Paris (Oct. 22, 2006) -- Just a shy of a week after returning from Havana, I've yet to formulate any coherent opinion or succinct idea about everything I saw and felt in Cuba.
To say that the country is a complex place where little is what it seems is an understatement to an egregious degree.
One of the most fitting peculiarities of Havana was that the social and psychological center of the city for people of all ages was the northern most edge of town, a wide boulevard with a equally wide sidewalk called the Malecon.
Not so much during the day, but very much so at night, this sidewalk bordering the water that in turn separates Florida from Cuba is packed from sundown to dawn with canoodling couples, groups of singing and dancing teens, vendors and just people out for an evening stroll in order to avoid the stifling heat compressed in the maze that is central and old Havana.
As if to sum up much of the political and sociological situation, there was one late afternoon when the heat was beginning to fade, a young black guy sitting on the edge of the Malecon, his feet hanging over edge, his back to the city, playing a jazz horn in the
direction of the watery horizon.
Another symbolic feature of the Malecon is the Hotel Nacional. A grand hotel with a large garden, several bars, expansive lobby and a nightly cabaret show, the building is a point of pride for many Cubans, even though none are allowed thought the doors unless they work there. The hotel's gardens sit on a steep hill so that guests can sit with cold drinks and look at the
Malecon, the sea and the light house at the mouth of the Havana harbor.
The one feature out of all this grandeur that struck me was a huge water fall that drained down the hill from the edge of the hotel's grounds and into a pool of water level with the sidewalk. It was common to see Habaneros sitting on the edge of the gathering pool at
the bottom of the waterfall.
Any way to avoid the heat in Havana is the rule of the day. But it wasn't difficult to interpret that waterfall and the gathering pool as a physical incarnation of foreign money and cash drawn by sun and luxury draining off a ritzy hotel to people who get a ration book each month that restricts how many eggs they get.
Also on the Malecon sits the American Interests building. It's easy to spot because there's a dense collection of flag poles -- Cuban when I arrived and black flags with silver stars when I left -- erected in front of the offices, blocking any view of the city or the sea for the Americans who might have the terrible job of working in Cuba in any official capacity (I doubt they leave the office much).
The flags were put up after the Americans decided to broadcast anti-Castro messages on a bright-red scrolling digital ticker with ten-foot high letters from one of the top floors. Given how many people gather on the Malecon at night, this would have been
an effective strategy.
But after the scrolling started, the flags went up, blocking the messages. This all happened a few years back.
More recently, billboards depicting George W. Bush with blood dripping from his mouth and another equating him with Hitler have been added. As one Cuban
said to me about the childish tit-for-tat games, "There should be more respect. They can disagree, but at least they should respect each other."
As my trip came to close, I grew increasingly uncomfortable with my economic situation in the hotel compared with the general population. Each morning at the hotel, there would be an obscene buffet put out for guests that would have impressed the most ambitious cruise ship director. After a few mornings of this, I was embarrassed by my affiliation with such
economic disparity.
As if to drive the point home, a young kid -- maybe 13 with no shirt, no shoes and dirty pants -- walked up to a window nearby where I was eating and cupped his hands around his eyes to get a glance at the feast through the window. A waitress came over and knocked quickly on the window in a manner that clearly meant go away. He did.
Having lost my appetite, I went up to the rooftop pool area to snap a few last pictures of Havana. Down on the street I spotted the same shirtless kid, only this time he was being followed by a gray-shirted police officer who was clearly telling him to go back to the central part of the city.
The kid was heading in the direction where the police man was pointing. He was just about 15 feet behind the young kid following him. Then the police officer suddenly shuffled his feet quickly in that way you do when you want someone who is not looking behind them to think that you've started running after them.
The kid dropped into a sprint and was around the corner. Satisfied, the officer turned and retook his position on the corner, guarding the breakfast buffet from onlookers.
So I guess expecting much different from a poverty-stricken police state is and was naive.
But much like being warned that just a few minutes in the sun will result in a sun burn, some things are surprising even with a prior word of warning.
It was a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.
Take care,
Brett
