywhere.
After snapping a few pictures and making some very obvious jokes, we continued on our way. The afternoon was waning though, and it seemed we had temporarily exhausted our leads. We walked around some more until we stumbled upon the large shore-side market, filled with scary vendors that begin to yell at you about their wares if you enter a 15 food radius of their stand. I have also found that many Cubans assume that I’m French, which I don’t know whether or not to take as a compliment – during our time in the market I had some yelling at me in French, while others just kept asking what part of that country was I from.
After Andrew made some lovely purchases (of which I will not reveal, as they will become gifts for loved ones upon re-entry into the US), we hurried out of the market and back into the streets and sun. We returned to Parque Central so that we could catch a cab to Calzada and Calle D, where we were going to watch an outdoor performance of Medea de Barro.
We got to the park early, and made small talk until the show began. As 5pm approached, we watched the cast begin to assemble. I must mention – as it is one of the most interesting aspects of Teatro D’Moron – that the “De Barro” part of the title refers to the actors and set, which are covered in barro, or clay (orange-brown clay to be specific). The effect is that the actors resemble moving statues – the action of the play itself is very slow and choreographed, without words, so that the show appears to be a picture in motion. It was very beautiful, and attracted quite a large crowd as the sun began to set on the park. My solitary complaint about the show is that the score (that sounded like GarageBand-Epic) did not match the aesthetic of the rest of the design…also, it was played far too loudly and subsequently gave me a headache. Aside from those small complaints though, I enjoyed it very much.
Also worth noting were two members of the audience – theatre lovers if you will. One was a 16-year-old boy, who was strangely (or, not so strangely, based on the level of maturity that he soon revealed to us) hanging out with much younger boys. He yelled and joked through the entire piece, trying to distract the performers as they desperately held onto their focus. Later, he realized that the woman who was playing Aphrodite had one of her breasts exposed (it was covered in clay, it was clearly not an accident). I have never seen a boy react so enthusiastically to a single boob. I mean, he was at least 15 or 16 years old. He should have seen a boob before. But by his reaction to it – yelling, giggling, pointing – you would’ve guessed it was the first he’s ever seen. And it was only one, it wasn’t even like it was a complete set.
The second theatre lover that we encountered was an older man who was clearly drunk and had probably been drunk for a few years now. As the performance was entering its last 20 minutes, he began getting on the ground, trying to look up Aphrodite’s skirt (that poor girl was harassed excessively for that solitary breast she exposed). He also tried to “tip” a few of the other actors with a 10 peso bill. He yelled about the death of his lover, but how he would gladly take any of the clay-covered women in the show. He rolled around in the street. The most entertaining of his many exploits, though, was his exclamation towards the end of the show. He fell to his knees in the middle of the street, raised his arms out and above him, and bellowed, in anguish, “YO SOY YO!”
Yo tambien, hombre. Yo tambien.
After the performance(s?), Andrew and I headed for home, to rest a little from the busy afternoon before dinner. We spent the evening lazily (and rather unefficiently) attempting to get homework done, but mostly ended up joking, playing music, and free reading. Andrew is now reading 100 Years of Solitude and I have begun Inferno by Eileen Miles – which is quickly becoming one of my favorite recent reads…I know I said the same about 100 years, but I’ve just been extremely lucky with my reading choices as of late.
Sunday morning shared the laziness of the morning before, but the day indicated a landmark for our trip to Cuba; Saturday was the half-way point of the trip and Sunday marked the beginning of the “descent”, which means the real work on my final project is starting to spread itself out before me, in all its anxiety-inducing glory. I’m ready for this second half, I’m looking forward to this work.
The only other real notable event of yesterday was the surprise visit of a dear friend: for the past month and a half, Andrew and I have been stopping next door to “get licked” by a small, adorable dog that resides behind a fence. We’ve never seen him free from the shackles of his domicile (said fence), but he is always happy to see us when we pet him through the chain-link.
But yesterday, as Andrew left his room to get some water from the kitchen, he was greeted by our little “Licky Friend”, who our hermana cubana had brought over for play-time. He was so excited to see the two of us, running around, finally free, licking everything in sight. It was just the excitement we needed in the afternoon, to break up the homework that we were (again) trying to accomplish. It was another of our small triumphs.
After dinner we wasted a little more time by watching “District 9”, before settling into our respective reading.
Which brings me to today. This morning, I woke up early to have a meeting with Carol about my final project and Division III. As we found out last week, our preliminary Division III proposals are due next Friday, which is slightly terrifying. Luckily (and thanks to the way that Theater Div III’s work, in which you slot whatever you want to do as your project the Spring before), I already have a pretty good idea of how I want to allocate my time. Even better, Carol agreed to be a member of my committee, which means I officially know with whom I will be working in my final year at Hampshire (which is all so very exciting). The meeting was very productive and put me at ease about the work that I’m accomplishing and will accomplish in this next year. Despite the waves of concern that sometimes wash over me, I know that I am “on-track”…whatever that means. More importantly, I’m completing work that I can be proud to claim as my own.
After the early morning meeting I continued my morning schedule as usual, before setting out to Spanish class. And now here I am, still putting off using the internet as a matter of principal and the fact that I didn’t bring enough money to buy the 2-hour card. Will I break down and ask someone to spot me a few CUC so that I can post this?
Only time will tell.
Much sooner than I usually wait to update this, but I’m consciously trying to keep an even more detailed account, hoping that it will come in handy for my Division III or something else in the future. This will probably be a much more brief entry.
Thursday, I ventured back to the Cohiba hotel to use the internet, with blog posts and messages to family and friends ready and waiting to be sent. I realized that I hadn’t used the Internet in over a week and a half, and that I’ve probably used it no more than 4 or 5 times (for an hour or 2 each session) this semester. I thought about the fact that, at most, that adds up to 10 hours of internet use, which I could probably tackle at Hampshire within 2 or 3 days. For obvious reasons, it baffled me to think of how much time I waste online, and how much more active thinking I’ve been able to do here with that distraction wholly nonexistent. Here, the internet has become a tool of work instead of play – I use it only to do what is absolutely necessary – get in touch with Hampshire, and my closest family and friends. It feels good. I with I could say that it will continue when I’m back in the states, but I know it will not (although I’m sure I’ll heavily cut back on my use no matter what).
While checking my messages at the Cohiba, I noticed I had a string of them from my mother, and opened them excitedly, as I now open any messages from my close contacts in the outside world. I read them chronologically, each mounting my excitement as she informed me she had her passport, was trying to find a way to visit, asked me where I staying and then finally – the dates were set, she was coming to see me in April.
What?
Despite knowing of my mother’s ingenuity, I couldn’t help but be surprised that this plan was coming to fruition, knowing how difficult it is for Americans (non-students) to come here and then get back into our country. But it was just the lift I didn’t know I needed. I had something to look forward to in the second half of the trip, that would break up the tedium of all the work that I’ll be doing on my final project. It was also a chance to share all the places I’ve started to frequent with someone in my family. I was and continue to be so excited. I can’t help but worry it won’t pan out, that something unforeseen will go wrong. But I honestly hope it doesn’t, since I’ve already started a list of things that I want to show her and David.
I finished my brief work at the Cohiba and headed back up Paseo towards my home stay. On the way back it began to rain, and as I bopped along in the light drizzle, listening to Beach House on my headphones, I couldn’t help but feel at home.
Thursday meant a return to the final project seminar, which passed with no real conflict or event to talk about. As always, people talked in depth about their projects, and I continued to be impressed with the work of my peers – nearly all the projects sound outstanding, tackling work that has not widely approached in English academia as of yet. While the class always goes on for too long (3 ½ hours or more), it is always a good means to become re-inspired by each other’s work.
After the class, Andrew and I set out in search of food, walking down to 23 and Calle J for a late night hot dog at the 24 “Perrito Caliente” stand (which, while satisfying, could never beat the quality or variety of my summer employment, Top Dog). We sat by the street and inhaled our food, exchanging current anxieties about our semesters and projects.
Friday was going to mark the start of a crammed filming schedule for my final project. I had already told Celia that I wanted to make sure that most of my filming was done by the end of March so I could spend April struggling through my first editing process. That being said, she had begun setting up meetings, interviews, and rehearsal that I could attend and film, all within the next 2 and a half weeks. As the schedule was laid out, Friday would mean my attendance at another Maria Antonia rehearsal, followed (over the weekend) with interviews with Eugenio Hernandez, Hilda Oates, and Roberto Blanco.
Yesterday (Friday), I showed up at Celia’s with my mindset prepared for the swift work weekend. But when I arrived, Celia informed me that there had been a few changes of plans, due to the fact that Eugenio had to suspend rehearsal due to a talk he was giving at UNEAC. The schedule (as it stands now) is as follows:
Friday: 1:30-2:45 – Meeting with Celia to go over new schedule, interview questions, afro-cuban myths; 3:00-4:00 – View/film 3 short shows at Teatro Guinol (Teatro para ninos); 4:00-5:30 – UNEAC to watch Eugenio’s talk on Maria Antonia.
Saturday: 5:00 – Go to park on Calzada and Calle D to view performance of Medea de Barro, figure out time to meet with Hilda Oates (perhaps on Tuesday).
Tuesday: 2:00 – Go to Maria Antonia rehearsal, interview Eugenio (and possibly Hilda), set up short interviews with cast members.
Wednesday: 9:30 – Go to Roberto Blanco’s house to talk and look over his direction work from original performance of Maria Antonia as well as seminal work with Electra Garrigo.
While it is nice that the schedule is now more spread out, it is still a very daunting agenda. I’m trying to take it one day at a time instead of seeing it all as one huge list of things to do. More than anything, I feel as if I am underqualified to have access to these amazingly talented people, and am worried that I am going to waste their time. I know that if I am to take a “big picture” approach, these worries won’t even matter 2 months down the line, but it is still very difficult to think that way.
Anyways, we carried out the prescribed Friday schedule without incidence, going to both Teatro Guinol and UNEAC – both of which were extremely enjoyable and worthwhile. At Teatro Guinol, in particular, we sat in on the shows that are designated for elementary school groups to come visit, so I was amongst a large group of younger Cuban children, who were extremely energetic and quick to participate. The performances were primarily puppet shows, which were also great to see (and different from a lot of other shows I’ve watched – already I’ve seen and filmed a wide variety of performances for my final project, which is very exciting).
After UNEAC, I parted ways with Celia and walked back home. I feel bad, because I address walking home and around so often, but I never really explain it in a way that truly captures how I feel towards it. Walking around Habana is one of my favorite parts of this semester, and probably the thing I will miss most about this experience once it is over. It is perfect to feel that you are physically moving your body somewhere, more slowly than in a car but also more satisfying when you reach your destination. It is the perfect time to merely think, gather thoughts, analyze past, present and future events. I can people watch, I can be out in the sun, I can stop whenever I want to find a bench, or an outdoor book shop, or some peso-coffee. It is a space I can be left alone with my thoughts, but not feel the weight of loneliness.
That is really all I can update as of right now. The only other real noteworthy news to share is that Andrew found a pastry shop, which was the destination of my walking last night with him and Oskar, to eat flaky cannoli-like treats before they went out to find other people and I headed home to watch a movie and get some more sleep.
Today is Saturday, and its already proving to be a lazy one at that. We’ve just finished breakfast and it seems that I’m just now finishing my update. We have plans to walk to Habana Vieja so that Andrew can get in touch with more musicians for his project, but as of now it seems like those plans are on hold, since he’s fallen back to sleep.
I think I will go wake him up.
3/14
Here I am writing more frequently once again – this time due to the arbitrary policies of the Melia-Cohiba’s wifi system. To explain again for those who may have forgotten (aka vent my frustrations) – the IT office has again decided that they “don’t” sell the cheaper 1-hour time card and only sell the 2-hour one…despite the fact that I have been here multiple times and know for a fact that they do. They change this policy as they see fit and, since I arrived with a group of clearly foreign students, they are trying to get us to pay the highest amount. Its frustrating because even the cheaper price is excessively expensive for the shitty service, and I just really want to get in touch with my family. I also just don’t like the feeling of being “had”, “taken”, or “ripped off”.
Anyways, as I await for someone to split the more expensive card, I suppose I should use this time constructively. So allow me to pick up where I left off: Saturday.
After waking Andrew up, we exercised, showered, and set out for food and a taxi to Habana Vieja. After enjoying a few personal pizzas, we arrived around Parque Central, on the hunt for musicians that Andrew could talk to for his project. I was tagging along to enjoy the sunny afternoon and his company. We walked through the narrow streets of Habana Vieja, listening for the particular sound of a tres. After looking at a few bands playing in outdoor cafes, we headed back to the hostel that we had visited during Orientation so many weeks ago, in search of the tres player that performed there in the afternoons.
Unfortunately, his schedule had been interrupted by a special event being held at the hostel…that event being the gathering of Cuban Harley-Davidson enthusiasts. I kid you not. I continue to be confused as to the facets of American culture that make it past the embargo: Ed Hardy clothing (and “Jersey Shore” fashion in general), Nickleback and Guns & Roses music, and mediocre television shows (“One Tree Hill” and “Young Hercules”). I could now add Harley-Davidson culture and fashion to that list. There were bikes and leather vests and vaguely-terrifying-facial-hair everywhere.
After snapping a few pictures and making some very obvious jokes, we continued on our way. The afternoon was waning though, and it seemed we had temporarily exhausted our leads. We walked around some more until we stumbled upon the large shore-side market, filled with scary vendors that begin to yell at you about their wares if you enter a 15 food radius of their stand. I have also found that many Cubans assume that I’m French, which I don’t know whether or not to take as a compliment – during our time in the market I had some yelling at me in French, while others just kept asking what part of that country was I from.
After Andrew made some lovely purchases (of which I will not reveal, as they will become gifts for loved ones upon re-entry into the US), we hurried out of the market and back into the streets and sun. We returned to Parque Central so that we could catch a cab to Calzada and Calle D, where we were going to watch an outdoor performance of Medea de Barro.
We got to the park early, and made small talk until the show began. As 5pm approached, we watched the cast begin to assemble. I must mention – as it is one of the most interesting aspects of Teatro D’Moron – that the “De Barro” part of the title refers to the actors and set, which are covered in barro, or clay (orange-brown clay to be specific). The effect is that the actors resemble moving statues – the action of the play itself is very slow and choreographed, without words, so that the show appears to be a picture in motion. It was very beautiful, and attracted quite a large crowd as the sun began to set on the park. My solitary complaint about the show is that the score (that sounded like GarageBand-Epic) did not match the aesthetic of the rest of the design…also, it was played far too loudly and subsequently gave me a headache. Aside from those small complaints though, I enjoyed it very much.
Also worth noting were two members of the audience – theatre lovers if you will. One was a 16-year-old boy, who was strangely (or, not so strangely, based on the level of maturity that he soon revealed to us) hanging out with much younger boys. He yelled and joked through the entire piece, trying to distract the performers as they desperately held onto their focus. Later, he realized that the woman who was playing Aphrodite had one of her breasts exposed (it was covered in clay, it was clearly not an accident). I have never seen a boy react so enthusiastically to a single boob. I mean, he was at least 15 or 16 years old. He should have seen a boob before. But by his reaction to it – yelling, giggling, pointing – you would’ve guessed it was the first he’s ever seen. And it was only one, it wasn’t even like it was a complete set.
The second theatre lover that we encountered was an older man who was clearly drunk and had probably been drunk for a few years now. As the performance was entering its last 20 minutes, he began getting on the ground, trying to look up Aphrodite’s skirt (that poor girl was harassed excessively for that solitary breast she exposed). He also tried to “tip” a few of the other actors with a 10 peso bill. He yelled about the death of his lover, but how he would gladly take any of the clay-covered women in the show. He rolled around in the street. The most entertaining of his many exploits, though, was his exclamation towards the end of the show. He fell to his knees in the middle of the street, raised his arms out and above him, and bellowed, in anguish, “YO SOY YO!”
Yo tambien, hombre. Yo tambien.
After the performance(s?), Andrew and I headed for home, to rest a little from the busy afternoon before dinner. We spent the evening lazily (and rather unefficiently) attempting to get homework done, but mostly ended up joking, playing music, and free reading. Andrew is now reading 100 Years of Solitude and I have begun Inferno by Eileen Miles – which is quickly becoming one of my favorite recent reads…I know I said the same about 100 years, but I’ve just been extremely lucky with my reading choices as of late.
Sunday morning shared the laziness of the morning before, but the day indicated a landmark for our trip to Cuba; Saturday was the half-way point of the trip and Sunday marked the beginning of the “descent”, which means the real work on my final project is starting to spread itself out before me, in all its anxiety-inducing glory. I’m ready for this second half, I’m looking forward to this work.
The only other real notable event of yesterday was the surprise visit of a dear friend: for the past month and a half, Andrew and I have been stopping next door to “get licked” by a small, adorable dog that resides behind a fence. We’ve never seen him free from the shackles of his domicile (said fence), but he is always happy to see us when we pet him through the chain-link.
But yesterday, as Andrew left his room to get some water from the kitchen, he was greeted by our little “Licky Friend”, who our hermana cubana had brought over for play-time. He was so excited to see the two of us, running around, finally free, licking everything in sight. It was just the excitement we needed in the afternoon, to break up the homework that we were (again) trying to accomplish. It was another of our small triumphs.
After dinner we wasted a little more time by watching “District 9”, before settling into our respective reading.
Which brings me to today. This morning, I woke up early to have a meeting with Carol about my final project and Division III. As we found out last week, our preliminary Division III proposals are due next Friday, which is slightly terrifying. Luckily (and thanks to the way that Theater Div III’s work, in which you slot whatever you want to do as your project the Spring before), I already have a pretty good idea of how I want to allocate my time. Even better, Carol agreed to be a member of my committee, which means I officially know with whom I will be working in my final year at Hampshire (which is all so very exciting). The meeting was very productive and put me at ease about the work that I’m accomplishing and will accomplish in this next year. Despite the waves of concern that sometimes wash over me, I know that I am “on-track”…whatever that means. More importantly, I’m completing work that I can be proud to claim as my own.
After the early morning meeting I continued my morning schedule as usual, before setting out to Spanish class. And now here I am, still putting off using the internet as a matter of principal and the fact that I didn’t bring enough money to buy the 2-hour card. Will I break down and ask someone to spot me a few CUC so that I can post this?
Only time will tell.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Journal Entries III
3/10
More time than I had anticipated (or wanted) has passed between diary entries, so my apologies to myself for any slips of memory that will make this addition void of nuance. Since the last time I wrote, I have found myself in an entirely different mindset – not surprisingly, but the change is definitely a welcomed one. I have spent more time in theater rehearsals and class, and have also made a trip across the island to Santiago, which is the closest thing to a pirate town I have ever visited. More on that later.
After writing my last entry on Sunday (27th), I took a long, solitary walk – something I have gotten into the habit of doing here and that I find very helpful and relaxing. Since I didn’t bring an ipod or anything of the sort, I am left with only my thoughts, which I can sort through and repeat as often as necessary until I have exhausted the topics. I usually bring a book and separate these copycat-Trousseau outings with some lighter reading on one of the many park benches in the Vedado area. Sunday’s reading was JD Salinger’s 9 Stories, which I have, unfortunately, already finished (I’m burning through all my free-reading material much faster than I had anticipated). After a long afternoon out by myself, I returned home, ate some cookies, wallowed in my blue mood a little longer, then watched a movie. I woke up the next morning free of my self-pity, having fatigued any need to continue my wholly unnecessary angst.
Monday was business as usual – nothing out of the ordinary to report before early evening (morning schedule and Spanish class were without incident). After class I went to the Melia Cohiba hotel to attempt an internet connection, which arbitrarily cost twice as much money as usual (depending on what time it is and who is working at the front desk, internet access is sold in 80 or 120 minute blocks, costing 6 or 12 CUC, respectively). I begrudgingly handed over my 12 CUCs and went to find a seat, hoping to any and all Gods that the internet would actually work after having to shell out that much money.
Luckily it did (kind of), and I was able to finally access some messages that I was unable to open a week and a half before, during my last visit. It made me very happy to be able to communicate with my loved ones, which continued to boost my spirits. The two hours allowed me a decent amount of time to message most people (although I’ve decided I will have to rotate who I respond to in-depth each time, because otherwise carpel tunnel would prematurely set in), update my blogs, and answer “business” emails from school. I also got the opportunity to trade poetry with Georgie, which I quickly saved to my computer desktop so as not to lose it when the internet connection ended.
Later that night, I had the opportunity to sit down with his work and read over it, a lot of it having to do with me and my closer group of friends during last semester. Last semester was a very difficult time for me (definitely the hardest term I’ve had at Hampshire, both work-wise and emotionally), and it was interesting/hard/wonderful to see it reflected from someone else’s perspective, especially when that someone is a person that I love dearly. It made me feel better to know that I had never been alone throughout that time, and that things were already better. Whether I had realized it or not, we had all survived it – just as I would survive (and thrive!) this abroad program. It made me miss my home at Hampshire, that home being my friends there. But that home is never that far away, even from Cuba.
I also had a message waiting for me from Celia: Baby informed me that the following day I would be meeting her at Sala Hubert De Blanck. I was slightly confused, because I thought we were meeting at Sala Bertolt Brecht, to attend a pantomiming seminar. I verified with Baby and she confirmed the former.
The next morning (Tuesday) I woke up early to walk the short distance down to Linea and Calle D to meet Celia. When I got there, I realized it was the same bright yellow building and parking lot I visited last Friday to watch Teatro Tropatrapa. I was further confused, but went in anyways, asking a guide to direct me to the Sala. She smiled and led me back to that parking lot, where Angelito and some of the other members of the company were just starting to assemble. Celia was no where to be found. I figured I had just beaten her there, and said hello to the company.
They did not seem too surprised to see me again. They asked where Andrew was, and they laughed when I told them he was still sleeping. They told me there were doing an interview before their rehearsal, but I was welcome to stay. To stay? It became very clear to me that this was not what Celia had planned or intended for the day. I had no idea where Sala Bertolt Brecht was, and no way to get in touch with Celia to alter plans. I decided to stay and film Teatro Tropatrapa once again, and call Celia later about the mix-up.
The interview that they were doing was actually a short television profile on an upcoming show that they are working on, premiering near the end of March. It was endlessly helpful to record them talking about the new project, and they also performed some scenes from it. After the television crew had left, I had time to sit down and ask them a few questions about their process and why they participated in live theater. I then stuck around and watched some more of their rehearsal. While it was unfortunate that I didn’t make the pantomiming seminar, the day’s filming started to give my final project more focus – why my subjects choose to participate in live performance as opposed to television, radio or cinema. After a few hours, I thanked Angelito and the boys and set out for a free afternoon, roaming the streets of Vedado once again. I finished 9 stories and found yet another great (and hidden) park. I realized that I now felt comfortable in my Habana neighborhood – I knew my way around, I never had to ask for directions, and I had spots to get coffee, browse books, or find cupcakes (everything I needed for a free afternoon).
That night I wrote another response to a play I had read, Contigo, Pan y Cebolla, before Celia called me to ask where I had been earlier that day. I explained to her that Baby had mistakenly given me the wrong meeting place – Celia confirmed that she had mentioned Sala Hubert De Blanck in passing, and that she must not have been clear with her directions. I said it was not a big deal, because I still spent our “class time” working and filming Teatro Trapatropa and had conducted a short interview with Angelito. She was happy with my work and I could tell she was pleased that I had been outgoing enough to work without her. I told her that I would bring my essay on Contigo, Pan y Cebolla to my literature class for Alfredo (her husband) the next day to give to her. She was, again, pleased – all of these short essays are self-assigned and auxiliary, I write them for my own clarification and reflection, but pass them in so that she knows how I am progressing with the work. Celia tells me she will also send Alfredo to class with Electra Garrigo, so that I can read it over my trip to Santiago.
Wednesday began in my regular morning routine, and led into the afternoon as usual. After a 10-peso pizza for lunch, I stopped at an agro and Cadeca to exchange money into moneda nacional and to buy a few treats (peanut butter paste!) for Thursday’s long ride to Santiago. Then it was off to another Wednesday literature class to (this week) discuss the writings of Jose Martí. At our break time, I handed Alfredo my essays, but did not get the Pinera play in return...I assumed there had been yet another mix-up, and decided to confirm later with Celia. As always on our Wednesday classes, I reflected on my growing comprehension of Spanish – more progress.
After class, Andrew, Oskar and I walked around in search of food and cigarettes (for Oskar). We did a big loop of the area (maybe 10 blocks) – found the cigarettes but no appetizing food, and decided to wait til dinner. On our way back, I asked Oskar if I could borrow some of his books to read, and he leant me a few when we stopped by his house. I wish wish wish I had brought more to read: this trip would’ve been a perfect time for some Faulkner or Baldwin. Alas.
That night Celia called me before I had the opportunity to call her – she apologized profusely, telling me Alfredo had left the play on the kitchen table, and that she was thinking of coming over to bring it to me. I told her it was ok and that there was no need to, that I had plenty of other things to read. Alfredo cut in on the call and thanked me for my participation in class earlier that day. Celia told me she had read my essay and thought it was very insightful. It was my best Cuban phone conversation to date. I hung up feeling good, much better than I had that past Sunday, when my mood was so low. I packed for the trip to Santiago, and went to bed as early as I could.
Thursday morning I woke up at 5:30 and finished getting ready for the trip. By 6:00, Andrew and I were in the atrium at Casa Silvia, ready (or as ready as possible) for the 14-hour car-ride ahead of us. This road trip marked the longest to date – I don’t think I’ve ever done a car-ride longer than 8 or 9 hours in a single day. I had brought plenty of reading to keep me busy, but I found myself sleeping more than anything else. We would stop every couple of hours for a small snack and bathroom break (I have now explored the depths of some of the most disgusting bathrooms – or holes-in-the-ground – (wo)mankind has ever known). The ride was actually not that bad. I got to see a lot of Cuban countryside and experienced true Cuban highway driving…fast and slightly reckless but always staying within the bounds of control. By 9 we had arrived in Santiago, exhausted from sitting on buses all day and terribly hungry for a real meal.
Luckily, Casa Marucchi (where Andrew, Oskar and I would share a room) had prepared a meal for our arrival, with delicious homemade juices, a tomato salad, fresh bread, cheese, and salami, and the most delicious homemade cake I have ever had. It was easily one of the most delicious meals I have had since my arrival in Cuba, although I’m not sure its due just to the quality of the food or if it has more to do with the level of hunger with which I met the meal.
Casa Marucchi was a beautiful old house in the heart of Santiago. As you walk in there was a large parlour filled with ancient chairs, photos and antiquities, with guest rooms off to the right. If you walk through the parlour, there is a small computer and television room…but if you keep walking, the house opens up to a beautiful garden, partially uncovered, with bright green plants sitting, hanging, and draping from every possible surface. There are a many seats and a few tables, a fountain or two, a small pool with a snapping turtle, and a partial outdoor stove. There are also a few cats, a tiny dog (who we nicknamed Chicken Nugget, which was much more fitting than his given name, Toby), and a parrot. The garden ends with a brick staircase leading up to the roof, where there are more plants and a swing. It was absolutely gorgeous. Our room itself was also large and wonderfully decorated, with a boudoir for which I would sprain my right arm to have. Plus, the most amazing part, the bathroom had a lovely shower, with warm water and – shockingly – the best water pressure I’ve experienced in Cuba. It was like showering in the US!
Now, all of these things – the luxurious dinner, the beautiful parlour, the sprawling garden, the friendly pets, the fantastic water pressure – led me to have quite a lovely first impression of Santiago.
The old idiom, “too good to be true” should’ve entered my mind. But it did not. Over the next three days, that favorable first impression would be chipped away, leaving me with the sense that any kindness and opportunity that I was experiencing was not sincere but bought, and that even still it was usually performed begrudgingly.
On Friday – by far the best and most fun day of the trip – we woke up and enjoyed breakfast out in the garden before an 8:30 departure. Little did we all know, almost all of our time (this being our Spring Break, our trip of “relaxation” before our work on final projects became overwhelming) had been planned out for us with activities in the same vain as those of orientation.
Our first stop of the day was at a local espiritista, to talk about his work and role within the community. Now, I’m not going to talk at length about this visit (or about any of the religious visits during the trip) because there is very little information I can provide with certainty of knowing that I am accurately representing it. I believe the espiritista belonged to the Haitian-Cuban community that combines aspects of Voodoo, Santería, and Christianity – within the realm of the performance that was being offered (and caused a heated debate) the weekend before in Habana. We entered his shrine-like room that was a meshing of older pictures, religious relics, and knick-knacks that held personal worth to the espiritista. He talked a little about what he does, mostly cleansing members of his community of their sins on a weekly basis. He also reads futures in cards – similar to Tarot cards but with a Spanish deck that, we were told, are a lot more complex to read. After a very brief visit (not more than 25 minutes) we piled back into the buses to go to our second activity of the day.
We quickly arrived at a small side street with a sign proclaiming the presence of a small theater-café, Macuba. Up a few flights of stairs, we entered a great little café (15 to 18 small tables, each with 3-4 chairs) that opened up to a stage (about the size of the studio). We had a short discussion with one of the directors, Fatima, of a company that worked in the space, before watching part of a dress rehearsal for a show they were premiering the following week. It was very well acted with a lot of energy, and I was immediately disappointed that I would miss the opportunity to see it come to opening night. I made use of the chance to get more filming done for my final project, and also asked a few questions afterward, relating to my work.
While I would’ve loved to have stayed and watched more, the chance was stifled due to our exhausting schedule, which forced us to truck along to the next place of interest – this time a castle/fortress. We were there for a petty 25 minutes or so, not even enough time to make it through the entire castle. Then it was back in the vans for a short drive to a ferry that would take us to lunch on an island nearby. We ended up at a beautiful restaurant over a dock on the island, giving us a gorgeous view of the castle we had just briefly visited, as well as the houses nestled into the rolling hills and extending down and over the water. It was very clear that the restaurant was designated for tourists, with tables and tables filled by “the pale knees of aristocracy” – middle-aged white people from Western Europe. We ate a delicious and slightly expensive lunch, and I enjoyed a glass of white wine for the first time in over a month. It was triumphant.
As we started to finish up our meal, dark clouds began to close in on the island, practically bursting with rain. After everyone finished their drinks and took their turns in the bathrooms, the downpour had already started, bathing (quite literally) everything in gray light and cold rain. We tried to wait it out, but when it appeared that it was not going to stop – and we were going to miss our return ferry, which only comes but once an hour – we decided to make a run for it.
Poor choice.
The roads were already flooding, and as we walked back down the hill to the ferry station, we traipsed through the babbling brook the road had become. We cautiously ran through the street, as natives watched/laughed/cheered us on toward our destination, safely under the protection of their roofs. By the time we made it to the station, everyone was completely drenched, head to toe. We laughed and took pictures of each other. Oskar attempted to smoke the world’s soggiest cigarette. I remember feeling an awareness that this was a moment I would remember, a story to tell of my time in Santiago. Everything took on a sepia tone.
The ferry finally arrived and brought us back to the mainland, where our drivers were attempting to restart our van (nearly everytime they stop and park it, it later resists restarting: thus, we usually catch them putting the car into neutral, pushing it a few hundred feet before they can get the engine to start). After their success, we all piled back into the van and headed back to our home stays – the rest of the day’s activities had been canceled due to our current damp states and the weather.
After warm showers and brief naps, Andrew, Oskar and I left our room in search of dinner. Since we had not received maps or directions (or even suggestions as to where to find food), we tried to retrace routes that the vans had taken earlier that day, passed streets that seemed fairly promising as far as food and entertainment went. Maybe 5 or 6 blocks from our home stay, we hit the strip filled with Cubans and tourists alike.
This is what we learned: the spectrum of food and entertainment in downtown Santiago has the very cheap (and very shitty) and the very expensive (which I cannot say whether or not it is good, because we chose to go ‘very cheap’). We entered a small, white room that offered 10 peso pizza and spaghetti. The small restaurant was lit only by overhead fluorescents…that should’ve been the warning I heeded, but no. I stayed. I endured. About an hour later the cheap pizza was sitting (or rather sprawling and making itself mighty comfortable and heavy) in my stomach. Andrew and I headed home after a failed attempt at re-locating the small theater we had been in earlier that day (playing Flaco y Gordo), and readied ourselves for bed. Oskar went his own way. We would not see him til 2:30 in the morning, when he returned from a night out on the town (and a date planned with a local girl studying at the University).
Saturday morning began (once again) at 7:30, with a quick but delicious breakfast out in the garden before leaving for Gran Piedra, a huge rock at the top of a mountain just outside of Santiago, with a beautiful view of the city and ocean. The ride up into the mountains was nothing short of terrifying – once again we were in vans, but this time with different drivers. Our new driver was a very short and very jubilant middle-aged man who enjoyed his salsa and Rihanna music. He also happened to enjoy speeding up very curvy mountain roads (that had no guardrails). These various interests made for an interesting, bumpy ride. Many of us employed our oh-shit-we’re-gonna-die handles just above our seats.
Before our hike up to Gran Piedra, we stopped at an old coffee plantation and did a quick tour of the area, which was great because the now-museum had an excellent cat that enjoyed being pet. After that, we went back to the Gran Piedra entrance/restaurant, put in our order for lunch, and began the walk up to the mountain summit. It was not too difficult of a hike (mostly stairs), and after 15 minutes or so, we were standing on top of – as promised – a great rock with an even better view. I will have to include a picture because any words I try to use to describe its majesty would feel as clichéd as using the word “majesty” as I just did. I cringed a little. But it was pretty damn majestic. What wasn’t majestic, however, was the enormous dark cloud that was beginning to make its way over our area. Having flashbacks to the downpour the day before, we made our way back down the path and towards our lunching spot.
After we were informed that lunch would not be ready for another hour (noooooooo), we decided to again set out to a nearby botanical garden to make the wait more bearable. Again, I cannot accurately describe how beautiful (and green) this hillside garden was, chock full of oversized Birds of Paradise, Lilies, Roses, Strawberry patches, and coffee and bread trees. And again, excellent animals: 2 small and friendly dogs free for the petting.
Already exhausted from the jam-packed day, we headed back for a late lunch (around 2:00…we hadn’t eaten since 8am and had been hiking about all day). It was already becoming clear that everyone’s good spirits were beginning to fail: the last day and a half had been filled to the brim with a whirlwind of activities. While we were (and remain) appreciative of all of these opportunities, it was already becoming too overwhelming of a schedule, especially for a vacation that was supposed to serve as a break from the semester.
It was already becoming apparent that we would return from this “break” more exhausted than when we left. Also, we had no idea what the itinerary ever consisted of, so we felt like we were being carted around without any sense of the grand scheme of things. It was all becoming too much. On top of that, with each activity, it became more and more clear that those participating (for the most part) were doing so primarily for monetary compensation for our program. While yes, it makes sense that they are getting paid to show us what they do with their lives, more and more it felt that it was the only reason they were participating: their kindness (and at times, mere tolerance) was bought, not freely given. They did not seem truly impassioned to share their work. They seemed bothered by our foreign-ness, which, in turn, made me feel extremely self-conscious. As the day wore on, I felt increasingly less welcome.
Of course, it must be noted that this was not the case with all activities, but with a majority of them, as well as with our presence in Santiago in general. I must also note that I suppose it is good that I encountered a place where my foreign-ness is held against me in a way that I feel out of place…while it did not feel good, it was a good learning experience and offered me a useful perspective that I’m sure many immigrants encounter (at length too, not just for a day or two) in the United States. Please forgive this very short (and far from eloquent) analysis – I know that it is far from being hashed-out, but I plan on giving this more thought in the future, when I have the time and proper mindset.
Anyways, after lunch, we were ushered back into the vans for the hour-long ride out of the mountains and (you guessed it) an afternoon of Haitian-Cuban dance performances. Before lunch, Andrew had been feeling a bit under the weather, blaming the pizza he had eaten last night (a second pizza, from a different place than the one that I had eaten at as well). The illness had only become worse since then – by lunch he was getting awfully quiet and pale; by the bus ride back down the mountain he was doing his best not to toss his galletas. Pobrecito.
As we reached La Casa del Caribe, it became clear that he wasn’t going to make it. He opted to stay outside and wait out the puking, telling me to go inside and that he would be fine. I didn’t want to, but he continued to insist and I knew that I was just causing him more hardship by protesting his wishes. I reluctantly left him alone and went in to view the first dance performance of the day.
The costumes (probably the completely wrong term for them, my apologies) were beautiful and colorful, with women in bright full skirts and tops, carrying baskets and dancing with an energy I don’t think I’ve ever seen rivaled (especially considering the heat). There was also a chorus, band, and male dancers comprising the company. I got some great filming done for my final project, but was completely distracted by the fact that Andrew was outside waiting to throw up. As soon as the performance and Q&A ended, I made my way back outside, to see Andrew looking very pale and unhappy but still making small talk with one of our drivers. I sat with him for a while and told him I wanted him to go to the International Clinic – a hospital that a few of our fellow students had already visited with knee injuries, flu-like symptoms, and a bacterial infection (not a good trip to Santiago for many people and for many reasons).
He accepted and I told him I would go find Roberto (our fantastic program coordinator) to tell him about the change of plans. As I was leaving, it became very clear that Andrew was nearing the point of puke; I made a run for it, hoping he would be ok. By the time I got back, he had already puked, a dancer from the performance had been rubbing his back, and our driver had asked him if he drank too much rum the night before (no, he just ate too much shit pizza). The activity had ended and everyone was making his or her way back to the vans. Roberto joined us and navigated us towards the car that would make a stop at the clinic. Andrew once again insisted that my presence was neither needed or wanted (“but thank you”) and sent me home with the hope that I would not worry (“yeah right”). On the ride back we passed Moncada – we leaned out of our seats and towards the windows, hoping to get a look at bullet holes in the side of the bright yellow building.
I set out by myself to find some food before the final activity of the day. I knew to expect piropos (we were still in Cuba, after all), but I wasn’t expecting them to be all that different than those offered in Habana. I would soon find out that this was naïve thinking: walking around Santiago as a girl (and especially without the company of a male) feels like a continuous walk of shame in which you are only trotting along for the enjoyment of the male citizens (pigs?) of the city. Within the stretch of a single block, I was probably harassed at least 5 or 6 times, with one guy even following me just repeating, “Linda. Oye, Linda, Linda!” I couldn’t keep dealing with it. Ready to return home as soon as I made a purchase, I found the nearest store and bought the first food I saw.
After a dinner of cheese balls - which I maintain was a better and more nutritional choice than the pizza from the night before - I met up with other students on the trip to walk the short distance to Tumba Francesa, where we would view the other Haitian dance performance that evening. Outside of the hall, I began filming primary shots of the building and street, which drew the attention of a young neighborhood girl, Felicia. Felicia is 6 years old, likes the color pink, and is very interested in modern technologies from the United States. She insisted that I take a picture of her, and when I explained that it was a video camera, she became even more excited, wanting to help me with my project and also be one of my subjects. As we moved into the hall, she came and plopped herself down next to me, intent on giving me insider information on the dancers (all were adults from the neighborhood with the exception of one of the male dancers, who was a boy about her age).
The costumes and music were very similar to those we had seen earlier in the day, yet the dance itself seemed less energetic and more oriented towards precise movements, in the way of a group/partner dance. There was also a maypole, which they expertly weaved around while dancing. Felicia sat next to me (as well as her slightly older brother, who had now joined us), often getting up and dancing in front of me to the music, hell bent on being the focus of my filming. I didn’t really mind much, and took it as a welcome break from the cold shoulder that most residents of Santiago were giving us – it was nice to be around someone who wanted to play with us! The dance performance ended, and Felicia’s mother escorted her and her brother out of the hall, but before they even disappeared into the street, the two siblings came running back in, pulled me down to their height, and gave me kisses on the cheek before saying a final “ciao”. Needless to say, the whole interaction improved my spirits and feelings toward the day in general.
I walked the few blocks back to my home stay with Kristina and Lia, and made plans to meet up with them later in the evening to explore downtown Santiago. Andrew was back from the clinic by the time I returned to our room, attempting an early night of sleep. I checked in with him shortly, told him I would bring him some food, and set out around 9pm with a small group of students.
There was a 4-day celebration going on downtown, which closed off a couple of main streets to foot traffic. We ventured through the crowds in search of finding some cheap rum and TuKola to enjoy somewhere along the stretch of the fiesta.
If I had thought walking through the streets of Santiago during the day was bad (due to piropos), I was completely underprepared for the walk on which I was setting off at that moment. Hoards and hordes of disgusting, drunk, horny men – ranging from 13 to mid-50’s – with no sense of personal boundaries or chivalry. In our (practically) innocent search for rum, we were verbally assaulted with a slew of less-than-complimentary compliments; arm grazes, and attempted butt-slaps. It was the least safe I have felt since being here. It was also the most I’ve ever felt like a mere object to the opposite sex. We found a bottle of Santiago’s rum, got our cola, and found a park slightly removed from the festivities to enjoy our findings.
We had not been sitting for five minutes when another drunk pig spotted us and started yelling in the middle of the street. He then traveled half the distance between us and again started yelling at the girls in our party. I was feverishly irritated, the need to seek out physical violence against these constant offenders was overwhelming but I was powerless to follow through on that necessity. I knew all the other girls were feeling similarly. The pig came closer, despite the fact that we had entirely ignored his 2 previous attempts. He started straight in on an unwanted conversation; he was eyeing each of us up. He was driving me insane. I was sick of feeling helpless. I made a split second decision to try a new tactic.
If you are at all close with me (and I’m assuming anyone reading this most likely is), than you know of a little impression that I’ve been doing for years. Her name is Leslie, or Stupid Turtle. It entails me making a very very very strange face, drooling a little, and yelping. I gave myself a lazy eye, closing the other one ever so slightly to further mismatch them. I let my mouth gape. I flared my nostrils. And I let out the most unappetizing howl I could muster, in the style of Sloth from the 1980’s classic film, “The Goonies”.
There was a moment of silence. The pig looked at me, confused. He had just seen me, a moment before, perfectly fine. He knew I was making fun of him. He knew that I could control it. He faltered for a moment, and then tried to start in again on his one-sided conversation. But every time that he would try to say something, I would just yelp over him. I could hear the 2 girls sitting next to me losing it. I could feel their happiness at someone finally doing something more ridiculous than the piropo itself. 2 of his friends came over, seeing what I was doing. The girl he was with understood that I was sick of dealing with him, and tried talking him into leaving, calling me a clown. I didn’t care. I kept it up. After a few solid efforts, he finally left. I burst out laughing, and took my first swig of rum of the night, in victory. An older woman who was sitting nearby in the park was dying laughing, clearly enjoying my performance far more than I had. She smiled at me and raised her drink. She probably endured those advances wordlessly for years.
Not soon after my triumph over the piropo, we heard the sound of a table being turned over and saw a fist fight breaking out about 20 yards away from us. We moved back a little, watching the fight from afar as others tried to break it up. The fight subsided, and we thought it was the end of the drunken tussle.
But no.
About 20 seconds later, it had moved into the middle of the street, with 2 or 3 guys hitting each other with chairs. Soon a few more friends had joined into the rumble, pulling anything they could into the fight, knocking over tables, pulling out cables that were powering fryolators, attempting to grab the poles that were holding up food tents. In another minute, men were holding out empty rum bottles (the contents of which, no doubt, was fueling said fight), and (this is when we completely left the scene) a few long knives. In the middle of the street.
Based on my mounting interactions I had been having with the people of Santiago, I began to realize that this city was the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to a pirate town or, the Wild West.
We moved to a different area of the park, talked a little bit more about how none of us thought Santiago was really the place for us, and enjoyed the magic tricks of one of our friends. We also talked with a few Santiago natives (who were not nearly as scary as others we had encountered), who even confessed their frustrations with their current government (a strange occurrence for Cubans to recognize to strangers in public). After a (fun-filled?) night, we headed back towards our home stays to get some rest before the final day of jam-packed activities. I stopped on the way and grabbed some bread and cheese for Andrew.
By the time I got back, Andrew was still sleeping and Oskar was no where to be found: he had gone out on his date nearly 12 hours earlier and still hadn’t returned. We ate bread and cheese and hypothesized what he could be up to; placing bets on what time he would get home (the answer was 3:00).
Sunday. The final day of our trip. Wake up at 7:30. Breakfast in the garden. For the first time since arriving, the skies are clear; the cold front has moved out of the area. By 8:30, it’s already extremely warm and sunny. We have another full day planned out for us, starting with an hour-long ride out to Iglesia Cobre, one of the most famous churches in the West of Cuba. We stand outside the beautiful church and are given a lecture on its history, both social and religious. I am sure that it was a very interesting talk, but it was extremely difficult to listen to under the pulsing heat of the sun. I felt like I was melting. In March.
After realizing that the church was temporarily closed for Sunday Mass – who would’ve predicted that?! – we head back to the vans to visit the house of a local espiritista (I think?), who has painted his entire house with murals, one of which depicts him, topless, sweaty, and muscular, sitting in the Amazon with a snake staff held proudly in one hand. I am confused to as why we are there (its never really explained to us thoroughly), but resolve to paint myself into a badass mural like his when I return to the US.
At the end of the tour, I watch as one of our program leaders pays him for his services, and that feeling of buying-our-welcoming sets in once again. Its 10:30 in the morning and I am already worn out. We have a tireless day ahead of us. A wall (much shorter but in the same likeness to the one that was 3-months tall that I’ve previously mentioned) goes up between me and the next time I’ll be able to rest. We get back in the vans and return to the church.
We tour the church, which is as pretty on the inside as it is on the outside. I enjoy the architecture and art work of the church, and also enjoy the mullet-hawk that one young Cuban man is sporting with utmost pride. You go, mullet-hawk, walk tall.
The tour ends, we meet back up, we find a place to get water. Everyone’s face has that look of someone a little bit lost, the heavy eyes of a tired tourist. We walk to the town center for a steel drum band performance. It is good, livens our spirits a little, but wholly tires us out even more. Luckily, lunch follows, only across the street. Unfortunately, the food is cold, unsavory, and in small portions, and the bathroom. Oh no, the bathroom. By far one of the worst that I’ve encountered in Cuba, which is saying a lot. It was a large partitioned room that emitted the smell of urine all the way down the hall and nearly to the dining room. The closer you got to entering the room, the worse it became. Raw sewage on the floor. In the time it took me to complete my business, I was nauseous from the overwhelming smell.
Santiago continued to disappoint me in dining experiences.
We had mentioned earlier to our program leaders that we were extremely tired out, and that we would like to call it a day after lunch. We knew that if we continued going through the motions, it would not only be pointless, but it would be rude to the people we were visiting: we didn’t want to project an attitude of boredom and weariness towards them and their work – especially considering that this would most likely form their view of not only the students of Hampshire College, but also of Americans in general. We knew we were at the point that we could not mask our exhaustion.
Thinking that we were done after lunch, we left the cafeteria and reconvened outside, where it was brought up once again that we still had the option of continuing the day. The overwhelming majority of us said that they were done, that we were sorry but grateful for the opportunities we were given, but just thought that we weren’t in the right physical or mental state to continue. They said this was fine and that those who wanted to head home could. Then, our Santiago housemother, Marucci, unhappily pulled our program leader aside.
Let me back up just a little to talk about Marucci. She is a nice woman who remains nice as long as everything is going according to her own plan. Her house is beautiful and she can be very agreeable, but as our stay wore on in Santiago, it was clear that our presence was becoming more and more annoying to her. Now, I would take responsibility for any irritating actions if I thought that there were any I committed, but the truth is I was a very good, respectful houseguest. And yet, she still became less and less pleased with us. I really don’t know what her problem was, but by the end of the trip I was really sick of her disapproving looks and eye roles.
So Marucci pulls her aside and tells her that we have to go to the next activity, because they were putting on a performance just for us. Ok, fine, valid. But she knew that we were anticipating being done for the day after lunch by about 10 in the morning. She could’ve spoken up earlier. She could’ve brought this up instead of letting us think we were done midday. We reluctantly said we would finish the final activity, got back into the vans, and headed to the last destination, tired and angry. I felt like an 8 year old being forced to go to Church by his mother.
The last performance was by a Haitian-Cuban choir. It was a lovely performance, and they were all very talented. While most people sat in the middle section of the small auditorium, I chose to sit in one of the side sections, which gave me a good view of both the performers and the Hampshire audience.
Just as had been predicted, everyone looked like ghosts of themselves – trying desperately and sincerely to look happy and engaged, but it was clear that all parties were somewhere else entirely, searching for beds in their minds. Marucci looked disapproving at all of us. After the performance, we thanked them genuinely, and waited for the Question and Answer session to be over. But instead of a Question and Answer session, it became Marucci’s moment to bombard the choir with questions as to why they didn’t align themselves and perform with the church (to which she belonged). The choir was clearly uncomfortable at the question, and answered that they had tried a few times to be accepted by the church, but they wouldn’t allow them to perform. They said that they were doing something separate from the church. This answer was not good enough for Marucci, who started telling them they must be talking to the wrong people, and began to insist upon a better course of action for them to take.
The choir continued to look more and more uncomfortable, and Marucci continued to force her opinions on them. It became clear to us in that moment that it wasn’t a problem with us that was making Marucci irritated, it was a problem with Marucci herself. I began to care less and less what she thought of me (but, for my focus on etiquette, I continued to do my best to be a polite guest in her home).
We finally left the small auditorium and were set free for the day. A few students chose to stay behind and finish out the day’s activities, while most of us took a van back to our home stays in downtown Santiago. Upon arrival, Andrew, Oskar and I were giddy with exhaustion, and sprawled out on our beds laughing at any little thing that was remotely funny. After some showers and further resting, we went out to find food (as Oskar went to meet the girl from the other night for another date – he would not return until 5:30 the following morning, an hour before we left Santiago for good).
Andrew and I walked the same stretch of shopping and food that we had the nights before, trying fruitlessly to find some decent food that we had missed in searches before. We ended up at another cafeteria (overhead fluorescents, why didn’t I heed your warning?) and ordered what we later become known as Spaghetti-gate 2011. We tried to order just regular spaghetti. They said they only had spaghetti with sausage (aka hot dogs), which should’ve been a tip off that it had been sitting there pre-made, and was not worth our time. But we were starving and delirious and said fine, we’ll take it.
The spaghetti was cold. And I’m not talking lukewarm cold; I’m talking in-the-fridge-for-a-while cold. The sauce maybe had a slightly warmed center. The cheese was not melted, but just globs of suspicious looking yellow-orange paste. And the hot dogs were cut helter skelter on top, attracting flies. What is more, the guy had overcharged us for it, after Andrew had called him out on it. I was so mad! I wanted to just overturn the plate onto the table and leave. But we sat, defeated, and ate only the spaghetti, fearing anything else on the plate would leave us sick. We drank our sodas, toasting to our imminent departure from Santiago. We went back to our home stay, and I was asleep by 10, ready to wake up at 5:30 the next morning and get the hell out of town.
And that is exactly what we did. 14 hours, 1 book, and lots of Itunes music later, we were back in Habana.
I know I’ve spun a mostly-pessimistic tale of our journey to Santiago. It left everyone tired and angry, and its food claimed many people’s health, sending them straight to the clinic. We felt unwelcomed. The girls of the trip had been accosted with the worst piropos we had experienced thus far. One girl was robbed – a guy had run up behind her and ripped the bag right off her, breaking the thin strap and running a few blocks before passing it off to his accomplice.
But the trip was not all bad. If nothing else came from it, we all realized how much we loved and missed Habana. I found myself homesick for the place that, only a week ago, I was ready to leave. I returned home transformed, rejuvenated and excited about the second half of the semester. Santiago had transformed me into a Habana Girl.
The last three days since returning have been back to business as usual, with classes and tutor meetings and my beloved morning routine. Our Habana mother, Baby, was as happy to see us return as we were to see her – she showed us a few things she had bought for the house while we were gone, and told us a few stories of things we had missed. We were happy to be back in our Habana home.
My vivid dreams – which had wholly disappeared since going to Santiago – returned with our homecoming. Once again I am dreaming of people I know and knew in the most lucid dreams I’ve ever had.
Yesterday I met with Celia (who is a little on the sick side, which makes me terribly unhappy), who informed me of the big weekend I have coming up: I will be going to rehearsals and interviewing many VIPs of the Cuban theater world starting tomorrow and continuing through Sunday. I’m very nervous about it, worried that I will waste their time or ask them a stupid question. At the same time, I know that whether or not things go smoothly, time will pass and I will survive. I’m looking forward to the challenge.
After my meeting, I walked around Vedado by myself, as I’ve done so many times before. I realized there were very few streets in my area that I didn’t know. Familiar places. I am happy to be here. I am doing good work. I will eventually return home.
Yesterday marked 6 weeks since leaving home at the end of January, as well as 7 weeks left before returning. I know time will continue to fly past me. I know I am not wasting it.
More time than I had anticipated (or wanted) has passed between diary entries, so my apologies to myself for any slips of memory that will make this addition void of nuance. Since the last time I wrote, I have found myself in an entirely different mindset – not surprisingly, but the change is definitely a welcomed one. I have spent more time in theater rehearsals and class, and have also made a trip across the island to Santiago, which is the closest thing to a pirate town I have ever visited. More on that later.
After writing my last entry on Sunday (27th), I took a long, solitary walk – something I have gotten into the habit of doing here and that I find very helpful and relaxing. Since I didn’t bring an ipod or anything of the sort, I am left with only my thoughts, which I can sort through and repeat as often as necessary until I have exhausted the topics. I usually bring a book and separate these copycat-Trousseau outings with some lighter reading on one of the many park benches in the Vedado area. Sunday’s reading was JD Salinger’s 9 Stories, which I have, unfortunately, already finished (I’m burning through all my free-reading material much faster than I had anticipated). After a long afternoon out by myself, I returned home, ate some cookies, wallowed in my blue mood a little longer, then watched a movie. I woke up the next morning free of my self-pity, having fatigued any need to continue my wholly unnecessary angst.
Monday was business as usual – nothing out of the ordinary to report before early evening (morning schedule and Spanish class were without incident). After class I went to the Melia Cohiba hotel to attempt an internet connection, which arbitrarily cost twice as much money as usual (depending on what time it is and who is working at the front desk, internet access is sold in 80 or 120 minute blocks, costing 6 or 12 CUC, respectively). I begrudgingly handed over my 12 CUCs and went to find a seat, hoping to any and all Gods that the internet would actually work after having to shell out that much money.
Luckily it did (kind of), and I was able to finally access some messages that I was unable to open a week and a half before, during my last visit. It made me very happy to be able to communicate with my loved ones, which continued to boost my spirits. The two hours allowed me a decent amount of time to message most people (although I’ve decided I will have to rotate who I respond to in-depth each time, because otherwise carpel tunnel would prematurely set in), update my blogs, and answer “business” emails from school. I also got the opportunity to trade poetry with Georgie, which I quickly saved to my computer desktop so as not to lose it when the internet connection ended.
Later that night, I had the opportunity to sit down with his work and read over it, a lot of it having to do with me and my closer group of friends during last semester. Last semester was a very difficult time for me (definitely the hardest term I’ve had at Hampshire, both work-wise and emotionally), and it was interesting/hard/wonderful to see it reflected from someone else’s perspective, especially when that someone is a person that I love dearly. It made me feel better to know that I had never been alone throughout that time, and that things were already better. Whether I had realized it or not, we had all survived it – just as I would survive (and thrive!) this abroad program. It made me miss my home at Hampshire, that home being my friends there. But that home is never that far away, even from Cuba.
I also had a message waiting for me from Celia: Baby informed me that the following day I would be meeting her at Sala Hubert De Blanck. I was slightly confused, because I thought we were meeting at Sala Bertolt Brecht, to attend a pantomiming seminar. I verified with Baby and she confirmed the former.
The next morning (Tuesday) I woke up early to walk the short distance down to Linea and Calle D to meet Celia. When I got there, I realized it was the same bright yellow building and parking lot I visited last Friday to watch Teatro Tropatrapa. I was further confused, but went in anyways, asking a guide to direct me to the Sala. She smiled and led me back to that parking lot, where Angelito and some of the other members of the company were just starting to assemble. Celia was no where to be found. I figured I had just beaten her there, and said hello to the company.
They did not seem too surprised to see me again. They asked where Andrew was, and they laughed when I told them he was still sleeping. They told me there were doing an interview before their rehearsal, but I was welcome to stay. To stay? It became very clear to me that this was not what Celia had planned or intended for the day. I had no idea where Sala Bertolt Brecht was, and no way to get in touch with Celia to alter plans. I decided to stay and film Teatro Tropatrapa once again, and call Celia later about the mix-up.
The interview that they were doing was actually a short television profile on an upcoming show that they are working on, premiering near the end of March. It was endlessly helpful to record them talking about the new project, and they also performed some scenes from it. After the television crew had left, I had time to sit down and ask them a few questions about their process and why they participated in live theater. I then stuck around and watched some more of their rehearsal. While it was unfortunate that I didn’t make the pantomiming seminar, the day’s filming started to give my final project more focus – why my subjects choose to participate in live performance as opposed to television, radio or cinema. After a few hours, I thanked Angelito and the boys and set out for a free afternoon, roaming the streets of Vedado once again. I finished 9 stories and found yet another great (and hidden) park. I realized that I now felt comfortable in my Habana neighborhood – I knew my way around, I never had to ask for directions, and I had spots to get coffee, browse books, or find cupcakes (everything I needed for a free afternoon).
That night I wrote another response to a play I had read, Contigo, Pan y Cebolla, before Celia called me to ask where I had been earlier that day. I explained to her that Baby had mistakenly given me the wrong meeting place – Celia confirmed that she had mentioned Sala Hubert De Blanck in passing, and that she must not have been clear with her directions. I said it was not a big deal, because I still spent our “class time” working and filming Teatro Trapatropa and had conducted a short interview with Angelito. She was happy with my work and I could tell she was pleased that I had been outgoing enough to work without her. I told her that I would bring my essay on Contigo, Pan y Cebolla to my literature class for Alfredo (her husband) the next day to give to her. She was, again, pleased – all of these short essays are self-assigned and auxiliary, I write them for my own clarification and reflection, but pass them in so that she knows how I am progressing with the work. Celia tells me she will also send Alfredo to class with Electra Garrigo, so that I can read it over my trip to Santiago.
Wednesday began in my regular morning routine, and led into the afternoon as usual. After a 10-peso pizza for lunch, I stopped at an agro and Cadeca to exchange money into moneda nacional and to buy a few treats (peanut butter paste!) for Thursday’s long ride to Santiago. Then it was off to another Wednesday literature class to (this week) discuss the writings of Jose Martí. At our break time, I handed Alfredo my essays, but did not get the Pinera play in return...I assumed there had been yet another mix-up, and decided to confirm later with Celia. As always on our Wednesday classes, I reflected on my growing comprehension of Spanish – more progress.
After class, Andrew, Oskar and I walked around in search of food and cigarettes (for Oskar). We did a big loop of the area (maybe 10 blocks) – found the cigarettes but no appetizing food, and decided to wait til dinner. On our way back, I asked Oskar if I could borrow some of his books to read, and he leant me a few when we stopped by his house. I wish wish wish I had brought more to read: this trip would’ve been a perfect time for some Faulkner or Baldwin. Alas.
That night Celia called me before I had the opportunity to call her – she apologized profusely, telling me Alfredo had left the play on the kitchen table, and that she was thinking of coming over to bring it to me. I told her it was ok and that there was no need to, that I had plenty of other things to read. Alfredo cut in on the call and thanked me for my participation in class earlier that day. Celia told me she had read my essay and thought it was very insightful. It was my best Cuban phone conversation to date. I hung up feeling good, much better than I had that past Sunday, when my mood was so low. I packed for the trip to Santiago, and went to bed as early as I could.
Thursday morning I woke up at 5:30 and finished getting ready for the trip. By 6:00, Andrew and I were in the atrium at Casa Silvia, ready (or as ready as possible) for the 14-hour car-ride ahead of us. This road trip marked the longest to date – I don’t think I’ve ever done a car-ride longer than 8 or 9 hours in a single day. I had brought plenty of reading to keep me busy, but I found myself sleeping more than anything else. We would stop every couple of hours for a small snack and bathroom break (I have now explored the depths of some of the most disgusting bathrooms – or holes-in-the-ground – (wo)mankind has ever known). The ride was actually not that bad. I got to see a lot of Cuban countryside and experienced true Cuban highway driving…fast and slightly reckless but always staying within the bounds of control. By 9 we had arrived in Santiago, exhausted from sitting on buses all day and terribly hungry for a real meal.
Luckily, Casa Marucchi (where Andrew, Oskar and I would share a room) had prepared a meal for our arrival, with delicious homemade juices, a tomato salad, fresh bread, cheese, and salami, and the most delicious homemade cake I have ever had. It was easily one of the most delicious meals I have had since my arrival in Cuba, although I’m not sure its due just to the quality of the food or if it has more to do with the level of hunger with which I met the meal.
Casa Marucchi was a beautiful old house in the heart of Santiago. As you walk in there was a large parlour filled with ancient chairs, photos and antiquities, with guest rooms off to the right. If you walk through the parlour, there is a small computer and television room…but if you keep walking, the house opens up to a beautiful garden, partially uncovered, with bright green plants sitting, hanging, and draping from every possible surface. There are a many seats and a few tables, a fountain or two, a small pool with a snapping turtle, and a partial outdoor stove. There are also a few cats, a tiny dog (who we nicknamed Chicken Nugget, which was much more fitting than his given name, Toby), and a parrot. The garden ends with a brick staircase leading up to the roof, where there are more plants and a swing. It was absolutely gorgeous. Our room itself was also large and wonderfully decorated, with a boudoir for which I would sprain my right arm to have. Plus, the most amazing part, the bathroom had a lovely shower, with warm water and – shockingly – the best water pressure I’ve experienced in Cuba. It was like showering in the US!
Now, all of these things – the luxurious dinner, the beautiful parlour, the sprawling garden, the friendly pets, the fantastic water pressure – led me to have quite a lovely first impression of Santiago.
The old idiom, “too good to be true” should’ve entered my mind. But it did not. Over the next three days, that favorable first impression would be chipped away, leaving me with the sense that any kindness and opportunity that I was experiencing was not sincere but bought, and that even still it was usually performed begrudgingly.
On Friday – by far the best and most fun day of the trip – we woke up and enjoyed breakfast out in the garden before an 8:30 departure. Little did we all know, almost all of our time (this being our Spring Break, our trip of “relaxation” before our work on final projects became overwhelming) had been planned out for us with activities in the same vain as those of orientation.
Our first stop of the day was at a local espiritista, to talk about his work and role within the community. Now, I’m not going to talk at length about this visit (or about any of the religious visits during the trip) because there is very little information I can provide with certainty of knowing that I am accurately representing it. I believe the espiritista belonged to the Haitian-Cuban community that combines aspects of Voodoo, Santería, and Christianity – within the realm of the performance that was being offered (and caused a heated debate) the weekend before in Habana. We entered his shrine-like room that was a meshing of older pictures, religious relics, and knick-knacks that held personal worth to the espiritista. He talked a little about what he does, mostly cleansing members of his community of their sins on a weekly basis. He also reads futures in cards – similar to Tarot cards but with a Spanish deck that, we were told, are a lot more complex to read. After a very brief visit (not more than 25 minutes) we piled back into the buses to go to our second activity of the day.
We quickly arrived at a small side street with a sign proclaiming the presence of a small theater-café, Macuba. Up a few flights of stairs, we entered a great little café (15 to 18 small tables, each with 3-4 chairs) that opened up to a stage (about the size of the studio). We had a short discussion with one of the directors, Fatima, of a company that worked in the space, before watching part of a dress rehearsal for a show they were premiering the following week. It was very well acted with a lot of energy, and I was immediately disappointed that I would miss the opportunity to see it come to opening night. I made use of the chance to get more filming done for my final project, and also asked a few questions afterward, relating to my work.
While I would’ve loved to have stayed and watched more, the chance was stifled due to our exhausting schedule, which forced us to truck along to the next place of interest – this time a castle/fortress. We were there for a petty 25 minutes or so, not even enough time to make it through the entire castle. Then it was back in the vans for a short drive to a ferry that would take us to lunch on an island nearby. We ended up at a beautiful restaurant over a dock on the island, giving us a gorgeous view of the castle we had just briefly visited, as well as the houses nestled into the rolling hills and extending down and over the water. It was very clear that the restaurant was designated for tourists, with tables and tables filled by “the pale knees of aristocracy” – middle-aged white people from Western Europe. We ate a delicious and slightly expensive lunch, and I enjoyed a glass of white wine for the first time in over a month. It was triumphant.
As we started to finish up our meal, dark clouds began to close in on the island, practically bursting with rain. After everyone finished their drinks and took their turns in the bathrooms, the downpour had already started, bathing (quite literally) everything in gray light and cold rain. We tried to wait it out, but when it appeared that it was not going to stop – and we were going to miss our return ferry, which only comes but once an hour – we decided to make a run for it.
Poor choice.
The roads were already flooding, and as we walked back down the hill to the ferry station, we traipsed through the babbling brook the road had become. We cautiously ran through the street, as natives watched/laughed/cheered us on toward our destination, safely under the protection of their roofs. By the time we made it to the station, everyone was completely drenched, head to toe. We laughed and took pictures of each other. Oskar attempted to smoke the world’s soggiest cigarette. I remember feeling an awareness that this was a moment I would remember, a story to tell of my time in Santiago. Everything took on a sepia tone.
The ferry finally arrived and brought us back to the mainland, where our drivers were attempting to restart our van (nearly everytime they stop and park it, it later resists restarting: thus, we usually catch them putting the car into neutral, pushing it a few hundred feet before they can get the engine to start). After their success, we all piled back into the van and headed back to our home stays – the rest of the day’s activities had been canceled due to our current damp states and the weather.
After warm showers and brief naps, Andrew, Oskar and I left our room in search of dinner. Since we had not received maps or directions (or even suggestions as to where to find food), we tried to retrace routes that the vans had taken earlier that day, passed streets that seemed fairly promising as far as food and entertainment went. Maybe 5 or 6 blocks from our home stay, we hit the strip filled with Cubans and tourists alike.
This is what we learned: the spectrum of food and entertainment in downtown Santiago has the very cheap (and very shitty) and the very expensive (which I cannot say whether or not it is good, because we chose to go ‘very cheap’). We entered a small, white room that offered 10 peso pizza and spaghetti. The small restaurant was lit only by overhead fluorescents…that should’ve been the warning I heeded, but no. I stayed. I endured. About an hour later the cheap pizza was sitting (or rather sprawling and making itself mighty comfortable and heavy) in my stomach. Andrew and I headed home after a failed attempt at re-locating the small theater we had been in earlier that day (playing Flaco y Gordo), and readied ourselves for bed. Oskar went his own way. We would not see him til 2:30 in the morning, when he returned from a night out on the town (and a date planned with a local girl studying at the University).
Saturday morning began (once again) at 7:30, with a quick but delicious breakfast out in the garden before leaving for Gran Piedra, a huge rock at the top of a mountain just outside of Santiago, with a beautiful view of the city and ocean. The ride up into the mountains was nothing short of terrifying – once again we were in vans, but this time with different drivers. Our new driver was a very short and very jubilant middle-aged man who enjoyed his salsa and Rihanna music. He also happened to enjoy speeding up very curvy mountain roads (that had no guardrails). These various interests made for an interesting, bumpy ride. Many of us employed our oh-shit-we’re-gonna-die handles just above our seats.
Before our hike up to Gran Piedra, we stopped at an old coffee plantation and did a quick tour of the area, which was great because the now-museum had an excellent cat that enjoyed being pet. After that, we went back to the Gran Piedra entrance/restaurant, put in our order for lunch, and began the walk up to the mountain summit. It was not too difficult of a hike (mostly stairs), and after 15 minutes or so, we were standing on top of – as promised – a great rock with an even better view. I will have to include a picture because any words I try to use to describe its majesty would feel as clichéd as using the word “majesty” as I just did. I cringed a little. But it was pretty damn majestic. What wasn’t majestic, however, was the enormous dark cloud that was beginning to make its way over our area. Having flashbacks to the downpour the day before, we made our way back down the path and towards our lunching spot.
After we were informed that lunch would not be ready for another hour (noooooooo), we decided to again set out to a nearby botanical garden to make the wait more bearable. Again, I cannot accurately describe how beautiful (and green) this hillside garden was, chock full of oversized Birds of Paradise, Lilies, Roses, Strawberry patches, and coffee and bread trees. And again, excellent animals: 2 small and friendly dogs free for the petting.
Already exhausted from the jam-packed day, we headed back for a late lunch (around 2:00…we hadn’t eaten since 8am and had been hiking about all day). It was already becoming clear that everyone’s good spirits were beginning to fail: the last day and a half had been filled to the brim with a whirlwind of activities. While we were (and remain) appreciative of all of these opportunities, it was already becoming too overwhelming of a schedule, especially for a vacation that was supposed to serve as a break from the semester.
It was already becoming apparent that we would return from this “break” more exhausted than when we left. Also, we had no idea what the itinerary ever consisted of, so we felt like we were being carted around without any sense of the grand scheme of things. It was all becoming too much. On top of that, with each activity, it became more and more clear that those participating (for the most part) were doing so primarily for monetary compensation for our program. While yes, it makes sense that they are getting paid to show us what they do with their lives, more and more it felt that it was the only reason they were participating: their kindness (and at times, mere tolerance) was bought, not freely given. They did not seem truly impassioned to share their work. They seemed bothered by our foreign-ness, which, in turn, made me feel extremely self-conscious. As the day wore on, I felt increasingly less welcome.
Of course, it must be noted that this was not the case with all activities, but with a majority of them, as well as with our presence in Santiago in general. I must also note that I suppose it is good that I encountered a place where my foreign-ness is held against me in a way that I feel out of place…while it did not feel good, it was a good learning experience and offered me a useful perspective that I’m sure many immigrants encounter (at length too, not just for a day or two) in the United States. Please forgive this very short (and far from eloquent) analysis – I know that it is far from being hashed-out, but I plan on giving this more thought in the future, when I have the time and proper mindset.
Anyways, after lunch, we were ushered back into the vans for the hour-long ride out of the mountains and (you guessed it) an afternoon of Haitian-Cuban dance performances. Before lunch, Andrew had been feeling a bit under the weather, blaming the pizza he had eaten last night (a second pizza, from a different place than the one that I had eaten at as well). The illness had only become worse since then – by lunch he was getting awfully quiet and pale; by the bus ride back down the mountain he was doing his best not to toss his galletas. Pobrecito.
As we reached La Casa del Caribe, it became clear that he wasn’t going to make it. He opted to stay outside and wait out the puking, telling me to go inside and that he would be fine. I didn’t want to, but he continued to insist and I knew that I was just causing him more hardship by protesting his wishes. I reluctantly left him alone and went in to view the first dance performance of the day.
The costumes (probably the completely wrong term for them, my apologies) were beautiful and colorful, with women in bright full skirts and tops, carrying baskets and dancing with an energy I don’t think I’ve ever seen rivaled (especially considering the heat). There was also a chorus, band, and male dancers comprising the company. I got some great filming done for my final project, but was completely distracted by the fact that Andrew was outside waiting to throw up. As soon as the performance and Q&A ended, I made my way back outside, to see Andrew looking very pale and unhappy but still making small talk with one of our drivers. I sat with him for a while and told him I wanted him to go to the International Clinic – a hospital that a few of our fellow students had already visited with knee injuries, flu-like symptoms, and a bacterial infection (not a good trip to Santiago for many people and for many reasons).
He accepted and I told him I would go find Roberto (our fantastic program coordinator) to tell him about the change of plans. As I was leaving, it became very clear that Andrew was nearing the point of puke; I made a run for it, hoping he would be ok. By the time I got back, he had already puked, a dancer from the performance had been rubbing his back, and our driver had asked him if he drank too much rum the night before (no, he just ate too much shit pizza). The activity had ended and everyone was making his or her way back to the vans. Roberto joined us and navigated us towards the car that would make a stop at the clinic. Andrew once again insisted that my presence was neither needed or wanted (“but thank you”) and sent me home with the hope that I would not worry (“yeah right”). On the ride back we passed Moncada – we leaned out of our seats and towards the windows, hoping to get a look at bullet holes in the side of the bright yellow building.
I set out by myself to find some food before the final activity of the day. I knew to expect piropos (we were still in Cuba, after all), but I wasn’t expecting them to be all that different than those offered in Habana. I would soon find out that this was naïve thinking: walking around Santiago as a girl (and especially without the company of a male) feels like a continuous walk of shame in which you are only trotting along for the enjoyment of the male citizens (pigs?) of the city. Within the stretch of a single block, I was probably harassed at least 5 or 6 times, with one guy even following me just repeating, “Linda. Oye, Linda, Linda!” I couldn’t keep dealing with it. Ready to return home as soon as I made a purchase, I found the nearest store and bought the first food I saw.
After a dinner of cheese balls - which I maintain was a better and more nutritional choice than the pizza from the night before - I met up with other students on the trip to walk the short distance to Tumba Francesa, where we would view the other Haitian dance performance that evening. Outside of the hall, I began filming primary shots of the building and street, which drew the attention of a young neighborhood girl, Felicia. Felicia is 6 years old, likes the color pink, and is very interested in modern technologies from the United States. She insisted that I take a picture of her, and when I explained that it was a video camera, she became even more excited, wanting to help me with my project and also be one of my subjects. As we moved into the hall, she came and plopped herself down next to me, intent on giving me insider information on the dancers (all were adults from the neighborhood with the exception of one of the male dancers, who was a boy about her age).
The costumes and music were very similar to those we had seen earlier in the day, yet the dance itself seemed less energetic and more oriented towards precise movements, in the way of a group/partner dance. There was also a maypole, which they expertly weaved around while dancing. Felicia sat next to me (as well as her slightly older brother, who had now joined us), often getting up and dancing in front of me to the music, hell bent on being the focus of my filming. I didn’t really mind much, and took it as a welcome break from the cold shoulder that most residents of Santiago were giving us – it was nice to be around someone who wanted to play with us! The dance performance ended, and Felicia’s mother escorted her and her brother out of the hall, but before they even disappeared into the street, the two siblings came running back in, pulled me down to their height, and gave me kisses on the cheek before saying a final “ciao”. Needless to say, the whole interaction improved my spirits and feelings toward the day in general.
I walked the few blocks back to my home stay with Kristina and Lia, and made plans to meet up with them later in the evening to explore downtown Santiago. Andrew was back from the clinic by the time I returned to our room, attempting an early night of sleep. I checked in with him shortly, told him I would bring him some food, and set out around 9pm with a small group of students.
There was a 4-day celebration going on downtown, which closed off a couple of main streets to foot traffic. We ventured through the crowds in search of finding some cheap rum and TuKola to enjoy somewhere along the stretch of the fiesta.
If I had thought walking through the streets of Santiago during the day was bad (due to piropos), I was completely underprepared for the walk on which I was setting off at that moment. Hoards and hordes of disgusting, drunk, horny men – ranging from 13 to mid-50’s – with no sense of personal boundaries or chivalry. In our (practically) innocent search for rum, we were verbally assaulted with a slew of less-than-complimentary compliments; arm grazes, and attempted butt-slaps. It was the least safe I have felt since being here. It was also the most I’ve ever felt like a mere object to the opposite sex. We found a bottle of Santiago’s rum, got our cola, and found a park slightly removed from the festivities to enjoy our findings.
We had not been sitting for five minutes when another drunk pig spotted us and started yelling in the middle of the street. He then traveled half the distance between us and again started yelling at the girls in our party. I was feverishly irritated, the need to seek out physical violence against these constant offenders was overwhelming but I was powerless to follow through on that necessity. I knew all the other girls were feeling similarly. The pig came closer, despite the fact that we had entirely ignored his 2 previous attempts. He started straight in on an unwanted conversation; he was eyeing each of us up. He was driving me insane. I was sick of feeling helpless. I made a split second decision to try a new tactic.
If you are at all close with me (and I’m assuming anyone reading this most likely is), than you know of a little impression that I’ve been doing for years. Her name is Leslie, or Stupid Turtle. It entails me making a very very very strange face, drooling a little, and yelping. I gave myself a lazy eye, closing the other one ever so slightly to further mismatch them. I let my mouth gape. I flared my nostrils. And I let out the most unappetizing howl I could muster, in the style of Sloth from the 1980’s classic film, “The Goonies”.
There was a moment of silence. The pig looked at me, confused. He had just seen me, a moment before, perfectly fine. He knew I was making fun of him. He knew that I could control it. He faltered for a moment, and then tried to start in again on his one-sided conversation. But every time that he would try to say something, I would just yelp over him. I could hear the 2 girls sitting next to me losing it. I could feel their happiness at someone finally doing something more ridiculous than the piropo itself. 2 of his friends came over, seeing what I was doing. The girl he was with understood that I was sick of dealing with him, and tried talking him into leaving, calling me a clown. I didn’t care. I kept it up. After a few solid efforts, he finally left. I burst out laughing, and took my first swig of rum of the night, in victory. An older woman who was sitting nearby in the park was dying laughing, clearly enjoying my performance far more than I had. She smiled at me and raised her drink. She probably endured those advances wordlessly for years.
Not soon after my triumph over the piropo, we heard the sound of a table being turned over and saw a fist fight breaking out about 20 yards away from us. We moved back a little, watching the fight from afar as others tried to break it up. The fight subsided, and we thought it was the end of the drunken tussle.
But no.
About 20 seconds later, it had moved into the middle of the street, with 2 or 3 guys hitting each other with chairs. Soon a few more friends had joined into the rumble, pulling anything they could into the fight, knocking over tables, pulling out cables that were powering fryolators, attempting to grab the poles that were holding up food tents. In another minute, men were holding out empty rum bottles (the contents of which, no doubt, was fueling said fight), and (this is when we completely left the scene) a few long knives. In the middle of the street.
Based on my mounting interactions I had been having with the people of Santiago, I began to realize that this city was the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to a pirate town or, the Wild West.
We moved to a different area of the park, talked a little bit more about how none of us thought Santiago was really the place for us, and enjoyed the magic tricks of one of our friends. We also talked with a few Santiago natives (who were not nearly as scary as others we had encountered), who even confessed their frustrations with their current government (a strange occurrence for Cubans to recognize to strangers in public). After a (fun-filled?) night, we headed back towards our home stays to get some rest before the final day of jam-packed activities. I stopped on the way and grabbed some bread and cheese for Andrew.
By the time I got back, Andrew was still sleeping and Oskar was no where to be found: he had gone out on his date nearly 12 hours earlier and still hadn’t returned. We ate bread and cheese and hypothesized what he could be up to; placing bets on what time he would get home (the answer was 3:00).
Sunday. The final day of our trip. Wake up at 7:30. Breakfast in the garden. For the first time since arriving, the skies are clear; the cold front has moved out of the area. By 8:30, it’s already extremely warm and sunny. We have another full day planned out for us, starting with an hour-long ride out to Iglesia Cobre, one of the most famous churches in the West of Cuba. We stand outside the beautiful church and are given a lecture on its history, both social and religious. I am sure that it was a very interesting talk, but it was extremely difficult to listen to under the pulsing heat of the sun. I felt like I was melting. In March.
After realizing that the church was temporarily closed for Sunday Mass – who would’ve predicted that?! – we head back to the vans to visit the house of a local espiritista (I think?), who has painted his entire house with murals, one of which depicts him, topless, sweaty, and muscular, sitting in the Amazon with a snake staff held proudly in one hand. I am confused to as why we are there (its never really explained to us thoroughly), but resolve to paint myself into a badass mural like his when I return to the US.
At the end of the tour, I watch as one of our program leaders pays him for his services, and that feeling of buying-our-welcoming sets in once again. Its 10:30 in the morning and I am already worn out. We have a tireless day ahead of us. A wall (much shorter but in the same likeness to the one that was 3-months tall that I’ve previously mentioned) goes up between me and the next time I’ll be able to rest. We get back in the vans and return to the church.
We tour the church, which is as pretty on the inside as it is on the outside. I enjoy the architecture and art work of the church, and also enjoy the mullet-hawk that one young Cuban man is sporting with utmost pride. You go, mullet-hawk, walk tall.
The tour ends, we meet back up, we find a place to get water. Everyone’s face has that look of someone a little bit lost, the heavy eyes of a tired tourist. We walk to the town center for a steel drum band performance. It is good, livens our spirits a little, but wholly tires us out even more. Luckily, lunch follows, only across the street. Unfortunately, the food is cold, unsavory, and in small portions, and the bathroom. Oh no, the bathroom. By far one of the worst that I’ve encountered in Cuba, which is saying a lot. It was a large partitioned room that emitted the smell of urine all the way down the hall and nearly to the dining room. The closer you got to entering the room, the worse it became. Raw sewage on the floor. In the time it took me to complete my business, I was nauseous from the overwhelming smell.
Santiago continued to disappoint me in dining experiences.
We had mentioned earlier to our program leaders that we were extremely tired out, and that we would like to call it a day after lunch. We knew that if we continued going through the motions, it would not only be pointless, but it would be rude to the people we were visiting: we didn’t want to project an attitude of boredom and weariness towards them and their work – especially considering that this would most likely form their view of not only the students of Hampshire College, but also of Americans in general. We knew we were at the point that we could not mask our exhaustion.
Thinking that we were done after lunch, we left the cafeteria and reconvened outside, where it was brought up once again that we still had the option of continuing the day. The overwhelming majority of us said that they were done, that we were sorry but grateful for the opportunities we were given, but just thought that we weren’t in the right physical or mental state to continue. They said this was fine and that those who wanted to head home could. Then, our Santiago housemother, Marucci, unhappily pulled our program leader aside.
Let me back up just a little to talk about Marucci. She is a nice woman who remains nice as long as everything is going according to her own plan. Her house is beautiful and she can be very agreeable, but as our stay wore on in Santiago, it was clear that our presence was becoming more and more annoying to her. Now, I would take responsibility for any irritating actions if I thought that there were any I committed, but the truth is I was a very good, respectful houseguest. And yet, she still became less and less pleased with us. I really don’t know what her problem was, but by the end of the trip I was really sick of her disapproving looks and eye roles.
So Marucci pulls her aside and tells her that we have to go to the next activity, because they were putting on a performance just for us. Ok, fine, valid. But she knew that we were anticipating being done for the day after lunch by about 10 in the morning. She could’ve spoken up earlier. She could’ve brought this up instead of letting us think we were done midday. We reluctantly said we would finish the final activity, got back into the vans, and headed to the last destination, tired and angry. I felt like an 8 year old being forced to go to Church by his mother.
The last performance was by a Haitian-Cuban choir. It was a lovely performance, and they were all very talented. While most people sat in the middle section of the small auditorium, I chose to sit in one of the side sections, which gave me a good view of both the performers and the Hampshire audience.
Just as had been predicted, everyone looked like ghosts of themselves – trying desperately and sincerely to look happy and engaged, but it was clear that all parties were somewhere else entirely, searching for beds in their minds. Marucci looked disapproving at all of us. After the performance, we thanked them genuinely, and waited for the Question and Answer session to be over. But instead of a Question and Answer session, it became Marucci’s moment to bombard the choir with questions as to why they didn’t align themselves and perform with the church (to which she belonged). The choir was clearly uncomfortable at the question, and answered that they had tried a few times to be accepted by the church, but they wouldn’t allow them to perform. They said that they were doing something separate from the church. This answer was not good enough for Marucci, who started telling them they must be talking to the wrong people, and began to insist upon a better course of action for them to take.
The choir continued to look more and more uncomfortable, and Marucci continued to force her opinions on them. It became clear to us in that moment that it wasn’t a problem with us that was making Marucci irritated, it was a problem with Marucci herself. I began to care less and less what she thought of me (but, for my focus on etiquette, I continued to do my best to be a polite guest in her home).
We finally left the small auditorium and were set free for the day. A few students chose to stay behind and finish out the day’s activities, while most of us took a van back to our home stays in downtown Santiago. Upon arrival, Andrew, Oskar and I were giddy with exhaustion, and sprawled out on our beds laughing at any little thing that was remotely funny. After some showers and further resting, we went out to find food (as Oskar went to meet the girl from the other night for another date – he would not return until 5:30 the following morning, an hour before we left Santiago for good).
Andrew and I walked the same stretch of shopping and food that we had the nights before, trying fruitlessly to find some decent food that we had missed in searches before. We ended up at another cafeteria (overhead fluorescents, why didn’t I heed your warning?) and ordered what we later become known as Spaghetti-gate 2011. We tried to order just regular spaghetti. They said they only had spaghetti with sausage (aka hot dogs), which should’ve been a tip off that it had been sitting there pre-made, and was not worth our time. But we were starving and delirious and said fine, we’ll take it.
The spaghetti was cold. And I’m not talking lukewarm cold; I’m talking in-the-fridge-for-a-while cold. The sauce maybe had a slightly warmed center. The cheese was not melted, but just globs of suspicious looking yellow-orange paste. And the hot dogs were cut helter skelter on top, attracting flies. What is more, the guy had overcharged us for it, after Andrew had called him out on it. I was so mad! I wanted to just overturn the plate onto the table and leave. But we sat, defeated, and ate only the spaghetti, fearing anything else on the plate would leave us sick. We drank our sodas, toasting to our imminent departure from Santiago. We went back to our home stay, and I was asleep by 10, ready to wake up at 5:30 the next morning and get the hell out of town.
And that is exactly what we did. 14 hours, 1 book, and lots of Itunes music later, we were back in Habana.
I know I’ve spun a mostly-pessimistic tale of our journey to Santiago. It left everyone tired and angry, and its food claimed many people’s health, sending them straight to the clinic. We felt unwelcomed. The girls of the trip had been accosted with the worst piropos we had experienced thus far. One girl was robbed – a guy had run up behind her and ripped the bag right off her, breaking the thin strap and running a few blocks before passing it off to his accomplice.
But the trip was not all bad. If nothing else came from it, we all realized how much we loved and missed Habana. I found myself homesick for the place that, only a week ago, I was ready to leave. I returned home transformed, rejuvenated and excited about the second half of the semester. Santiago had transformed me into a Habana Girl.
The last three days since returning have been back to business as usual, with classes and tutor meetings and my beloved morning routine. Our Habana mother, Baby, was as happy to see us return as we were to see her – she showed us a few things she had bought for the house while we were gone, and told us a few stories of things we had missed. We were happy to be back in our Habana home.
My vivid dreams – which had wholly disappeared since going to Santiago – returned with our homecoming. Once again I am dreaming of people I know and knew in the most lucid dreams I’ve ever had.
Yesterday I met with Celia (who is a little on the sick side, which makes me terribly unhappy), who informed me of the big weekend I have coming up: I will be going to rehearsals and interviewing many VIPs of the Cuban theater world starting tomorrow and continuing through Sunday. I’m very nervous about it, worried that I will waste their time or ask them a stupid question. At the same time, I know that whether or not things go smoothly, time will pass and I will survive. I’m looking forward to the challenge.
After my meeting, I walked around Vedado by myself, as I’ve done so many times before. I realized there were very few streets in my area that I didn’t know. Familiar places. I am happy to be here. I am doing good work. I will eventually return home.
Yesterday marked 6 weeks since leaving home at the end of January, as well as 7 weeks left before returning. I know time will continue to fly past me. I know I am not wasting it.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Journal Entries II
2/27
Another week has passed – I believe I’ve just decided out of necessity to only update this journal on a weekly basis, which is frustrating because I know it will mean the death of daily nuance. Perhaps I will find the motivation I need to update on a more usual basis but I doubt it.
Today my entries may feel a little sepia-toned; I am feeling homesick and nostalgic for things that I am still 2 months away from. On my calendar, I have marked a countdown from April 27th. It started on January 26th, the day I left home for the Bahamas. On that day, there was a small “91” marked in the top left hand corner. On today’s date, there is a small 59. While time moves paradoxically here (both rapidly and tediously), I find myself defeated by that small “59”. The time that I’ve spent here will be have to re-occur two fold before I set foot back into my comfort zone. That 3-month wall is a third shorter, but is still too tall.
As I’ve explained it to a few people, this experience so far is feeling similar to that of a bad breakup from a first love, with moments of weakness when I miss something that I feel is lost forever, moments of strength when I realize that whether or not I’m enjoying it I’m conquering it, and moments when I understand that this will be easier and more beautiful when I’m passed it, knowing that while it was difficult it was moreover crucial to my personal development. I hate that I feel this way – I wish I could simply exist happily in the moment. I feel like I am often wishing for this to be over so that I can appreciate it more (and safely) in retrospect. I know that once it is over I will often long to return. I feel cranky and childish and stubborn.
This trip marks so many things for me, but mainly it marks the longest and farthest I’ve really been from home. I’m still proud of myself for not choosing a program in London – I still believe it would have been a cop-out. I keep thinking back to the fact that I chose a college close to home, talk to my family on a day-to-day basis… this is far away from what I’ve known for 21 years. I feel apologetic for continuing to recognize this, but I have to for my own reassurance.
The truth is that I am having a great experience. I am learning a lot, meeting a lot of great people, putting in a lot of hard work. I’m just having trouble pulling myself out of my own head, taking this trip day by day instead of as a whole.
Something that I haven’t addressed at all in this journal is my unconscious life here, my dreams. I’m beginning to think that it would be worth while to record these as well. Since arriving in Habana, my dreams have been more vivid than they have ever been before. I remember at least 2 or 3 every night, and they usually involve people that I know from home. There is always a feeling of longing to them. The dialogue is always more lucid than my usual dreams, more self-aware. I say things to people that I never get a chance to say to them in person – they answer with things I wish or am afraid they would say back. I feel like I can actively decide who I dream about on occasions.
I’ve also noticed that my creative writing every day reflects this. I am interested in writing about images from my dreams, things people told me. And that feeling of longing permeates everything I write.
Sunday – Andrew and I wake up, have a leisurely breakfast. We exercise, we read, we linger. Its another beautiful day outside, so we decide to walk to Habana Vieja, via the Malecon. Its about a 45 minute walk along the water. We pass natives (all paired off and in lovers’ embraces) and tourists (in small groups, squinting) and attempt to guess where everyone comes from. Germans are the easiest to identify, standing out amongst the Cubans and tourists alike. We stop for a while, sit up on the wall of the Malecon, look out at the ocean, spit off some Beatles-philosophy out of irony. Sometimes I just look out at the ocean and want to throw myself in it, swimming endlessly so that I know how little I am in the vastness, etc.
We get to Habana Vieja and walk down side streets that many tourists avoid. We get peso coffee, we play with dogs, we window shop. A few blocks of road have been closed to any car traffic, which seems strange in the touristy neighborhood. We see signs that explain why: there are not a lot of parks or open areas in Habana Vieja, and some streets have been closed to encourage the people of the neighborhood to get some exercise playing games and walking around without fear of dodging cars. After noticing that first sigh, countless others become illuminated on every street, promoting physical activity for healthy lifestyles. One point awarded to socialism.
We head towards Plaza Vieja, a location we visited during Orientation the first week, for a late afternoon snack. On our way, we walk passed Conrado, the loud and forceful man who imposed himself on us during our first visit to Plaza Vieja (the man who insisted and followed us to our restaurant, in search of being awarded a few beers for his service). He was drunk and yelling at some other people in the street, we would have to walk right passed him in order to get to the Plaza. We increased our speed, kept our heads down, and prayed that he would be too drunk to see us. We made it safe and sound, and hoped that he wouldn’t just pop up at the restaurant again.
We got a table at the busy plaza, ordered a juice and a Cuban sandwich. The juice came first. It was windy, windier than I thought it was. After only a few sips of the orange juice, a gust of wind hit our table, knocked over the drink, pouring sticky liquid all over the table and, of course, my lap. The sun decided it needed a break from shining at that exact moment. Thus, I was sitting in the cool shade, covered in juice that was quickly drying and becoming even more sticky. There was a table of rude and wealthy (a horrible, horrible combination) Cuban teenagers at the next table over. They kept looking over with malicious smiles, whispering, and cackling. I dismissed myself to the bathroom and made an effort to clean myself up. I did the best I could do in the small bathroom, clumsily soaping up my legs, rinsing them in the sink, and attempting acrobatics in order to dry them under the hand-dryers.
I returned to the table, actively trying to keep myself in good spirits. The kids at the table next to us were whistling and yelling at their server, telling them that they were ready for their bill, then subsequently ordering more drinks after he had brought them their ticket. We waited for our sandwich. The sun came back out, my legs did not feel as sticky. I fought back against the bad mood that had been inching in. The teenagers at the next table over finally departed, and an older British couple sat down in their place. We heard one of them say, “May goostah a key.”
After an extended wait, our sandwich finally arrived. We wolfed down the delicious multi-meat and cheese sandwich, paid our bill, and left in search of a peso cab home. The night was spent as most nights here are: lazily hanging out, doing work, and reading (in my case, I was nearing the end of 100 Years of Solitude, which I have since finished and thoroughly enjoyed).
Monday threw me back into my weekday morning routine before Spanish class at 2pm. Class occurred without notable incidence, and I walked down to the Cohiba hotel to use the internet. Of course and as always, the internet connection was feeble, and a lot of the work that I had been looking forward to accomplishing (namely, contacting my family and friends to say hi and confirm that I was safe) could not happen to the extent that I had wished. Thus, I had time to update the travel blog, and send out a few brief emails to family telling them to check the blog for a more personal update. I continue to feel frustrated at my inability to send out more personal messages or upload (any) photos. During the stretches of time in which the internet was completely useless, I read a play that Celia had leant me, “Contigo, Pan y Cebolla”, which had been written in the early 60’s by Hector Quintera (I saw his latest play the Friday before). I continue to be impressed with my abilities of reading in Spanish.
On Tuesday, my regular routine of meeting with Celia was again interrupted due to a group trip to an Art Museum in Habana Viejo. The museum was beautiful and open, with exhibits divided by the eras after the Revolution. I walked through the exhibit and watched time pass through the artwork. I realized how long it had been since I had been in a museum – at least since last summer. I realized how much I love museums, for the same reason that I love plays and magazines and fashion; everything looks finished, realized, planned, controlled. I wrote down names of artists I had never heard of, names I feel like everyone should know. I noted how I felt like I was in an open field while walking through the labyrinth of exhibits.
After the tour, Andrew and I veered off to Obispo Street to look for bookstores, of which we found many, both in CUC and Moneda Nacional. I bought a book of poetry and a series of maps of Habana throughout history. I can’t wait to find a place for them in my room at home.
Wednesday passed without incidence: another day of our Literature seminar. I once again gauged my progress in Spanish comprehension.
Thursday marked another Spanish class, followed by my return to the Thursday night seminar. Since last week, the format had been revised so as to frustrate the students less. It has basically become a project seminar, in which each student talks individually about the progress he or she has been making, and questions they are working through. The class progressed well enough, except for one student who was unwilling to take any criticism about her project, despite the fact that she so easily offered (non) constructive criticism to everyone else. At the end of the 3 hour meeting, we got talking about the rara religious performance we were being offered to view on the following Sunday (today).
To explain briefly (mostly because I am not well informed about the topic), rara is a religious form practiced in this region by Haitian-Cubans, combining elements of voodoo, Santería, and Christianity. This past week is when they celebrate their Easter – while they usually return to Santiago, Cuba for the celebration, a sect in Habana could not afford the trip, and were carrying it on here. Our program is paying the group in order to view (or participate?) the ceremonial performance. A debate arose this past Thursday as to whether or not our attendance at this religious event was disrespectful. While I agree that this concern was valid, it unleashed the most Hampshire-esque discussion I have heard in quite some time, contesting our position as tourists/students/spectators. Not knowing a lot about the subject, I did not participate but rather listened to other’s arguments. I still have mixed feelings on the subject, and am an avid believer that one shouldn’t shoot their mouth off without giving an issue some thought and (most importantly) research. After about 45 minutes of debate, the group split up, some to head to bed (myself included) and others to look for another place to continue their discussion.
Friday morning I woke up early for my meeting with Celia. I checked the syllabus and noticed the class’s focus would be on interviews. I was excited to finally talk about how to approach asking my subject’s questions. I was also excited to submit a short response I had written to one of the plays I had read, “El enano en la botella”. To explain, I have been having trouble accurately articulating my thoughts on plays that I have been reading with Celia – while my Spanish comprehension has come forward leaps and bounds, my generating skills are still lagging behind (not in daily conversation so much as academic discussion). However, I know that writing is one of my strengths – as long as I can sit down and gather my thoughts (and occasionally look up vocabulary), I can articulate myself fairly well. Thus, I decided to start writing responses for Celia so that she would get a better understanding of…well, my understanding.
At our meeting, I passed in my first response. I could tell that she was excited about my level of understanding of the play, and was very happy about my writing, encouraging me to continue. She then explained that she had to change around the syllabus for the day, that we would no longer be discussing interviews, but that she was going to give me a brief (very brief) history of theater for young audiences (Teatro para Ninos) before we stopped in on a rehearsal in a little over an hour. I was going to be meeting Teatro Tropatrapa, a TYA group in Habana. I became a little anxious and flustered, wishing that I had known beforehand so that I could bring my camera. This wasn’t the first time Celia had sprung opportunities on my without previous knowledge, so I resolved that I would just have to bring my camera equipment with me whenever I met with her from that day forward.
After the brief history, Celia and I caught a cab to Linea and D and took a short walk to a parking lot behind a large yellow building – the company’s “rehearsal space”. The company is made up of a small group of men (in their late 20’s through 40’s) with big smiles and even bigger senses of humor. We sat around for about 45 minutes talking about their work, before they played me a few songs and rehearsed a scene that they were working on. They made me a small paper crane and invited me to a performance they were having the following morning. A few hours later, I parted ways with Celia and walked back home to meet Andrew for lunch.
Andrew was still swimming in his bed sheets when I got back. I waited for him to get ready and then we departed for a quick bite before his Spanish class. We parted ways and I set off for an afternoon of solitary exploration. I walked to a few bookstores in different areas around Habana (some indoors, some on sidewalks) and picked out a few books I wanted to bring home for people. I stopped to read 100 years of Solitude (which I was dangerously close to finishing at this point) on a bench looking out to the ocean. I walked for another hour and a half, using the time to think of all the people I knew from different points in my life, wondering where they were at that exact moment. I was on my way to a bakery when I heard a familiar and frustrating sound: the kissy noise of a piropo.
To back up, I had been hearing this all day. I knew that walking around unaccompanied would draw this kind of attention (as it always does), but I had been bombarded with a wave of unflattering compliments all day, men of all ages yelling out “princesa” and “mami” and “guapo” at me as I walked by, following me with their eyes in the most unappealing and lecherous manner, making that awful kissy noise at me. By this point, I was used to the noise and was attempting to ignore it.
But at this moment, I look over and see a taxi driver, leaning over his passenger seat and making that awful noise between piropos. He was a lane over from me, but was slowing his car and keeping pace with me for over half a block. Yes, this guy was probably one of the most persistent hastlers I’ve encountered so far. After about half the block, he started turning into the lane beside me, to cut the distance between me and his yelling.
What happened next I still have a hard time believing, so clichéd is its nature.
As he was pulling his car into the lane next to me, continuing to yell, he didn’t look behind him for oncoming traffic. I heard a car horn screeching. I looked over just in time to see another huge Chevy blast into the side of my predator’s car.
I caused a car accident.
I paused on the sidewalk, my mouth open in disbelief. I ejaculated a nervous laugh. The front of the car had smashed into the taxi had no damage: those grills are so massive and reinforced…there wasn’t even a dent. But the lecherous taxi driver’s passenger-side door was crippled, completely pushed in, frame and all. The drivers were already out of their cars yelling at each other. After another moment of disbelief, I kept walking. While I knew that this kind of accident was going to be economically devastating to that lecherous taxi driver, I couldn’t help but feel a personal triumph over that stupid kissy noise. I reasoned that this was neither the first nor last time that man had ruthlessly bothered a woman, and surmised that he had it coming. I continued to the bakery and bought myself a cupcake.
After another half hour of walking, I headed back to the park near Casa Silvia to wait for Andrew to get out of his Spanish class. I opened up my book, and was determined to finish it before the afternoon was finished.
Not 10 minutes in to my most recent reading session, the older man with his dog (who I had seen and been irritated by the first time I had gone to that park to read…the one who asked me what time it was despite the fact that I didn’t have a watch, then continued to bother and stare at me) started walking passed. Behind the safety of my sunglasses, I saw him start to walk by. He stopped, he looked at me, he turned around and sat down, once again, across from me. I kept reading, intent on not giving him the satisfaction of eye contact. An hour later, he was still sitting across from me and I was finishing my book. I closed it, paused for a moment to let the ending (the beautiful ending) sink in. As if by magic, he got up with his dog and left. Not 30 seconds later, Andrew emerged from Casa Silvia. We returned home, as I told him all about my afternoon.
That night we departed our house with Oskar, ready to continue our Friday night routine. We picked up a bottle of rum and a bottle of Coke, and headed over to Kristina’s. Others in our group were just showing up, everyone bringing alcohol or snacks for the group. We celebrated the end of the week as per usual.
Saturday morning Andrew and I woke up early for the Teatro para Ninos performance, which was only a few blocks away. It was the perfect way to spend a Saturday morning. We sat in on the company’s brief rehearsal before their show, then watched as the children excitedly piled into the small theater/classroom, not an adult in sight. The show was wonderful, with lots of music, jokes, and actor-nugget interaction. I filmed parts of it, knowing it would be useful for my final project. We made plans to see another show the following Monday at UNEAC, and left, in search of Oskar and food.
After finding Oskar (who had given himself another of his notoriously “chic” haircuts), we walked towards 23 and J to get some cheap hot dogs and beer. Still hungry after that, we walked around in the sun until we came across a fast-food restaurant with pizza and spaghetti. We continued our dining experience.
Afterwards, we slowly walked back to our houses, in need of siestas. We relaxed and napped before dinner, at which point Baby treated us (as she does every day, twice a day) to a delicious meal. After dinner, I was exhausted from sun and food and decided to stay in for the night, busying myself with a lackluster exercise session followed by a Disney movie on my computer. Andrew, on the other hand, went out with Oskar to a late night drag show, which was also attended by the actor, Benicio Del Torro. He now has a picture of himself, at a drag show, with Benicio Del Torro. Never thought he would be able to say that.
Which brings me to today, Sunday. I’ve already expressed the wave of home-sickness that I awoke with, and already I feel it waning. Recounting what I’ve done here always makes me feel better. I am self-aware, I know the hypocrisies that exist within me in response to this experience, and I knew beforehand that this wouldn’t be easy. While I am looking forward for this to be over so that I can reflect on it from a safe distance provided by time itself, I am enjoying it in the here and now. Its just hard sometimes.
*please excuse any and all misspellings and grammatical errors...I am far too exhausted to proofread this and make it all pretty. I love and miss you all.
Another week has passed – I believe I’ve just decided out of necessity to only update this journal on a weekly basis, which is frustrating because I know it will mean the death of daily nuance. Perhaps I will find the motivation I need to update on a more usual basis but I doubt it.
Today my entries may feel a little sepia-toned; I am feeling homesick and nostalgic for things that I am still 2 months away from. On my calendar, I have marked a countdown from April 27th. It started on January 26th, the day I left home for the Bahamas. On that day, there was a small “91” marked in the top left hand corner. On today’s date, there is a small 59. While time moves paradoxically here (both rapidly and tediously), I find myself defeated by that small “59”. The time that I’ve spent here will be have to re-occur two fold before I set foot back into my comfort zone. That 3-month wall is a third shorter, but is still too tall.
As I’ve explained it to a few people, this experience so far is feeling similar to that of a bad breakup from a first love, with moments of weakness when I miss something that I feel is lost forever, moments of strength when I realize that whether or not I’m enjoying it I’m conquering it, and moments when I understand that this will be easier and more beautiful when I’m passed it, knowing that while it was difficult it was moreover crucial to my personal development. I hate that I feel this way – I wish I could simply exist happily in the moment. I feel like I am often wishing for this to be over so that I can appreciate it more (and safely) in retrospect. I know that once it is over I will often long to return. I feel cranky and childish and stubborn.
This trip marks so many things for me, but mainly it marks the longest and farthest I’ve really been from home. I’m still proud of myself for not choosing a program in London – I still believe it would have been a cop-out. I keep thinking back to the fact that I chose a college close to home, talk to my family on a day-to-day basis… this is far away from what I’ve known for 21 years. I feel apologetic for continuing to recognize this, but I have to for my own reassurance.
The truth is that I am having a great experience. I am learning a lot, meeting a lot of great people, putting in a lot of hard work. I’m just having trouble pulling myself out of my own head, taking this trip day by day instead of as a whole.
Something that I haven’t addressed at all in this journal is my unconscious life here, my dreams. I’m beginning to think that it would be worth while to record these as well. Since arriving in Habana, my dreams have been more vivid than they have ever been before. I remember at least 2 or 3 every night, and they usually involve people that I know from home. There is always a feeling of longing to them. The dialogue is always more lucid than my usual dreams, more self-aware. I say things to people that I never get a chance to say to them in person – they answer with things I wish or am afraid they would say back. I feel like I can actively decide who I dream about on occasions.
I’ve also noticed that my creative writing every day reflects this. I am interested in writing about images from my dreams, things people told me. And that feeling of longing permeates everything I write.
Sunday – Andrew and I wake up, have a leisurely breakfast. We exercise, we read, we linger. Its another beautiful day outside, so we decide to walk to Habana Vieja, via the Malecon. Its about a 45 minute walk along the water. We pass natives (all paired off and in lovers’ embraces) and tourists (in small groups, squinting) and attempt to guess where everyone comes from. Germans are the easiest to identify, standing out amongst the Cubans and tourists alike. We stop for a while, sit up on the wall of the Malecon, look out at the ocean, spit off some Beatles-philosophy out of irony. Sometimes I just look out at the ocean and want to throw myself in it, swimming endlessly so that I know how little I am in the vastness, etc.
We get to Habana Vieja and walk down side streets that many tourists avoid. We get peso coffee, we play with dogs, we window shop. A few blocks of road have been closed to any car traffic, which seems strange in the touristy neighborhood. We see signs that explain why: there are not a lot of parks or open areas in Habana Vieja, and some streets have been closed to encourage the people of the neighborhood to get some exercise playing games and walking around without fear of dodging cars. After noticing that first sigh, countless others become illuminated on every street, promoting physical activity for healthy lifestyles. One point awarded to socialism.
We head towards Plaza Vieja, a location we visited during Orientation the first week, for a late afternoon snack. On our way, we walk passed Conrado, the loud and forceful man who imposed himself on us during our first visit to Plaza Vieja (the man who insisted and followed us to our restaurant, in search of being awarded a few beers for his service). He was drunk and yelling at some other people in the street, we would have to walk right passed him in order to get to the Plaza. We increased our speed, kept our heads down, and prayed that he would be too drunk to see us. We made it safe and sound, and hoped that he wouldn’t just pop up at the restaurant again.
We got a table at the busy plaza, ordered a juice and a Cuban sandwich. The juice came first. It was windy, windier than I thought it was. After only a few sips of the orange juice, a gust of wind hit our table, knocked over the drink, pouring sticky liquid all over the table and, of course, my lap. The sun decided it needed a break from shining at that exact moment. Thus, I was sitting in the cool shade, covered in juice that was quickly drying and becoming even more sticky. There was a table of rude and wealthy (a horrible, horrible combination) Cuban teenagers at the next table over. They kept looking over with malicious smiles, whispering, and cackling. I dismissed myself to the bathroom and made an effort to clean myself up. I did the best I could do in the small bathroom, clumsily soaping up my legs, rinsing them in the sink, and attempting acrobatics in order to dry them under the hand-dryers.
I returned to the table, actively trying to keep myself in good spirits. The kids at the table next to us were whistling and yelling at their server, telling them that they were ready for their bill, then subsequently ordering more drinks after he had brought them their ticket. We waited for our sandwich. The sun came back out, my legs did not feel as sticky. I fought back against the bad mood that had been inching in. The teenagers at the next table over finally departed, and an older British couple sat down in their place. We heard one of them say, “May goostah a key.”
After an extended wait, our sandwich finally arrived. We wolfed down the delicious multi-meat and cheese sandwich, paid our bill, and left in search of a peso cab home. The night was spent as most nights here are: lazily hanging out, doing work, and reading (in my case, I was nearing the end of 100 Years of Solitude, which I have since finished and thoroughly enjoyed).
Monday threw me back into my weekday morning routine before Spanish class at 2pm. Class occurred without notable incidence, and I walked down to the Cohiba hotel to use the internet. Of course and as always, the internet connection was feeble, and a lot of the work that I had been looking forward to accomplishing (namely, contacting my family and friends to say hi and confirm that I was safe) could not happen to the extent that I had wished. Thus, I had time to update the travel blog, and send out a few brief emails to family telling them to check the blog for a more personal update. I continue to feel frustrated at my inability to send out more personal messages or upload (any) photos. During the stretches of time in which the internet was completely useless, I read a play that Celia had leant me, “Contigo, Pan y Cebolla”, which had been written in the early 60’s by Hector Quintera (I saw his latest play the Friday before). I continue to be impressed with my abilities of reading in Spanish.
On Tuesday, my regular routine of meeting with Celia was again interrupted due to a group trip to an Art Museum in Habana Viejo. The museum was beautiful and open, with exhibits divided by the eras after the Revolution. I walked through the exhibit and watched time pass through the artwork. I realized how long it had been since I had been in a museum – at least since last summer. I realized how much I love museums, for the same reason that I love plays and magazines and fashion; everything looks finished, realized, planned, controlled. I wrote down names of artists I had never heard of, names I feel like everyone should know. I noted how I felt like I was in an open field while walking through the labyrinth of exhibits.
After the tour, Andrew and I veered off to Obispo Street to look for bookstores, of which we found many, both in CUC and Moneda Nacional. I bought a book of poetry and a series of maps of Habana throughout history. I can’t wait to find a place for them in my room at home.
Wednesday passed without incidence: another day of our Literature seminar. I once again gauged my progress in Spanish comprehension.
Thursday marked another Spanish class, followed by my return to the Thursday night seminar. Since last week, the format had been revised so as to frustrate the students less. It has basically become a project seminar, in which each student talks individually about the progress he or she has been making, and questions they are working through. The class progressed well enough, except for one student who was unwilling to take any criticism about her project, despite the fact that she so easily offered (non) constructive criticism to everyone else. At the end of the 3 hour meeting, we got talking about the rara religious performance we were being offered to view on the following Sunday (today).
To explain briefly (mostly because I am not well informed about the topic), rara is a religious form practiced in this region by Haitian-Cubans, combining elements of voodoo, Santería, and Christianity. This past week is when they celebrate their Easter – while they usually return to Santiago, Cuba for the celebration, a sect in Habana could not afford the trip, and were carrying it on here. Our program is paying the group in order to view (or participate?) the ceremonial performance. A debate arose this past Thursday as to whether or not our attendance at this religious event was disrespectful. While I agree that this concern was valid, it unleashed the most Hampshire-esque discussion I have heard in quite some time, contesting our position as tourists/students/spectators. Not knowing a lot about the subject, I did not participate but rather listened to other’s arguments. I still have mixed feelings on the subject, and am an avid believer that one shouldn’t shoot their mouth off without giving an issue some thought and (most importantly) research. After about 45 minutes of debate, the group split up, some to head to bed (myself included) and others to look for another place to continue their discussion.
Friday morning I woke up early for my meeting with Celia. I checked the syllabus and noticed the class’s focus would be on interviews. I was excited to finally talk about how to approach asking my subject’s questions. I was also excited to submit a short response I had written to one of the plays I had read, “El enano en la botella”. To explain, I have been having trouble accurately articulating my thoughts on plays that I have been reading with Celia – while my Spanish comprehension has come forward leaps and bounds, my generating skills are still lagging behind (not in daily conversation so much as academic discussion). However, I know that writing is one of my strengths – as long as I can sit down and gather my thoughts (and occasionally look up vocabulary), I can articulate myself fairly well. Thus, I decided to start writing responses for Celia so that she would get a better understanding of…well, my understanding.
At our meeting, I passed in my first response. I could tell that she was excited about my level of understanding of the play, and was very happy about my writing, encouraging me to continue. She then explained that she had to change around the syllabus for the day, that we would no longer be discussing interviews, but that she was going to give me a brief (very brief) history of theater for young audiences (Teatro para Ninos) before we stopped in on a rehearsal in a little over an hour. I was going to be meeting Teatro Tropatrapa, a TYA group in Habana. I became a little anxious and flustered, wishing that I had known beforehand so that I could bring my camera. This wasn’t the first time Celia had sprung opportunities on my without previous knowledge, so I resolved that I would just have to bring my camera equipment with me whenever I met with her from that day forward.
After the brief history, Celia and I caught a cab to Linea and D and took a short walk to a parking lot behind a large yellow building – the company’s “rehearsal space”. The company is made up of a small group of men (in their late 20’s through 40’s) with big smiles and even bigger senses of humor. We sat around for about 45 minutes talking about their work, before they played me a few songs and rehearsed a scene that they were working on. They made me a small paper crane and invited me to a performance they were having the following morning. A few hours later, I parted ways with Celia and walked back home to meet Andrew for lunch.
Andrew was still swimming in his bed sheets when I got back. I waited for him to get ready and then we departed for a quick bite before his Spanish class. We parted ways and I set off for an afternoon of solitary exploration. I walked to a few bookstores in different areas around Habana (some indoors, some on sidewalks) and picked out a few books I wanted to bring home for people. I stopped to read 100 years of Solitude (which I was dangerously close to finishing at this point) on a bench looking out to the ocean. I walked for another hour and a half, using the time to think of all the people I knew from different points in my life, wondering where they were at that exact moment. I was on my way to a bakery when I heard a familiar and frustrating sound: the kissy noise of a piropo.
To back up, I had been hearing this all day. I knew that walking around unaccompanied would draw this kind of attention (as it always does), but I had been bombarded with a wave of unflattering compliments all day, men of all ages yelling out “princesa” and “mami” and “guapo” at me as I walked by, following me with their eyes in the most unappealing and lecherous manner, making that awful kissy noise at me. By this point, I was used to the noise and was attempting to ignore it.
But at this moment, I look over and see a taxi driver, leaning over his passenger seat and making that awful noise between piropos. He was a lane over from me, but was slowing his car and keeping pace with me for over half a block. Yes, this guy was probably one of the most persistent hastlers I’ve encountered so far. After about half the block, he started turning into the lane beside me, to cut the distance between me and his yelling.
What happened next I still have a hard time believing, so clichéd is its nature.
As he was pulling his car into the lane next to me, continuing to yell, he didn’t look behind him for oncoming traffic. I heard a car horn screeching. I looked over just in time to see another huge Chevy blast into the side of my predator’s car.
I caused a car accident.
I paused on the sidewalk, my mouth open in disbelief. I ejaculated a nervous laugh. The front of the car had smashed into the taxi had no damage: those grills are so massive and reinforced…there wasn’t even a dent. But the lecherous taxi driver’s passenger-side door was crippled, completely pushed in, frame and all. The drivers were already out of their cars yelling at each other. After another moment of disbelief, I kept walking. While I knew that this kind of accident was going to be economically devastating to that lecherous taxi driver, I couldn’t help but feel a personal triumph over that stupid kissy noise. I reasoned that this was neither the first nor last time that man had ruthlessly bothered a woman, and surmised that he had it coming. I continued to the bakery and bought myself a cupcake.
After another half hour of walking, I headed back to the park near Casa Silvia to wait for Andrew to get out of his Spanish class. I opened up my book, and was determined to finish it before the afternoon was finished.
Not 10 minutes in to my most recent reading session, the older man with his dog (who I had seen and been irritated by the first time I had gone to that park to read…the one who asked me what time it was despite the fact that I didn’t have a watch, then continued to bother and stare at me) started walking passed. Behind the safety of my sunglasses, I saw him start to walk by. He stopped, he looked at me, he turned around and sat down, once again, across from me. I kept reading, intent on not giving him the satisfaction of eye contact. An hour later, he was still sitting across from me and I was finishing my book. I closed it, paused for a moment to let the ending (the beautiful ending) sink in. As if by magic, he got up with his dog and left. Not 30 seconds later, Andrew emerged from Casa Silvia. We returned home, as I told him all about my afternoon.
That night we departed our house with Oskar, ready to continue our Friday night routine. We picked up a bottle of rum and a bottle of Coke, and headed over to Kristina’s. Others in our group were just showing up, everyone bringing alcohol or snacks for the group. We celebrated the end of the week as per usual.
Saturday morning Andrew and I woke up early for the Teatro para Ninos performance, which was only a few blocks away. It was the perfect way to spend a Saturday morning. We sat in on the company’s brief rehearsal before their show, then watched as the children excitedly piled into the small theater/classroom, not an adult in sight. The show was wonderful, with lots of music, jokes, and actor-nugget interaction. I filmed parts of it, knowing it would be useful for my final project. We made plans to see another show the following Monday at UNEAC, and left, in search of Oskar and food.
After finding Oskar (who had given himself another of his notoriously “chic” haircuts), we walked towards 23 and J to get some cheap hot dogs and beer. Still hungry after that, we walked around in the sun until we came across a fast-food restaurant with pizza and spaghetti. We continued our dining experience.
Afterwards, we slowly walked back to our houses, in need of siestas. We relaxed and napped before dinner, at which point Baby treated us (as she does every day, twice a day) to a delicious meal. After dinner, I was exhausted from sun and food and decided to stay in for the night, busying myself with a lackluster exercise session followed by a Disney movie on my computer. Andrew, on the other hand, went out with Oskar to a late night drag show, which was also attended by the actor, Benicio Del Torro. He now has a picture of himself, at a drag show, with Benicio Del Torro. Never thought he would be able to say that.
Which brings me to today, Sunday. I’ve already expressed the wave of home-sickness that I awoke with, and already I feel it waning. Recounting what I’ve done here always makes me feel better. I am self-aware, I know the hypocrisies that exist within me in response to this experience, and I knew beforehand that this wouldn’t be easy. While I am looking forward for this to be over so that I can reflect on it from a safe distance provided by time itself, I am enjoying it in the here and now. Its just hard sometimes.
*please excuse any and all misspellings and grammatical errors...I am far too exhausted to proofread this and make it all pretty. I love and miss you all.
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