Havana (Oct. 11, 2006) -- "Did you expect it to be like Cleveland?" is my usual response when I hear someone discussing how different they found a place to be.
Of course, I've found myself saying that phrase to myself at a steady clip since I arrived here Friday night.
Like the word 'grope' and 'conundrum,' the word 'squalor' seems to encompass and describe exactly what it defines. Havana, but not the people, brings the word squalor to mind. The streets are pock-marked with potholes and the oppressive heat magnifies all the smells that are created when people with little money live so close together in a hot city.
But while they might not have nice homes or much room in which to live, the people of Havana are happiest I've ever encountered. And they dress remarkably well considering they make about $20 on average a month.
The main source of their happiness is the music and it is everywhere. As is dancing. And I'm not talking about a stereo blasting out of a cafe or a car, I'm talking three and four piece bands playing in the restaurants and in the street. The music they play with precision and energy is strictly Cuban. There is little American pop music to be heard. The main band you hear is the Buena Vista Social Club, the equivalent of The Beatles for Cuban people.
At first, when I was walking around the city, everyone seemed tired and some were even sleeping on the job. I didn't know what to make of this at first, but after attending a huge dance party last night at a mansion called Case de la Amistad, I'm pretty sure that everyone is exhausted from dancing the night away. The way these people dance is insane. Next to baseball,
it's the national sport.
I've found the people to be friendly so far. The usual response when I tell them I'm American is a set of raised eyebrows followed by them repeating the name with a mix of surprise and maybe some envy and then a story about how they have a cousin or a dad or a friend in some large American town. Then they ask where Kentucky is and I tell them it's near Chicago.
They seem a little fuzzy on where Chicago is. The lack of jokes or comments about Kentucky Fried Chicken has been a welcome, while also a telling, absence since the heavy blanket of globalization has passed this island by.
The streets are loud and crowded. And there really are '56 Chevy's everywhere, by the way. No idea how they keep those things running. The other modes of transportation are horse drawn carriages, bikes, weird scooter taxis that look like giant football helmets and buses they call camellos because they have two humps along with 300 people crammed inside.
You also see some modern cars, but not very many.
All right. Sorry for the long, rambling email. I'm at a loss to describe such a strange place. Since the Internet is hard to come by, I'll try to send some pictures when I get back to Paris. Now it's off to the beach before a siesta and then another night of mojitos, Cristal beer and lots of loud music.
Take care,
Brett
