US in Cuba
Vol.1, Issue 1 (Summer '13)
Hasta Pronta Cuba
Our last day in Cuba, we left our hotel and view of the water bordering the popular Malecon and were transported by a taxista driving a restored Lada, a Russian-made vehicle to gather in Havana Vieja for a farewell luncheon at the government owned, La Imprenta, on Calle Mercaderes, around the corner from the historic Plaza de Armas we had visited earlier in the week.
From the dust and heat of the cobblestone streets under construction, we passed through heavy, oversized open doors to find a beautiful interior. In addition to our group of students and faculty member, Dr. Marouan, we were joined by Nestor, a well-known Cuban photographer and his wife, Julia, Tomas and Henry, our incredible cultural guides, Roberto, a student from the University of Havana studying political science, and José, our ninety-six year old rhumba teacher, who danced beautifully, as he would would break into song in the middle of a conversation. He is a famed Afro-Cuban drummer and was part of the Conjunto Folklorico Nacional, the national folkloric troupe based in Havana. The former space of La Habanera printing press, the restored open air restaurant and bar showcased high ceilings with wooden beams, heavy tables and furnishings featuring typographical motifs, and a central courtyard.
As was the case throughout the trip, we laughed and easily chattered about our comings and goings. Called upon to each reflect and share with the group something we had learned or would take away, I pondered why we struggled a bit to find the words. I am convinced it is because what we took away did not easily fit into the tidiness of closing remarks. It was far in excess of this. It was far beyond the mojitos or crispy plantains. Although a part, it exceeded the beauty of the impressive architectural facades, or tropical beaches. Beyond the teeming vendors, the bright colors, or Caribbean breezes, rumbas, or salsas. Beyond the curious locals asking “Where you from?” or debating the next win of the beloved baseball team the Industriales. More than the blue and white of the gown of Yamaya or the honey of Oshun. Or colonial imprints, socialist histories, or new market fractures. We had embraced, experienced, and become, a part of the complexity of border crossing, fusion mestizaje that is Cuba.
On the way to the airport, I was able to capture some of the images of the many billboards with political messaging clearly marking the unique landscape of Cuba. Later, we found ourselves delayed and spending the night in the Havana airport, our flight to Miami delayed. While sitting among the group of waiting local passengers following the latest scandal of the wildly popular running telenovela, a ramped up night version of what we know as soap operas, I realized I had oddly become temporarily accustomed to having no cell phone or internet service. We passed the time reflecting on the customs, traditions, and histories of Cuba, and our own unique experiences. Sipping our Maltas, which we collectively agreed had the familiarity of sweet raisin bran, or gulping our pineapple, lime, or orange flavored Ciego Monterro refrescos, national colas, we contemplated our visit and re-entry to the US. We had developed a different understanding of ourselves and Cuba, and each other. Gaby provided her only blanket for Maha and Jenna to use. My purse became a pillow for Vanessa. Kenny, having no blanket, resourcefully wrapped his legs in a shirt. At one point in the early morning, Dot started to spontaneously rhumba. A few of us began to encourage her, and moments later, across the enclosed waiting area, the extended crowd began to clap and cheer. Some people woke from their naps across the waiting area to find Dot, Kiara, Jenna, and a local woman beginning a dancing train, the security personnel looking on. If I learned nothing else, in Cuba I learned to expect the unexpected.