Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 59 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Sherrill, Havana, Cuba The acrylic Coke bottles brazenly alternated with inverted Havana Club Rum bottles. It was only one of the paintings, drawings, and other works at the art fair near our hotel. Some of them were angry, some flirted with kitsch, some were skillful, but Sherrill and I were fascinated by all of it. A breeze drifting up from the river brought complicated musical threads from a band nearby.
Havana, 2003: an old city, a hot and humid city in which bare skin was in fashion, a city rich with art and music. We were there in a small group of eight with our friend Hala, who had arranged for us to visit in a special cultural program—an exception to the ban then on U.S. citizens going to Cuba. At the airport in Miami we'd been warned not to lose our letter of permission from the U.S. government or we'd each have to pay an eight thousand dollar fine. After an hour flight, we stepped down a rolling staircase to the Havana runway. As soon as we walked out of the airport we came face to face with a 1948 Studebaker, the model with the pointed jet airplane grill in front.
Havana, 2003: an old city, a hot and humid city in which bare skin was in fashion, a city rich with art and music. We were there in a small group of eight with our friend Hala, who had arranged for us to visit in a special cultural program—an exception to the ban then on U.S. citizens going to Cuba. At the airport in Miami we'd been warned not to lose our letter of permission from the U.S. government or we'd each have to pay an eight thousand dollar fine. After an hour flight, we stepped down a rolling staircase to the Havana runway. As soon as we walked out of the airport we came face to face with a 1948 Studebaker, the model with the pointed jet airplane grill in front.
Old Havana Sherrill and I strolled from the art fair to the Ambos Mundo hotel and its roof bar where Ernest Hemingway once hung out—navigating streams of people of all shapes and colors, most of them part of a couple, family group, or cluster of friends, fingers clasped, arms entwined, hands on shoulders, waists, hips. Crossing the Cathedral Plaza, we found ourselves absorbed into a crowd swaying and clapping hands to the beat of an Afro-Cuban band. A buxom black woman in a white ruffled, multi-layered costume danced with heavy-footed fervor, cigar wedged between gold teeth, dark hands pummeling the air, white-turbaned head moving in hypnotic patterns. Later, we learned that she was an incarnation of a Santeria priestess, a Cuban adaptation of a Yoruba West African ritual.
At the roof bar, we joined half-a-dozen Cubans at the end of a long table. Behind them, the white-shirted bartender had set up a row of tall glasses with sugar, mint, and lime juice waiting for the ice, soda water, and rum to make Mojitos. As we sipped our drinks, splintered bits of Havana's skyline vibrated around us in the fading light. We remembered the afternoon we walked past the crumbling mansions along the Malecon by the bay. Waves battered and splashed over the seawall with a sound like music. With a groan, a rusty wrought iron balcony separated from a house, falling to the pavement in front of us.
The next day, a drive to Revolutionary Square gave us views of a monument to the national hero Jose Marti and a giant portrait of Che Guevara on the side of a large building. Nearby, we saw a yellow sign with large black letters on a wall: "La Verdad sobre el BLOQUEO debe ser conocida." Somebody translated it for us: "The truth about the blockade must be known."
"Blockade?" I asked.
"It's what Cubans call the U.S. Embargo."
"And what is the truth?"
"It's also called 'genocide' here."
In a cafe where we stopped for lunch, an old man with a guitar appeared in the doorway as we ate a blockade "salad" of canned corn and canned peas. He was followed by a skinny youth shaking a pair of castanets, both of them singing. Their complicated salsa rhythms filled the air.
"Music," we were told, "is one way to survive."
The next day, a drive to Revolutionary Square gave us views of a monument to the national hero Jose Marti and a giant portrait of Che Guevara on the side of a large building. Nearby, we saw a yellow sign with large black letters on a wall: "La Verdad sobre el BLOQUEO debe ser conocida." Somebody translated it for us: "The truth about the blockade must be known."
"Blockade?" I asked.
"It's what Cubans call the U.S. Embargo."
"And what is the truth?"
"It's also called 'genocide' here."
In a cafe where we stopped for lunch, an old man with a guitar appeared in the doorway as we ate a blockade "salad" of canned corn and canned peas. He was followed by a skinny youth shaking a pair of castanets, both of them singing. Their complicated salsa rhythms filled the air.
"Music," we were told, "is one way to survive."
Callejon de Hammel, Havana Art, it seemed, was another way. We drove across town to a narrow two block-long street where the facades had been transformed with wild splashes of color, stylized faces like African masks, giant fighting cocks, abstract patterns. The alley was crowded with constructions made from scrap metal and pieces of decaying colonial buildings.
"Callejon de Hammel, a street of art, a celebration of Afro-Cuban culture. Most of it relates to Santeria."
"The cult?"
"More than that. A religion, a way of life. Mix primitive Christian beliefs with West African gods worshiped by sugar plantation slaves, add rum and cigar smoke. Result: Santeria. Drums and rhythmic movement send you into a trance so you can communicate with your ancestors and their gods."
In a gallery, we discovered images and figures representing Yoruba/Santeria gods.
"There is Oshun, the river goddess, Chango's favorite wife. Chango evolved from the Yoruba god of thunder. Oshun was the blood that created human life—also Our Lady of Charity. Two gods for the price of one, just as Chango also is St. Barbara, because they're both fond of hatchets. The Santeria gods have both African and Catholic identities. Gender is irrelevant."
All of this came together for us in a weathered colonial building in an old Havana neighborhood. In the once grand house, we sat on folding chairs to watch brightly costumed dancers. Chango led the way, followed by Eleggua, the teasing god, performed by a boyish young woman in motley costume, who pranced and leaped, sat on audience members' laps, snatched scarves or hats, then returned them to the wrong people, tossing back her head with silent laughter. Then female dancers in green, white, and red dresses pranced and whirled, seducing bare-chested men who arched over them with erotic abandon.
"Callejon de Hammel, a street of art, a celebration of Afro-Cuban culture. Most of it relates to Santeria."
"The cult?"
"More than that. A religion, a way of life. Mix primitive Christian beliefs with West African gods worshiped by sugar plantation slaves, add rum and cigar smoke. Result: Santeria. Drums and rhythmic movement send you into a trance so you can communicate with your ancestors and their gods."
In a gallery, we discovered images and figures representing Yoruba/Santeria gods.
"There is Oshun, the river goddess, Chango's favorite wife. Chango evolved from the Yoruba god of thunder. Oshun was the blood that created human life—also Our Lady of Charity. Two gods for the price of one, just as Chango also is St. Barbara, because they're both fond of hatchets. The Santeria gods have both African and Catholic identities. Gender is irrelevant."
All of this came together for us in a weathered colonial building in an old Havana neighborhood. In the once grand house, we sat on folding chairs to watch brightly costumed dancers. Chango led the way, followed by Eleggua, the teasing god, performed by a boyish young woman in motley costume, who pranced and leaped, sat on audience members' laps, snatched scarves or hats, then returned them to the wrong people, tossing back her head with silent laughter. Then female dancers in green, white, and red dresses pranced and whirled, seducing bare-chested men who arched over them with erotic abandon.
Havana balcony scene A startling range of emotions burst from the dancers: between men and women, between men and men, and between men and their masters. In one dance, both men and women wore clog-like sandals, dancing faster and faster. Then one group of barefoot men leaped forward, rebelling, swinging machete blades. The female dancers flapped their full skirts and stomped on the wood floor. The men tossed aside their blades, replacing them with flaming torches that they waved in all directions.
Leaving at the end of the show, Sherrill pointed up to an open window where a caramel-skinned girl not more than nine or ten in a white dress with a red bow in her black hair was swaying to the music pouring into the street. Then, looking across the street, we saw painted on a wall beneath an old apartment building the red letters: "VIVA FIDEL."
Leaving at the end of the show, Sherrill pointed up to an open window where a caramel-skinned girl not more than nine or ten in a white dress with a red bow in her black hair was swaying to the music pouring into the street. Then, looking across the street, we saw painted on a wall beneath an old apartment building the red letters: "VIVA FIDEL."
Sugar cane plantation, Cuba One memorable day, we drove from Havana to the Sierra del Rosario de la Biosfera, a protected ecological area, passing mango orchards and coffee and sugarcane plantations. The sugar economy transformed the little town of Remedios, which at one time boasted 72 sugar mills, into a showplace of colonial architecture, but when the sugar mills closed, the town was forgotten, caught in the spider web of the past. For three centuries, vast plantations produced sugar for external export. Although Cuba could have fed itself, most of its land was used for sugar. The United States was one guaranteed market.
Sherrill, sugar cane plantation Money flowed in and out of Cuba, eventually much of it through the Mafia, so very little of the money reached the people. After the dictator Batista was overthrown in 1959, an effort was made to end dependency on sugarcane, but the U.S. embargo drove Cuba to rely on exports to the Soviet Union and Eastern Block until they collapsed in 1989. Although smaller than it once was, when we were there the sugarcane industry still employed more than 300,000 people. On another day, we visited the remains of a once great sugar plantation, but Cuba, we were told, now was trying diversify its crops so it would be able to feed itself.
A visit to a village school gave us an idea of how the Cuban educational system worked. Education to age seventeen was free and compulsory through ninth grade. Advanced education also was available for free through graduate-level studies, as were vocational schools. The day was rounded out by visiting several artists' studios. We were especially impressed by the work of Lester Campa, whose brilliant paintings explored in subtle and evocative ways issues of ecology and the environment.
The infamous Hotel Nacional, built in 1930, became popular with Americans during the last years of Prohibition and during the gangster era after. Before long, it was the Havana headquarters of the Mafia. We were there one evening for a reunion concert of Cuban jazz greats, primarily from the "Buena Vista Social Club." The hotel walls were covered with photographs of celebrities who had stayed there, including movie stars like Errol Flynn and Frank Sinatra, politicians, and gangsters—including Mafia king Meyer Lansky. Most of the band members were in their twenties and thirties, but the old timers were in their seventies and eighties. As soon as they heard the applause as they came out, though, they seemed to swell up with new energy. Sherrill, who used to play the clarinet and saxophone in bands, was impressed with their skill and energy at their ages.
The infamous Hotel Nacional, built in 1930, became popular with Americans during the last years of Prohibition and during the gangster era after. Before long, it was the Havana headquarters of the Mafia. We were there one evening for a reunion concert of Cuban jazz greats, primarily from the "Buena Vista Social Club." The hotel walls were covered with photographs of celebrities who had stayed there, including movie stars like Errol Flynn and Frank Sinatra, politicians, and gangsters—including Mafia king Meyer Lansky. Most of the band members were in their twenties and thirties, but the old timers were in their seventies and eighties. As soon as they heard the applause as they came out, though, they seemed to swell up with new energy. Sherrill, who used to play the clarinet and saxophone in bands, was impressed with their skill and energy at their ages.
Hemingway's home, near Havana Sherrill and I took a taxi out to the suburbs on the other side of Havana one day to visit Ernest Hemingway's house, Finca Vigia (Lookout Farm). The cab driver waited while we explored the one-story 1887 house and grounds. Hemingway and his wife Martha Gelhorn bought the house in 1940. His widow Mary Welsh donated it to Cuba. In 1994, it was opened as a museum after restoration. We couldn't go inside, since it was full of Hemingway's own possessions, but we could see the rooms very well through open doors and windows. They were crowded with books, animal heads, and other memorabilia. From the top of a tower that Mary had built for Hemingway, we could look over the grounds.
That evening, in the dining room of our little hotel in the colonial town of Trinidad, a tall, lean man came over to our table.
"Are you Canadian?" he asked me. "I heard you speaking English."
Sherrill gave me her "you've been talking too loudly again" look, but he was just curious about where we were from and was astounded when I admitted that all eight of us were from the U.S. He and his wife, he said, were from Czechoslovakia. He was even more amazed when I told him that Sherrill and I had visited his country in 1988.
"But you're Americans!" he gasped. And the whole world knows, he implied, that Americans don't care about anyplace outside of their own little sphere.
Standing there, we talked for a while about travel and America and making friends in different countries. Before we left the dining room, he again vigorously pumped my hand.
"Are you Canadian?" he asked me. "I heard you speaking English."
Sherrill gave me her "you've been talking too loudly again" look, but he was just curious about where we were from and was astounded when I admitted that all eight of us were from the U.S. He and his wife, he said, were from Czechoslovakia. He was even more amazed when I told him that Sherrill and I had visited his country in 1988.
"But you're Americans!" he gasped. And the whole world knows, he implied, that Americans don't care about anyplace outside of their own little sphere.
Standing there, we talked for a while about travel and America and making friends in different countries. Before we left the dining room, he again vigorously pumped my hand.
Sherrill, banana orchard Driving around the back roads of Cuba, we saw many people with horse-drawn carts and wagons and using oxen for plowing. With the U.S. embargo and the collapse of the Soviet Union and subsequent fuel shortage, much of the rural area had returned to animal power. Sometimes, in provincial towns, we saw three-wheeled bicycle taxis—not for tourists, but for local people.
Sherrill's gift for making friends impressed everyone at the school for teachers of the arts in the town of Bayamo in southeastern Cuba. A junior college level boarding school, it prepared young people to teach dance, music, theater, and the plastic arts. The graduates were sent to where they were needed, so they could pay back the country for their free education. We visited several classes, then went into a performance room where we were treated to musical presentations.
Block party in Remedios old town During the show, Sherrill slipped out because she felt hot and claustrophobic. When I looked for her later, I found only a cluster of students around a bench—then realized that she was sitting on it. One of the art students, whose drawing she'd admired, had recognized her and given her the drawing. Then other students had joined them until thirty or forty surrounded her, a few able to speak English. A sixteen year-old theater arts student wanted to know if plays in America were more for message or entertainment, adding that theirs focused on message.
"Your wife is a very nice lady," one of the young people told me.
"Your wife is a very nice lady," one of the young people told me.
Sherrill & Bruce, Santiago de Cuba Santiago de Cuba—a beautiful elegant, run-down, hilly city on a bay at the eastern end of the island, Cuba's second city—reminded Sherrill and me of San Francisco. From the top level of the ancient El Morro fortress, we could see where the Spanish fleet was trapped during the Spanish-American War. We continued to the Rum Museum downtown and to the Bacardi Museum of History and Art, built by one of the founders of Bacardi Rum, although after the 1959 revolution the whole Bacardi clan fled. After dinner, I went for a walk along the hillside streets, among the once elegant old houses.
Central Plaza, Santiago de Cuba Ready for a drink after my walk, I went to the terrace bar of our Santiago hotel, ordered a Mojito and sat at a small table by the railing looking over the busy plaza—the same plaza where Che announced that Batista had fled. A pair of self-consciously hip Germans about thirty-five sat at the next table with two young Cuban women. After a while, I flagged the waitress and asked how much for the Mojito. She told me, but didn't take the money. When I turned back around, I saw that one of the German men had gone off, apparently, to the restroom and his girl was looking at me. I swiveled again trying to find the waitress. This time, when I turned back, the girl was sitting at my table, smiling hopefully at me. Maybe she thought I'd have more money than the younger German guy.
"Buenas Noches," I told her, picked up my money, and went to the bar to pay for my drink.
"Buenas Noches," I told her, picked up my money, and went to the bar to pay for my drink.
Affordable medical care is an issue in much of world, but some countries have taken steps toward solving the problem. Despite other issues, Cuba, we discovered, had gone a long way in that direction. In a Santiago neighborhood of crowded Soviet-style apartment blocks, we visited the Polyclinic San Marti, clinic that provided services for more than 56,000 citizens, ranging from emergency care to routine and long-term care. Most of the doctors here and across Cuba were women. The Polyclinic was part of Cuba's tiered approach to medical care, which started with family doctors within the communities and continued with polyclinics and then bigger hospitals, if necessary.
The U.S. embargo, however, had affected Cuba's ability to get and maintain medical equipment. Cuba's clinics and hospitals could buy equipment from Japan, Sweden, Australia, and other countries, but couldn't get replacement parts from the U.S. If a U.S. company bought a company in another country or even had a relationship with a company trading with Cuba, the Cuban medical facilities no longer could get machines or parts from them. As a result, Cuba focused on keeping the population healthy through prevention programs.
The U.S. embargo, however, had affected Cuba's ability to get and maintain medical equipment. Cuba's clinics and hospitals could buy equipment from Japan, Sweden, Australia, and other countries, but couldn't get replacement parts from the U.S. If a U.S. company bought a company in another country or even had a relationship with a company trading with Cuba, the Cuban medical facilities no longer could get machines or parts from them. As a result, Cuba focused on keeping the population healthy through prevention programs.
Che Guevara statue, Santa Clara, Cuba As we traveled across Cuba, we discovered that places important in the struggle to overthrow Batista's regime had been turned into pilgrimage sites. In Santiago, we visited the Moncada Barracks, site of a major battle during the revolution. Its walls still displayed holes from Batista's machine guns. The victory of Che Guevara's forces over Batista's army in the little city of Santa Clara had made it famous. A monument and tomb for Che and his companions drew people from all over the world.
Driving over the mountains to Baracoa in the northeast of the island, near where Columbus landed in 1492, we were delayed by a procession marching in honor of the National Day of Mourning. Many of the several hundred people carried flowers, but in a cemetery around a bend in the road, more people waited with flowers for those who didn't have any. Musicians in a bandstand were playing to welcome them. This day of memories seemed to be a day of profound emotion.
National Day of Mourning, Cuba
Toward the end of the trip, when Sherrill and I were back in Havana, we encountered dramatic, sometimes startling, examples of the emotions felt by Cubans and other third world peoples when they looked at their collective histories—at the huge 2003 Bienal art show held in the historic El Morro fort across the bay from old Havana, with installations from all over Latin America and the third world.
Political Art, 2003 Bienal exhibition, Havana, Cuba Most of the installations were meant to be disturbing and, by and large, succeeded. One chamber, installed by Nicaragua, was filled with hundreds of dummies piled as if they were corpses. In another room, continuously playing television sets showed videos of wartime violence and another displayed photographs of mutilated bodies along with piles of prosthetic body parts. In one large room, another parade of television sets played segments of Spanish language soap operas as examples of the subjection of women in Latin America. Up near the ramparts, a shiny red Chevrolet from the 1950s was supported by at least forty black ankles and feet instead of wheels—a powerful political and economic statement. And, in one of the smaller buildings, we found an exhibition about Che Guevara, probably the most interesting exhibit in the fort, although not part of the Bienal.
On our flight from Havana to Miami I read an article in the Continental Airlines magazine on "profitable," "desirable" customers and "non-profitable," "undesirable" customers, and how to attract the former and ditch the latter—a jarring concept after everything we'd heard, seen, and experienced in Cuba. In Miami, as we rode in our cab to our hotel, we were startled by the commercial billboards everywhere—selling products, not ideas.
To be continued....
To be continued....
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