A Glimpse of Cuba

Note: this entry is going to be a bit of a long one as trying to describe Cuba in a few short paragraphs would be a bit of a crime, if not altogether impossible. In fact, even the locals who live and breath Cuba are struggling to understand such a bewildering and complex nation. While any attempt at making sense of this most unusual land feels somewhat over-zealous and in vain, let me offer some humble reflections. Two weeks walking her soils and I’m left feeling Cuba is a land of contradictions. It’s a place where everything is no... but yes. Where music, culture, and education thrive yet where hope, opportunity and development are repressed. It’s a place where the government gives with one hand and takes away with the other. Where many Cubans strongly identify as “Fidelistas” but not “Revolucionaristas” (indeed a confusing distinction to an outsider), where a doctor makes the same salary as a cab driver, where 1950’s American cars cruise the streets and where the nearest buzz of capitalism is ringing 90 miles offshore to the north. How bizarre a place where education, health care and simple food rations are provided gratis by the government, yet the freedom of choice (to start a business, to openly oppose the regime, to LEAVE) is denied. Despite the desperation and restlessness many Cubans express regarding the reality in which they live, the Castro brothers have miraculously managed to remain popular local heroes that are associated more with their original struggle for equality than the banal miseries of life in a socialist bubble. When one compares modern Cuba with life under the former Batista dictatorship, its hardly shocking that Fidel is considered a Robin Hood type character. Cuba in the 1940’s and 50’s was a country ruled by a rich elite in which thousands of campesinos suffered under brutal, horrible conditions. When Ernesto Guevara y el comandante roused the masses to overthrow the onerous (US- backed) regime and replace it with a more tolerant one that equally distributed land among everyone and shut out ‘yankee imperialism’, it’s all but surprising that the Cuban people took to the streets in support of such a revolution.

It’d be hard to deny some positive changes that were born of the 1959 Cuban Revolution (Cuba has one of the world’s best health care systems and the highest literacy rate in Latin America). Yet the egalitarian utopia that strapping Che and young Fidel envisioned (and promised) hasn’t proven to be quite so sparkling after-all. Folks are struggling to get by and there is a growing divide between have’s and have nots (due in large part to the tourist economy). But perhaps most debilitating of all is the psychological tax that comes from having no space to hope and dream. "For you, Cuba is a paradise" a young man told me one evening, as we sat on the steps of an open courtyard turned dance-floor. "But me? I am sick of it. I love my culture, but I want to see Paris and Montreal. I want to feel snow."

To generalize, Cubans are a very educated populace and somehow well versed in global affairs (impressive considering closely monitored access to internet/social media); yet the vast majority of people will never leave the island. Even if political factors made it possible for Cubans to travel easily outside the country, economic factors would keep them trapped. The economy in Cuba revolves around 2 currencies: la moneda nacional (the pesos that Cubans use) and CUC (the Cuban convertible peso aka tourist currency). $1 US dollar is roughly equivalent to 1 CUC, which is about 25 pesos in moneda nacional. Whatever logic gave way to its original formation, over decades this system has proven to be chaotic, inefficient and straight up confusing. The collapse of the Soviet Union left Cuba in dire straits once economic assistance in food, energy, and military supplies basically stopped over night. The Cuban economy wasn’t prepared to replace the Soviet vacuum and in an act of desperation the government opened up Cuba to the world - but left the world closed off to Cuba(ns). The establishment of a dual currency system began in 1994 when CUC were introduced as the dominant $$ for international business, particularly tourism. This means that a Cuban can buy a pizza on the street for about 10 pesos (less than a dollar) while a tourist can buy the same piece of doughy bread and cheese in a restaurant for 3 CUC. (BTW, Cuban cuisine is not much to write home about but they do throw it down hard on fresh juices and soft-serve ice cream). Over the years the economy has become jumbled into one confusing quagmire: a tourist now can change their CUC for pesos, allowing them to purchase the same street pizza for 10 pesos (what do you think we lived on the whole time...) and a waitress might be tipped in CUC which could significantly affect her living situation, as just a 2 CUC tip might translate into a tenth of her monthly income. To give a concrete example of the perplexity: my 25 min taxi ride from the airport to the casa I was staying in cost me 20 CUC which is the rough equivalent - if not more - to what a doctor makes in one month. (The rest of the $$ goes to the state)



Perhaps this sheds a bit of light onto why our heads where spinning after just a few days in Havana. At first we spent hours trying to understand how life around us worked, discussing and analyzing everything to exhaustion until we eventually realized it’d be impossible to come to any clarifying conclusions in 2 weeks: other than Cuba is a complete and utter anomaly to the world. “Guys, it’s day two. Take it easy” Laila reminded us one afternoon. Oh yeah. But how fascinating an island that has managed to resist the infiltration of American capitalism and consumerism. In Cuba there are no billboards or shopping malls or people haggling you on the streets to buy chachkees. No McDonalds or Burger Kings or Gaps.

So eventually - and with the help of some strong Mojitos - we learned to not dwell so much in the Why?’s and How?‘s of Cuban life, but rather sit back and enjoy her unique rhythm. Before leaving Medellín, a Colombian friend of mine had given me the contact info of Jorge, a man she had met in Cuba through couch-surfing years ago. Couch-surfing is an exchange network and website that connects travelers with local hosts around the world. Jorge became our life-line, showing us Havan's hidden hotspots and the best local eateries. He helped organize our transport and invited us to private cultural events. He even introduced us to his adorable family and had us over his home for the best meal we ate during the whole trip. After working hard as a doctor for many years Jorge eventually found the oppressively low wages unbearable. While sharing his story one day, he pointed to his face, "Look at this" he said sternly, "esto no es una cara de esclavo" this is no slave face. Jorge abandoned his life as a doctor and began studying Japanese-style massage from a teacher in Havana. He took a rare - and precarious - entrepreneurial step and started his own small practice in private. His clients are travelers (mostly through couch-surfing) and now he's able to do what he loves while providing for his family, though life is hardly easy. Couch-surfing in Cuba is unusual (and risky) considering Cubans are not supposed to house foreigners if their home isn't legally registered as a casa particular. "The government can prevent me from seeing the world," Jorge told me on our drive back from the airport my first night, "but it won't stop the world from coming to me".

All in all, we had an incredibly memorable two weeks. Liza and Laila flew in from Nicaragua where they’d been working for the summer at Global Glimpse and Julia was wrapping up 10 months of backpacking/living in Central America. It was such joy traveling and getting to know this dynamic, fun, independent and sexy group of women. We each brought something different to the table and had a great mix of intellectual stimulation and dance-floor boogieing. All of us became enamored with Havana’s dilapidated charm, the romantic seashore avenue, the omnipresence of rhythms floating around the city. After several nights of salsa dancing and singing songs on the Malecón til the wee hours of the morning we decided to venture onwards to the coastal town of Trinidad.
Days of wandering around colonial streets, chatting with neighbors, and visits to the ocean always ended with nights of music and rumba at the Casa de Cultura - an outdoor public venue with live music and dance every night. One evening we even spent deep inside a famous cave-turned-disco.













From Trinidad we continued westward to tobacco country and Cuba’s outdoor adventure mecca, Viñales. We did some hiking but the insufferable August heat made any day time activities a real challenge. Ultimately, we couldn’t deny Havana’s strong pull, which was calling us to spend our last few days in her sweaty, musical, chaotic palm.









Cuba, like the rest of Latin America, is a hyper-sexualized culture. A stroll down any street inevitably arouses full body stares, whistles and cat-calls "preciosa, linda, hermosa!”. Cubans love to play the guessing game of where tourists are from. “Jer-man-ee? España? Italia?” they’d often shout from balconies, horse-drawn carriages, bicycle taxis or street corners as we walked by. It became clear folks aren’t used to seeing too many American tourists because when we did share our nationality, people often responded with pleasant surprise: “ooooo! Americanas! I have cousin in (insert: Nueba Yol/Miami/Nueva Jersey!” At times we were confronted with vulgar comments by male passer-byers, but nothing I wasn’t already used to from living in Colombia. In a place where limited dialogue regarding sex is coupled with little physical space (often 5+ people of varying generations share a 2 bedroom apt) it makes sense that music, styles of dress, and body language on the street become outlets for sex and sexuality.


Now I’m back to Colombian Paisa life where everything seems much bigger and faster. I can’t imagine what it’d feel like to go straight from Havana to New York City. I am so thankful for having had a glimpse into Cuba. On our last day, exhausted and hung over I asked the group over beans, rice and cooked yuka at our favorite restaurant if anyone would ever want to come back. We unanimously and unhesitatingly said Yes.