Category Archives: Living Abroad

August 31, 2023 · 1:50 pm

“Sanctions Produce Heartbreak”

Hello from Havana, where regular people can’t afford rice or sugar or eggs, gas lines are half-a-work-day long (“lucky” for us – in the provinces they’re three-workdays long, piggy-backing on eight-hour blackouts), and real-feel temperatures are breaking records regularly. Three summers running, we’re still on the brink.

You don’t need me to tell you things are bad all over – inflation, war, sedition, scarcity, an intractable climate catastrophe, plus powerful cadres who want to keep us misinformed, consuming and fearful, less we wake up to stand up. But the global malaise is one thing. The longest, strongest US sanctions are something altogether. The two together? Cuba, Summer, 2023.

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Imagine you live in a gated or rural community with a single road in and out. One day, you decide to make changes to your property, implementing a new landscape design, including lawn art. Your closest neighbor does not approve. They are, in fact, quite horrified at what you’ve chosen to do. Although you’ve lived side-by-side for decades, they raise a ruckus. Rather than invite you over for coffee and a conversation, said neighbor goes to the mat, blocking the one-way-in, one-way-out road, holding you captive, demanding you remove those endemic plants and hideous (to them) kinetic sculptures.

By this time, they’ve got their panties in a full twist and enlist other neighbors, threatening to shut off their means of entry and egress unless—and until—they fall in line. They, of course, accede – sooner or later, often against their principles. Roadside signs begin popping up: ‘Only lawns!’ and ‘No yard art!’ are popular. People stop sharing food and gossip and laughter with you. Social feeds from the next community over add fuel to the fire: ‘It’s your property! No one can tell you what to do with it!’ is a common sentiment. ‘They are punishing you for your plant preference? Are we still living in the Land of the Free?!’ opines Farmer Marj. ‘Down with lawn art!’ counters a Karen. ‘Not in our backyard!’ someone seconds.  

They dig in. You dig in.

Sounds outlandish, exaggerated, absurd.

And yet, in this metaphor, Cuba is that neighbor – all endemic plants and funky sculptures. And the United States does not like the looks of it. Since 1960, billions of dollars (including your tax dollars) have been spent, and political careers forged/consolidated, on the issue of our southern neighbor’s choices. For a country built on individualism about which it boasts and markets itself worldwide, the USA’s actions belie its rhetoric. If you do a deep dive, it becomes apparent that my birth country doesn’t genuinely welcome independent, outside-the-box thinking. A little might be ok, good even, for the optics, but color outside US-designed lines and You. Will. Pay.    

For over 60 years and counting, Cubans have been paying.

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Most of you probably don’t know (or care) that I have a Master’s degree in political science. It’s more a toxic hobby nowadays, but the ineffective and counterproductive nature of sanctions is Global Diplomacy 101. Read the balanced, sourced analyses below and you’ll see, sanctions only work in a few, very specific contexts. Cuba is not one of them.

“…a review of all U.S. sanctions since 1970 shows that targeted countries altered their behavior in a way that the U.S. hoped they would just 13 percent of the time.”

“…sanctions often fail to sufficiently or efficiently squeeze regimes, whether the goal is to end a war, stop genocide, limit the bomb, or undermine oppression…Years of sanctions failed in North Korea, Venezuela, and Iraq. Cuba has faced layers of U.S. trade and arms embargoes since 1960. The Communist regime is still in power…Sanctions also produce heartbreak.”

Can you hear all those hearts breaking?

Probably not. For over 60 years, people who have never stepped foot on the island, who couldn’t pick Randy Alonso out of a line up, who’ve never enjoyed a cold drink coupled with a hot kiss on the Malecón, have been telling the world how they are going to break Cuba. They always fail to mention, however, the heartbreak of a mother dying alone, lovers separated, siblings estranged.

Meanwhile, this is our daily bread. Heartbreak. Hunger. Punishment. Take this. Take that. Suffer.

If after 60 years your neighbor hasn’t installed a lawn and taken down questionable art, isn’t it time to try a new strategy? Obama got it.

Obviously, my metaphor is reductive and Cuba needs to own its share of the blame for the current situation (corruption; internal blockade; lack of transparency; power/paranoia dynamic; disastrous/delusional accounting systems; and horrible marketing of their message, among them). Nevertheless, it illustrates my premise: subjecting a neighbor or country or neighboring country to violence and torture because you don’t agree with how they’re conducting their lives – even if you had an historical hand in constructing that life – is an egregious violation of rights: basic rights, human rights, sovereign rights.  

Did you say violence and torture? Yes, in fact, I did: when your child has a rare form of curable cancer and treatment is only available in the United States, but you can’t access that care because your child is Cuban (even with all the money in the world), that is violent. That is torture. That is familial and generational trauma in the making. That is inhumane and that is criminal. And that Cuban child with cancer? She needs treatment, as you read this. But the US won’t give her and many others like her a temporary visa to get the care she needs. Tightening sanctions during the pandemic? Violence. Torture.   

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People write me all the time: ‘I’m reading that Cubans are starving. I don’t want to take food from peoples’ mouths. Is it ethical for me to travel there?’ First, Cubans may be hungry, but not starving. Second, this is not a zero-sum game where the yuca on your plate could be on a Cuban’s. Third, the rules of the Cuban game are so complex and mine-riddled, you’ll likely be all kinds of unethical without even realizing it. But don’t worry: Cubans are master ducks, letting most everything slide right off their backs.

In fact, the opposite might be argued, that staying away is unethical.

Every dollar, euro, pound or yen that enters the country helps feed some people, somehow, in today’s Cuba. Each day at the beach, horseback ride, dinner at a restaurant, dancing at a club, coffee by the roadside or beer on the Malecón, is helping feed a Cuban. Donate to good causes while you’re at it – many projects inside and outside the country have reliable, experienced donations programs helping Cubans survive. Spend freely, tip your guides, hosts, servers and entertainers. Draw your own conclusions. Come help us laugh and make music, make merry and forge new friendships.

While you’re at it (or if you aren’t up for traveling), lobby your politicians for a change in policy – especially if you live in New Jersey or Florida. Need a good argument? For 30 straight years, the world community has condemned these sanctions, most recently voting 185-2 (US and Israel against) at the UN General Assembly to lift the blockade. The 2023 vote is coming up. Hopefully we’ve reached a tipping point where the United States is dethroned as Global Bully once and for all.  

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

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March 15, 2023 · 8:59 pm

P’alante Conner, P’alante Cuba

I am good at some things: camping and roughing it; making deadlines; making conversation; not holding a grudge; eavesdropping. With some other things, I’m getting better: regular tai chi practice; checking my tongue when pissed; curbing my tendency to micro-manage; interacting with small children.

But there are still other things at which I’m terrible: handling stress with grace; confronting bureaucracy with grace; gardening; interacting with big children. Except for stress and bureaucracy (synonymous and perpetual here), none of this has significant impact on my daily life or prospects.

Still, there is one thing at which I am truly awful. Something that is detrimental to my financial health, trajectory and opportunities, growth and confidence: I cannot sell, promote or push any of my own projects or work. I was taught that ‘tooting one’s own horn’ is egotistical and base. I was taught that it’s unbecoming and narcissistic and probably unwarranted: who hasn’t done greater things, with more impact, more finesse? As you can see, I was raised on a diet of self-doubt by a loving, yet reluctant and perfectionist mother who instilled the desire and drive to be the best me I can be, with the tacit condition that I not let anyone know about it.

All in all it’s not a bad approach, unless you’re a freelance writer or founder of an organization. In this case, it’s an absolute disaster. And I am both: I write and I founded Cuba Libro. I have lived half a century without ‘tooting my own horn.’ That ends now.

I woke today and did tai chi (check!), held my tongue when my husband drank the last of the coffee (check!), and even let the cheese plate leave the Cuba Libro kitchen with a mint garnish in lieu of the standard basil sprig – without uttering one micro-managed word (check!).

So here I am, advocating for me, my work and my achievements. Sorry, Mom, but this can’t be bad, especially since my work—my good, hard work—pays off not only for me, but my family, friends, community and co-workers. After all, with more than two decades of good, hard work in Cuba under my belt, I have a lot of fertile ground for horn tooting. And I’m tilling this ground for you so that on your next adventure here—actual, armchair, virtual or astral—you can plug into our crazy Cuban context immediately, ethically, purposefully and positively.

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Some of you know me. Some of you think you know me. But unless you know Cuba Libro, you’ve only a partial picture. Over ten years ago now, as Cuba toe-dipped into the first phases of an historic economic restructuring (ongoing, complex and confounding), I saw an opportunity to create a unique kind of space in Havana; an opportunity to help mend the fraying social safety net; an opportunity to connect people, debunk myths about Cuba and disseminate ideas; an opportunity to share skills and (all-important) profits with some of my favorite young Cubans. Here was an opportunity to build something new and altogether different.

A decade on, I often think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. Several times I’ve threatened to give up. But I’m coming to realize that starting a community development project, alone, from scratch, was a way to channel the frenetic, heartbroken energy that consumed me after my long-time Cuban husband called our marriage quits. My friends counseled me as they would a Cuban: Dumped? Heartbroken? Go find another. So like Cubans do, I found another. To be precise, I created another partner that would lift up not only me and my family, but the neighborhood, our ommunity and beyond. Cuba Libro was born.

And it worked. As the world implodes beyond our garden gate and Cuba gets improbably more difficult, Cuba Libro has turned a corner. We survived COVID. We survived the emigration of beloved team members and café regulars. Blood, sweat and tears were spilt. Money was spent. A professional accountant joined the team. Yoan, Yeney, Migue, Alive and Emily joined the team. Different and more demanding responsibilities were added and delegated. Exciting new drinks (Johnny Sins! M&M Smoothie!) and edible treats (El Delicioso! La Tabla!) were invented. New community outreach initiatives were launched, along with healthy, educational and hyper popular trivia, dart and chess competitions. As a result, we’re now bursting at the seams and growing beyond our brick-and-mortar oasis.

Most importantly, after months of paperwork and meetings, and an intense licensing process that I navigated alone, Cuba Libro is officially a Local Development Project. More on that in a later post, but essentially, it means we are now able to support and grow our community in new and more targeted ways. Some we’ve already pilot-tested, like Cuba Libro Móvil, where we bring our 100% Cuban coffee drinks to local festivals, ferías and events. Others are dreams I’ve had percolating and which the team is motivating me to realize, like our forthcoming multi-lingual Little Free Library.

We are excited. We are energized and we are special. Drop by when you’re in town to experience it first-hand or wait for my forthcoming book about thriving and surviving 20 years in Cuba, wherein the best tales, foibles and follies will be revealed!  

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Friends tell me I’m a “bad ass.” I’m not a bad ass. In my world, the true bad asses are the Cuban doctors, nurses, epidemiologists, scientists and other health professionals and researchers who worked day and night, during lockdown, during blackouts, during civil unrest (and the rest), to deliver three safe, effective COVID vaccines in record time. Also, a hat tip to all the Cuban health personnel serving overseas—especially the Henry Reeve Brigade— who continue to deliver free healthcare in over 60 countries.

In 20 years as a health reporter for MEDICC Review, I’ve interviewed hundreds, if not thousands, of these ‘white coat warriors.’ In post-quake Pakistan and Haiti, I lived in tents side-by-side with the Henry Reeve Brigade reporting on their work, even getting pressed into action in the operating room, during vaccine campaigns and as a translator. Being a Cuba-based health reporter has been a game changer for me and I bet some of you reading this didn’t even know I wear this hat. Proudly.

MEDICC (Medical Education Cooperation with Cuba) is one of those game-changing organizations—not only for individuals like me, the ELAM graduates we support, and people living in vulnerable US communities where we work, but also in the much bigger picture. MEDICC has helped broker Memoranda of Understanding (MOUs) between US universities and Cuba’s National School of Public Health. MEDICC delivered a white paper to President Obama that led to bi-lateral cooperation commitments to improve the health and well-being of people on both sides of the Straits (unfortunately, the six-year Trump-Biden debacle derailed most of this forward progress). MEDICC was responsible for bringing an expert, international vaccine delegation to Cuba to observe results and exchange with Cuban colleagues responsible for developing, testing and deploying Cuba’s COVID vaccines.

Although US-Cuba collaboration has suffered since the halcyon days of normalization, MEDICC is a fighting organization. In the face of stricter sanctions, that incompetent 45th US president, global recession and restricted funding, blackouts, connection failures and mind-boggling bureaucracy, MEDICC fights and prevails. As I write this, we’ve rolled up our sleeves to scale up our premium program: bringing US health leaders, scientists, policy makers and students to Cuba to forge collaborative projects in health. MEDICC is the only US organization with this capacity. Biotech, genetics, clinical trials, social epidemiology, medical education, chronic disease, primary health care, nutrition, international medical cooperation and more: we tailor each program for each group, visit the institutions in which they’re interested and host exchanges with Cuban colleagues to hammer out concrete collaborations between US and Cuban health experts.

This is not at all easy. The logistics are complicated and the paperwork diabolical. Mainstream media reporting about Cuba presents a constant uphill battle. But we struggle on for our collective health, our collective future, and it’s working. MEDICC has already hosted three groups of health professionals this year and we have another half-a-dozen on deck for this year. Any scientists, health professionals, policy wonks, professors, deans or students interested in seeing Cuba’s health system first hand with a goal of future collaborations, please get in touch.

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Between founding and directing Cuba Libro, health reporting and keeping my family fed, clothed and housed, I wrote a new book. I don’t have much luck with my books. This is largely due to my lack of a knack for marketing. My poetry and prose collection TWATC is awesome. Unfortunately, I couldn’t manage selling it on Amazon from Cuba and the few copies I brought in my luggage are now with Cuban friends. The coffee table book I wrote on Cuba’s classic Harley-Davidson’s, with photography by Max Cucchi, is one-of-a-kind gorgeous and beautifully written if I do say so myself, but had no marketing or distribution budget. To boot, it was printed in Germany so few copies reached US and Canadian shores where its natural market lives. We have higher hopes for the second edition, now in progress, but still lack a publisher. Please drop a line if this is you!

I was more optimistic with 100 Places in Cuba Every Woman Should Go. I was approached and courted by a major travel book publisher. I was given all the creative freedom I wanted. When I asked: why only women?, I was assured that this is just a marketing niche and tactic. The publisher encouraged me to promote my passions while exploring the state of Cuban women, their contributions to and struggles within contemporary society. This was to be the travelogue of my dreams, chock full of solo travel, family travel, remote travel and secret spots. The publisher was supportive. The advance was decent. I was in. I was excited.

The research process was packed with natural wonders, wonderful people and electrifying road trips on a 1949 Harley. My admiration for my ‘media naranja’ (travel partner and co-conspirator)deepened. I discovered off-the-beaten track pockets and learned something new every day. I’ve been out of the travel guide writing game for a while, but this was no ordinary guide and I exalted in writing it.

Editing was a breeze and I was pleased with the cover choice (rarely the case and not just me: on your next outing with writer friends, ask about cover selection—it’s a tricky and sometimes nasty business). I hired a publicist. I wrote marketing copy. I contacted reviewers and press and mailed them copies at my own expense. I took to social media. I was energized. I was hopeful.

Then Trump happened, flogging Cuba with stricter sanctions thanks to his quid pro quo with those wacko Floridians. Under Trump, US folks could no longer travel “legally” to Cuba. The media added fuel to the fire. US visits to Cuba plummeted. Then the global pandemic happened and international travel ground to a halt in a way we’ve never before seen.

Perfect timing: my book had just been published. Now it molders. Too few copies have sold to even pay back the advance so in essence, this book has landed me in debt. I love this book. Many people have written me telling me they love this book. Writing 100 Places was another transformative experience that will forever live in my memory. But you can’t eat memories. You can’t pay electric bills or the phone company or rent with memories. 

The whole thing makes me sad and wary. Sad because I truly believe in this book and it’s not reaching enough people. Wary because I’m embarking on a new, bigger, scarier book: a memoir (of sorts) about learning to be Cuban. For this one, I promise to be better at tooting my own horn. 

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Filed under Americans in cuba, bureacracy, Busting myths about Cuba, Cuban economy, Expat life, health system, Here is Haiti, Living Abroad, off-the-beaten track, Travel to Cuba

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July 14, 2022 · 6:54 pm

Toxic Masculinity: “This is Normal in Cuba”

‘I don’t want to go that place,’ the guy says to his friends over beers in the park. ‘That’s where the fags hang out.’

‘Hey ladies! I’m single…my wife is the married one!’ reads the oversized bumper sticker on the 1956 Buick I’m following on the Puente Almendares.

‘They were asking for it. And it’s suspicious that another 10 women suddenly appeared after the first five denounced him,’ a friend said when I mentioned the recent sexual abuse charges leveled against mediocre-at-best musician Fernando Becquer.

I’ve written about Cuba’s machismo problem previously. I also wrote about the Me Too Movement (known as YoSíTeCreo) several years ago, examining our experience here in Cuba and how it squares with the paradigm of power, oppression, and control exercised by most men everywhere. I’ve also weighed in on Cuban catcalling, understanding strident foreigner women who reject it, but also appreciating the sometimes funny/intellectual deftness with which Cuban men wield it (albeit ubiquitous and too often gross or inappropriate).  

Here in Havana, I’ve witnessed marginalization and minimization of brilliant female professionals, as well as filthy old men getting handsy with young college co-eds. At Cuba Libro, I had to let a worker go for (among other things) his leering, lecherous behavior towards certain female customers which no amount of naming the behavior or sensitivity training succeeded in correcting.

Mansplaining, manspreading, homophobic slurs and asides (directed at my dog even!) and nauseatingly strict gender roles: it’s all in the Cuban mix.

I’m the youngest daughter of a proto-feminist whose prize refrigerator magnet read ‘a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle;’ it remained the centerpiece of her fridge until the day she died. I’m also the youngest sister of a fabulously flamboyant gay man who liked to brag about his lovers of the cloth (he had a thing for priests and otherwise closeted/confused guys) until the day he died. As you may imagine, the toxic masculinity permeating Cuba is a bit problematic for me.

When a friend of mine who lived here for many years remarked upon leaving for good, “there’s entirely too much testosterone on this island,” I laughed. But I might have cried: Cuban men, women, children and society at large have toxic masculinity so embedded in their collective amygdala, so normalized, that it paralyzes progress.

Obviously, there are many factors paralyzing progress here but no policy change is going to magically transform boys into men who can cry, cook, share their feelings, face their traumas and be real societal allies. Nor will any government mandate raise girls into women who reject all forms of sexual harassment, who demand the same liberties, rights and respect as their male counterparts, and who require an equitable division of duties at home.

Achieving such lofty goals will take a massive cultural overhaul that frankly, many of the cis white powerbrokers in Cuba (and most everywhere else, sadly), are staunchly against. Despite ongoing education campaigns by CENESEX, Evolución, UNICEF, OXFAM and others around gender parity, physical, emotional and financial violence against women, and the ills wrought by machismo, toxic masculinity is killing the country by a thousand cuts. And though national and international media consistently cover the issue, it’s going to take decades to reverse the course—just like it has taken decades to witness a perceptible shift (microscopic as it may be) on the homo/trans/biphobia front.

I was shocked and awed when my husband and I reached loggerheads on the home duties front. Shocked, because I learned that he reached his 55th birthday without ever having cooked a meal. I mean, the man didn’t know how to make rice! Awed, because it meant that his past four wives, to say nothing of his grandmother, mother, sister and nieces permitted—nay, enabled—this dependent, gender-based behavior. After returning from the market for the third time with soft, damaged tomatoes, I learned that in 55 years, he had never shopped for produce either. And this is not a coddled man. His single mom worked her entire life, is a decorated party member, and raised a fine, loving, well-rounded, and hard-working son…who landed in my life just a little machista.

He doesn’t question when someone calls a Polski a ‘women’s car.’ He doesn’t wince at the offhand homophobic comment made by a biker buddy (let alone call him out for such bias). He doesn’t get tears in his eyes when Claudia, the most heroic first responder after the Saratoga tragedy, is profiled on TV— a true super hero at just 21 years old and not even five feet tall. Nor does he understand the beautiful, buxom 25-year-old who dresses in baggy pants and rock t-shirts to hide her curves and head off unwanted advances. Between lessons on cooking rice and choosing tomatoes, we talk a lot about gender in my house. And LGBTQI issues. And machismo. And how toxic it all is.

At the annual Harley Rally in Varadero this year, I decided to take the pulse of our friends, asking what they thought about September’s referendum on Cuba’s family code. This codifies everything from what legally constitutes a family, to the rights of children within the home, inheritance rights and more; it has not been updated since 1975. Among the most divisive elements of Family Code 2022 is the right to same-sex unions.  

“What do you guys think of the proposed family code?” I asked one night as a group of us sat around knocking back beers. People were not shy to respond.

“The government can’t tell me how to raise my kids,” said one leather-clad biker, echoing a sentiment I heard from neighbors during the ‘popular consultation,’ our block’s meeting with legal experts and government officials leading up to the referendum. Concerns about how to explain same-sex love and marriage to children; around the clause that children’s opinions should be considered in decisions affecting the entire household; and the prohibition of corporal punishment in the home, were all voiced at my meeting in Playa.

Meanwhile, adoption rights for gay parents; gender-inclusive puberty and health education; and a diabolically twisted understanding (not to mention dead wrong) of ‘progressive autonomy’ for children, has Cuban evangelicals raging. RAGING. They call the code dangerous, denouncing the same sections of the new code as my neighbors, as well as rejecting artificial insemination and surrogate motherhood. Their arguments are laughable, absurd and often contradictory. Have a read and ask yourself: how can people swallow such shoddy logic?! By the way: evangelical Cubans have also started lurking in hospital halls and handing out murdered fetus pamphlets to unsuspecting women in an effort to convince Cubans that abortions free and on demand are wrong. Sounds all too familiar, frankly.

But back to the bikers…

“I’m not homophobic but….” another, better friend starts to tell me. As I write in my 2018 book TWATC, this sentence never ends well. “…but this isn’t our culture. Maybe in other countries men can marry, adopt kids, and the rest, but Cuban culture is different.”

I like this friend. I really do. So how do I tell him (in the nicest way possible), that this is precisely the problem? That Cuban culture and traditional gender roles are antiquated, behind the curve, anti-human rights, and hurting progress? How do I communicate that a “no” vote on the referendum is going to expose Cubans as out-of-touch, backward, misogynist and homophobic? Maybe if I point out that he’s making the same exact argument as those Cuban evangelicals, who say: “we see that the authorities in Cuba have wanted to move towards a modernity of values that is contrary to what is now.” Maybe then he’ll mull it over?  Modernity, what a curse, right?

Knowing me well, my friend tries to smooth over his implication. “I’m from the campo. We think differently out in the country—men marrying men is just not something we can wrap our heads around.”  We’re having too much fun to go down that rabbit hole, so I hold my tongue for a later date when I will tell him that a) if you’re not contemplating entering into a gay marriage, there’s nothing to wrap your head around and b) ya’ll in the campo regularly get jiggy with farm animals as sexually-curious boys but you have a problem wrapping your head around two consenting humans engaging in sex? That shit is whack, man.

Girls don’t ride bicycles. Men don’t cook. Women can’t be steel workers. Boys don’t play with dolls. It’s positively Jurassic over here at times.

The good is news is that the tide may be turning. I say this because of what I witness day in, day out at Cuba Libro, a safe, inclusive space for everyone (though the evangelicals handing out prayer cards in the garden the other day tested my mettle). We are very active in the LGBTQI community, host cultural and health events designed to empower, and have distributed over 18,000 condoms since opening in 2013, among many other inclusive, community-building initiatives.

Cuba Libro is an oasis for all the frikis, queers, artists, dreamers and doers we can pack in. For obvious reasons, the average age is about half mine—most CL regulars are between 25 and 30. These kids are having none of it. They understand love transcends gender, they don’t give a hoot who you screw, and are gloriously fluid in their expression of self and choice of partners. They are also adamant about the need for full rights for everyone, criminalizing gender violence and hate crimes, and re-calibrating the male/female dynamic and balance in Cuban society.

Young Cuban women of all types are hacking off their hair (when I moved here, short hair on a cubana meant they were old or gay or both); many young men wear extravagant dangly earrings, make up even, and Alfredo—dear Alfredo—runs the café in a free-flowing peasant skirt on the hottest summer days. Two guys on a first date, a FTM hottie sipping a cappuccino with his sister, a couple of friends stealing kisses behind the fiction stacks, cute gay boys in matching “King” t-shirts, girls in boots, boys in dresses and a man in our kitchen—this is what the café looks like on a typical day. Our biased neighbors are beside themselves.

All of this is to say: I’m in a completely different universe from my biker friends, my in-laws, and Cubans from the campo. My past is rooted in feminism, Gay Pride, and equal rights. These kids who work and hang out at Cuba Libro? They are, literally, the future of the country. They’re what I want my future to look like. I hope each and every one of them (who don’t immigrate in the interim), votes in September’s referendum.

When my mind and heart grow dark, thinking about Cuba’s toxic masculinity as an intractable problem, I remember that conversation between those guys having beers in the park.

“I’m not going to that place. That’s where the fags hang out.”

As I rise from the bench, I’m prepared to intercede with an explanation about hate speech when his friend replies: “Yeah, well. Deep down we’re all fags, aren’t we?”

Maybe all is not lost.   

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This video from 2018 entitled “Acoso a mujeres en Cuba,” with English subtitles, interviews Cubans of all stripes on the streets of Havana; I didn’t see it until after I wrote this, but some of the outlooks are considerably more alarming than what I present here (“if you don’t want to be catcalled, don’t go out on the street;” and “why do you do your hair and makeup if you don’t want me to complement you when you walk by? Why don’t you just go out ugly?”). Nevertheless, it gave me hope to hear empowered women rejecting the paradigm and to see a cross-section of evolved Cuban kids. It also provided the title for this post.    

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

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January 4, 2022 · 5:22 pm

Your Live Donkey, Reporting from Havana

Remember the good ole days of the ‘coronacoaster,’ riding the ups and downs of 2020-2021 and looking forward to better times ahead? That was some aspirational thinking. Delusional even. Now, rather than breathing a little easier, it feels like we’re hanging on for dear life, hoping the coaster correctly banks that terrorizing turn. If it doesn’t? We’ll soon be careening off the rails, flying into the abyss.   

Ringing in 2021, we had vaccines rolling out (or rather, some of us did—vaccine inequity is genocidal, but that’s another story). We reunited with our loved ones (or rather, some of us did). We had some hope, false hope, but still: false hope is better than no hope I’ve come to realize.

Last year we talked about “after the pandemic.” How foolish. How grammatically incorrect. That whole time we were using the wrong preposition. There is no life “after” the pandemic, only life with the pandemic. And just when you think it can’t get any worse, hang on baby because it certainly can.

Enter Omicron. Por díos. Redact “false hope” for “no hope.” Too cynical? Perhaps. Too dramatic? I am known to skew cynical and dramatic (ahem), but these past two years have been stranger than fiction…

Here’s a quick list (quick because each entry warrants its own post), of what is adding fodder to the dumpster fire. These are arranged in no particular order save for progressing from the collective to the personal,.

For all of you hoping for good news from Havana, you’ve come to the right place at the wrong time. I promise to share all kinds of uplifting (and exclusive) information related to my passion project, but that will have to wait. The silver linings, the Cuban vaccines, the possibility (finally) of the country legalizing gay marriage—all of this will have to wait because the past two years have been especially shitty in Cuba. And not just due to SARS-CoV-2.

Reordering of the Cuban economy: File under: Disaster, Possibly Fatal.  Official reports from end-of-year analysis show 70% inflation in the formal market, and more than triple that in the informal (AKA black) market. It’s a total shit show.

N27, J11, N15 and any other letter/number combination I may have missed: I’ve written about ‘the troubles’ (to borrow the Irish euphemism) here previously and I don’t feel the need (nor the desire, frankly) to re-visit at the moment. But trust me: we haven’t heard the end of this.

Me Too: Not yet a movement, but thanks to 5 very courageous women who went public in December about a known, repeat sex offender, the long-overdue reckoning about sexual harassment, violence and abuse in Cuba is (nearly) upon us. Heads will—and damn well should—roll. Can’t happen soon enough.

Death, hunger and disillusionment: It’s pretty well generalized no matter where you live, but the combination of COVID and Biden with his sanctions against the island (see descarado/comemierda/hijo de puta in the dictionary of Cuban slang) is inhumane. Not to mention insane: the idea that the blockade hurts the government and not the people is demonstrably false. I tire of such idiocy.

Now for the personal part…

Death, hunger and disillusionment: In the latter half of December 2019, my mother died suddenly, unexpectedly. We suspect COVID, not yet detected in the USA, but late 2019, in NYC, in a woman who regularly attended the movies, live theater and ate out? Entirely possible. Regardless, her death ripped my family asunder. Anyone who has lost a parent, child or loved one suddenly knows the lingering sadness and loss of true north this signifies. To all of you: my deepest, most sincere condolences.

I’m an infamously hangry person—it goes back to food insecurity suffered as a child. And while I’m seriously privileged compared to others in the food department, that’s not saying much these days here.  Food insecurity suffered in one’s formative years is similar to profound grief in that it lingers and ghosts; anyone who survived the Special Period can relate.

Disillusionment is new for me and many people here, too. Cuba is in terribly deep waters—economically, socially, spiritually. Créeme: we are feeling it. I’m feeling it. If I can muster the motivation and rally the energy, I might write more about collective/personal disillusionment. But don’t hold your breath.

Keeping Cuba Libro afloat: The only people who can truly understand the frustrating, infuriating and constant struggle it takes to keep a small business alive during the triumvirate of Trump/Biden sanctions, COVID and the reordenamiento, are other Cuban small business owners and workers. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve considered closing shop over the past two years. But the Team can. My partner can. Without them, and without the support (financial, spiritual) from our friends abroad, we would already be history. And we aren’t out of the woods yet.

Toby is sick and isn’t getting better: Although childless by choice, when we rescued Tobito in 2014, he became the hijo I never had. In October, he started breaking out in nasty, bloody pustules. We went to the vet (this is another disastrous dirty secret here, often unethical too, about which I will rant later), did the labs, procured the medicine through sheer solidarity, applied the method religiously…and he continues to worsen. Getting a second opinion has proven impossible. I’m distraught and desperate and don’t want to talk about it.  Until (and unless) the story has a happy ending.

Job insecurity: Thankfully I still have my day job as a health reporter and editor for MEDICC Review, but that too is a double-edged sword: every day I wake to an inbox full of COVID-related news—local, regional, national and global. My livelihood depends on keeping up-to-date and writing about the pandemic. Given these circumstances, it’s hard to shield myself from the hard realities. And it’s part of the reason I haven’t written anything else in nearly two years. I tried to pitch. I’ve tried to write, but my muse is dead or on life support. I’ve considered issuing a DNR, considered giving it up altogether. It’s not a good scenario.

I could go on. I could tell you about the anxiety of living here amongst overly socialized Cubans without having a COVID booster or the dear friends who’ve left the country, leaving gaping holes in my support system. I’ll spare you the details of a friend who died in a tragic motorcycle accident one month ago today and the marital discordance 2020/2021 has engendered. The health issues. The shortages. The short fuses. It’s all a tinder box.

I feel my bravery waning and my defenses grow weak. My resiliency went the way of the 10 peso pizza. I’m reminded of Ernest Shackleton who said it’s better to be a live donkey than a dead lion. I would be lying if I told you it hasn’t crossed my mind to pack up and leave, to embark on a new adventure, in different latitudes. If things continue to deteriorate, I just might, preferring to be that donkey than that lion.   

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July 15, 2021 · 5:58 pm

Unpacking the Protests in Cuba

Recent events compel me to post sooner than I otherwise might. First, I’ve received so many questions, including in my professional capacity as a journalist, about what’s happening in Cuba that for efficiency’s sake, it’s easier to condense my thoughts here. Part I is What You Need to Know.

Second, just as many people or more, have contacted me asking how they can help. And while some may be abashed to say it, I’m not: Cubans need help. So for everyone wishing to act in solidarity with Cuba and the more than 11 million people on the island, I’ve put together Part II: What You Can Do. If anyone has other (serious, verifiable) leads for donation, support, lobbying, etc., please feel free to drop me a line or comment.

By way of preface, transparency, and cred: I have built this blog and my not-altogether-smooth writing reputation through a golden rule of only reporting what I’ve seen or experienced first-hand. As a (distant second, seldom-used) alternative, I’ll report what close friends and clear-eyed colleagues have experienced. What follows employs both these mechanisms.

I’m not there now, but I was in Cuba for the November 27 sit/sing-in at the Ministry of Culture and ensuing events through March 2021. Different from what’s happening now, but useful as a baseline for how different things can look when you’re on the ground actually living it, from when you’re watching from afar, observing virtually. I’ve also been in constant, expensive and difficult contact with my friends and loved ones, young and old, in Havana and the countryside.

Obviously, there’s much more to be understood and written about these events, but this is what I’ve got for you right now.  I’ve used numbered, bold sections for ease of reading.  

What You Need to Know

1. Anything on the internet should be considered suspect, false, or doctored until proven otherwise. Cuba and COVID-19 have a lot in common: a perfect storm of historic and novel circumstances converge, fueled by an infodemic and all hell breaks loose. In Cuba’s case, we have 60 years of brewing animosity and policies—on both sides—exacerbated by a pandemic lockdown and four, going on five, years of Trump sanctions. Throw in a rabid, militarized diaspora with some internet savvy (and coaching, I’m sure) and the shit is bound to hit the fan. Oh! Plus the weather.

First time someone has mentioned the weather in relation to recent events? No surprise there. Unless you’ve lived it, weather severity of the type we have in Cuba and how it affects people has probably never occurred to you. But it’s real: two consecutive summers without a beach or pool for cooling off (they were closed both this and last year) , combined with no air conditioning  when there’s a blackout (most Cubans can’t afford it anyway), plus the shortages, plus the lines, plus the economic crisis, plus the MLC stores—of course it’s driving some to extreme lengths.

Conclusion: If it weren’t for COVID-19, we would not be seeing protests in Cuba.  

2. The US and their shills in the exile community are complicit in fueling the violence (and goddamn it: would all of you just stop? You are destroying people and families). We know violence begets violence in a vicious cycle where there are no winners. Think US involvement is some wacky leftist conspiracy theory? This is old hat for Uncle Sam. Just follow the money—to whom it’s distributed and how it’s spent. These are US tax dollars paying for this, which should nauseate you as it does me.

Conclusion: Cuba’s right to sovereignty and self-determination is violated by US sanctions. Obviously, events in Cuba cannot be laid entirely at the door of foreign intervention, but without the money and cage rattling by the US government and exile groups (to mention nothing of the media’s role), I wouldn’t be writing this post.  

3. Too many of us have too short a historic memory and we, as a human race, suffer greatly for it.  Several factors at play today put me specifically in mind of the violent act of war at Girón. Remember Girón? To recap: President Kennedy authorized a military invasion of Cuba by CIA-trained and equipped Cuban exiles, promising air cover once they reached the beachhead. That cover never came and many people died as a result. A tactical oopsie daisy from which I would have hoped policymakers had learned. Wishful thinking. Whatever policy analysis is being done in the US continues to underestimate the will of the Cuban majority to defend their right to sovereignty while overestimating the power and sway of people of Cuban descent off-island.

Conclusion: US Cuba policy continues to depend on counsel from partisan factions and people who are too far removed from what is happening on the ground to make an accurate assessment. This has had fatal consequences like the Bay of Pigs, Brothers to the Rescue and others still classified.                  

4. Pay no mind to the man behind the curtain as he works furiously to distract us from the fact that since the 19th century to right this second, Cuba is a US domestic issue, rather than a foreign policy concern. We need only look at last week: Haiti sinks deeper into chaos and violence, openly requesting US assistance to stabilize the situation and all we’re hearing about is Cuba. Why? And why has President Biden, despite having a ringside seat during the normalization process, despite Dr Jill Biden’s visit to the island, despite his campaign pledges, despite urgent calls to lift sanctions from BLM, Oxfam, the UN and others, refused to change Trump’s policy towards Cuba? Because congresspeople in New Jersey and Florida have his ass over a barrel, posing a threat to his power and the Democrats’ future in mid-term elections. Haiti? Who cares. Cubans? Expendable. Cuba? Capitulate to elected bullies to consolidate power in the Beltway—using florid and moving language, evoking democracy, freedom, and human rights. But only when it fits US interests and narrative.

Conclusion: US policy towards Cuba is about the US, not Cuba or Cubans on the island. As a friend put it recently: the US is ready to sacrifice 11 million Cubans at the Bob Menéndez altar.

5. Too many, including Cuban policy makers, continue to meter todo el mundo en el mismo saco (lump everyone together, ignoring nuance and circumstance). All societies are an organism—a living, breathing, often amorphous and contradictory conglomeration of personalities, individual situations, philosophy, and history. Just like every New Yorker is not a rushed neurotic mess in a perpetual rat race, not every Cuban who has been to the United States is against their own government. Just like not every Floridian is a gin and tonic swilling fogie, not every young Cuban wants to emigrate. Not every Cuban on an overseas scholarship is under the thumb of a foreign government and not every child of Operation Peter Pan is working to destabilize their birth home.

Conclusion: Beware of anything you read that says ‘the Cuban people are doing or feeling X’; such generalizations can’t be applied to any nation and is a blatant tip off that your source is biased. Instead, look for nuance and breaking down of stereotypes—something sorely needed to move us closer to mutual understanding.

6. The limits of Cuban resiliency and creativity are being tested in ways heretofore unseen. Sure, for certain generations and to a certain extent, the Special Period and Bush aggressions were a test. But younger Cubans didn’t live that, they don’t want to live like that and they shouldn’t have to. Their resiliency and creativity are being forged now, during COVID-19. While the pandemic shares some commonalities with the shortages and exposed inequities that typified the 1990s, Cuban youth can’t be expected to channel the same flavor of resilience their parents and grandparents did. They have different sources of resiliency and are as creative, in their own way, but they need a real seat the table and need to be heard—and not only members of the UJC, señores.   

I’ve been writing and talking about waning resiliency for a while. Most Cubans I know are tired, hungry, hot and let me underscore: sad. Everyone I’ve talked to in these past few days—Cubans on the island and off—are crying themselves to sleep at night (when they can sleep) and bone/soul depressed about what is happening. They aren’t in the streets or trolling hate on the internet; they are desperately trying to maintain communication with their loved ones, find food, and keep their mental health from further fraying.

Conclusion: Anyone against violence, anyone wishing to see a peaceful, long-term and sovereign solution, anyone who cares about the health and well being of Cubans and their families, wherever they choose to live, should be promoting resiliency and creativity. How do we avert violence while promulgating respectful, sane dialogue even though we disagree? How do we engage disaffected, disenfranchised or apathetic youth? In some cases is doing nothing better than doing something? Just some preliminary questions that can help inform the road map out of this morass.

7. COVID. COVID. COVID. As a public health journalist, as someone who has lived the pandemic in Cuba and now for the past four months in the United States, the A #1 priority right now is controlling the spread of COVID-19 and treating those that have it.

Conclusion: What is killing Cubans is COVID-19. Not the Cuban armed forces. Not the police. Not the lack of internet or freedom of speech. Not even the hunger, kept at bay via the ration card, as threadbare as it is. It’s the SARS-CoV-2 virus and anything that keeps jabs from people’s arms, medicines from their reach, and food from their table is complicit.

***NOTE: I was not aware when I wrote this that 36-year old Diubis Laurencio Tejeda died during the protests. I regret the omission.***

What You Can Do

1. Promote non-violence. If not, the current shit show could erupt into a blood bath.

2. Don’t be a dot com dolt. Do not share, like or otherwise promote posts, tweets, videos or photos without first verifying the source, date, author and veracity of claims made therein. And see What You Can Do #1 before hitting send.

3. Recharge the phones of your loved ones. This allows you to keep in touch and know they’re safe. Also, phone saldo is used as an ersatz currency that can be sold and traded. I’ve used ding and Fonoma, but there are many others.

4. Encourage critical thinking. Pay attention and actively listen. Dig deeper. Be conscious of subtext including hidden agendas, axe-grinding and hypocrisy. Look for nuance.in

5. Don’t fight on the internet. This is akin to pissing in the wind or fucking drunk: useless, frustrating and messy. Your energy and time are better spent hounding your elected officials for a humanitarian Cuban policy during this traumatic pandemic.  

6. Send money to loved ones. This is more difficult than ever since Trump shut down Western Union to the island but I’ve successfully used Duales which has the option of depositing into a bank account or delivering the money straight to the recipient’s door.  

7. Send food to your loved ones. There has been an explosion of services delivering fresh, canned and prepared food door-to-door in Cuba (side benefit of COVID-19). The ones I’ve used with no problem whatsoever are MallHabana and Katapulk. Not cheap, but assured.

8. Send medicines and syringes to Cuba. Already there are several global campaigns to send urgently needed supplies to Cuba to help control COVID-19, including 30 million syringes so every Cuban can be vaccinated. They have the vaccines because they produced them but they don’t have the syringes. Other options for sending essential medicines and supplies are through the Cuban embassy in your country (except the USA, natch) and now, in your suitcase.

That’s it for now folks. I will update as necessary. Thanks for reading and a huge, grateful hug  to everyone who has reached out with emotional, financial and moral support.

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July 1, 2021 · 4:56 pm

Party in the U.S.A.?

Eight-hour blackouts roll through Havana, a bottle of cooking oil costs $12 on the black market, and everything from salt and cigarettes to laundry detergent and sugar is becoming more difficult to procure. And as I type this, a tropical storm is gathering steam and heading towards my family.

Meanwhile, I’m stuck in El Norte, with no real notion of when—or how—I’ll return. I’ve been here now or over three months when an unplanned odyssey dumped me back in the United States. Even after 20 years of straddling the divide, with family aquí y allá, the separation is unsettling—a discomfiting heartbreak by degrees. I’m guessing most of us with ties to both places share similar feelings.

‘Leaning into it’ helps keep the rage and frustration at bay, if only temporarily. Leaning in has never been my strong suit, and it’s getting harder, not easier, being stuck here—the longest I’ve been off-island ever. The double downward spiral created by the pandemic and economic recession continues to suck us dry like a tick burrowing into our communal psyche. Keeping afloat, treading water furiously, is what we do, but it’s exhausting. Emotionally. Financially.

To alleviate my emotional and spiritual fatigue, I try to shift my perspective from ‘stuck in the United States,’ to ‘mercifully unable to return at the moment.’ Like a 12-step mantra you repeat to keep yourself sober and (passably) sane, I tell myself to enjoy the unexpected time with my family. I congratulate myself on my continued weight gain. I work hard envisioning a viable future for Cuba Libro.  Even as I admonish myself to be grateful (goddamn it!) for this time, I beat back feelings of guilt and hopelessness, my survivor syndrome in constant conflict with my goal for practical optimism and self-preservation.

Today my mental and physical health status is: mostly nauseous.

Two things keep me on the right side of the asylum doors and dirt: the unflagging support of my family here and there, and the irrefutable and mounting evidence that Cuba provides a superior quality of life than the United States (cue the trolls).

It began to dawn on me—like so many of my realizations—in a bathroom.

“He’s in jail again, for fuck’s sake,” I heard from the stall adjacent. “I don’t know what to do.”

‘Leave him to rot,’ I thought.

“You need to get out of there,” her friend responded on speaker phone.

I concurred. ‘Now tell her to take you off speaker so the whole women’s room isn’t privy.’

“I know. He’s violent. He’s high. I can’t be there when he gets out, but I can’t get in. He changed the locks.”

Her friend didn’t miss a beat: “get over there, jimmy a window, grab you shit and get out.”

I wiped in a hurry, eager to put a face to the drama. Dyed blond and overly tan, her face was crevassed by the wrinkles and sag typical to sun-soaked drunks and junkies. The contents of her purse were splayed across the bathroom counter. “I can’t do this anymore!” she shouted at her phone, a whistle escaping through broken teeth.

Welcome to Florida.

_____

I was in this southern swamp for my cousin’s wedding. I adore this cousin. I enjoy cavorting with this side of my family that I hadn’t seen in decades—to the extent I was braving Florida for the chance. I vowed to harness that practical optimism, remain open-minded, and practice leaning in, to this first, happy reunion since COVID started raging. I tried to lay aside my Florida bias—as understandable and defensible as it is.  

Just off the plane in Jacksonville, the hot mess of a stranger in the bathroom did nothing to help my resolve.

Nor did the inordinate amount of people violating CDC rules for masking up in airports. Or the stringy-haired, grime-encrusted tweaker trying to rent a car—no credit card, only a couple of teeth—at the next window over.

I dialed back my toxiciciy, tried to check my judgement (hard nut: we’re close to Disney and Daytona after all) and focus on the joyous occasion that brought me here. I counseled myself not to condemn an entire state and nation after a few brief encounters with Darwin’s disadvantaged.

Early the next morning I took a walk on the beach, confident that nature and negative air ions, plus the presence of Yemayá out there, somewhere, would help smooth my bent, twisted feathers. I forcibly shut down my snark watching monster trucks kick up sand within feet of virgin turtle nests, the eggs buried just the night before. Instead, I switched focus to dads making sandcastles with their daughters, the wedding party doing yoga, the grizzlied men fishing from shore. I bid good morning to strangers and passersby.

‘Kill a Commie for Mommy.’

The 12-year old’s t-shirt stopped me in the sand, ‘good morning’ curdling on my lips.

It wasn’t the political statement tripping me up and out (I’m quite sure this tween product of the Florida education system would be seriously hard-pressed to elucidate even one tenet of communism—or democracy for that matter). It was the violence of it. Slot in Christian, QAnon quack or douchebag billionaires for Commie and my reaction would be (almost) the same.

“That’s a pretty aggressive shirt, don’t you think?”

I don’t like to play the shame game but…I will when pressed.  

_____

With just 24 hours in Florida, some rotten realities about the USA started snapping into place.

At any time, any place, you will be subjected to personal, traumatic conversations between strangers.

Apparently, here, folks like my bathroom buddy, think having a cell phone engenders some sort of privacy (do Europeans act like this? Canadians? Or just entitled Amerikans?*). In CVS, the grocery store, the subway—I’ve overheard divorces, mom’s ripping the nanny/gardener/maid a new asshole, and abusive bosses dressing down employees. What’s the empathy rule for when you inadvertently learn of cancer diagnoses or in flagrante affairs? Do I hug the sobbing widower as he crumples beside the reduced-for-quick-sale end cap? Check that. I don’t know you, your help, your cheating husband or aunt with carcinoma. Not my circus, not my monkeys. Real grief is another story (of which I wish I knew little, but alas, at 52, it comes with the territory) and I can understand ‘getting that call’ or being triggered in public, but otherwise? Get a room. Ghost. Use headphones. Whisper. Anything, but stop contaminating the rest of us. Same goes for people who pick their noses in traffic or clip fingernails in the airport lounge. Just stop, ok?   

The USA is a violent, violent country.   

Not everyone, everywhere or always pre-meditated, but the general tenor here is ‘I will fuck you up!’ if we don’t share values, views, skin color or background. You want me to stop clipping my nails in public? Talk to my Glock. Black dad in a community of Karens? Meet my assault rifle. Or maybe I’m just a little more pissed off and alienated than usual today, so I’ll strafe a school. It’s an environment and culture that accepts children wearing t-shirts advocating murder for political-philosophical concepts they don’t understand. No thank you. I ain’t down. And when will Donald Trump be put in jail? He’s not wholly responsible, but does he share blame? Why, yes, he does and we, the people, want a reckoning.

The imperialistic, entitled outlook is deeply, deeply ingrained in the Amerikan psyche.

The average person here truly believes. Lives and breathes the concepts of US superiority, eminent domain, Manifest Destiny and the like.  Of course they do: the average person here may not ever travel beyond their home state in their lifetime. These are the same people who tried to cancel the French by renaming them Freedom Fries (file under: Fucking Idiots, pardon my French. Cross ref: Republican Congress/North Carolina Crackers). While entitlement is a saw used for generations to flog the rest of us (file under: Conner Says Nothing New), now the stakes are just too high. Climate change; science denying, global pandemic (hello?!); income inequality; world exploitation—let’s drop the posturing and politicizing because these crises will brook no bullshit, nor wait for the ignorant or unwoke to get with it. I said as much, in the nicest way possible, when a family member at the wedding suggested we attend the colonial reenactment of the “settling” of St Augustine. Oh, hell no!

And I encourage everyone to Just Say No to states that don’t recycle. Just Say No to politicians advancing an imperialistic agenda against sovereign nations (at the expense of constituents to boot—this means YOU Bob Menéndez, who as this link shows, has no idea what he’s talking about when it comes to today’s Cuba, and Marco Rubio, who has been vocal about his goal to hurt Cuban families and starve the nation as indicated in this legislation he co-sponsored). Just Say No to anti-vaxxers and any other manifestation of this misplaced and false sense of US exceptionalism and superiority. The other tactic is to give them enough rope to hang themselves with—maybe too dicey considering the competing global emergencies in which we find ourselves. Or we can just hang on a little longer: given how disappointing the Biden administration is turning out to be, coupled with the pandemic, I predict this exceptionalism bubble is going to pop in 3, 2, 1…

Systemic racism is a killer and not going anywhere, anytime soon.

It, like colonialism and exceptionalism, is so deeply ingrained, I’m glad I’ll be dead in 20 or so years and not have to witness the final countdown. This was rammed home as I sat on the beach watching this beautiful, inspiring union of two people in love unfold. I’m white, my soon-to-be-hitched cousin is white, my family is white and though there were a few Asian, gay and differently-abled folks at the wedding, diversity in my clan tends towards slugging shots of Bushmill’s instead of Jameson for a little variety. Don’t get me wrong: the happy couple is super woke and evolved, as are many of my family members—precisely why I choked on my mocktail when I heard the priest boom: “and just like the Pharaohs were buried with all their worldly possessions they might need in the afterlife—food, clothing, slaves…”

‘Oh, no he didn’t,’ I thought.

But the looks on the faces to my left and right told me: yes, he did. He most certainly did. But it gets better. After the whoopsie daisy with the slaves, he asked us to raise our arms heavenward to receive the blessing of god, whereupon 80 people stood on that beach making what a bystander could only interpret as the heil Hitler sign.

So yeah. There are people and places I love here—I had a tremendous week in LA, eye-opening experiences in Minneapolis and am calmly (kind of) waiting out my return in my beloved Maine woods. But Party in the USA? Not for me, thanks. No matter how potent or pretty the favors

*I spell it this way to distinguish between the dozens of other countries making up the Americas, all of whose inhabitants are also Americans.    

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June 10, 2021 · 10:32 am

Surviving Cuba with FE*

(*Familia en el Exterior)

I used to tell people when I’d be traveling—give them a head’s up in case they needed something from a fuera. That was when I first got here, green and eager. It took just a few trips hauling back motherboards, tires, cologne and all manner of sordid (vibrators/lube) and sundry (Dremels/extension cords) cargo to learn to keep my travel plans private. The responsibility became a burden, literally and figuratively, my luggage loaded down with encargos.

Everyone wanted something. But not everyone needed something. It took me awhile and hasn’t been easy, but I’ve learned to distinguish between the two.

Some people talk a really good, sweet game. Others take straight up advantage. Often, priorities and similar levels of need compete. Triage is hard—especially in disaster times. The night before I left our tent camp after weeks of living with the Henry Reeve Brigade in post-quake Pakistan, I offered to mule gifts to the doctors’ families back in Cuba. Within a few hours, I had tank tops and underwear, flip flops, dolls, razors, makeup, toy cars and soap—an entire extra bag accompanying me on the long trip home.

As I’m sure/hope you’ve heard, we are squarely in disaster times on the island right now. It’s heartbreaking (Alfredo making chicken foot soup; Elena fashioning her own soap) and there’s blame to lay, but what substantive, long-term good does that do? Not enough, I’m afraid. Does it ease our aching hearts? It does not, I am proof. So this time I’m bringing back as much as my skinny arms, wallet and airline will allow. But I’ve had to set—and stick to—a strict prioritization method.

For me, like most people (most of my people anyway), it’s always family first. I’m talking beyond blood: I’m talking Family, capital F. Cuban-type, capital F type Family, which is broader, more blended, sometimes even including mistresses, bastard children and ex-husbands. Have I been burned? You betcha. Swindled. Double crossed and tricked, by people I thought were family. What a crappy feeling that is, eh? These days I’m studiously careful about whom I consider Family. Because these days, more than most days, all Cubans need FE to survive. And I can’t be a surrogate FE for all these people in need.  

The need is great indeed. Everyone is suffering from the COVID-induced paralysis of disastrous proportions, the reunification of the currency and attendant runaway inflation, plus the US blockade which is right now at its most Draconian since its imposition 60 years ago. So for this (unplanned and bittersweet) trip, I told no one but my Family—this includes my closest neighbors, the Cuba Libro team of course, and my MEDICC Review colleagues. But you know what happens once la bola está en la calle: word starts getting around.

It fast became evident I would need a solidarity hierarchy to complement my regular prioritization mechanism:

  • Family: Within this category I prioritize the sick, elderly, children and new moms. Our pets are also Family (there is so much need for veterinary meds and supplies). Among the items I’ll be bringing back: a cane, shoes, razors, wheels for angle grinders, printer cartridges, a couple of cell phones, bras, toothpaste and brushes, shoes and seeds for home gardens…Just last night my sister-in-law fairly begged for seeds and spices. I’ve got her covered.
  • Medicine: Certain non-family folks jump to the front due to health problems, like the 3-month old with leukemia who lives next door to an old friend and a colleague’s mom who recently had a cerebral hemorrhage. Medications I’ll be bringing back for them, family and friends: children’s cough syrup, Omega 3, glaucoma eye drops, multi-vitamins, B complex, blood pressure, cholesterol, anti-anxiety and Parkinson’s meds, antihistamines. burn cream and lidocaine patches.  
  • Food: You’ve seen how skinny I am? It’s not an eating disorder: that’s stress and food scarcity pure and simple. Smoking doesn’t help and I surely have parasites glomming off my gut, but I love to eat. So much so my Cuban friends dubbed me La Yuma Jamaliche.  But this whole COVID thing combined with the teetering Cuban economy means there ain’t enough to go around. Me and almost everyone else is not getting enough to eat, period. It was annoying enough when every last person was saying how flaca I’d become but it was downright alarming when one of my scientific, vaccine expert colleagues told me the same thing, advising me to eat more (as if it were that easy in Havana, Spring 2021).  I always chow down hard when I’m in the States, aiming to gain 10 pounds, but this trip I’m going for a baker’s dozen (only 2 pounds to go!) by the time I return. And you know I’ll be returning with a valise full of food including: industrial amounts of cumin, cinnamon and garlic powder, nuts and grains of various types, energy bars, rice, pasta, dried fruit, parmesan cheese, tuna and more (RAMEN is my savior!).
  • Gifts, fun and ephemera: A well-known food and social justice activist taught me an important lesson: for years, she was rabidly opposed to any cut flowers, arguing that this and all fertile land should be dedicated to food production. Bouquet flowers were frivolous, ephemeral and perishable—and criminal when people were starving. Then one fine day, someone pointed out to her that flowers feed the soul.

And our soul needs feeding. More than ever these days. Soul burn out is real and lethal. This is especially true for those of us fighting the good fight and dedicating ourselves to helping others. And while cut flowers are still kind of iffy in my mind (better to plant your own), the point is, we all need fun, pretty stuff in our lives. This isn’t an easy lesson for me. My epigenetic code yells Suffer! Deny comfort! Work hard! Form follows function! Not a lot of wriggle room for pretty things within my particular neurosis, but I’m learning and this trip I’ll be going back with: scented candles, two of mom’s ceramic bowls from my childhood, a psychedelic spinning thing for my balcony, all kinds of chocolate/cool magnets/earrings for my family and friends, and a bit of makeup for me ‘cuz you know: I’m getting old and burnt out and it’s beginning to show.

As I hunt furiously for a way to return, people continue to write me asking to bring: belt drives, nutritional yeast, cell phone cases, mouse pads, and more. The need never ends. There’s never enough room or money or time. I’m learning to say no when all I want to say is: ‘hell yes!’ Now if only I could get my body and bags on a plane headed to Havana…

NB: The term FE (Familia en el Exterior) was copped from Peter, my brother from another mother.

Also: These travel gymnastics and luggage nightmares would be fewer and far between if Biden would get OFF HIS ASS and restart the normalization process.

And: For those who got all the way to the end of this post and are left wondering…yes. I mule in money for every family, friend or colleague who asks.

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May 24, 2021 · 10:46 am

Cuban Dumpster Fires #42-46: COVID & The Blockade

Things aren’t going well in Cuba In fact, the situation is peor que nunca. Rolling blackouts, the antiquated aqueduct system busted, leaving huge swaths of Havana without water, the country is posting record numbers of COVID infections and there’s no pork, rice, coffee, salt…

In short, our world is rocking.

Which means my world—this inconsequential space-time blip I occupy with friends, family and a few random undesirables—is also rocking. Upside down and sideways. It’s COVID. It’s the embargo. It’s the forced separation the combination engenders. If you’ve got any Cuba connection, you know we’re in a long-running, island-set shit show with dumpster fires peppering the stage. The flames rage while bystanders burn.

And I’m sidelined, unable to dowse or dampen the conflagration: I was obligated to leave Cuba two months ago.

My passport sat in a drawer for the whole of 2020 while I faced other calamities and grief. Discovering it a few weeks before expiration was a fluke—like when you look at your lover’s phone for the time to see their gym partner sexting. A fluke that makes you want to puke, that is to say.

Panicking, I turned to the US Embassy in Havana. Por gusto: it was closed in 2017, thanks to You Know Who (in Cuba, consular services were cancelled before COVID-19—a petty and pathetic maneuver, even for this day and age). I called the Embassy and got a recorded message. I sent an email as directed. I received a boiler plate email repeating what was on the phone message and website. For the first—and only—time in my 19-year stay, I presented myself before the Embassy’s 20-foot steel gate. The nice Cuban guard told me to send an email. The bureaucratic loop—call, email, wait, repeat—triggered rage, tears, and feelings of helplessness tinged with entitlement (‘I’m a US citizen god damn it! How dare they strand me like this!’). From her solitary lockdown in Minnesota, my sister called the State Department in DC. No dice. She called the passport office. Ditto.

Dumpster Fire #42 starts smoldering…

And please stop screaming ‘mail it in!’ at your screen: direct mail services between the USA and Cuba, normalized under Obama, are also reeling from the COVID/Humpty Trumpty one-two punch. Besides, would you trust your passport with a foreign mail service during a global pandemic? Or with the gutted, beleaguered US Postal Service?

No Embassy and no mail left me two choices: let my passport lapse or get off the island. I opted for the latter.

Cue Dumpster Fire #44 (I’m choosing to elide over #43 which saw me sobbing on the floor, Toby sniffing at my snot-encrusted face)…

The problem? Cuba was (and is still) closed to almost all air traffic due to an explosion of post-holiday COVID infections; just two flights a week have been flying between our two countries for months now. And they’re booked through August. With mere days left on my passport, my sister (who has a knack for travel), scored me a seat on the oversold, once-a-week JetBlue flight. With a festering case of gastritis, plus sleeper case of hypertension, a panicked clinic visit for a PCR test, and harried kisses for my guy and dog, I left.

_____

Being on far away shores after fighting tirelessly, surviving heroically, and loving fiercely sucks and hurts, giving rise to a toxic cocktail of guilt, relief, nostalgia, and yearning. Not to mention an unhealthy dose of frustration-laced anger. Some of you know of what I write.  

But to hell with the guilt and pain, and idealized nostalgia: I keep on fighting. Unless I’m curled up in a ball bawling (AKA Dumpster Fire #45 & #46), I keep on fighting—to honor mom’s memory, to help my Cuban friends and family, to remain on the side of the just. I keep fighting to maintain sanity, to keep money coming in and out of trouble/jail, to make sure my loved ones stay fed, housed and connected to the Internet. I fight, uncurl myself from that ball, and clear away the tears to face a new day.

Today.

One day at a time.

Fakin’ it till I make it.

I take solace in 12-Step mantras—not because they helped me get (and stay) sober, but because they keep me off the Cuba/COVID/Conner-at-51 ledge. I’m still an addict, but to other things, like work and cigarettes and coffee (the introvert trifecta!) and these have kept me alive and as-well-as-can-be considering the circumstances. As I contain my conflicting emotions and try not to lash out at loved ones, this is what that looks like: 

*Writing ad nauseum about COVID: I often counsel a news blackout or media vacation as a mental health tool for our modern world. But there’s no rest for a health reporter during a global pandemic. Just in the past few months (to say nothing of 2020), I’ve been neck deep editing and re-writing manuscripts about Cuban kids with long COVID and related cardiovascular problems; neuropsychological effects of COVID; and the sickening politics, inequities and egoism of our pandemic-plagued planet. And the hits kept on coming after I was assigned two interviews on the “mono-topic:” with the directors of Cuba’s Center for Clinical Trials and the Molecular Immunology Center, which produces the recombinant RBD for Cuba’s COVID-19 vaccines. 

As I clocked a week of 14-hour days wrapping my aching head around pandemic-related issues, I was asked to revise the English-language insert for SOBERANA Plus, Cuba’s vaccine for convalescent COVID patients.

Important? Yes. Fun? Not at all.   

*Going deep on the US blockade: Many big and little things are crumbling as a consequence of COVID-19: marriages, mom and pop stores, traditional greetings like our customary kiss on the cheek. Unless these macro and micro implosions affect us personally, they go unnoticed. So it goes with OXFAM, which closed 18 offices around the world, including in Cuba. After 27 years of bolstering food security and sovereignty, strengthening gender justice, fighting climate change, and reducing disaster-related risks, this is a huge blow to the innumerable Cubans who’ve benefitted from OXFAM support and programs the past three decades. OXFAM Cuba’s parting salvo is The Right to Live Without a Blockade, a report on how US sanctions hamstring Cubans’ right to live, learn, grow, develop and dream on their own terms. The report was co-written by moi, along with a multi-talented team. The official release date—in Spanish and English—is May 27. Please help us spread the word!

*Conner says what?!: I was red tagged and sent to detention for my big mouth as a kid. Nowadays, folks are bombarding my socials with all manner of Cuba-related interview requests: women’s issues, LGBTQI+ rights, how my reed-like figure doesn’t excite Cubans, and the embargo, of course. I was reluctant to talk about my expiring passport situation with the New York Times but despite these misgivings, I did—it’s about the message, after all, not me.  The message? The State Department doesn’t give a flying one about US citizens living abroad—rich business people excepted, of course.

***BREAKING NEWS: The NY Times article by Debra Kamin referenced above got the State Department off their duff and (some) US citizens with expired passports can now travel back to the US. Better late than never! Not for nothing: Cuba started it’s paperwork/passport/visa deferral plan at the beginning of COVID-19.

*Popping my Zoom cherry: Living in Cuba, where Zoom is blocked by the US embargo, I skated through 2020 with nary a video meeting, interview or webinar. But as the pandemic drags on and we all struggle not to be dragged down with it, the invitations are pouring in. Despite my technological struggles (VPNs, expensive data, blackouts), I popped my Zoom cherry as a speaker on the Canadian Network on Cuba’s panel to raise funds for medical donations to the island. I found it enjoyable, uplifting even (it was my first one, after all!). If you’re looking for a concrete way to help Cuba confront COVID, I suggest donating to this initiative or the multi-organizational drive to send 3 million syringes to the island for the whole population vaccination effort now underway.

Next up was a webinar series among health experts and virologists from Cuba and the University of Minnesota to share experiences and ideas about effective COVID strategies and policies. Thankfully, US scientific and academic communities are open to collaboration and exchange: another webinar series launches on June 8 between Cuba and the University of Alabama.

*Struggling to be a “real” writer: Pop culture, slang, evolving vocabulary and concepts: a lot of it passes you by when you live abroad for long periods of time, when you’re not on the ground, watching things unfold and taking part. Being woke, Karens and Beckys, the drip, Tuca & Bertie – I didn’t know jack about any of this until I researched or was schooled by friends. So it was with Imposter Syndrome, a term I’d never before heard but from which I definitely suffer (though I’ve always called it good old-fashioned self-hatred). I don’t consider my blog “real” writing. It may be thoughtful and well-crafted, but it doesn’t pay (that dogged yardstick by which too many of us measure worth and success), hasn’t led to any assignments or gigs as far as I know, and doesn’t have a broad audience. It has value, of course, mostly in helping me maintain a semblance of sanity and breaking down myths about Cuba, but it ain’t great literature, investigative reporting, or emotive memoir—the type of writing I dream of publishing.  

And then I wrote a blog post that sent readers swooning; friends, strangers and writers I admire wrote in with accolades and support. They urged me to add a bit of context, flesh it out some, and submit it to major publications, the likes of which triggered some real imposter doubts. The Atlantic, The New Yorker, the New York Times—other level shit for a not-very-real writer. ‘Possible?’ the imposter in me wondered. And what about my tendency to “punt,” as a wildly accomplished writer observed of my tendency to stick to safe terrain and retreat in the face of rejection? Criticize me and I recoil like a set of testes in an Icelandic lake, but once I regroup, I double down. So I rewrote, restructured and retitled that post and am making my way down the list of possible outlets. I’m only two rejections in…stay tuned!

*Saving Cuba Libro:  Something else I’ll have to write about in a “real” way sometime are the last eight years of my life, consumed by this community project I founded. Our philosophy and programming have touched so many, altered life trajectories, and improved well-being. Mine included, though it’s such a struggle it often feels like keeping Cuba Libro alive just might kill me. At no time has this been truer than 2020-2021.  Over the past 14 months, we’ve been able to operate for just two. That’s 14 months of rent and utilities, 14 months of buying overpriced coffee, milk, fruit, syrups and sugar and nearly 14 months of maintaining salaries for our seven full-time staff. To keep busy, we’ve redesigned our space for social distancing, developed new recipes and a new menu, installed a freezer, implemented a reservation system, improved our garden, forged new collaborations, and stepped up our digital image and game.  

None of this would be possible without our seat-of-the-pants fundraising and the generous, unflagging support of our global community. I remember when we were redesigning the space for social distancing in May 2020, we discussed this “temporary” situation, that in three months we’d be able to go back to the “old” café design and earning model. Ha! Here we are over a year later, still closed, still begging for support. It’s depressing, debilitating and deflating, but we soldier on. We sally forth. In that vein, we’ve launched two new initiatives—tax-deductible monetary donations to our 501(c)3 non-profit Friends of Cuba Libro and 100% original, Cuban-designed merch in our Red Bubble store. And on June 3, Dr William Ross (voted Favorite Customer by Team Cuba Libro in 2019) is hosting a fundraising webinar with me (and whomever can connect from Havana), En la Lucha: The Cuba Libro Story. Please tune in/share if you’re able.

Times are terrible in Cuba, I can’t lie. Empty stomachs, limited horizons and broken hearts are foisted upon us thanks to US sanctions, the global pandemic and the island’s inability to withstand the current context for much longer. Our safety net is dangerously frayed. Friends and loved ones plot escape. Indeed, by the time you read this, one of our dearest friends and most ardent supporters will have emigrated. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye.

I’ve got my new passport, but thanks to the embargo, pandemic and politics, I’m stuck in the Estamos Jodidos until further notice. Coño.

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August 14, 2020 · 12:11 pm

COVID in Cuba: Havana Monkey Wrench

Let’s talk more about coronavirus!…No one said ever.

Personally, I’m fucking sick of it and I’m guessing you are too. In addition to the ad nauseam data, studies, news (and “news”), conspiracies theories, spin, and chatter around the mono-topic, as my friend Rose likes to call it, I’m a working health journalist.

As you might imagine (though I advise against it), 2020 for me has been all COVID almost all the time.

Perhaps you, like me, are holding a ticket to ride on the coronacoaster. On a good day, you’re able to clean a little, catch up with some family or friends, or just shower and make the bed. Win! On these kind of days, you’re able to crack a book, start watching an entertaining series, or cook something appetizing. Win! On good days, you might even have an appetite. Win! Maybe you slog through your errands and only see a handful of mask-less idiots. Win! You got out of bed today? Count that as a win, baby!

And then it’s back to the mono-topic, with a dose of Trump or systemic racism or Saharan dust storms and locust swarms thrown in to make sure you don’t get your hopes too high or even up.

Here in Havana, like wherever you are, we’re on the same horrible ride—but different. And while not fun by any stretch, we always felt that flicker of hope. Even on the worst days standing in line for five hours under a blazing tropical sun to buy ketchup or toilet paper if we were very, very lucky, we hoped. Even on those days when our rice and beans were running low and the eggs had run out long ago, hope simmered. Because Cuba had a plan. Cuba had experience with contagious disease. Cuba flattened its curve early and effectively. Cuba was keeping COVID at bay.

April. May. June. One by one, all the provinces succeeded in hitting the five epidemiological targets needed to pass from recovery Phase 1, to Phase 2 and at last to Phase 3. Except Havana, which lagged, entering Phase 1 on July 3. Still, the simmering coals of hope flickered, caught and burned brighter. Thousands of RT-PCR tests were being processed daily revealing only a handful of cases. Contacts were traced and isolated, in their homes or centers for this purpose. Treatments developed in Cuba meant we suffered few COVID-related fatalities, sometimes for weeks at a stretch. Win!

After being shuttered for nearly five months, Cuba Libro finally re-opened—a huge sigh of relief for the seven team members and their families who depend on this income, but also our community who more than ever, needed a good coffee or smoothie while swinging in a hammock. We were in Phase 1; we were on our way. Win! Win!

We started calculating: based on the experience around the country, Havana would be able to reach Phase 2 within a few weeks and then the coveted Phase 3, when commercial flights and tourism and cultural activities and all the rest—with the proper sanitary measures in place—could resume. Cuba had COVID under control.

If there’s one takeaway from this pandemic, it’s that control is an illusion, self-delusion. None of us are in control. And self-control? COVID has shown that too many of us ain’t got it. And Havana? It definitely ain’t got it.

I know. I know. Self-control has never been a Cuban strong suit. Asking Cubans to self-regulate is like expecting a frisky cat not to pounce on a twitchy mouse. Sure, most Cubans can exhibit extreme discipline when called upon. And they do….until they don’t.

Fumigating against mosquitoes carrying dengue happens furiously for a few days and then poof! You never see the fumigation brigades again. Taxis caught overcharging are fined for a couple of weeks, then it’s back to price gouging passengers. To hell with official fixed prices! Market scales are inspected and recalibrated with comprehensive press coverage and at revolutionary speed until some days pass and we return to the same old fixed scales and sticking it to hungry customers. When the new garbage pick up schedule is announced, citizens dutifully haul their dripping bags of coffee grounds, rotting fruit peels and egg shells to the corner dumpster between 6 and 10pm. By the next week? They’re chucking stinking bags into—or near—those same dumpsters whenever they damn please.

In common parlance, this compliance followed by slack and apathetic disregard is known as relajo. And Havana, after entering into Phase 1 and trucking towards Phase 2, slipped into a state of tremendo relajo.

For months, we masked up whenever outside the house. We hand washed and sanitized and disinfected, the bleach wreaking havoc on our clothes, hands, shoes. We didn’t go to the beach, we didn’t picnic in the park, most of us didn’t even glimpse the sea. We physically distanced as best we could among the (non) huddled masses yearning to get food or into the bank. Active screeners came to our doors every day to check our health status. Confirmed cases dropped—from the mid-30s, to 19, to single digits.

The flame of hope blazed.

Havana entered Phase 1 and while there were still restrictions, certain businesses were allowed to reopen, with new physical distancing and other health requirements. Limited transportation resumed, with reduced capacity. Some beaches were opened, with measures and hours designed to reduce crowds.

For our part, we had five blissful, laughter-filled days at Cuba Libro. We were back! We were better than ever! We didn’t raise prices and had even more delicious offerings on our menu! We were recouping a tiny fraction of the losses we incurred during the nearly five months we were shuttered! We were PSYCHED.

And then the coronacoaster derailed.

Mistakes were made. Limiting beach access, with 2.2 million hot, sweaty, pent-up Habaneros aching to cool off? In July? Who thought that would ever work?! Requiring bus drivers to say: ‘sorry, I know you’ve been waiting for over an hour to get on a bus home but we’re at 50% capacity so I can’t take anymore passengers?’ That would be cruel and unusual. No hot, sweaty, pent-up and underpaid driver can be expected to do this. Playgrounds re-opened. Coppelia re-opened. Bars and restaurants re-opened.

As might be expected, some Habaneros could not, would not, observe the Phase 1 restrictions.

The country reeled with news of the outbreaks. After weeks of single digit cases, Havana alone suddenly had 30, 44, then 76 confirmed cases—a concentration of numbers we hadn’t seen throughout the entire pandemic in any province. Contact tracing revealed three main sources of transmission: bars, buses and beaches.

Dozens of cases were traced to Bar Q Bolá in Playa. Apparently, a singer performed to a packed, drunken crowd one night (reader alert: this is second-hand information; I wouldn’t step foot in Q Bolá even in normal times) and the bar became a superspreader event. Did they not know that live music performances, being open until dawn, and large gatherings were verboten in Phase 1? They knew. Besides, anyone who has had a sloppy, nameless one night stand while wearing beer goggles knows alcohol and self-restraint/good judgment do not mix. Duh. (NB: although national health authorities and media have repeatedly cited Q Bolá as a superspreader event, owners deny it).

Even more cases were traced to a toque de santo, an Afro-Cuban religious ritual, held in Bauta (Artemisa province, adjacent to Havana). If you have no knowledge of these types of events, lets just say the liquor is flowing, physical distancing is not possible, and the celebratory atmosphere attracts a lot of people. People attending the toque also frequented a nearby bar and then went to the beach at Baracoa. The religious practitioner being feted, by the way, was from Havana. So now you have inter-provincial transmission.

Both Havana and Bauta have been forced to open and equip more isolation centers due to the widespread contacts generated by these two events alone.

And just like that, Havana got wrenched from Phase 1, dropping down, down, down, back into the local transmission phase. Transportation is severely cut back to essential workers only and stops at 11pm. There is a citywide curfew: no one can be on the streets after that hour either. Beaches, bars, pools and playgrounds are closed. Private taxis and minibuses cannot operate. And businesses like ours can only do take out (we wish we could; more on that in a later post). Sadly, Cuba Libro had to close again.

So we’re back to isolation, anxiety over food insecurity, our four walls (lucky those with balconies or yards or even a room to call their own), being broke, being sad, being hot and nurturing some flicker of hope.

We are back to riding the coronacoaster. Full speed ahead…

 

***Anyone interested in daily COVID stats from Cuba, searchable by province and municipality, with detailed information including gender, age, source of transmission and numbers of contacts being traced of each confirmed case should visit the COVID-19 Cuba Dashboard. 

 

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May 25, 2020 · 4:18 pm

COVID-19 & Cuba: The Good

Greetings readers. I hope you’re as well as you can be given the shit show that is Planet Earth, 2020.

In my first chronicle about the coronavirus in Cuba, I led off with a (necessarily short) paragraph about some of the positive aspects of the ‘new normal’ here in Havana, followed by an all out rant about the negative. This time, I’m flipping the script, leading off with what is chapping my ass these days, before launching into the rays of light I’m witnessing in these otherwise deep, dark times.

Physical distancing is still—and always will be—a challenge in Cuba. The factors are multiple and varied, from cultural and historical to practical and meteorological. Yesterday’s meat hunt is illustrative. For those out of the loop: pandemic food procurement is one of the biggest stressors and threats to physical and mental health here.

We were out the door by 6:30am, already late by today’s standards: only the earliest birds get any worms in these COVID-19 times. Lines at stores where meat (usually chopped in a tube or pressed in a can) might be available but not guaranteed, begin forming at 4am. Folks on the hustle camp out at stores likely to release some kind of protein—canned sardines, corned beef loaf, hot dogs or the insanely coveted chicken—to be the first in line…and sell their spot to later comers. Typically, several friends and family members do this as a group so they can sell their turns in line, plus make their own purchases. Many of these items end up on the ‘informal market’ at a 100%, 200% or even 300% markup. Today, a tube of Colgate toothpaste is between $10 and $12CUC (up from $5) and 36 eggs cost $7CUC (up from $3). When you can find them.

The same dynamic is at play at carnecerías (open-air butchers) all over Havana.

Yesterday, instead of braving the crapshoot that is the stores, we opted for the butcher’s. This is more about Toby than us: we’re happy eating vegetarian, he is not. And the tubed/canned meat wreaks havoc on his health (for those not in the know: kibble in Cuba is reserved for the 1% who can source and afford it; the rest of us have to cook for our pets). When we arrived at 6:45 and asked for el ultimo, the line looked manageable. This was an illusion: the young man in front of us had marked in line for himself and three cousins, the woman before him was holding place for four neighbors and when meat finally went on sale at 9:15am, the line magically trebled as people cut in, jockeyed for position and called in favors with the meat purveyors.

During our four-hour, successful odyssey (we got some pork chops for us and bones with bits of meat for Toby), some of us maintained physical distance, but many more did not. Securing your place in line while keeping the cutters at bay, arguing with those who tried, theorizing about what meat might be for sale and when, all conspired to violate the two-meter distancing rule. And then it started to rain. Cue bunches of people huddled under a narrow awning trying to stay dry. COVID-driven anxieties notwithstanding, this scenario kicked off all my deep-seeded food insecurities bred during a childhood where too many mouths to feed and too little money had us arguing over who had more ramen noodles in their bowl and cruising the refrigerator or pantry for food was strictly verboten…

Although I miss my family horribly and there are days when people improperly using masks (obligatory here since late March) or my husband crowding me in the kitchen engenders thoughts of violence, I feel very safe in Havana. And there are some very good things happening.

If you’ve stayed with this post for this long, THANK YOU! Here goes:

  • Air quality and noise pollution: While we don’t have jutía frolicking in front yards or manatees sidling up to the Malecón, the air quality has become noticeably better. A fraction of cars, trucks and buses plying the streets, reduced work hours, and telecommuting, all contribute to improved air quality. In Havana, a lot of heavy industry is located within residential neighborhoods: I lived my first six years here directly behind the cigarette factory at 100 & Boyeros and this was (and is) a toxic environment. Even a slight reduction in the work day at pollution-spewing factories like this one helps the environment. Noise pollution—from vehicles, loud-mouthed neighbors and passersby, construction, and speaker-toting reggaetoneros—has also diminished considerably. For me, this is an extraordinarily welcomed increase in quality of life.

 

  • Bicycle boom: Bicycles and cycling culture are more complicated than you might think due to stigma from the economic crash (AKA Special Period) when pedal power was transport of last resort. But make no mistake: there is a small, but strong and growing, cycling movement afoot which predates COVID-19. Nevertheless, since the pandemic and attendant health measures limiting public transportation, bikes are coming out of garages, being rescued from backyard weeds, and off walls—yes, some people use them as décor which is absurd and makes me vomit in my mouth a little every time I see this. But the resurgence in cycling is wonderful to witness. Anyone with a bike knows these two wheels are a ticket to freedom. You can get anywhere your two legs will take you, plus it’s great exercise! Private businesses, including Cuba Libro, which enjoys and supports a large cycling community, are putting in bike racks and lobbying for bike-friendlier cities; hopefully this COVID-19 experience will stimulate more government support for cycling in general (ie not just for tourists). On the downside, if you want to buy a bike in Havana these days, it will cost 30%-50% more than it did pre-pandemic.

 

  • Kitchen creativity: This global phenomenon is taken to new heights in Cuba where the only items you might have on hand are rice, an egg and some tomatoes (if you’re lucky!). To keep things interesting, I’ve had to master Cuban classics like red bean potaje and ropa vieja, plus find new ways to prepare eggplant, bok choy, cabbage, carrots and more. I have to give a huge shout out to the Cuba Libro family in this regard for two very specific reasons: 1) someone very generously donated Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian a while back. My mom and sister have long been Bittman fans, but I didn’t know what I was missing; his books are such fantastic tools and well-written to boot and 2) our regulars at the café are creating their own coffee drinks at home, leading us to launch our CUBA LIBRO EN DA HOUSE competition—enter to win by June 6.

 

  • Better veggies, more sustainability: There are some silver linings to the food nightmare we’re living. First, in my experience, the fruit and vegetable markets here in Havana have been pretty well stocked the past two and a half months. Although I have to head out early, walk a half an hour and stand on line once I arrive, I’m almost sure to find watermelon, pineapple or mango; carrots, eggplant, peppers and onions; yucca or plantains (sweet potato has become a rare commodity for reasons still not understood); sesame and sunflower seeds, guava paste and peanuts; and with a little luck, basil and parsley. You never know what you’ll find, but even in smaller markets tucked along the Playa/Marianao border, I’ve found gorgeous bell peppers and tomatoes of unusual size. Chatting up the veggie seller, he told me this is ‘tourist produce,’ grown specifically for hotels and resorts, but made available to the public since Cuba’s borders were closed at the end of March. I glanced at the small, sad limones, with the bumpy skin that means they have no juice. ‘Tourists don’t eat lemons,’ he said laughing.

 

  • Growing your own: Here, like elsewhere, Cubans have started planting on balconies, along the small patches of dirt between sidewalk and street, on windowsills and roofs. Even me, with my notorious brown thumb, has a made a go of it. My garlic and bell peppers died in typically spectacular fashion, but…the pineapple I planted is going strong! I don’t expect a harvest, but it makes for a nice ornamental. Thankfully, my very forward-thinking friends in Guanabo started a community garden last year and are now harvesting like mad. Every week or so they drop off (mask in place, physically distanced) overflowing bags of fresh organic produce to friends, family, neighbors and community centers. Yesterday they popped by with fennel, arugula, parsley and wait for it…broccoli!! All of this conspires to help us eat healthier—the plate of chicharrones I put away last night notwithstanding.

 

  • Diversifying suppliers: I see a lot of this going on in the USA (bravo!) as people realize that megaliths like Amazon, although efficient and cheap and sometimes a necessary evil, are making a fortune off of us and their workers, and pursuing inhumane labor practices while ringing the death knoll for smaller mom and pop places. Here, we have had to pivot on suppliers, not for social justice considerations but because store supplies have constricted so drastically. Suppliers have also had to pivot since there are no tourists and private restaurants, previously their bread and butter, can only do takeout or delivery. As a result, we just ordered 2 kilos of artisanal goat cheese—a kilo of basil goat cheese and another kilo of oregano/garlic/black pepper goat cheese. This will be shared among several families and we’ll have to wait two weeks for it to be delivered to our door, but still! I am doing a serious dance of joy (cheese is another nearly impossible item to find these days). While not cheap, there are few things in this life for which I will pay whatever it takes. Cheese is one of them. And presented with the choice between meat or cheese, I choose cheese. Every. Single. Time. Some people won’t understand, but if you know, you know.

 

  • Solid solidarity: The willingness to help others, extend a hand, share what’s on hand and pull together, is very much a Cuban trait and vividly on display right now—globally and locally. Despite or because of all the very serious problems with the food supply (compounded by the cruel and failed US embargo), sharing and bartering is deeply woven into the fabric of Cuban culture. Let’s say the store where you’re on line has oil. You don’t need oil, but you buy your two allotted bottles anyway, to share with neighbors, give to friends or trade for tubed meat with the stranger you met on the four-hour line you stood on to buy it. In the past two weeks alone, I’ve traded: rice for flour, coffee for chicken, even soy sauce for chocolate! I’ve gifted banana muffins, coconut-mango bread and toothpaste (Note to self: take mother-in-law’s country wisdom to heart: ‘there are times when you don’t even share your water with your oxen.’).
  • Then there’s the Henry Reeve Contingent, Cuba’s specialized medical team now fighting COVID-19 in two dozen countries. I love when internet dissenters flaunt their ignorance, flaming me about Henry Reeve. I lived with this team in their tent hospitals in post-quake Pakistan in 2005 (they year the Contingent was founded, in direct response to Hurricane Katrina) and again for a month in 2010 after the earthquake in Haiti. Covering their work in the field is one of the highlights of my career as a health journalist. Signatures are now being collected to nominate the Contingent for the Nobel Peace Prize.
  • Solidarity is also pulsing through Cuba’s younger generations who are participating in volunteer movements to care for the most vulnerable—particularly the elderly and disabled people who live alone and can’t navigate the store-food situation. This is their moment: they missed the triumph of the Revolution, the Literacy Campaign and the Special Period (for the most part, the worst part). What we’re facing with COVID-19 is terrifying, horrifying, but it’s also motivating young people to pitch in and help out in ways heretofore largely unknown. We will need this moving forward.

And last, but certainly not least:

  • Nooners, booty calls & other carnal activities: Here we talk a lot about sex and bodily functions. These are things that distinguish my birth culture from my adopted culture and Reason #69 why I groove to Cuba. It’s all natural! What’s to be ashamed of? So we’ve been talking quite a bit about coronavirus sex. Conclusion? Whether you’re in a new, long-term, open, multi-partner or casual relationship, everyone’s action has dropped off. Some single people I know have stopped screwing altogether. Meanwhile, other people I know are now pregnant. So it’s a mixed bag. And when you’re greeting your booty call with an elbow bump, you know the main act is going to be different (no kissing or oral, for starters). Front-to-back positions are surging in popularity and encouraged. Cuba Libro is distributing a lot of free condoms. Since we’re in this at-home-all-the-time loop, there has been a happy uptick in nooners and daytime sex in general, plus the opportunity for multiple sessions. Creativity is another bonus with toys, role playing, and moving things out of the bedroom for variety having their moment. This is when we have the energy to actually get it up; this isn’t all days by any stretch of the imagination. But the carnal act is more intentional now, and that’s another good thing.

 

I should wrap this up—my guy just sauntered by wearing something sexy—but the whole point is: some of these positive elements of COVID-19 won’t have staying power, some may linger and fade (a la NYC post-9-11), and a few might stay as we realize how important they are for our collective health and well-being. It really is up to us to recognize, embrace, and multiply the good. You in?

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