Viva Cuba

  

In some ways it's very difficult for me to write this post, from the other side of much too short story,  with a whirlwind of thoughts and unsettled reflections. I've spent years dreaming of the day when I would travel to Cuba, imagining scenarios in which I would have to pass through another country to arrive, or seek out an educational cause to get me into the country, due to the political sanctions placed on travel from the United States. When travel restrictions lifted at the end of 2014, I felt a sense of urgency to go and see this tropical mystery that I had spent years learning about from Cuban immigrant friends and through university classes. I had learned so many conflicting stories, those of Marti, Castro, and Che Guevara, changing history and holding true to ideals of 'La Revolucion', contrasted by stories of the same men, keeping people oppressed, killing, plundering goods and homes for their own gain. How could perspectives be so extremely different? What was the truth?

               

La Plaza de La Revolucion

Cars of La Habana

View from El Hotel Nacional 

In the past two years the prices of airline tickets to La Habana have fallen almost ten-fold, and when my dear friend Chris and I started talking about the blank canvas of our upcoming spring break, it seemed perfect that we should aprovechar! It should be noted that Chris is a history teacher, and with me as a Spanish teacher by his side, we were quite the duo for such a trip. We booked 8 days to spend in 4 cities: La Habana, Santa Clara, Trinidad, and Cienfuegos. It was important to us that each day had an educational focus, because we were traveling on an educational visa. While the US government has opened things up, they have not yet created a "sit on the beach and drink mojitos visa"; or like the airline agent said to the woman beside us at check-in for the flight, "Ma'am, you cannot go for vacation", after asking her reasons for travel. In a lot of ways, Chris and I are both rule followers (maybe it's because we are teachers, and maybe it's because we didn't want any beef with the government); so we stuck to the rules. Our visa rules included: create an itinerary with educational activities, keep any ticket stubs from activities, document with photos said activities, and stay off the beach.  Done.

Early morning pic to start our journey! 

We left at 3:15 a.m. for our 6 a.m. flight out of Tampa to Havana, a short 1 hour and 15 minute flight. We arrived Sunday into Jose Marti International Airport, quickly passed through customs with very few questions asked, and then found our way to exchange some money. Surprisingly money exchange was one of the more complex parts of this trip. First of all, they use two types of currency in Cuba: the Cuban Peso and the Cuban Convertible Peso, referred to as CUCs. One is the currency for tourists and the other for Cubans. It's not possible to get Cuban Convertible Pesos (CUCs) at banks in the US, and if you exchange your US Dollar there they tack on a 10% fee, atop the already lame exchange rate. So, to get around the 10% fee, we brought Euros with us. We lost a bit in the exchange, about 3%, but it was worth the inconvenience. After taking care of business, we got in our first cab. A taxi driver for the State approached us to offer us a ride, he was official-looking with his badge on and all. I tried to haggle the price a bit, but he told us it was set by the state. I believed him. We walked past about 30 old cars, ones from the 50s, taking a moment to smile at each other at the novelty documented in the iconic Cuba photos all coming to life in front of our eyes. Then we got into a brand new Hyundai Sonata. While I was disappointed that I wasn't sitting in the back of an old Chevy for my first ride in Cuba, I was in some ways grateful for the first lesson in Cuban politics and economics I was getting while comfortable riding into town.

Our first Cuban cafe

We stayed at an AirBnB in Vedado, or as they call them, Casas Particulares. Both of us so happy to be greeted by Pena, the guy who would make our trip in Cuba truly unforgettable. He brought us up SEVEN flights of stairs to our apartment where we would be staying for the next three nights. After catching my breath, I was wowed at the view of the city and the sea we had from both sides of the place.  It was nice, clean, and just like the photos we poured over while trying to choose the right spot for our Havana adventures. A lot was closed that day, being it was a Sunday. Our first educational plan was out the door. We decided to stroll down the Malecon, taking in the sites of this fascinating place. We were still in amazement that the cars were 60 or more years old, the billboards were filled with not advertisements, but propaganda for La Revolucion, and the streets were somewhat bare for what was touted as a huge tourist destination.

Stroll down the Malecon

Each day began with breakfast with Pena, a yummy variety of tropical fruits, delicious Cuban bread, and an egg mixed with lovingly chopped peppers. During our conversations with him over coffee, we learned so much about what it meant to be Cuban. He was open and honest, at times so honest I wanted to pause the conversation and cry a moment. I didn't. He shared about going to school to be a teacher, like us. He had taught after serving his obligatory year for the Cuban army, the plan for all young men out of high school. He studied for five years to be a teacher, and taught for three. He made $16 a month as a teacher. SIXTEEN. The salary wasn't enough to live on, even with the rations of food to supplement him. He, like so many Cubans, left the profession for tourism. His story is not uncommon. Doctors served drinks. Engineers peddled taxi-bikes. In the back of a cab, when I asked about the State's plan for retirement, I learned it was $10 a month as we passed by a hotel that charged $529 per night. He shared about Cuban laws, for Cubans only, that forbid them from eating cheese or beef. Explaining that there wouldn't be enough for the tourists if the Cubans ate these things. No cheese? He had opened up a long conversation on justice after sharing that. No cheese!?! What?! My interest was peaked. There was more, so much more.

Our incredible breakfast 

Dinner with our hosts

A Cuban Feast 

Despite almost eleven years of studying Spanish, I still struggled to get every word in a conversation with Cubans. I felt frustrated asking someone to repeat or what words meant. I did it anyway. The story they were telling, the questions they were asking, the sense of hopelessness I found in many had to be expressed. I heard it and I felt sad. I still do.

In some ways, I wish I didn't speak Spanish. I wish I could have gone to this place like the other thousands of tourists pouring into La Habana Vieja, a well-kept, Spanish-colonial, colorful contrast to other parts of the city. I wish I could have stayed in the moment that we spent on our first day at El Hotel Nacional sitting staring at the sea with a mojito in hand. That was lovely. Except for that hotel costs over $500 per night, and we were served by a man named Hugo, who I imagine has more education than any waiter who has ever served me a drink.

I went to Cuba wanting to learn, to experience, to see the Revolution up close. I knew going in that Fidel Castro had died one of Fortune 500's richest men, and that education and health care were available to his people. There must be some good to be found, and I wanted to see what it all looked like in action. My heart is heavy after the brief encounter. My questions on education and its role in our world are racing, frantic, and unsettled after this trip. Some will read this and tell me to "Lighten up", "The world is full of injustice", "Why be such a downer?" I've traveled a lot in my life, and my perspectives are part of my journey.

There is so much more to say here about what we did, what we didn't do (yes, we came home 3 days early after spending a whole night sharing one toilet while experiencing the rage of something we had ate or drank that day), and whether or not we will return. I still feel lost and conflicted about Cuba's history, thinking that the message and ideals of a revolution for the poor and voiceless got lost in translation by greed and confusion. My hope is that this story, this history, is not yet done being written.
To end this heavy post, I will use the words of Cuba's beloved Jose Marti from 1892 in Our Ideas: 

Patriotism is a sacred duty when one fights to make one's country a happy place in which to live. It is painful to see a man insist upon his own rights when he refuses to fight for the rights of another. It is painful to see our cherished brothers, for the sake of defending their desire for wealth, refuse to defend the more important desire for dignity. 

Hasta la próxima!
Trisha