They say it lies just 90
miles away. And, by most conventional measures, this appears to be
the case. But, for all its geographic proximity, Cuba might just as
well be on the far side of the planet. It is a land of startling
contrasts, of head scratching inconsistencies, and a land of joy and
optimism amidst a sea of poverty and disintegration. It is sometimes
so elusive to figure it all out, to make sense of it. As one Cuban
economist would tell us, “If you think you understand Cuba, you're
wrong. If you are confused, you get it.”
In my life, Cuba resonates
in a way that few countries do. We have, after all, a history. For
me, Cuba conjures up the Cuban missile crisis in 1962. That was a
time when in my heart of hearts I felt life as we knew it was about
to disappear. I recall vividly the nervousness, indeed panic, that
was creeping through me as I watched the accounts of the impending
head to head confrontation between the Soviets and the U.S. Navy
barely more than a stone's throw from our coastline. There were
missiles there; the kind that could in a flash arch upward across the
Florida Straits to destroy all life in my country and, specifically,
in my neighborhood in White Plains, New York. In school, we
regularly practiced our “duck and cover” drills as if our flimsy
wooden desks would miraculously protect us from radioactive fallout.
But, I remember as well an earlier time when my parents visited
Havana and stayed at the legendary Hotel Nacional, a place also
frequented by mafia royalty, Frank Sinatra, and Mickey Mantle. I
have some recollection of their stories of that stay which sounded so
glamorous, so cool, so elegant.
So, when I got a call from
my nephew, Peter, many months ago telling me of his plans to travel
there, inviting me to come along, and to do so with a group as
legendary as National Geographic, I didn't see an option other than
to say yes, I will join you. It is true that the rum I had been
drinking that evening helped spur the mood, but this was, in my eyes,
the chance of a lifetime to bring these memories of mine to life –
to look behind the veil of secrecy that has shrouded this place in
mystery for more than a half century, at least to Americans.
What followed was, in my
personal experience, epic. I would go to a Cuban baseball game. I
would join on stage a choral group to sing with them. I would sit in
the engineer's seat of a 109 year old locomotive as we steamed
through a sugar plantation. I would play the horse jaw with a Cuban
band. I would drink freshly squeezed sugar cane. I would dance with
a 6 year old girl and a 70 year old woman. I would ride in a '51
Lincoln and a '54 Dodge convertible. I would be moved to tears by
the performances of young adults dancing to programs they had
choreographed. I would enjoy endless conversations with artists and
locals of all stripes. I would visit a cigar factory and lean
closely over the desk of a worker there and watch, mesmerized, by his
skill in rolling cigar after perfect cigar. I would have a chance at
humanitarian acts that were unanticipated just moments earlier. As a
group, we would interact with artists, musicians, historians,
architects, sociologists, economists, journalists, religious figures,
and, yes, a horse whisperer. And, all this just scratches the
surface.
Havana is a prime example
of the Cuban puzzle. Old Havana is gorgeous. The grandeur of
Spanish colonial architecture is proudly on display from the various
plazas to the beautiful tree-lined Paseo de Prado to the Malecon, a
walkway that follows the sea wall for five miles along the
waterfront. The beautiful archways, multi-colored buildings, the
statuary, and high energy that you find here convey a rich heritage
that takes little imagination to see. Against this backdrop of
picture perfect buildings, toss in a dollop of the armada of brightly
colored vintage cars from the '50s, many looking like they just came
off the assembly line. And, just to add spice to the mix, picture
neighborhoods where there is music literally every block whether from
a live band, street musicians, or a radio blaring from somewhere.
Even Disney could not replicate a scene like this.
And yet, peel away this
veneer and stray a couple of blocks off the touristed beaten paths,
and a different story is told. Here, the buildings are dark with
decay. Roofs and walls are crumbling; colors are absent. The streets
are quieter. At the risk of hyperbole, there are moments when you
think you are looking at a post-apocalyptic world shunned by
civilization for way too long. We are told that 3.1 buildings
collapse every day in Havana and, as wild a statistic as that is, it
is not at all difficult to believe.
But then, just as you want
to conclude that Old Havana is just a ruse propped up by the
government to fool tourists, you come across a community action
project in which artists, sculptors and musicians devote half of
their earnings to the effort to reclaim their neighborhood from ruin.
Buildings are being refurbished; streets are cleaned; art spreads
out along the walls of the community. It is beautiful and it is
moving. It is here that I meet Nivia, an attractive artist who
captures the hope and drive of so many here. Her paintings come
alive with brilliant colors and whimsical themes. I find myself
buying one of her works: a depiction of tall, multi-colored buildings
swaying against a moonlit evening sky as if they are made of jello,
smiling. Nivia tells me they are the buildings of Havana doing the
salsa. How can you not smile at this? I tell her I want this
painting because this is the picture I want to take home with me as
the essence of my experience here.
Cubans love their
baseball. They are passionate about it. We are fortunate to be in
town during the playoff season. Five of us rush off to catch a game
that features Industriales, the local favorites. As we approach the
stadium, the sounds emanating from within are already loud, but that
only serves as a warning of what is to follow. We take our seats
down the right field line and take it all in. The noise is
deafening, painfully so at times. There are more horns blaring from
the fans here than in a Times Square traffic jam. And, it doesn't
stop. Ever. Along the walls of the stadium where in the U.S. you
are apt to find billboards trumpeting all manner of commercial
products, there are only signs proclaiming “dignity,” “strength,”
and “freedom.” There is no huge screen in centerfield showing
replays or readings of pitch speed. Only the bare story told through
inning by inning scoring and the totals of runs, hits and errors.
Nothing fancy here, just baseball in its purest form. It's a
beautiful thing to watch. And, the ride home? A '51 Lincoln, of
course.
Cubans love their music.
Schools abound from coast to coast that encourage young musicians to
hone their craft, whether it's the piano, the flute, the guitar or
the violin. The same for dancers, artists and sculptors. We were
treated to a show of this on several occasions. At one school, young
adult dancers moved to the strains of soulful music and told stories
of longing and despair. Beautiful and pure. A young female
violinist, who was just inches from my chair, made her instrument
into a most personal extension of her emotions as she stunned us with
her incredible talent. At another site, we were entertained by a
show of youngsters from about five years of age to maybe fourteen who
pranced about the stage with energy, talent, and good humor that
reflected childhood honesty at its best. At the conclusion of the
show, the kids filled the aisles and pulled members of the audience
from their seats to dance with them. One young girl squeezed through
our long row to the middle where I was seated. She grabbed my arm
and pulled me along to the aisle where we could dance with the
others.
And, in Cienfuegos, we
were treated to a recital by a choral group, the Cantores de
Cienfuegos, a mix of nine males and nine females who sing world-wide
an intoxicating mix of spirituals, baroque and classical music, and
even American folk classics. The room we gathered in was sparse with
precious little to absorb the sound. When the group marched in and
started singing it was like an explosion, a most achingly beautiful
explosion. The room literally filled with their amazing voices. It
was so overpowering and exquisite, that you could just stare and feel
their music literally surging through you. After a few numbers,
Honey, the group's leader, asked our group if any of us would like to
join them up front and join in their singing. Without giving it a
moment's thought, I raised my hand. Let me be clear here: I do not
sing. To my recollection, I have not really sung more than a couple
of notes since the fourth grade. And yet, in that moment, it seemed
instinctively like such a magical thing to do. So, up I sprang, took
my position with the guys, was briefly tutored in the lyrics I needed
to know, and....started singing. It was magical. I felt connected.
A moment I likely will never forget.
I truly did not know what
to expect from the Cuban people. Given the American embargo of the
past half century, the rabid mistrust between our two governments,
and the economic fallout that has been extreme at times, I thought we
might be met with anger, hostility, or, at a minimum, skepticism. I
could not have been more wrong. Time after time after time, we were
greeted with surprise, enthusiasm and curiosity. Whether it was the
lady selling me a t-shirt, or a taxi driver, or the guy behind the
desk at the rum museum, or total strangers who would just say hello,
the interaction was incredibly heartwarming. Take Erwin, for
example. Here's a guy who was sitting in the shade near a park, and,
as we exchanged glances, he smiled and said hello to Peter and me.
When he learned we were from the U.S., he said, “Really? That's amazing!
How did you get here? This is wonderful!” Or, the guy at the rum
museum who, learning of our origins, simply leaned back, eyes wide
open, and softly said, “Oh wow.” Or, the lady who sold me a
t-shirt who stood up, came around the counter, and held my arm while
telling me about her family in Hialeah.
And then there was Juan.
I met Juan while strolling down the Paseo de Prado one morning. Like
many Cuban taxi drivers, he called out to me inquiring whether I
needed his services. I declined, but we started talking anyway. In
the span of a few minutes -- he with his broken English, me with my
even more limited Spanish -- we were trading stories about our
families, our lives. He showed me pictures of his young children.
After a few minutes, he looked at me and asked whether I might help
him buy some milk for his family. I told him I would. We embarked
on a search strolling through neighborhoods well off the tourist
grid. One store, then another, then another. No milk. At last we
found a store that had the large bags of dehydrated milk Juan was
looking for. He sighed, looked at me, and asked if it would be okay
to purchase four bags. I told him yes. We made the purchase and
Juan's lips started trembling. Tears came into his eyes. He told me
that these bags would provide him and his family with a two month
supply of milk. He threw his arms around me and gave me a huge
bear hug, and told me he could never have afforded to do this on his
own. I felt like a million dollars.
On the last day of our
journey, we had lunch at the Hotel Nacional, the place where my folks
had stayed more than half a century earlier, just prior to the
revolution. As time was winding down on a miraculous trip, I
strolled the grounds of the hotel that overlooked the water. At a
far corner of the property are tunnels built during the missile crisis
fifty-two years ago. As I descended down the steps, I found myself
alone with the fellow who monitored this parcel of underground
terrain. Eduardo, as I soon learned. We nodded to each other. As he
started showing me the charts on the wall that depicted the Soviet
missiles Cuba had at the time and how their range would impact the
U.S., he drew me closer and locked the doors behind us. He beckoned
me to follow him deeper into the tunnels. His English was passable,
again better than whatever Spanish I could muster. He pointed out
the placements for the artillery that once were there, the uniforms
the soldiers wore, and where the ammunition was stored. When we
re-surfaced to our starting point, I explained to him the impact that
crisis had on me back then and, in particular, the terror I felt as
nuclear war seemed far more than just a hypothetical quandary. I
explained our “duck and cover” drills, and the non-stop coverage
of the crisis on American television. He smiled and his look
softened. Eduardo was about my age during that crisis, and he
explained to me the terror and near panic he felt in those days for
exactly the same reasons. He feared losing everything and everyone.
We had a moment of true understanding. A shared memory. I told him
how wonderful that here we were a half century later able to discuss
this event together after so many years of mutual mistrust and
hostility between our countries. When we shook hands and smiled, it
was a knowing smile. We both got it.
Not a bad note to end on.
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