Category Archives: Americans in cuba

The Not-So-Slow Leak

Almost 18 years living here and to some things I cannot adapt. The Farmer Hanky. Public zit popping. The heat. Other things I’ve been forced into accepting and conceding. The tedious bureaucracy. The piropos. And the leave-takings.

Emigration is complicated. It’s never easy and often terribly trying. Painful. Dangerous even. Different people handle it differently – and I refer to the emigrants and those they leave behind. Regardless of the promises and desire, intentions and proclamations, we are left behind. It just happens. Emails start arriving less frequently or cease altogether. Phone calls, rare in the best of times, become a once or twice annual surprise – around New Year’s usually or Mother’s Day. Valentine’s Day maybe, depending on the person and your relationship. Even with new technologies (for us) like roaming data and WhatsApp, communication drops off after a few months. It’s as if Cuba and the emigrant are Velcro – together they compose a strong, useful bond, something capable of changing the world. Separate them and you’re left with something senseless, not living up to its potential.

Emigration plays powerfully and violently with identity – it can shred it, dilute it, confuse it, strengthen it (temporarily anyway: distance in space and time, plus acculturation and adaptation to a new country and culture, erodes an emigrant’s grip on their homeland and grasp of its evolution). This is one of the reasons Cuban artists, regardless of genre, lose relevance if they continue creating island/revolution-themed works without returning periodically to recharge and reboot with “Cubaness.” I’m an immigrant and often wonder ‘what am I?!’ as I commit social faux pas in New York – sitting too close, inviting more people into an almost-full elevator, making casual conversation with strangers and eye contact with passersby. Stateside, I catch raised eyebrows as I kiss people hello and goodbye at parties and functions. I suppose similar awkward moments beset Cubans living off-island.

As for keeping friendships whole and strengthening them across miles and years, I’ve worked very hard (‘not hard enough!’ I hear some clamoring) to not leave my people behind – or be left behind. It’s a two-way street after all. I write letters infrequently, but postcards when I can and make phone calls when I can afford it. I run around visiting people when I’m in the States, just like Cubans do when they return. There’s never enough time and someone is always left unvisited and upset.

For my first 15 or so years here, only a few people I love left. But now, my friends and family are slowly leaking out.

“I have a dentist appointment tomorrow and the gynecologist the day after. I have to get it all done now, you know.”

“Caballeros…”

“I’m going to wipe old peoples’ asses, spoon-feed them pablum – anything, I don’t care.”

Jenry. Alejandro. Carla. Jose. Eduardo. Ray. Frances. Daisy. Julio.

A dancer, a dentist, a writer, an actor, two filmmakers, a bartender, a pianist, a photographer.

The slow leak is now a deluge.

Some are tired. All are broke. Some are gay or trans and suffer for it. All have professional ambitions beyond what they can achieve on a blockaded island.

Some are leaving with their small children. Just as I get close to the little ones, just as they let me in, they’re leaving. That’s the shittiest part of emigration, I think. Choices are made, decisions are taken, in which the kids have no say. And BAM! They’re gone. It’s like an ice cream brain freeze on my heart. Kids are adaptable and I know they’ll do all right wherever they land, but I do miss the little buggers and lament that such weighty change is thrust upon them without their consent or consult.

How Cubans leave varies. Some marry foreigners. Others overstay tourist visas. A few never return from work contracts abroad. There are those who claim political asylum (some valid, some not). Some take advantage of family reunification programs. This is a resourceful, creative people, emigrants and otherwise. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ is an axiom particularly Cuban.

Mexico City. Miami. Moscow. Stockholm. Berlin. Quito. Buenos Aires. Munich. Merida. Brussels.

My friends are strewn around the world. They’re marrying and having children. Letting their queer flag fly. Landing great jobs, studying for second careers, and buying property (both Here and There, wherever ‘There’ may be). They’re converting dreams into reality.

So why do I feel this ache in my heart? I know the moment I land in any of these cities (except Miami; I avoid that cesspool at all costs. Sorry Carla, Max, Leo, Yanelys, Yarelis, Yoanna), I will find home, hearth and hugs with my people. I’ll meet their spouses and children. They’ll take me to see their office/screening/exhibit. We’ll laugh and catch up. Most of them will be friends for life. Despite the distance and day-to-day disconnect.

Is this heartache I feel because I still don’t fit in here, even after so long, and know they’re going through the same? Or is it because I choose to stay here when I don’t have to? This is a question I’ve fielded from curious Cubans for decades and I’ve recently started asking it myself (and I’m not alone in this – a trio of long-term resident foreigner friends are considering leaving and another has already left). Is it because they’re changing without me? Or because I’m changing without them? Is it because I have a few, fierce friends and I feel our bond and intimacy slipping away? Maybe it’s because I feel robbed of the energy, time and affection I’ve spent strengthening friendships and then pfft! Like that, they’re gone (but not gone)?

I can’t pinpoint the source and reason for the heartache but it’s making me skittish – like a cat in the dog pound. There’s definitely a fear factor involved. ‘Who’s next?’ is constantly at the back of my mind and bottom of my heart. Jenny’s had a lot of doctors appointments lately and Delio just had his eyes checked and new glasses made (one thing all future emigrants do is complete checkups and medical, including dental, care before leaving – Cuba’s free universal health coverage is something they ain’t gonna find abroad and they know it). Roxana asked if we had a spare suitcase and Raul wants to know how much the paperwork costs to marry a foreigner.

Some people deal with their impending departure by saying nothing, others throw bon voyage parties. I can understand both approaches but the former makes me sad and a little mad sometimes. Sure, if the exit is illegal, you’re not going to broadcast it, but a couple of very near and dear friends just disappeared and I didn’t know they had emigrated until they sent me an email from allá. As if I’m not discreet. As if I can’t keep a secret. It feels like when very good friends don’t come out of the closet to me. If you think I’m capable of outing someone or shaming them for their sexual orientation you don’t know me at all.

Who’s next? I shudder to think. I’m anxious about the next departure, the next person to join the drain. I fear it’s going to be someone I just truly do not want to live without. I’ve survived these types of leave-takings fairly unscathed (one as recently as last month), but a couple of them – Berlin, Stockholm – still leave a stone in my gut and furrow my brow. It hasn’t changed my behavior – I’m still supportive of their (difficult) decision and offer any help I can – within reason, within the letter of the law. I wish them success. Genuinely and respectfully, with my heart behind it.

But damn it hurts. I’ve provided succor and a shoulder to several people left behind who are facing life here without their nearest and dearest – sons and daughters, lovers and husbands. I fear I’ll be needing succor and a shoulder next. But those I typically lean on in these situations are fewer and fewer by the year.

Indeed: as my close friend Miguel and I shared coffee the other day during one of his weekend passes, he told me he can’t take it anymore and he’ll be leaving as soon as he’s able. I’m ashamed to say my first thought was ‘at least we’ll still have some time together.’ Miguel has two years remaining on his sentence and can’t leave during parole. I don’t know how long he’ll be with us after being sprung, but the selfish part of me knows it won’t be long enough.

Any immigrant reading this: call someone you love on the island today. Write them an email. Pen a letter. We miss you and love you and wish you were here (the selfish part of us anyway).

UPDATE: Since crafting the first draft of this post a couple of weeks ago, I’ve learned that another very close friend will soon be leaving. Cue more heartache.

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Filed under Americans in cuba, bureacracy, Communications, Cuban customs, Cuban idiosyncracies, Cuban Revolution, Expat life

Travel to Cuba, Trump Style

I’ve got some shit to get off my chest so best buckle up. Pour a stiff one, bust out the vape or tuck in with a nice, hot chai – whatever helps you chill and focus.

A lot has been written about Trump’s “new” regulations regarding “legal” travel to Cuba for US citizens and residents. The long and short of it? ALL of you can still come to Cuba. Please share this link; together we might be able to cut through the scare tactics and “alternative facts” floating about. Unfortunately, the scare tactics work, no matter that – I repeat – ALL of you can still come to Cuba.

And while for many of you this may be an abstract policy affecting a faraway land, for us, it’s human suffering on a national scale. It’s small businesses, once thriving, now shuttered. It’s families going hungry(ier). It’s hopes and horizons dashed. It’s exposure to new ideas (on both sides) now censored.

Some people are still coming to Cuba, but often, it ain’t pretty. What follows are all recent experiences we’ve had at Cuba Libro:

The “Influencers”: You know who you are. Perhaps you don’t know what you are, so I’m here to “bell the cat” as we say. Vapid. Banal. Opportunistic. You’ve heard about Cuba Libro on the news; you’ve seen our scene on social media; you’ve verified that we’re among the top 5 things to do on TripAdvisor; and you realize we’re one of the most authentic, chill places in town. So you come in, talk to no one, rebuff our friendly staff and snap some photos. You exit. You’ve experienced nothing. You’ve contributed nothing (your influence isn’t quite what you’ve been led to believe). You’ve missed the point – of Cuba Libro specifically and Cuba in general. Uncool.

The Cheapskates: We see it every day. You lounge in our garden, reading, drawing, meeting new people, petting Toby. You’ve pumped us for useful information – where to eat, where to dance, how to connect, how to get around. You’ve enjoyed the best/cheapest cortadito in town, while swinging in a hammock with the dulcet tones of Billie Holiday or the deep grooves of Cimafunk as soundtrack. After a couple of hours, you request the check, are charged 90 cents and pay with 1 CUC (or a 20 bill – happens all the time. We’re not a bank people.) That 10 cents change? It goes right into your pocket. As one of our veteran barristas observed: Do they think Tip is a town in China? Also uncool.

The Insulters: You are cousins to The Cheapskates, but take it to a new level. Witness a Certain US Tourist from Last Week: she rolled up in a classic car and nary looked askance at our friendly server’s offer of a menu (in this case, me).

‘I have my driver waiting,’ she said with a wave of her hand. Instead of relaxing with a refreshment, she asked if we sold ‘knick knacks.’

I explained that our strength is coffee and literature, but I showed her the pins made by a local artist that we have for sale. Something you can’t find anywhere else and made with creativity and care. I told her the price for each pin – $3CUC. She looked them over. She hemmed. She hawed.

‘We have some others in the office. I can get them if you like.’ I offered her a seat and spread out the other pins. She looked them over. Some had become rusted and spotted, victims of our oppressive humidity.

‘If you like one of those, I can sell them to you at cost – $2CUC. This is what we pay the artist.’

She fingered several. She hemmed. She hawed. ‘I like these,’ she said, indicating two. ‘Can’t you sell them to me cheaper?’

‘?!?!?!?!’

‘I’m sorry but $2CUC is what they cost us.’

She left in a huff.

The Abhorrent/Entitled: She strode in, butt cheeks peeking out from her too-short denim shorts and made a beeline for the living room couch.

‘How many CUC should I get for US dollars?’ she asked in rapid-fire Stateside English.

The four young Cubans enjoying their coffee exchanged glances during the ensuing awkward silence.

‘Eh, ah….’ one said, no one with sufficient English to answer.

I turned from shelving books to help out, quoting the official USD-CUC rate.

‘Oh! You speak English! Where can we get beef here? Or chicken? It’s all pork, pork, pork.’

I directed LaTonya (my pseudonym for this fauna) to the fried chicken joint around the corner. She thanked me but not before asking me about ‘that alley where there’s all kind of art and religion and stuff;’ this is Latonya’s second trip to Cuba to ‘buy cheap art and sell it for a lot of money in Amerika.’

Before heading off for some pollo chifla’o and Callejón de Hamel, she decided to sit in our little copse at the entrance – ‘the jungle’ in Cuba Libro parlance – to have a cool something to drink. I asked Alfredo to give her a menu and resumed my conversation with Maria Teresa at the dining room table. After a beat or three, Alfredo walks in, throws the menus down in front of us and declares: ‘I’m not serving her. Sorry, but that’s just disgusting!’

‘?!?!?!?!’

Maria Teresa and I give him the ‘WTF happened?’ look.

‘That girl just hawked up a ball of phlegm, leaned over and spit it at the entrance to the café. Not in the bushes or a plant – she’s only surrounded by them! – but right where people walk in. Not once, but twice. Who DOES that? I’m not serving people like that.’

‘All right. I’ll handle it. Not to worry.’

‘You’re so Zen right now!’ Maria Teresa, who knows me well, observed.

‘Yeah. I don’t know what’s come over me today.’ In reality, what was I going to do? To clean up that public health threat, I had to bust out the bucket and broom and swab down the entire entrance, right where she was sitting. I’d do it once she left.

Maria Teresa and I continued our conversation while Charlie whipped up LaTonya’s frappuccino. I served the drink and returned to the table. Talking to Maria Teresa about our next special event (Cafe Trivia Thursdays, she’s the Coordinator), I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye.

It’s LaTonya exiting the bathroom and cutting through the kitchen where Charlie is preparing another frappuccino.

If you’ve never been to Cuba Libro, let me explain that the kitchen shortcut is a) totally verboten – do you waltz into kitchens in other establishments? and b) really uncomfortable since there’s only room for two people (or three, if you’re like us, like family) in the very narrow NYC-style galley kitchen. But this lacra walks right in, grabs a cup off the drying rack, jams her hand into the bag of ice Charlie is manipulating to make the next order and grabs a fistful of ice. This is a person, you’ll recall, who has no compunction about spitting balls of phlegm inside a business and right in the path of patrons – AND has just exited the bathroom. We’re guessing she’s not a meticulous post-piss hand washer…He immediately threw out that bag of ice.

More ‘WTF?!’ looks go ‘round, this time with Charlie joining in.

Before finally departing, LaTonya shattered the frappuccino glass (accidents happen, but hell, girl) and paid for her beverage in US quarters – totally useless here since they can’t be changed in banks. And just our luck! She’s staying right up the block. Fortunately, on subsequent visits, she took her drinks to go. We were more than happy to oblige.
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Let me be clear that not all visitors are like these –we recently hosted an amazing quintet from Dallas (thanks for the donations and the tip, Randy and crew!); a family from Oregon in the care of Soltura Travel; some kindly queer folk from Canada; and more. And we need people coming to Cuba, no doubt about it. I commend those that do.

But to all the Influencers, Insulters, Cheapskates, and Abhorrent/Entitled travelers out there, here’s some advice for when you come to Cuba/Cuba Libro:

– Treat people you meet with respect;
– Experiential travel is much richer and more rewarding than its voyeuristic counterpart;
– When you’re hosted at someone’s home or business, treat it as you would your own; and
– Tip your servers, damnit! We don’t live on air and good humor alone.

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Filed under Americans in cuba, Cuban economy, dream destinations, Expat life, Living Abroad, Travel to Cuba

Twisters & Twinks: Mobile Data Mobilizes Cuba

Confession time. I’m something of a Luddite. If you know me, you know I was one of the last to relinquish my flip phone. I still rely on a pocket digital camera to document my frequent adventures and I’ve only connected once – unsuccessfully – at a Wifi park. I’ve never, ever, read an E-book and, all my writing, including this post, is crafted old school style – with pen and paper.

In short, I’m an analog kind of gal. Except when it comes to earning my living and putting frijol en el plato as we say here. And one thing greatly handicapping me, which regularly prevents me from landing paid gigs, is my lousy internet connection. If I had a nickel for every assignment I’ve lost because I couldn’t upload a PDF, download writing guidelines or respond quickly enough to an editor’s inquiry, I could take a sabbatical, write my memoir and make some real money. So when it became possible to access mobile data here, I jumped at the chance – no more missed pitch deadlines! No more blind pitching! No more $2/minute phone calls to Mom; now it’d be pennies a piece with WhatsApp!

It took me three phone “upgrades” and several sit downs with my tech savior Ivan before I was finally able to get data (thank God Ivan came along; since our buddy and IT guru Miguel landed in jail, we’ve been even more technologically challenged than usual). Heady, I sprang for the second-most expensive package – 1GB of data for $10CUC, good for a month. No longer would editors assign pieces to those quicker with the reply. Gone were the days where I’d pitch without reading recent issues. I could even keep the Cuba Libro website current! Well, maybe. But Instagram! Yes!

Since December, anyone with the proper device and money (or Yuma sugar Mama/Papa providing said tools), jumped on the bandwagon. Including my husband – the man who doesn’t have email, had never been on the internet and with whom I rack up $200 phone bills when I travel off island (money much better spent on rent.) Finally! An alternative. I’ll never forget our first video chat – he beaming smiles from his sister’s porch in Playa, Toby at his side, me laughing out loud as my sister and I squeezed into the frame from the music-filled streets of Memphis.

Suddenly, a video chat with Granny from your living room or crystal clear, cheap phone calls to your jevito in Toronto, are possible. Of course, the rest of the Internet is also accessible but even with the infinite cultural, comic, educational, and edifying benefits of the World Wide Web just a click away, I know countless Cubans who don’t access it. No, many folks here prefer All Facebook, All the Time. Untold throngs, including my husband, are addicted, considering Facebook the end-all-be-all in connectivity.

Unfortunately, Cubans’ “pliable privacy” and wholesale lack of discretion combine with the steep digital learning curve to create a whole lot of FB bullshit and mini scandals. Tagging people in compromising situations (ie stinking drunk, pegando tarro, in salacious postures not meant for posterity); taking private messages public; and revealing racist, homophobic and misogynistic tendencies – it’s all happening on the ‘Facebu.’ Plus chain mail madness and phishing expeditions, por dios! All of this is mere annoyance. What really gets my panties in a twist is the proliferation of fake news. Cubans on the whole are savvy at parsing propaganda, reading between the lines and filling in the blanks – in traditional media and milieu. But the format and minute-by-minute nature of social media causes them to lose all sense and sensibility. When you throw angry exiles and recent immigrants seething with enmity and rancor into the mix, it makes for a toxic combination. I know: I’ve been on the receiving end of these bellicose keyboard cowboys.

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For those rushed readers or those with a short attention span (tsk, tsk), here’s a quick rundown of the good, bad and questionable developments since we’ve had this in-your-pocket internet access

The Good:

 The Bad:

  • Bootie calls are now accompanied by live video – should your would-be fuck buddy need some live-action enticement. You’ll live to regret it m’ijo. Sexting is one thing; providing explicit images is quite another.
  • Sexual harassment of the sort now rampant in other parts of the world is now happening in Cuba, with bosses sending nude photos to underlings demanding employment perks and promotions in exchange for sexual favors (in the specific case to which I’m privy, the boss is a woman).

The Debatable:

  • Recent food scarcity has driven Cubans to apply their enviable pragmatism to the digital realm, starting the WhatsApp group known as Donde Hay. Launched a couple of weeks ago, users upload photos of food and goods with the price, length of line to buy said products (we’re just shaking free of two hour – or longer – lines to get chicken) and at which store they’re being sold. People dissimulating and trying to send the thousands of users to different stores with their “fake” food sightings are booted off the group. I call this a debatable development because while I admire the practicality, my little old lady neighbors and favorite grandmas, can’t take advantage of this. So while they’re tottering over to their local mercadito, Donde Hay users (many of whom are private restaurant owners, no doubt) are already picking those shelves clean.

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We’ve had nearly five months of mobile data now, making it a good time to drill down and look at how this is manifesting. Most importantly, my husband no longer has to be cajoled to ‘get off the Facebu’ to make our morning coffee (I walk Toby, he brews the espresso – le toca mango bajito, eh?). Beyond our four walls, the impact of mobile data really hit home when the tornado struck Havana on January 27th. The government responded immediately and concerned citizens followed suit, taking to social media to organize relief efforts. Cars and trucks laden with clothes and shoes, potable water, non-perishable food and hygiene products started rolling into Regla, Guanabacoa and 10 de Octubre. Throngs of young people stuffed backpacks and bags full of donations, hefting them into the hardest-hit areas.

If you’re reading this and have post-disaster relief experience (either on the giving or receiving end), you can guess what ensued: chaos and confusion. In Cuba, recovery and relief is designed, implemented and coordinated by the government’s civil defense arm. International aid is requested, received, and distributed by them and only them. It has always been this way – until now. In short, the overwhelmingly quick, coordinated response by civil society, private individuals and business people – almost all of it through social media – was neither anticipated nor accounted for.

In the first days, the videos, photos and interviews depicting the confusion and trauma flooded the Internet and shot around the world. The Cuban diaspora weighed in, worried about their families. Criticisms flew. Trucks of relief, organized by reggueton stars and symphonic orchestras, rolled into damaged areas and were turned back. And social media documented it all; for the first time, those Cubans with the means followed the drama on their phones and devices.

It’s hard to get out ahead of a story – especially with Twitter, Instagram, WhatsApp and Facebook newly in the mix. With my personal post-disaster relief experience, in Cuba and elsewhere, and Cuba Libro’s years of targeted donation programming, we got involved quickly. We provided a sorting and packaging site for donations, teamed up with volunteers and drivers and participated in deliveries with CENESEX and others. We acted as an information clearing house and sent donors to other distribution sites including the Fabrica de Arte, Historian’s Office and Jesus de Monte Church.

We also calmed critics. Many people with big hearts and time on their hands, couldn’t understand the problem presented by appearing amidst crowds of traumatized, desperate people, including children and elders, with loads of donations. But this approach is rife with problems. Who was the most in need? Who had already received donations? Who was truly a tornado victim and who was just posing as such for personal gain? What happens if (ie when), strong, young men elbow their way to donation trucks, pushing past grandmothers and mothers with babes in arms?

We talked to people, explaining certain realities and complexities. For instance, in the first week, there were entire neighborhoods which hadn’t received donations – one reason why coordination is key – plus we outlined ethical relief and donation programs. One of the young, (socially-media coordinated) organizers convened volunteers for a meeting prior to a donation delivery, during which he explained the fatigue they would encounter among the victims, their possible hostility towards interview requests, the ethics of photographing the scene, and the importance of following all instructions and orientations of the coordinating authorities. In the end, Cuba Libro sent out over a dozen large donations, almost all of them using social media.

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More recently, we’ve had the IDAHO kerfuffle, still simmering on the Internet. The short version goes like this: after 11 years of active, enthusiastic celebrations here on and around May 17 (International Day Against Homo- Trans and Biphobia), the “Conga,” an all-inclusive diversity parade and one of the highlights of the event, was unexpectedly cancelled. The cancellation was announced via an official note by the coordinating organization, CENESEX (published on Facebook, natch). I’ve been involved in anti-homophobia efforts for decades and many, like me, were stunned and confused, not to mention pissed. Enter social media, that efficient organizing tool, but also the bastion of passive bitching, vapid dissent and hollow valor. Cue the organizing of an “unofficial” parade in a different part of Havana and with different agendas not limited to LGBTIQ rights. CENESEX reacted with another official note, which only served to muddy the waters and fuel the extrapolatory fire. Mariela Castro, Director of CENESEX and other activists took to the national airways to explain further…

The unofficial parade – convened for one of the most touristed part of the city, with a healthy international press presence – was set for the same Saturday as the cancelled Conga. Not surprisingly, the shit hit the fan. I was working a special event at Cuba Libro that day so couldn’t participate, and regular readers know I don’t write about “bola”, ‘run run’ or any other fourth, fifth, or sixth hand accounts. Cuban friends where there, however, and texted us as things unfolded. After allowing the march to proceed along the Prado, the Rainbow Army (oops, bad word choice), was told by the police they could not continue along the Malecon for reasons of traffic and safety. Some pushed through and onward nonetheless and that’s when a handful of folks were hauled off. I don’t know how long they were detained (some of the arresting officers were plain clothed cops), but at least one of them – a known provocateur red flagged by the government for previous bouts of civil disobedience unrelated to queer issues, was released shortly thereafter.

 

Beyond this, I cannot say what happened or what ensued but I’m entirely confident in reporting that some people participated precisely to cause a ruckus and that the parade was infiltrated by folks not fond of – or in direct opposition – to the government; folks who previously had not participated in related LGBTQI events. I can also say that the whole clusterf*ck went viral on the Internet, with digital jockies on and off island putting in their two cents. Like everything in Cuba and social media, this will blow over but the fact remains that LGBTQI Cubans do not enjoy the same rights as their straight or CIS gender counterparts and what was it that Marti said? “Rights are to be taken, not requested; seized, not begged for.”

 

 

In a general sense, mobile data has Cuba looking and reacting more like the “real world” with flamers, viral fake news, out-of-context photos, and acrimonious finger pointing wherever you click. From an anthropological view, it’s fascinating to have a ringside seat for this digital learning curve and spectacle. In practical terms, this access and its effects mirror what happens in other latitudes: the potential for knowledge and horizon broadening of digital access is incalculable but unfortunately, it more often results in the spread of hate and disinformation. It divides rather than unites. And once again, Cuba finds itself in deep, troubled waters. Someone send me a life raft, please!!

 

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Filed under Americans in cuba, Cuban customs, Cuban idiosyncracies, Expat life, Living Abroad, Uncategorized

Periodo Especial: The Sequel?!

I don’t know how the Special Period felt coming on, but I do know how it manifested once in full swing. Transport was so scarce and overcrowded, passengers lunged from bus windows at their stop or simply rode on the roof, hung from the door frame or clung to the back bumper.

Each and every day, the entire island was plunged into darkness; blackouts were so long and common, Cubans, plumbing their deep well of ironic optimism, began referring to ‘light ups,’ those times when there actually was electricity. So few and far between were those electrified hours, neighborhood block parties were held in the street, around a bonfire with a jug of rum (or more often moonshine known as ‘chispa‘e tren/baja tus bloomers’).

Toilet paper was non-existent – we used water or more often, pages ripped from the Granma newspaper. In many homes, squares the size of real TP were cut from the paper and stacked neatly atop the toilet tank. I wasn’t too put off by this. As a life-long camper, I’ve wiped my butt with all manner of material. Nevertheless, I do remember my shock at seeing Che’s face, shit-stained and crumpled, staring up at me from the bathroom wastebasket. It seemed blasphemous then but practical and normal thereafter – in dire/adverse circumstances, you do what you gotta do to survive.

And Cubans did.

They pedaled the 1 million Chinese bikes imported as transport of last resort. They fried “steaks” from grapefruit rinds, they fanned infants for hours with a piece of cardboard during stagnant summer nights. They lost weight, some suffering a neuropathy epidemic for lack of nutritious food. They rigged up kerosene burners for cooking and fashioned homemade matches. They struggled and suffered, finding solace in family, days swimming at El Espigon and nights stretching out on the Malecon. They danced, sang and fucked. They persevered and survived…

Flash forward to 2019. We’re in a different historical moment, a different context than the one I experienced in 1993, but the effects of the Special Period linger, if you know where to look. Not wanting their kids to ever go hungry like they did, parents indulge appetites to the point where child obesity and overweight are current health problems. Bicycles and cycling are stigmatized, reminding people too viscerally of those hard times. Today, hoarding happens and some still prefer newspaper to toilet paper.

The cleverness of Cubans and their deep stores of creativity and inventiveness honed during the Special Period are constantly on display. You see it in the 70-year old Harley-Davidsons zooming down the road, parts hand-hewn in cluttered, greasy garages across the island. You see it in the Russian washing machines cannibalized to make lawn mowers, blenders and coconut shredders. You see it in the burgeoning upcycle movement where the experience of struggle is translated into décor and dollars.

But no one, I mean no one wants to go through that again. And I highly doubt as many Cubans who tolerated it then would now – at least not in Havana. Make no mistake: Cuba learned its lesson from the implosion of the Soviet bloc, which sent the dependent island economy into a tailspin. It diversified, it liberalized, and it looked for and forged alternatives. But we’re seeing signs, folks. We’re not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. And it’s worrying.

Indeed, the most violent factor was – and is – beyond Cuban control: the nearly 60-year old US embargo cripples all economic and social development in one way or another. And last week the Trump Administration announced it’s considering enacting Title III of the Helms-Burton Act. I’ll leave a full explanation to the economists and wonks, but the important point is: as in 1996, during the deepest days of the Special Period, Jesse Helms and Dan Burton pounced on Cuba’s vulnerability and pushed this Act through Congress “to seek international sanctions against the Castro government in Cuba, to plan for support of a transition government leading to a democratically elected government in Cuba, and for other purposes.” Sensing that same vulnerability like a lioness stalking the weakest of the pack, Marco Rubio is exacting his quid pro quo with Donald Trump via Cuba and Title III.

It’s abominable how this administration is destroying lives at home and abroad. It’s no less shameful how supposed political detractors enable this cabal. Please, anyone in a policy/decision-making position reading this: do the world (and yourselves) a favor and grow some balls/ovaries; history will judge you and you will NOT be absolved.

Unfortunately, I doubt anyone reading this is making US policy. I also doubt that many people reading this realize just how vulnerable right now feels. Major trading partners and allies including Venezuela and Brazil are on the ropes. Trump rhetoric is scaring away investors and tourists. The embargo is still in place and we’ve suffered Hurricane Irma, Sub Tropical Storm Alberto, a devastating plane crash and a tornado, all in the past 18 months.

And we’re feeling it.

There was a massive flour shortage and though we are once again enjoying flour and pizza, there is neither milk (terrible for Cuba Libro) nor eggs. These latter were dubbed salvavidas in the Special Period days because eggs are a cheap, easy-to-prepare source of protein. They were, and are, ‘lifesavers.’ In the past three months, I’ve eaten a total of half a dozen eggs; it used to be a daily (or even twice a day) affair. Monthly egg rations have been cut in half to five per person, per month and when they do appear in stores, customers are limited to two cartons of 36 eggs each. But this is Cuba…

This week, my friend Camilo got word that eggs were being sold at the Plaza de Marianao. He made the trek across town and took his place in the long line. He watched people carting away 6, 7, 10 or more cartons of eggs. The stack for sale behind the crumbling counter shrank. He surmised the egg sellers were paid off to ignore the two-carton rule. The sun beat down, the stack shrank, Camilo was sweating from the heat and attendant low-level panic. Would the eggs hold out until his turn came around? He had waited in line already for two hours. The stack shrank. He asked one of the customers pulling a dolly away with over 400 eggs if he would sell a carton?

‘!Hombre no! This is for my private cafeteria. I need every last one.’

The eggs ran out and Camilo left empty handed. Mad and desperate, he went to a cafeteria near his house to order two egg sandwiches, hold the bread, hold the oil, hold the making of it. When he discovered that same sandwich which used to cost 35 cents, now costs 75, he slumped home egg-less. Today we’re scrambling to procure eggs for Jenny’s grandmother who, ailing and frail, has been prescribed a special diet by her doctor, including two eggs a day. So far we’ve been unsuccessful.

Then there’s the cooking oil situation. Shortages nationwide mean customers are only allowed two bottles per person. To procure those two precious bottles, you have to travel to the store that has it (lucky you if it’s actually in your neighborhood) and spend hours on line under a blistering sun just like my egg-less friend Camilo. As a result, many people I know spent this past weekend rendering chicken and pork fat so they won’t get caught (too) short.

Shortages of flour, eggs, oil – this post was simmering in my overworked brain for a bit but didn’t come to fruition until last night when the smell of gasoline permeated my living room. I emerged from the egg-less, flour-less kitchen (we don’t fry much and our current bottle of oil is a month old and still half-full) to see what was up. Twenty liters of premium gas now sits in a tank in said living room because people see the writing on the wall: gas hoarding has officially begun.

Blackouts are happening too – not as long or as often as I experienced in 1993, but worrisome still. And the economy overall is showing signs of serious distress. Last year the national economy grew a meager 1% and projections for this year are similar.

We may not be headed for a Second Special Period, but things feel tense as we plod through this year, Havana’s 500th anniversary.

Happy Birthday, ciudad querida. I hope smoother sailing awaits.

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Filed under Americans in cuba, cuban cooking, Cuban economy, Cuban Revolution, Expat life, Living Abroad, Travel to Cuba

Cuba Libro – In Peril?

I’ve always had an inkling, but now I know up close and personally why people shun and malign journalists. This new knowledge is particularly ironic given the fact that I’ve been a full-time, accredited journalist here in my adopted home for more than 15 years. I would say my recent experience was also particularly instructive if it hadn’t been so damaging – I have to douse smoldering fires before I can fully learn the lesson provided by recent events.
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One Cuba Libro phenomenon (among many!) which taxes our team and especially me personally, is the random, drop-in journalist. Normally, these are foreign correspondents, some with exceptional, deep experience around the world, in war zones even, who come to me in a panic, behind schedule, deadline looming, fairly pleading with me to provide story ideas, contacts, leads and the like. More often than not, they don’t speak Spanish, further complicating matters. Always they underestimate the difficulties of reporting from Cuba. They may or may not have the proper visa. These types of unexpected visitors spike when there’s a major news story like Fidel’s illness/death; a papal visit; or constitutional referendums (happening right now, as I write this).

A flood of such reporters descended upon us when the normalization process with the US was announced in December 2014, followed by the Obama visit a few months later. To the drop-ins must be added the phone calls, emails and Facebook messages I receive requesting contacts and/or interviews with me. It saps too much time and energy truth be told.
To handle this efficiently and with a modicum of aplomb, I’ve developed filters and a triage system for these folks. The ones without journalist visas make it easy – I don’t talk to them. They’re breaking local laws. Those with an axe to grind also don’t make the cut (I’m still quite old school, believing in objectivity, accuracy and the Fourth Estate when it comes to reporting. How antiquated, right?), nor those who haven’t properly prepared. That leaves those who have the authorization, a clear idea of their angle, and the maturity and organization/preparation to warrant my help. Sounds haughty, I know, but I’ve clocked a decade and a half of in-the-trenches experience – I’m not giving that away free to just anyone.

Then there are the Cuban journalists…

The filters still apply to them but I must admit I have a soft spot for the young cub reporters with bright ideas and insatiable drive. Everyone needs a hand when starting out and unless they’re really off the rails or egregiously misrepresenting reality (including by omission), I will sit down and talk to them.

Which brings me to the subject of this post.

It wasn’t the first interview I granted to El Toque. Staffed by young Cuban journalists, this is a locally-produced, non-state news site. It has its flaws. And it’s on a learning curve. A steep one. But when they approached me to talk about Cuba Libro’s green initiatives for a series on the environment they were publishing, I was game. Encouraged even – Cuba has made strides in environmental protection since I moved here, though I see egregious digressions every day still. If you’ve been here, you’ve seen them too. So I sat down with fulana (Cuban for Jane Doe – I honestly don’t know her name) and gave her an overview of our policies and practices promoting environmental protection.

I never saw the resulting article. Along with thousands of Cubans, my internet connection is via 28.8 dial up. I don’t have the time (or inclination) to spend an hour accessing everything written about me, my writing, or Cuba Libro.

My bad.

When fulana crossed our threshold last month requesting an interview about the new regulations for private business here, I acceded. I spent an hour talking to her about how we’ll comply and how it’s likely to affect our business model.
This time I didn’t need to tax my paltry dial-up looking for the article.

The Cuba Libros Literary Café [sic] (at least its essence) will disappear on December 7, 2018, when a “series” of new regulations for private business owners come into effect.”

This was the lede, mind you. The piece, published in Spanish, picked up by other outlets and translated into English, went viral. I was bombarded by messages, Facebook queries, phone calls and walk-ins lamenting our closure.

The “journalist” (yes, the quotes are necessary) or editors cut everything I said about long, official meetings to figure out how to remain true and legal to our mission. She cut the explanation about exploring alternatives with the Ministry of Culture and related entities to keep offering superior coffee and English-language literature – what Cuba Libro has been doing since 2013. She failed to mention our community-building and robust, free cultural programming and how we intended to not just maintain it, but grow it. Nor did she include our donation programs, our free condom initiative (17,000+ given away to date), or our ethically- and socially-responsible philosophy which includes profit sharing and collective decision making. She did, however, include a damning quote from a supposed regular who opined that without books, Cuba Libro would be just another generic cafe. No one who works at or frequents the cafe recognized the guy quoted and calling him a regular? Puhlease: all our regulars know about our social mission because they are participants – joining us on our periodic volunteer days, taking advantage of our free English classes, spontaneously planting trees and donating plants as part of our environmental stewardship, or receiving donations of pre-natal vitamins, menstrual cups or cold and flu medicine.

It was impossible for me to contain the damage while the article was posted and re-posted across the World Wide Web in both languages. My internet is too slow, my real work too pressing. Nevertheless, little by little I responded to emails questioning the impending closure of Cuba Libro. Again, I employed triage, posting a response on the most trafficked websites. I clarified the situation on our Facebook page. But weeks on, we’re still experiencing the adverse effects. Our book donations have slowed to a trickle. A customer came in the other day and in a disrespectful manner not uncommon to men (mostly) of a certain age from the developed north, ranted at me, asking me offensive, invasive questions about the economics of Cuba Libro, about why we were closing, about my origins, about my personal life.

“Are you a LESBIAN?!” he fairly shouted, standing so close I could see his nose hair needed a good trimming.
“Are you bi-polar?!” I should have responded, but didn’t, instead opting to hold my tongue.

He interrupted the documentary being filmed in the living room, ignoring our whispered requests to maintain his distance. He was so insistent and disruptive that the person being interviewed had to shoo him away. He got on my last nerve, that guy.

But apparently, there was more in store. At 6pm, on my birthday, mind you, a call came in with a 305 area code. Florida. My biological father (or as my friend Peter says of his: The Sperm Donor) lives in that hell state. It crossed my mind that it might be him, but unlikely – I can’t remember the last time he recognized my birthday. But no, it was worse: a journalist from Radio Martí wanting comments about the new private enterprise regulations. Where did she get my cell phone number I wonder? Fucking El Toque, probably. I wished her a good day and hung up.

In case there remains any doubt: Cuba Libro is neither closing nor getting rid of our wonderful books. See you there one day soon.

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Filed under Americans in cuba, bureacracy, Communications, Cuban economy, Cuban idiosyncracies, Cuban Revolution, Expat life, Living Abroad, Travel to Cuba

Inside a Cuban Prison: Part IV

It’s dark, a bit damp, the birds aren’t awake or even singing, let alone my neighbors. I rush to make coffee and walk Toby before the horizon lightens over Vedado way. It’s 5am – too early for me, except on May Day when I shuffle to the Plaza de la Revolución with 500,000 or so others in the pre-dawn calm. But today isn’t May 1st. Today I’m returning to the Combinado to visit Miguel.

I’ve been to Havana’s biggest prison several times with Miguel’s wife Esther, but today is different: today, we’re taking their 7-year old nephew. It will be the first glimpse the kid gets of his uncle since he was put behind bars over a year and a half ago.
Today is different too because it isn’t February 12, 2014, but it feels like it. That was the day my sister was moved from the ICU to the “step down” unit. A happy, relief of a day, when she could sense release from the oppressive whoosh of machines keeping people alive, the perfunctory and invasive rounds by strange doctors and students, the tests and needle jabs and jabbering nurses. She could smell freedom but couldn’t have it – not yet. Today feels similar because after 18 months in prison, Miguel has been transferred to his own step down unit, Area Zero or el campamento, as it’s known in Cuban prison-speak.

Two days after his 34th birthday he got word. He was bullied into quickly gathering his personal effects – other convicts immediately called dibs on anything left behind, snatching at them. Suddenly, Miguel couldn’t find his flip flops or lighter, undershirts or extra pens. ‘Hurry up man! You’re going home!’ As if drinking parasite-infested water in minimum security, bent double hacking grass with a machete, torpid day after torpid day held any semblance of home. But it was closer than the hard timers would ever get and besides, the more Miguel rushed, the more he was likely to forget, which would be divvied up faster than you can say ‘life sentence.’

When he called with his ‘step down’ news, we immediately began to see flashes of the old Miguel – a discernible familiarity we’d been missing. He had much more phone time for starters, and was as loquacious as ever, talking to everyone at Cuba Libro for such long periods he would ask us to hold on while he greeted prisoner friends walking by. Now, we were the ones who said we had to go rather than in his maximum security days when he’d hang up with a brusque, heavy click followed by a hollow silence. In classic Miguel style, he was also complaining: the sun was brutal; he had open, nearly oozing sores on his machete hand; and other prisoners got five day passes – he was only due to get three, sometime in November. Coño mi hermano, we said: three whole days on the outside, sleeping in his own bed, in his wife’s arms, pissing in a bathroom with a door. It was like talking to the Miguel we knew and loved, defects and all.
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So here I am on visiting day, up before dawn making coffee for me and Miguel and walking Toby. I dress appropriately (no shorts or tank tops) and head to Esther’s house to pick her up, 7-year old Junior in tow. He’s got ants in his pants, anxious to see Miguel. He’s chipper, flashing his gap-toothed smile at the sleepy adults. It’s the same long drive to the verdant outskirts of the jail, followed by two hours waiting while they check our IDs and go through the sack of sardines, hot dogs, crackers, puffed wheat and more, item by item.

“The campamento is different, mi amor,” the guard says to Esther. “You don’t need all this food and really: you should be eating it yourself.” Esther is still woefully thin – her hip bones push sharply through her dress and as a fellow flaca, I know how grating these well-intended comments from strangers can be.

“You also shouldn’t bring it in the huge rice sack. It’s almost a kilometer to the visiting area.”

Esther looks at me and I know we’ll be sweating and flushed once they herd us onto the blazing hot road, the heavy sack sagging between us. Junior is jittery and asks us when we’re going to see Miguel as we wait in the last holding area before the long walk. There are more kids than on visiting days for the max unit, several babies in arms and a couple of very pregnant women. I assume their bulging bellies are the product of the monthly conjugal visits granted well- behaved prisoners. One mother nurses, another changes a diaper, her infant son cradled on her lap and many people chuff on filterless cigarettes. I offer my seat to an elderly woman here with multiple sons – the genetic lineage is so clear, I’m sure I’ll recognize their prisoner when we enter the visiting area. Suddenly there’s movement and everyone is crowding around the single door leading to the outside, wondering why they don’t open both.

‘TIC,’ I think. ‘This is Cuba,’ where things are often harder than they need be.

After a few hundred meters under the ferocious sun, it’s obvious we can’t carry the sack, the other big bag packed with lunch for the four of us, our purses and hold Junior’s hand all at the same time. To our relief, a stalwart visitor with a wrestler’s physique offers to carry the sack. He hefts it on his shoulder, we wipe our brows and Junior wants to know if we’re almost there. We’re not…
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Junior is doing the too-hot, too-tired two step as we approach a pavilion with a roof, crowded with prisoners lingering outside in street clothes hugging their loved ones, cuddling their babies and squinting against the sun to see if their people are making their way towards the anticipated union. And there’s Miguel, just like the old days on the outside; he’s wearing brick red Bermuda shorts, a white t-shirt and grey Vans. The only difference (besides the mental/spiritual one; more on that later) is both his head and face are shaved close – gone is his ass-length mane and goatee. Miguel was the first Havana hipster, sporting a man bun and facial hair before it was all the rage, before he was busted.

We hug fiercely (I always give Esther first dibs, of course) and Junior is wearing that blank look of non-recognition – the same face I wore when I first saw Miguel behind bars.

“It’s me Junior! It’s me!”

The kid looked up at him like, ‘you can’t fool me cowboy. You aren’t Miguel.’

But after a few more words of cariño and a full-on laugh that was unmistakably Miguel, Junior’s face lit up with that million dollar gap-toothed smile.

The street clothes make an incredible difference –here is the Miguel we know and love! I don’t know who that other guy was I visited repeatedly in his prison greys, but I was glad to be sitting across from my old friend again. As Esther dished out congrís and fried pork steaks, I took in the scene. The pavilion was open on two sides, the palm trees and some pines providing green relief and I could see straight into the prisoners’ dormitory – two long lines of bunk beds, two tiers tall. Towels and flip flops, shirts and shorts are draped and strewn about; it reminded me of summer camp. There are no guards here, only prisoners serving as guards and they too, are in street clothes. In the campamento visiting area, men and women are allowed to sit next to each other, caressing, gently cavorting. I catch more than one couple out from the corner of my eye making out, the prisoners slipping hands under skirts.

We dig into our lunch with plastic forks (another bonus of Area Zero: prisoners are allowed real cutlery, something we didn’t know that until this visit) while Miguel catches us up. He has more friends from the outside, here in the campamento – three who are serving a year sentence for having a joint. While the bathroom has a door, it’s always propped open. The food is the same (ie: shitty) but there’s more of it thanks to the prisoners here working in the kitchen. Medical care is still sporadic and getting medicines to prisoners not systematized.

Miguel is on grounds detail, meaning he wields a machete a few hours a day, beaten tired by the sun and exertion. He’s a machete virgin and has never done manual labor before. He shows us a quarter-sized patch of raw skin between his thumb and forefinger. Despite the large straw hat we’d given him the week before, he is now the technical definition of a redneck, with freckles splashed across his cheeks. He complains about the beastly sun after having been deprived of it for a year and a half. He’s upbeat and laughing, hugging and cuddling and kissing Esther and I revel being in their aura of love. More than once I avert my gaze and am ashamed to admit I didn’t leave the table and take a stroll outside; I’m sure they would have appreciated the semblance of privacy. Prison etiquette isn’t my strong suit, but I’m learning.

I do a double take at the elderly prisoner trailing a three-month old puppy doing that adorable trot-cum-dance they do. Street clothes; metal utensils; a bathroom door; a puppy – semblances of real, outside life. It was intoxicating.

It was also exhausting. At one point Miguel says: ‘let’s slow the roll on this conversation. All the information overwhelms me a little.’ It’s true we’ve covered a lot of ground – details of the penal and sentencing systems; proposed constitutional reforms; and plans for his first weekend pass in November. I change the subject.

“Hey! Let me see your tattoo!”

When Esther told me he got his body inked for the first time, I fairly gasped. It wasn’t so much the design that worried me – prison tats can be decent and besides, we know several kick ass ink artists who could resolve any bad tattoo. What worried me were the health and hygiene implications. I especially wanted to know what they used for ink. It wasn’t pretty: Miguel’s tattoo (and many others happening right now, as I type this) was done with the melted plastic handles of blue disposable razors, the plastic burnt to liquid onto a piece of paper, scraped up and mixed to the right consistency with I don’t remember what; I stopped listening at ‘melted plastic.’ He raises his arm, palm up to show me his inner bicep. It was surprisingly well-lettered, spaced and placed. I stare at it a beat longer than normal.

“Is it right?”

YOU HAVE ONLY ONE LIFE TO LIVE. DON’T LET THEM BREACK YOU.

I loved the message, but the writer in me cringed. Or as my friend Peter says: it made my eyes bleed.

My gift to Miguel on his weekend pass? A trip to Zenit Tattoo.

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Filed under Americans in cuba, Cuban customs, Cuban idiosyncracies, Expat life, Living Abroad, off-the-beaten track, Uncategorized

Hogs & Dogs: Extreme Camping in Cuba

Our summer vacation plans were simple and cheap: strap the camping gear onto the 1946 Harley-Davidson and plunge deep into the mountains of Pinar del Río, getting as far from hot, hectic Havana as we could without a visa. We were broke and stressed; our souls needed to sigh a bit among the pines and pure air.

 

This sounds nuts, I know. Who in their right mind vacations where there is no plumbing and more livestock than people? To boot, our transportation is a 72-year old motorcycle held together by string (literally; more on that later) and we’d be camping in a place where, incidentally, camping isn’t a thing. Add to this the general state of Cuban roads, the crippling August heat, and dearth of gas stations, stores, and food, and you begin to understand why the whole idea had family and friends from near and far expressing concern for our sanity.

lastunasbaches

But this wasn’t our first rodeo. Last summer we traveled nearly 2000 kilometers between Havana and Granma on that same Harley as research fodder for my new book. Yet this was something altogether different.

first rodeo

This time we were considering taking the dog.

 

Our decision wasn’t snap or capricious; we’d deliberated and debated – conversations which left me more comfortable with the idea of canine accompaniment but not entirely convinced. And being the youngest of four from a poor household (i.e. too self-centered than my station or accomplishments warrant), I wondered: how does bringing Toby benefit me? Unless I sold the story to The Sun or New Yorker, it seemed like a lot of work for negligible reward…

 

The evidence base, if you can call it that, was slim and partial for how Toby might comport himself on our odyssey. We’d spent a sublime weekend camping at seaside Canasí where he romped in the woods, lounged by the campfire swollen with tinned meat, and ran, tail between legs, from the surf. And there was no question the little guy loves to ride: every day, paws on the handlebars, ass pressing against José as we bank turns, we commute to Cuba Libro on the Harley. But what we were proposing wasn’t just a weekend within striking distance of the capital or a five-minute jaunt between home and work. This longer, more remote trip promised to be more intense. Way more intense.

commuting

The idea was a week-long back country camping trip covering over 600 kilometers through the mountains of Pinar del Río, towing a trailer with our gear and Toby in his cage. Never mind that Toby, a dog rescued from Havana’s mean streets, had never before been in a cage.

 

Both José and I have extensive riding and camping experience – he more of the former, me better-versed in the latter – but as a team we were motivated and adept. In short, we had the chops to make it happen, dog and all. Toby? I wasn’t at all sure how he’d react.

 

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For those not familiar with Cuba, let me explain why this plan sparked a second round of concerned emails, which now expressed fears for our sanity and Toby’s safety. First of all, there are no Harley-Davidson dealerships or parts sellers in Cuba. Should we break down in the middle of nowhere – if a cable or gear shaft or belt should go – we were on our own. Luckily, my pilot José is a crackerjack machinist, electrician, and inventor (it doesn’t hurt that he’s also easy on the eyes!) Plus, the Harley is made from real steel that can take a beating. Second, in Havana, you can’t just pop into a Petco for a doggie cage or AutoZone for a trailer. All this had to be built from scratch and scrap – on a limited budget. These weren’t hurdles we could throw money at. Complicating matters is the fact that there is nowhere to officially camp on the island – we’d have to be tremendously resourceful and somewhat careful to find practical, pleasant places to camp (last year we pitched camp too close to the naval base in Guantánamo). And one more detail troubled me: dog food isn’t sold in Cuba. We were used to cooking for him daily at home, but on the road? It’s not like we had a camp stove or anything.

chariot

The one-wheel trailer, hitch and cage were designed and built by José using salvaged wood and wire, supplemented by re-purposed refrigerator racks and dorm room crates dating back decades to my NYU days. The cage door was held in place with a bungie cord – release the cord and the door swung open. The cage (or “chariot” as my friend Chris prefers to call it), sat atop a suitcase containing our camping, cooking and snorkeling gear, plus our clothing, food and my reading/writing materials. The suitcase nestled perfectly in the trailer’s bed and elevated Toby and chariot above the exhaust pipe. Even with all this killer design and forethought, I wasn’t at all sure how Toby would handle it. José told me not to worry. Like that ever works.

 

Once everything was strapped down and secured, we placed Tobito gently in his cage. He was more enthusiastic hitched to the Harley than when we tested it in the living room. So enthusiastic, in fact, he started barking as soon as we hooked the bungie cord into place and didn’t stop until we unhooked the door (every couple of hours once we were on the road). It was 600 kilometers of non-stop, on-the-road barking – maddening for us, but he was a happy camper. He wagged his tail wildly, caught the wind of the open road upon his face, and sniffed eagerly at the goats, cows, and pines as we passed. He often had an erection. By the time we got home, he was hoarse from so much barking and we were aurally traumatized. But he was a trooper and a champ, never messing his cage, protecting our camp at night and hopping gleefully in and out of his chariot by trip’s end.

toby in LR

tobyin chariot w LR

 

We’d pre-cooked five days of meals for Toby, freezing it and storing it in a little Styrofoam cube. It kept well for four days and the last meal we fed to an emaciated country dog who devoured the almost-turned liver and rice. Once the precooked meals ran out, we fed him hot dogs and canned meat balls cooked over the campfire.

 

When we caught bad weather (repeatedly), we would quickly pull over and bivouac under sheets of plastic. Together with trailer, Harley, chariot, and gear, Toby, José and I would huddle under a plastic teepee and prepare our little cafetera to enjoy some sweet, hot, dark espresso as we waited for the skies to clear. We had no camp stove, but lo and behold! At our first rest stop, José whipped out a ‘revelberro’ – a one-burner wonder made of two steel pieces: the base which gets filled with luz brillante and the burner, which is placed on top. In Cuba, you learn something new every day and though I’ve camped the length and the breadth of the island – from Granma to Guanahacabibes, above and below waterfalls, on the beach and in the bush – I had never seen one of these nifty units before. It’s not only great for camping, but also blackouts, hurricanes or when you forget to pay your gas bill. Note to self: see if José’s sister will sell me her revelberro. Toby didn’t partake of the rich and delicious café Cubano, but we granted him tent access during thunderstorms and rain. Hot dogs and meatballs, tent privileges and unparalleled adventure: this is one lucky doggie.

 

We crawled out of the tent after one of these summer storms broke and found a horse grazing under a double rainbow. On the far west coast, when the clouds shipped out after a nighttime tempest over Guanahacabibes National Park, we wished on shooting stars. We shared crack-of-dawn coffee facing the caves from where Che commanded troops during the Bay of Pigs with the site’s historians one day and sipped the best espresso (served in little coconut shell cups) with a campesino family in their dirt floor home the next.

tobes rainbow

No cell phone service, no showers or tour buses or air conditioning: camping in Cuba is not for the fastidious or faint of heart. The lazy or timid also need not apply. But if you’re looking for a unique adventure – natural, cultural, logistical – consider this alternative. Even if you don’t have a car or bicycle (or Harley!), a similar trip to ours is possible. Parts of it you won’t want to replicate, like when one of the seat springs (about the size of a small peach), busted in two on a remote road cleaving between mountains. Suddenly I was leaning dramatically to starboard. José cut the motor and set to bending and re-threading the spring to make it shorter, but strong, reinforcing it with several lengths of twine.

 

If you’re game for this type of trip, it helps if you speak Spanish and can build a decent cooking fire, but with gumption, a phrase book, and healthy stash of protein nuggets and nuts, you can camp here way off the grid and without leaving a trace. If you’ve dreamt of this kind of vacation, you may find these tips helpful, honed over 15 years of camping on the island:

 

  • For reasons related to Cuba’s wonky supply chain and environmental stewardship, do not depend on bottled water. Pack a filter or purification tablets to ward off thirst and protect your gut flora. Cuban pharmacies and almost every home also stock hipoclorito de sodio; add two drops to every liter for potable water.

 

  • Food can be an issue in Cuba (now there’s an understatement!). Even if you’re on the fanciest organized tour, you will probably go hungry at some point in your trip. Bringing packaged soups, pastas, and dehydrated meals from home, supplemented by vacuum packed tuna, Spam, and the like, is a great strategy. Also, high-protein, lightweight anything (beef jerky, Clif bars, trail mix) will be a life saver at some point. You can round this out with peanuts and other on-the-ground snacks; our little sack of chicharrones kept all three of us happy during our recent odyssey. Fruits and veggies can be procured en route, but availability and variety depend largely on the season. Fresh pork is sold everywhere – looked for ‘ahumado’, smoked cuts, which keep beautifully. Eggs are also widely available; keeping them from cracking is the tricky bit, but an experienced camper/packer will figure it out. Hard boiling them for a roadside picnic is another option. Canned goods are sold in tiendas; those at gas stations, like the one where we stocked up in Sandino, can be gold mines.

 

  • Mountain regions and (some) beach areas are the best bets for finding practical, beautiful places to camp. For mountains and valleys, I suggest: the Escambray, Sierra de los Órganos (Pinar del Río), Valle de Yumurí (Matanzas), Sierra de Cristal (Holguín) and the region around Baracoa (excluding Parque Nacional Alejandro de Humboldt, which is off-limits to casual campers). For beach camping, good opportunities abound in Guanahacabibes and the adjacent coast of Pinar del Río, Playa Larga (Matanzas), the beaches between Cienfuegos and Trinidad, the Las Tunas coast and beaches around Yumurí (access from Baracoa). Canasí is ever popular and there will likely be Cubans camping there when you turn up.

 

  • If you can’t find an appropriate camping spot, try one of the scores of ‘campismos’ around the country. Technically these are not for tent camping and only a handful rent the concrete cabins to foreigners, but with a bit of conversation and cash, you’ll likely be able to convince administrators to let you pitch your tent. These are always located in beautiful settings, from mountain to sea, along rivers and tucked into valleys.

 

  • Cuba is, overall, quite safe. Locals tend to be more curious and protective of campers than any sort of threat and they’ll surely want to chat you up, which is part and parcel of the charm of this sort of trip. Offering a slug of coffee or swill of rum to people happening upon your camp will result in lively conversation, unsolicited advice and maybe even new friendships!

 

  • Pack biodegradable toilet paper. Be sure to pee and poop off the beaten trail and bury the latter, please!

 

no-trace-before.jpg

Guanahacabibes campsite in full swing

No Trace Camping

Guanahacabibes campsite, 12 hours later upon leaving

  • Burn all paper garbage, bury the biodegradable, and pack out the rest. At several points during our most recent trip we cruised the mountain roads with a plastic bag filled with tin cans tied to the motorcycle seat. While this elicited strange looks from passersby and the cans rattled annoyingly, disposing of them properly in the first available garbage provided great satisfaction.

 

  • The May-October rainy season is hot, sticky, buggy and wet. Usually these are afternoon thundershowers, but we’ve been rudely awakened at 3am by water dropping on us through the mesh tent roof. If you break camp early and move on to your next destination, setting up before the thunderclouds roll in, you can beat the worst of it – most of the time. Ponchos are an important tool at this time of year. Not only will they keep you dry, you can use them to cover campfire wood so you’re not eating raw and cold once the clouds move out.

 

 

I wasn’t sure about taking Toby at the outset and even mid-trip, when José declared he’d go camping with Toby again in a heartbeat, I wavered. But once I saw Toby leaping into his chariot with a mini-erection somewhere around Valle de San Juan, barking like mad, I was already planning our next adventure to Pan de Guajaibón.

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