La Cultura Cubana

We finally have our carnets de identificación! (student IDs). This was our third time to go pick them up, as Cuba moves on a different time schedule. But that was alright, because we now have our watches set to “Cuban Time” which is a flexible version of chronological time, and more reflective of an attitude one must possess when dealing with things that don’t go according to planned. But alas, we are official students now, IDs and all. They allow us to go to museums, movies, ballets, and plays in Havana and pay in moneda nacional instead of CUCs, saving us each about $5-$10 at each place.

oops, it's sideways

On Mondays and Wednesdays, we have lectures about Cuban culture, but on Thursday mornings, we select a museum in the city and begin our decent down to the supermercado for a cheap taxi. The first Thursday, we trekked over to El Museo Del Arte Cubano: Cuban Art Museum.

We only had about 3 hours there before we had to eat lunch and be back at the University by 1. I underestimated the size of the place because in retrospect, I would have spent less time on the pre-revolution art, which was considerably less interesting than the government-controlled communist propaganda paintings. Reflective of everything – material and metaphorical – in Cuba, there was an abundance of color. The paintings told stories of the revolution, expressed sentiments of national pride, and paid homage to nation's heros – most notably: Fidel and Raul, Che Guevara, and José Marti.

The citizens in the paintings were happy and hardworking to reflect the advantages of communism. Yes, it was one-sided, but perhaps balanced out what I was taught in all of those not-so-politically-neutral grade school history classes. A bit of religious irony sprinkled here and there – my favorite being “Virgin of the Melon”: a cartoonish drawing of a lady, her newborn via immaculate-conception, and the holy cantaloupe.

The next week was El Museo del Arte Europea: European Art. mehh. so, so. Nothing stuck out too much to my seasoned appreciation for ahhrt. No, it was actually really nice, I just don’t have anything profound to say about it.

This past Thursday, we went down to Habana Vieja, a very densely populated section of the city where we spend much of our free time, to visit El Museo de los Orichas. Orichas are…well, first, a history lesson: there are two major religions in Cuban culture. Catholicism (Hi Dad) from the Spanish influence – 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue, etc. And Santería, now practiced by 90% of Cubans, which arrived in the 19^th century from Africa. Unlike Catholicism, however, Santería and other African-derived religions (like Palo Monte and Sociedades Secretas Abakua) are considered “religiones cubanos,” religions unique to Cuba. That is, Santería doesn’t really exist in Africa, but is a Cuban concoction rooted in African influences and evolved through interaction with other cultures and religions. Like many things in Cuba, it represents a fusion of cultures, races, and beliefs.

Even Catholicism has had a heavy influence on the religion, most notably in the role of Orichas, which are more or less equivalent to Catholic saints. So on our visit to the Orichas Museum on Thursday, we got to see and learn about the different roles of these figures. Comparing different religions, especially ones with such a contrast of followers such as Catholicism and Santería, is always enlightening as it allows you to step back and realize the universal themes in religious philosophy.

Each Oricha had an associated date, and although there were only about 20-something Orichas, September 12 was there representing. I’m not really sure what it means for my birthday to be lined up with an Oricha, but mine happened to be a woman named Ochún: the female goddess of love. “Quien cuida,” (She who takes care of), symbol of sexuality and fertility, embodied in sweet water and waterfalls. Check.

So that was that and then we had to hop on the P-5 to La Rampa for class. The P-5 is no less crowded than the P-1, but it does play Spanish hip hop. Loudly. Which makes it considerably more or less tolerable, depending on what kind of mood you’re in.

Speaking of music, a few weeks ago, we went to a jazz concert in an old church restored as a museum. The musicians were apparently widely known, and had tour dates that week in Canada and England. There we were, ignorant of whom it was we were getting to see, and all of a sudden, people start applauding profusely and everyone was out of their seats in a standing ovation before I even could identify the subject of this excitement. Turns out, one of the ladies from the Buena Vista Social Club had come to make a surprise performance. She’s quite dramatic. Once on stage, the music began and she decided to sit down and slump her head between her knees. She was like this for that awkward amount of time where I thought something might be wrong, but didn’t really want to make eye contact with anyone else for fear of being culturally uninformed. Good thing this was only an internal deliberation and I remained frozen because she started moan-singing and slowly raised her head. Sounds weird, but it was actually quite the show, as she eventually got up to sing and dance. Profe was with us, and he knew someone who knew her, so we got a group picture with her. Except that happened while I was in line for the bathroom.

Then had to go out and get personalized towers of beer to complete the cultural experience

On Saturday, Profe had planned to take us to a botanical garden outside of Havana, complete with giraffes, elephants, and lions. I was excited to say the least. But Jefe’s van broke down, which is code for he’s too hung-over or he got another last-minute job that pays more. So we’ll save that trip for another day, and got taxis to El Museo de Jose Marti instead. The Marti tower is a landmark in Havana for its height, because there really aren’t any other tall buildings. If you need a visual, imagine a skinnier version of the Regions building in downtown Montgomery. Oh yeah that’s tall! Oh wait no it’s not. The top did offer a pretty view of the city though, and I discovered a lot more organiponicos that I need to visit. The bottom floor is a small museum paying homage to Marti with paintings, photos, stories, and hundreds of his quotes tiled on the walls.

Marti’s face is everywhere in Cuba, alongside Che and Castro. He was born into poverty in Havana in 1852, and became an intellectual, writer, and primary figure in uniting Cuba to fight in their second war of independence against Spain. We’ve been reading a lot of about Cuban independence and U.S. military intervention in class, so we had a basis of appreciation for Marti and his accomplishments. Although he was an intellectual, uniting the Cuban people through symbolism in his writings, he prompted the most tangible outcome: independence in the war against Spain (which we later dubbed the Spanish-American War…won’t get into that charade today). He fought and died in the war.

That was a lot of information. I have carpal tunnel. Shelby, Pavia, and I are going to the ballet on Friday, and all of us to Santa Clara for the …..CHE MUSEUM (¡!!!¡!) on Saturday, so lots more cultural stuff to come.

Monday

Got a great seat on the bus this morn! I was running late and booking it to the bus stop, eating breakfast and scattering egg shells along the way. Halfway there, I saw the big red P-1 sitting at the bus stop and, knowing it would be another half hour at least before the next one, I took off in full gallop for about 100 yards. Barely made it, and received a few celebratory claps as the bus took off. There are no words to describe the Havana bus-riding experience…it’s something you just kind of have to do. Raul, one of our professors, says it’s R-rated for profanity, sexual conduct, and violence, which is the most accurate description I can relay. I very rarely get a seat and have become strangely accustomed to being sandwiched between two strangers. Anyway, this morning I had to stand up for the first couple of stops, then low and behold, the lady I was practically straddling stood up to get off. Granted the seat was broken, but what do I have to complain about. And it was a window seat! On the front row! The girl sitting next to me had a “francais” book, so I talked to her a bit about our language endeavors. Had some early morning encouragement as she said she knew English, but I held my own in Spanish the whole time (speaking to a bilingual person is like being in a contest to see who is better at speaking their nonnative language...always gotta be on your A-game). She taught me some French and then got off a few stops later. I never wanted to give up that seat. In conclusion, perhaps I should oversleep more often as motivation to get my daily exercise and avoid being violated on the P-1 before 9am.

On Mondays, all of my classes are at the university: culture of Havana with Rita from 9-11, followed by a 2 hour break before conversation class with Professor Suarez. Usually during the break, I go to this open-aired café for an espresso and homework. Then, for lunch, we follow suit with the other students and grab some little personal cheese pizzas at the newly opened privately owned restaurants. In the past year, the government has loosened control of permits for private sales of food, which has transformed some of the streets around the university. There are quick grab lunches everywhere, all selling more or less the same thing: LOTS of bread, a variety of simple sandwiches, and those delicious little pizzas with homemade bread and hand chopped onions and peppers. No silverware or plates – they just hand over the food. The best part is, a pizza costs 10 Moneda Nacional, equivalent to about 50cents. Grab lunch, maybe some boniato (a variety of sweet potato) chips from the street vendor, then off to the university quad or library steps to eat.

pizza con queso y pimiento:

On this particular day, our beloved pizza place was too full, so we ventured over to a sandwich stand. I’ve had to be incredibly flexible with my vegetarianism, and was thinking I was going to have to choose between the “pan y jamon” (ham sandwich) and the “pan y mayonesa” (mayonnaise sandwich??). Just my luck though, eggs must have been plentiful this week because they had constructed another whole menu of “pan y tortillas,” which, turns out, is an omelet sandwich – even had complimentary tomatoes! Oh Cuba, how I’ll miss your strange, cheap lunches.

el menu:

Viñales

Saturdays are dedicated to exploring the island and traveling outside the city to get glimpses of rural Cuba. Yesterday we drove two hours to Viñales, a pueblo in the province of Pinar del Río known for its caves and mogotes, sharp geological features that look like extra steep mini-mountains. All seven of us piled in Jefe’s six-passenger van, and for four hours guess who got to sit in the newly installed seventh seat – comprised of two cloth-covered planks strategically balanced between the two bucket seats. Yours truly. We set off, and just before leaving the city limits, Jefe (our eccentric driver whom we call “boss”) pointed out Raul Castro’s compound. I waved.

Jefe:

On the interstate, the badly paved roads continuously jolted us out of our seats and threw us back down for two hours. Thank god I had been sick the day before and was drugged on anti-nausea meds. Estamos en Cuba, so we found the humor in it and actually learned a lot about the country before even getting out of the car. For instance, as we stopped to let some cows cross the interstate, Jefe informed us that slaughtering a cow is illegal because even though you paid for that cow and it’s on your land and you take care of it every day, the government owns the cow. Therefore, you must get the government’s permission to kill the cow for meat, but the government probably isn’t going to grant you permission because all of the island’s beef comes from Argentina. I really don’t understand why an island – Cuba, especially – wouldn’t want to promote self-sufficiency, but then again, my comprehension of economics needs some tuning. Driving through the countryside though, I saw how much land is not being used and couldn’t help but think about the potential it offers to lessen Cuba’s giant trade imbalance.

Another roadside observation was the contrast between socialist propaganda billboards and the black market deals going down in the median, which we experienced firsthand as the van suddenly screeched to a halt beside a tobacco farm. We piled out and met one of Jefe’s many connections, a tobacco farmer, who showed us how it’s grown and took us into the drying shed. We saw the different stages of tobacco leaves, all hanging from tightly packed rafters and looking like sleeping bats. Farmer Brown said that after 3 months of dehydrating, the leaves are sent to expertly-trained women who divide the leaves based on quality, and that’s how cigar brands are determined. Not by private ownership, obviously, but by quality of leaf! iiiiiiiinteresting.

Inside the drying barn:

We once again loaded up the van and bounced our way to Viñales. Half an hour up a windy mountain road and we arrived at a beautiful lookout point where the weather was reminiscent of back home. The cold front brought a misty rain that mocked our wardrobe decisions. We sat down at a little bar to enjoy the view and hugged ourselves for warmth. Coffee for all, sprite for my returning nausea. We had climbed a bit in elevation and could see the lush valleys below us strewn with tobacco drying huts and clusters of colorful homes. The fog made it difficult to see very far, but in a way heightened the beauty and made the mogotes more majestic.

We made our way to a cave that was used as an escape route for Cuban slaves. The entrance of it was turned into a bar because estamos en cuba and I guess that’s how they celebrate underground railroads. I didn’t get a drink to properly commemorate it though on account of it was before noon and I was still feeling the aftermath of the food poisoning. We decided to walk through the cave and as we came out the other side, the strange series of events continued. A conch shell sounded and we were greeted with a dancing woman, a man spinning fire, and por su puesto, bongos. After the exciting music and dance, the man extinguished his fire in his pants and we scurried off to the horse & carriage waiting to take us back to Jefe.

Driving up the mountain even further to eat lunch, we encountered yet another cave. Scampering through this one, we discovered water at the end and had to get on a boat tour in order to get out. The man on the boat I’m fairly certain didn’t speak English, but had memorized his tour guide lines in English, which resulted in some funny word combinations such as “botter” instead of “bottle.” He kept repeating “wine botter wine botter” as he shone his flashlight on a stalagmite shaped debatably like a wine bottle. The subjective interpretation of rock shapes continued for the next 10 minutes until we finally saw light and bid farewell to our pseudo-English-speaking friend. Finally, we sat down for lunch in a little mountaintop hut and watched our table slowly fill with moros y cristianos, ensaladas de tomates, lechuga, papas fritas, pechuga de pollo, yucca, y platanos. Twas a feast! With full stomachs we began our descent down the mountain and back home to the city, stopping once along the way for Jefe to purchase some black-market roadside corn.

Nuestras Apartamento

We’re staying in Miramar, a generally quiet section of Havana filled with foreign embassies and only a short bus or taxi ride from downtown.

These apartments are meant for 2 people, but there are 3 girls, so the cot is wheeled in and guess who gets to sleep on it. I actually volunteered to take it as opposed the full size beds because I am a sweet, self-sacrificing person. Oh wait, no. I just liked the freedom of mobility that a cot has to offer in case one of the girls snores or dare I say even breathes loudly in the middle of the night and my earplugs aren’t thick enough to deter the sound. I really am going to be a joy to marry one day.

There’s my cot in the corner:

The Montehabana is a fusion between an apartment and a hotel….and cleverly called an aparthotel. Our maid, Yadira, is probably not much older than us and has taken us under her wing to help us learn Spanish. We’re also helping her with her English, quizzing her on how to say things like “pillow” and “fork” so that she can accommodate to other English-speaking guests. I gave her some perfume last week that I had brought with me (it’s very expensive here) and she lit up. She does cute things like make our towels look like swans and hearts.

Our kitchen:

We went out to eat a lot the first week, but now that classes have started, it’s much easier and cheaper to cook in our apartments – complete with 2 ghetto stove eyes, a mini fridge, no oven, a broken coffee maker, and everything in 3’s: spoons, knives, forks, plates, and cups. It’s wonderful. In line with the minimalist lifestyle Cubans live by necessity, everything has a place and purpose. And if food is left uncovered for more than 10 minutes, the fruit flies will make sure to remind you to keep things tidy. We cook rice and beans, also known as “moros y cristianos,” frequently. None of the menus here say “arroz y frijoles,” but instead, moros y cristianos. Moors being the beans and Christians being the rice….get it?

We’ve paid back our dues to our friends back at home who started school in the beginning of January. We got an entire month delay on classes, but alas, the mental exertion has begun. We realized this on Friday night, as the three of us scoured through our Spanish dictionaries, reading literally every single word for a nearly impossible assignment from our conversation professor. A through Z took us a couple of hours and almost an international incident (as Shelby threatened to launch herself off our balcony) to accomplish. This Friday night excitement also included about 100+ pages of political readings and corresponded with my 48-hour bout of food poisoning. I’m just thankful I had some quality entertainment as Shelby continuously electrocuted herself in many failed attempts to dry her shorts with a hair dryer. Estamos en Cuba.

Gringo here.

One might think that “embarazada” is a cognate and means “embarrassed.” I was so sure of it, I said to a taxi driver, “estoy embarazada,” informing him of my often meager Spanish skills. “I’m so embarrassed,” right? No. Not at all. Embarazada means pregnant. Lesson learned.

Here's me being a tourist in front of the capital building:



Being a tourist with a creepy statue:



The city from the giant steps of the university:



We went to Hemmingway’s house last week and walked around the property. We couldn’t go in the house for some reason, but we could look in the windows and see it was set up just as it was when he lived there...type writers set up and everything. He lived right outside of Havana in a town called San Francisco de Paula, where he was nothing short of a celebrity for the residents. We climbed up to the top of the writing tower built for him by one of his wives. It looks out over miles of the island – the city, the countryside, and finally, el mar – the sea. I think if I had a writing tower like that I could produce some genius as well. Although, he apparently didn’t like to write up there because it was too luxurious; he liked to be in the middle of all the Cuban village chaos. Another interesting fact: when the U.S. government was in its paranoid commie period, Hoover sent a CIA agent to investigate Hemmingway. Well, a body was found on the property fairly recently, suspected to be that man. In a strange way, that makes me like him even more. Whatever the case, we gained some beautiful novels out of his eccentric and troubled life.

On the steps leading up to the main house:

La Habana: primer impreción

I have made it to the land of sugar and coffee, and someone’s going to have to pry me out of here come May. I say that now, because it’s only February and the sun has stalled at a safe distance, so I’ll get back to you once that humid Caribbean summer rolls in. For now, though, while the snow falls on your capitalist nation, I’ll be bikini-clad by the pool, drink in hand, reading (translating) the poetry book I bought for a nickel.


That brings me to the first reason for my love of this island. Everything is so cheap here! Well, everything except internet and bar soap, but I’m always game for a little technology/hygiene detox. Sounds like a repeat of last summer, and I’m definitely not skimping on the veggies either. Not to price drop or anything, but I toted home my heavy-ass bag full o eggplant, tomatoes, beans, carrots, peppers, onions, beans, garlic, beans, pineapple, bananas, and a few beans for a grand total of $2.50. I even got a marriage proposal in the deal. At first I thought I was mishearing his heavy Cuban accent, but I quickly realized that he was in fact asking “¿estas casada?” followed by an invitation for coffee.

COFFEE. I swear, America will be a better place when the embargo is lifted if for no other reason than café cubano. It is a drug. That’s the cue into my next segment: Things Cubans Love. Cubans love sugar. There’s either sugar or rum in everything. Sometimes there’s both, and that’s a mojito. We’re on a city-wide quest for some mint plants to put on our balcony and nourish into muddled mint perfection. Then we will perhaps drink them by the pool behind our home whist tanning and reading Marti or Hemmingway.

Cubans also love not pronouncing their S’s, which, for a nonnative speaker, makes the whole Spanish immersion thing even harder than it already is. I’ll hear a sentence and think I have a few new vocab words to look up, when really I just have to figure out where the S’s are supposed to be. For example, a taxi driver was telling us he had heard that Florida’s beaches are prettier than Cuban beaches, but instead of “mas lindas” (prettier), he says “ma linda,” so we thought he was all of a sudden talking about his girlfriend, Malinda. And now I’ve started saying “grathia” instead of “gracias,” so perhaps I am making progress, poco a poco.

And finally, Cubans (and to an even greater extent, Americans) love their cars. I do see the occasional new Audi or Mercedes, but the majority of cars here are straight out of the 1950s, and as colorful as the Cubans themselves. Marci, our driver for long trips, has a (this is where I would insert some impressive year, type, and model if I knew anything whatsoever about cars) in mint condition, painted two-toned red and white. We took it to Hemmingway’s house right outside of the city. Most of the taxis here are that same 1950s style, which is just fun to see. Except it’s not very fun to see if you’re an assertive pedestrian like myself (and like most Americans who have been raised thinking cars must yield to us), because in Cuba, the cars have right-of-way.

Shelby, showing off Marci's car:




Here's Dillon and I, innocently walking along the seawall and becoming victims of high tide in Havana:



So, now that I’ve ranted about rum and tanning and how much money I’m not spending, you ask: has absolutely anything productive occurred in my brain since I arrived? In addition to the mojito muddling, you’ll be happy to hear that I have learned more Spanish in the past 2 weeks than I have in perhaps a whole year of classes. I go through phases: sometimes I’m completely frustrated with the language and think I will never actually be able to reach fluency. and sometimes I have those little magic moments of glory where I’m like, I just understood those two people’s entire conversation about me even though they thought I was a “gringo” (dumb tourist) who doesn’t speak Spanish.
Classes started on Monday, and we’re getting into the routine of life here. It’s a very slow-paced, simple routine but not at all void of surprises. Some days, for instance, I get a seat on the P-1 bus to the university, and some days the door won’t shut because I am literally hanging out of it, pressed against a stranger’s back….or front. Sometimes the bus doesn’t come at all, because schedules don’t exist. Neither do bus routes. Our motto of the trip is: “estamos en Cuba” **shrug shoulders and raise eyebrows. It means “we’re in Cuba,” and is a perfect testimonial to the amount of bizarre things that occur every day. Stay tuned.

Ok ok I digress…. Back to classes. Two of our classes – Havana Culture and Spanish Conversation – are at the university downtown. The culture class is just a lecture, which doesn’t help my speaking skills, but is doing wonders for my comprehension. We’ve been covering the psychological, social, and biological factors of Cuban identity. We discussed the usual merits of racism and how Cuba is a hodgepodge of African, Hispanic, Asian, and Caucasian influences that live together as one race: the Cuban race. Although there are still issues of discrimination, mostly in the “machismo” male dominated culture, racism is absent in Cuba. In fact, a person of mixed race is viewed as a symbol of cultural union. It’s not that Americans are racist, but different cultural histories and current cultural mindsets often put a disapproving connotation on mixed races, or at least invite a second glance. That’s one of the things that really struck me initially. Our bus ride home from the university some days corresponds with the time that children are getting out of school. I was recently observing the middle-school aged girls interact with each other and comparing them to myself at that age. In a group of about 10, each one has a varying skin tone or is from a visibly distinct cultural origin, but this just did not seem to register with them. Every time one of them would get on or off, they would all kiss each other on the cheek. I saw a few of them fix each other’s wayward hair without being asked, and express a genuine love for their friends. I couldn’t help but smile to myself and think about how different my middle school years had been.
The U.S./Cuban relations course will probably be the most challenging for me. Despite my mother’s profession, I’ve always avoided government classes and political discussions. Now I’m being thrown into one taught in Spanish. On the bright side, I suppose my involvement in the matter is kind of inevitable, you know, being here and all. For the first time in my life I’m really excited to dive into some political theory. At least my copy of the Federalist 10 is in English. Rosa, our professor for this course, is a kind of grandmotherly figure, if my grandmother was Cuban, taught herself English by age 11, and lived through the revolution that she now teaches about.

We also have a class called “Roundtable” taught by Profe (our professor with us from UA), in which we get to travel around Havana (museums, theaters, etc) as well as the island (Trinidad, Viñales, Santa Clara). We meet once a week to discuss our perspectives on the culture, government, language, etc. One of the main components of that class are our final projects, which we work on weekly. Each of us get to choose a topic to research based on our own interests and then turn in a 15 page paper plus a 15 minute presentation at the end of the semester. I chose to research food security in Havana and will visit urban farms/organiponicos, investigate how much food Cuba imports, how much the U.S. embargo is affecting their food supply, why the country has trouble being self-sufficient, and how the government treats farmers. Very excited for that.

Here's a picture of Paul, the man who offered his hand in marriage.



So much more to say, but I have to stop being on my computer now and go explore. Cada dia un nuevo adventuro!