Author: admin

Havana to Home

The rain is falling in torrents transforming the cobblestone streets into rivers, deep enough that the water floods up over the curbs and laps at the doorsteps of the shops and homes along the way.
Weezie and I pop into the “Bohemian Havana Bar Liberia” to celebrate our last night here. She had chosen the place, and could not of done better.
We hopped up the stone steps into a small intimate room, and were greeted by the owner. He was an artist, historian, and collector, as well as, a barman and the small rooms walls were covered with artifacts, books, paintings and photos. It was a museum of sorts. We sat at the small wooden bar and he served us mojitos as we asked about his collections. Every item had a story intertwined with Cuba’s history and each story drew us deeper and deeper into the Cuban experience. My ears were hyper focused on everything he shared and I would turn to Weezie and translate for her what I could.
As the rain pummeled the street outside our cozy nook, one Mojito turned into two, and one hour turned into two and then more. We sat and listened and asked and learned as the evening whiled itself away. A perfect ending to a perfect trip.

I haven’t written very much about the bicycling aspect of this trip, but rest assured there was plenty of it. I will post a map of our route tomorrow. I love to bike, but I view it as a catalyst for exploration. The biking is the easy part. My friend Weezie was a perfect companion. She did indeed open doors like I had thought she would, always game, always warm and always curious.
This trip was different from anything I have ever done before because this time, it wasn’t about me; pushing through some challenge. It wasn’t about the landscape (which was very beautiful), it was about the people.
The story of Cuba is both fascinating and heart wrenching and as we fly home today, I am deeply struck by how fortunate I am to have the freedom that I do and how welcomed I was by all the people who don’t.

Havana

The Prada is alive with people tonight. It is a ten-block long, polished stone, pedestrian walkway that runs through the center of Havana, lined with marble benches and shady trees. There are children roller skating on it, artists showing their work, music playing, people dancing, vendors selling yucca fritters, home made donuts and corn, teenagers rapping and men and women strutting around like fanciful roosters. Lights on the ornate balconies of the colonial buildings on either side come on adding sparkle to the party. Each building lining the walkway is a work of art, each one decorated with carefully painted, carved facades, stately columns and 15 foot tall shuttered windows. Tonight they are flung open to the warm evening air and we can catch glimpses of families and friends relaxing in their homes.
As the night continues to darken, the smell of Cuban food and the tinkling of glasses and plates emanates from everywhere. This is how Havana was meant to be. It feels safe, lively and creative. Full of promise and possibility.
We finished our biking adventure tonight and strolled slowly through the crowds, stopping to eat fettuccine Alfredo (because we were ravenous) and drink a mojito. We felt like guests in a party that we were very lucky to be invited to.

Guabanos

This is not an uplifting one so feel free to skip it if you have heard enough darkness lately!

We had the wind at our back today as we made our way back towards Havana. We are staying 15 miles outside the city in a third floor apartment looking over the sea. The same breeze that propelled us here, now blows in the window and out the door cooling is and reminding us, yet again how lucky we are.
I am beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable telling our hosts and the people that we meet that we are going home in two days. Eyes go wide when we say we are flying home with our bikes, disbelieving that it can be so easy. For all the great things about this country, it is still a prison of sorts and we are the chosen few that get to slip in and out of the bars.
It seems so unfair, and as many times as I make apologies for our president and our policies, I still feel ridiculous privileged just because of the circumstances in to which I was born. Many people here will never have the opportunity to leave, not without huge sacrifice.
The water out our window is turquoise blue, the sand is white, there is music and dancing and passion, but the feeling of being trapped shows in many people’s eyes.
Tonight, as Weezie and sat in a small restaurant on the side of the road, eating our customary fried fish and pizza, we watched as four foreign, old, white, men picked up some beautiful teenage girls to engage in some sex trade. There was a dance of requested and shared cigarettes, shoulder rubs, lewd, ogling stares and then a joining of the two groups. I felt nothing but compassion for the girls. There had to be such extreme desperation for them to engage with these nasty men and they were so young. For the men, I just felt hatred. Hate is not something I feel very often, and when I do it is seering and painful.
When we stood to leave, we had to walk closely by their table and as I looked at the men, with their baggy eyes and fleshy jowls something in me uncapped. With out any forethought, I began giving them the thumbs down over and over and repeatedly told them that they were fucked up. I don’t know where they were from, not Cuba that was for sure, and I thought that in my fury these were two universal messages that were easily understood. My heart pounded and my cheeks flamed. These men were disgusting. Who could prey on desperate teenagers like this?
There is so much pain here, so much loss, but the only evil I have witnessed has been from these visitors.

Mantanzas

Today it rained for the first time on our trip. Nobody is complaining, just describing. Describing how the potholes became filled with muddy water, making it difficult to tell how deep they are and resulting in a rather lumpy ride. And how, because I do not have any sort of rear fender, the dirty water on the road spun up like a fountain to my back, and more significantly, into my bicycle shorts, swelling the padding much like a diaper. It made me really empathize with infants, as they chafed terribly when I rode and hung soggily when I walked.
However, perhaps due to the wetness, when we pedaled by a sign carved with the name “Finca Coincidenca”, with a few huge sculptures in a pasture by the road, I used it as an excuse to stop and dry out for a minute.
Weezie, ever game, was happy to pull over and explore it with me. We walked up the driveway and were greeted by two little girls, and a puppy.
“What is this place?” We asked, “A park?” The girls giggled and told us it was private, but to follow them. They led us to their grandmother who was cooking in an outdoor kitchen. She welcomed us to her farm and told the girls to give us a tour. They led us through groves of mango trees with six foot tall metal shoes in its shade. They introduced us to their calf and pet tree rat named Julia.. We chatted as we strolled through pastures with a serving bowl and utensils four feet across and a large rock with multiple faces carved in it. We crossed over a walking bridge and found a twelve foot tall man wrestling a similar sized fish. We were agog.
After our tour, the grandmother gave us some fresh squeezed mango juice and explained that when she moved to this land, there was one tree. Now, 40 years later, it is an organic farm, full of lush orchards, grass land and coffee plants. It specializes in medicinal foods and has become an art collective. We then visited with an artist working there and she showed us the kilns that towered 15 feet tall, all built by hand. I was so full of wonder at this paradise that I barely thought of my chafed bum once. I fantasized about staying on for an extended visit and it was hard to say goodbye and get back on our bikes.

Cuba has a very vital art community. Often on this trip we have been struck by fantastic sculptures that seem incongruous in this place of struggle. In the midst of rusty cars and chaos, the big cities make artistic expression a priority and there is incredible talent. There are many layers to this county.

Colon

Every day when we leave our Casas in the early morning, we are swept up into a current of people, all jockeying their vehicles into a river of motion. In every town there are mopeds, and horses and cars crowding the streets.

There are classic American Fords and Oldsmobiles from when the United States supported Cuba, Peugeots and Fiats from when Russia did, and some more modern cars from China. Many cars are emblazoned with insignia from other car manufacturers, so they basically call them what they want. I guess it keeps it interesting.
There are horse drawn carts, motorcycles, ancient Jerry rigged buses, trucks spewing diesel with their beds full and of people, motorized carts serving as taxis and bicycles.
I could write a chapter on the bicycles alone. Some are gas powered, some are electric, some have been around since my grandfather was a boy. Some have a small wheel on one half and a large on the other. Some have tall handle bars and some have squat wooden ones. Many have extra seats fastened on to the back rack or on the cross bar for both adults or children to ride as passengers. There are bicycle taxis and bicycles pulling carts. There are old men riding bicycles built for eight year olds and women riding tasseled Walmart specials.
Most of these bikes have seen several lifetimes of use, and I am amazed that they are still ridable and not collapsing into mounds of rust on the side of the road. There is a surprising lack of flat tires, and if one does occur, every down has a pinchador—a flat tire fixer.
Every day Weezie and I enter this fray and swim through the reving engines, potholes and honking horns, moving with and through the people, making our way to the country side.
With all that chaos, one might think that it is dangerous to navigate these streets, but it is quite the opposite. People drive slowly because of the potholes and the vulnerability of the various commuters. Cars and buses give little toots on their horns well before they approach a bike or a horse, with enough advance notice not to be startling and then they give as much space as possible when they pass. It looks crazy, but there is a pattern, and everyone seems to work together to get each other where they need to go. One out of twenty people in the United States has a car. Here it is only one out of 500.

Santa Clara

“I have a good feeling about this town!”I call to Weezie as we wend our way down towards Remedios. Maybe it is because of the Avocado trees towering nearly forty feet tall on either side of the road, along with stately palms and fields of sugarcane.
Or maybe it is because of the Brahmin-like cattle staked to the fence posts along the side of the road. Their long, silken chest flaps hanging between their knees calling to be caressed. Their proud horns warning that I better not dare and their tufted shoulder humps giving them a bit of a camel-like appearance. All evolved to help them modulate the heat and all making them fascinating creatures to observe.
Or maybe it is because we have been coasting down hill for the better part of twenty minutes and the feeling of exhaustion is segueing into euphoria.
Or maybe it is because the town we are heading to is named “Remedios”, which means “Solutions”, and that seems like a pretty good sign. But, no matter, I feel good energy undeniably pulling us towards it.
“You and your premonitions!”, calls Weezie, but I think she feels it too.

A mile or two more and we find ourselves sailing into the main square. There we find a beautiful park, surrounded by the traditional pastel colored colonial buildings and the oldest Catholic Church in Cuba. There is even a Moroccan flare here from the Spanish/Moroccan influence. It is a lovely place, but best of all, we hear music, rising up and out of the Casa de Cultura on the square.
Like bees to honey are pulled to the open arched doorway and are immediately invited to haul our bikes up and in, to participate fully in the show without a worry about bike security.
The music is loud and passionate, full of multiple rhythms and sweet melodic singing. It is an eight piece band; drums, guitars, horns, percussion and some instruments that I have never seen before. We are spell bound. We sit in a foyer that has more columns than walls and we let the cool breeze and the music wash over us as our sweat dries.

A gentleman comes by and gives us each a plastic cup of sweet sherry. A beautiful woman in her eighties with hair to her waist, wearing a long pink skirt and a colorful scarf beams at us as she shakes and shimmys, dancing more elegantly than I ever will.
“We are celebrating the music school of this town today,” she shares between songs, “Thank you for coming!”
Weezie looks at me as she sips her drink and taps her toes on the polished brick floor. “You are a little witchy.” she says. The truth is, it isn’t difficult to take a gamble on finding goodness in a place like this, but she can think that I am witchy if she wants t

Remedios

Every new Casa Particular is a new window into life in Cuba, and everyday when we knock on the next door, we are filled with excitement about what and who we will find inside. We have yet to be disappointed.

As we push the door open from the busy street into our Casa Particular in Santi Espíritu, Weezie and I are immediately overwhelmed by what we find.

The ceiling is painted with a decorative relief and lofts 20 feet over our heads. It supported by tall arches and marble columns that separate one sitting area from another.

There are several large, crystal chandeliers, one in every room, all made of cut glass. The doors into side rooms are 12 feet tall and have upper and lower panels that open independently to allow airflow, while enabling the rooms to remain secure.

The floors are made of intricate, polished Spanish tile, original from the houses construction 150 years ago. It is smooth and cool beneath our feet.

The walls showcase fine classical paintings that are sunk into the plaster, their frames built into the structure of the house.

The furniture is antique, constructed from a stained hardwood; rockers and settees, couches and tables, all polished to a shine and original to the home. It is a museum.

Spellbound we walk further into the house. In the center there is a large, open air courtyard with plants that climb supporting two story high columns and create a green oasis in the midst of this bustling city. It is filled with several wrought iron tables and chairs, that invite a traveler to revel in the tranquility found here.

Around the courtyard, under a veranda, are the doors to eight palatial guest rooms. Each has two beds, its own bathroom and a changing room.

There is a kitchen off to the side for serving guests and an iron stairway from the courtyard to the roof, where we find breezy views of the surrounding city.

“Your home is amazing!”, we stammer. “It is unbelievably beautiful! How much is it going to cost us to stay here?”

Our host Yandy smiles proudly. “25 dollars, it is the going rate.” He tells us that he has been restoring this house for years, that it was built before the Spanish war, but that without electricity, it is hard to see its grandeur. We promise him we can see it regardless, and he shyly thanks us and gives us the keys, wishing us a good evening.

As night descends, darkness fills the house and the stately guest rooms do indeed become cavernous rather than splendid; what had been beautiful by day, becomes ghostly by night. We bump into furniture and walk into door jams, but feel royal none-the-less.
Weezie and I decide to put on our headlamps and play cards on the patio, and we imagine what this place, what Cuba, must have been in better times.

What was it like when the party was happening? When the chandeliers shimmered and the diners told tales into the night with lazy fans turning and music playing. When they smoked their cigars and clinked their crystal at the tables in the courtyard? When these room were full with travelers or maybe a huge extended family. When these homes had life.

Being in Cuba is a bit like being in a ghost town at times. Everything here seems to be waiting. Waiting for the economy to shift, for the electricity to turn back on, for the borders to open, for the party to continue.

In the morning, as we enjoyed a decadent breakfast, we spoke to our host some more. He told us that without tourists coming like they used to, without electricity and with the current embargo, he needs a side hustle. The house is no longer enough. He shows us a heavy weight, iron, antique treadle-powered sewing machine from one hundred years ago and excitedly told us about his new idea. He is going to start a shoe and clothing repair business.

“We don’t have electricity, we can’t buy new things and tourists aren’t coming like they used to, but we do need to repair things, and I can do that.”

I am amazed by his tenacity and his sewing machine is a piece off art, but I say, let’s bring the party back.

Sancti Spiritus

I spoke to my husband last night. “You have to go dancing. When will you be in Trinidad again?” he chided and of course I bristled. After riding in the hot sun all day, staying up to dance until 10, even in the salsa capital of the world, seems like a tall order. But before the words even completely left his mouth, I knew that he was right. It was a dare of sorts, a game we often play, and he knows that I am a sucker for dares. Besides, I am here to experience all Cuba has to offer, and music and dancing is vital to their culture.

Weezie and I made every effort to fill the afternoon, without listening to the siren calls of our pillows. We took a ride out to a small fishing village and found a group of kids to play with, an excellent way to while away an afternoon. We jumped rope, taught them how to use a Chinese jump rope, kicked a hacky sack, worked on teaching them to count to ten and tried to master their spinning tops.

The tops are called “Trumps” they are made of a hardwood, carved into the shape of a turnip and have a nail sticking out the pointy side.
The kids wind a string around them many times and then fling them forcefully towards the ground, where they smack against the pavement with dangerous force and begin a frenzied spin. They chase them, trying to pick them up, in an effort to coax them to continue to spin in their open palms. It is very difficult. We didn’t master it, but we sure had fun trying and the metaphor was not lost on us.

The afternoon flew by and all too soon, it was time to put on our dancing shoes and hit the town. We sat by the cobblestone dancing floor at the “House of Music” and felt very proud of ourselves for staying up. We aren’t so old after all. When the music started, it was infectious and we immediately started swaying in our seats. “Come on!”, said Weezie, and so I followed her to the stage, using her bravery to my advantage, like I always do.

No sooner had we started dancing when an older gentleman grabbed Weezie’s hands and started to spin her. She smiled willingly and I was petrified. Immediately, I turned away from all the other dancers and clasped a tall wrought iron fence that ran the length of the stage. I said I would dance, I didn’t say with anybody!

I pretended the fence was my partner and I swayed to the movements of the bars. I watched Weezie rock her hips to and fro and prance her little spray-foam green Converse sneakers here and there and everywhere with utmost concentration.
It was the longest song of my life. The more grace everyone showed, the more acutely aware I was of my ripped athletic shorts, braless t-shirt and big gomby Teva sandals. I loved that fence.

Finally, the song ended and Weezie was released. I was so proud of her. She was cognitively exhausted from trying to keep up with her partner, her eyes wide with effort, while I meanwhile collapsed into a puddle of giggles and ran from the dancing floor before her fate could befall me.

I am glad we stayed up, the music was fantastic and seeing Weezie’s sneaks slap rhythmically against those cobblestones will stay with me forever. Rhythm here is everywhere. I sure wish I could bring some home with me.

Rest day in Trinidad

While the morning is still cool, the bird people come out. They walk through the shaded cobblestone streets carrying cages made of reeds with little song birds in them, hoping to expose their pets, or contestants in this case, to a variety of sounds.

Several times a year, there is a competition in Trinidad in which all these birds go breast to breast, and sing the most beautiful songs that they have collected throughout the year. It takes exposure to learn these songs, so their owners walk them throughout the town and countryside, through forest and coastline stopping to let them listen when another bird is singing, hunting for new sounds and melodies.

We have seen these caged birds stacked high on the back of slow moving motorcycles, hanging from the handlebars of bicycles, gently swaying at people’s sides as the walk gingerly down the road and in every other window. They are everywhere. They aren’t overly colorful, but their song repertoire is incredible.

The birds are collected by bird collectors or individuals with nets in the mountains. They are tended to with utmost care and are well protected from the elements at all times.

The winner of these competitions just wins. There is no prize except for the knowledge that their bird has the most varied and beautiful songs in the city.

Cienfuegos to Trinidad

Betty, our tour guide, shrugs. “I don’t go out much at night anymore because all my friends immigrated, but there is usually great salsa music there.”, she gestures to an outdoor seating area on a stage of cobblestone steps. “If there is electricity.”

“I am trying to leave too. Maybe Spain, but it is hard. I will come back though, I want to raise my children here. It is a good place with a great way of life. Our system is just too broken. I was in med school, but I make more money as a tour guide and it is much less stressful, so I quit.”

Betty is 27 years old. She has chin length dark hair, an easy smile and a small glittery nose ring. She walks us through the streets of Trinidad for hours telling stories of the first, second, third and fourth groups of people that tried to run the land; the Spaniards, the Russians, the United States and the Cubans. It felt like an open ended tour, as if the story is far from over here.

Our tour segues from personal stories to historical tales and back again, and again I feel incredibly lucky to be here, absorbing it all.

Weezie and I were exhausted after biking 53 miles through dry scrub land in the strong sun and wind. My feet ached and my eyes felt gritty—longing to close, but we were riveted. The stories here whirl and crescendo, pause and whirl again and I think they will continue to.

The streets here are cobbled and the buildings are painted beautiful shades of pastel; soft blues and Easter egg pinks, mossy greens and turquoise. It is a UNESCO world heritage sight and everything has been carefully preserved so that it is easy to picture what Cuba would have looked like in its heyday.

Children play in all the streets, kicking soccer balls and running from one families door to another. The windows and doors remain open and it is easy to be a voyeur and peak in and see families lounging together or in a few cases tonight, even dancing! Many people have converted their rooftops to patios and sit up on them to collect the breeze coming off the ocean that is just four miles away. Music and art fill the streets; intricate crocheted tapestry’s and painting, salsa and rumba.
And yet, we have not spoken to one person who hasn’t lost a family member to immigration, because the numbers here just aren’t adding up.

Betty doesn’t get paid for her tours. She survives on tips. She is smart, capable, passionate and engaged. She could do anything, if only this system would let her.