If Cuba were a Feeling

The first thing that struck me as the plane descended through the fluffy whipped-cream clouds was the barrenness of the country below. Most of the land has been cleared for agriculture but lies fallow spreading out in acre after acre of monotonous grassland. Driving into Havana for the first time the buildings and streets are eerily empty. There are people, of course, but everything feels sparse. It's vaguely reminiscent of one of those zombie apocalypse movies where the protagonist wakes up out of a coma to find a shell of a world, with buildings and infrastructure, but no people. We pass a large stone structure built in a classical style with corinthian columns flanking the grand entrance, 'Hospital Central' is etched above the door. But as we drive by I see that the windows have no glass, they are dark lidless eyes into emptiness.




In the heart of the old city there are more Cubans, drawn by the scent of tourist dollars. Everywhere you turn is a salsa, rhumba or folk band serenading you (whether you will it or not) and passing around the hat. There is all kind of ridiculous Che Guevara paraphernalia for sale, wood carvings of sensuous female figures, maracas and poorly made fridge magnets. Shopkeepers half-heartedly call you to look at their wares as they sit in their door-frames, hardly stirring.

During all my time there I couldn't shake the feeling that there was an underlying sadness, or resignation, permeating the country. The small bursts of vibrancy that I saw were all staged for the benefit of the tourists, "LOOK! Look at our cheerful people, so full of life. They live for music and dancing! And they are so, SO happy you see YOU!!!"

The town of Remedios offered, what I felt, was a genuine look into the true nature of Cuba. The town is tiny with almost no tourist infrastructure and is off the well-worn path trod by the all-inclusive resort crowd. Every December 24th they have the festival of las Parrandas, the town divides into competing neighbourhoods who each build their own float over the course of the year and on the appointed day their efforts are set up in the central plaza. At night they will be lit up with hundreds of coloured lights and the barrios will battle by shooting off hundreds of firecrackers.



Naturally there were a few tourists there but this was a distinctly Cuban affair. And it bore no resemblance to the happy-go-lucky routine portrayed by those living off the scraps from the tourist table in Old Havana. There were no "authentically dressed" wandering bands of musicians, there were no women clad in the all white garb of Santaria offering to tell your fortune. The street vendors at las Parrandas fell into three categories; meat-on-a-bun (or plate), booze and assortments of trinkets that are hardly novel to any North American, things like hair elastics and cheap plastic toys.

I think it's safe to say that on festival days we all celebrate that which we cherish or desire most. As I live only blocks away from Toronto's Eaton Centre I feel confident saying that Canadian Christmas is an elevated celebration of "stuff." It's our culture. However in Cuba there is not the option to buy bushels of unnecessary gifts and an overabundance of cookies and/or chocolate.

As I sat smoking a cigarillo on a bench in Remedios' central plaza I watched the people around me. Families, groups of friends and overly amorous young couples talked and laughed. Almost everyone I saw was well on their way to getting completely and utterly WASTED! Now I know New Years in North America isn't any different but at las Parrandas there wasn't that bacchanalian rowdiness that characterizes our drinking holidays (St. Paddy's anyone?) it felt more ... serious. Like everyone was on a mission. If someone didn't have a double tall can of Bucanero Fuerte beer in their hands it was likely because there was a 26er of Havana Club hiding by their feet. Yes, yes, everyone was having a good time but there was this strange drive underlying it all, this need to for one day (via alcohol) forget.

The morning after las Parrandas I walked to the main plaza again to find a taxi. The side streets leading to the square were awash in human shit. Evidence that late into the night inhibition flew the coup.

I don't mean to sound down on Cuba. The generosity of spirit and voluntary kindness of some of those I met was overwhelming. Coming back from the beach on Christmas day my taxi driver wordlessly pulls over at the side of the road. He returns with a bulging bag of oranges and with a shy smile he offered me one.

Cuban art explodes with emotion and dynamism that is sorely absent on the streets of its cities and towns.

Cuba feels like a country that, many years ago, bravely toppled their tyrannical government and then heroically stood up to a nation that could have crushed it with a militaristic flick of the wrist. It is a country that now identifies itself so strongly with those acts and that time that evolution as a society has been impossible.

Over breakfast one morning, Damayi, the hostess of my casa in Old Havana spoke of how there is no opportunity for the young people, no motivation. She pursed her lips slightly as she spoke about her own son and that he moved to Mexico to make a better life. In her entire apartment there is only one picture, it's of her son, and as I scarfed down my morning eggs she brought the picture to the table for me to admire.

On the one hand I didn't see a single advertisement the entire time I was in Cuba, not one. But on the other hand, I also didn't see a single internet cafe, or even a computer for that matter that wasn't running on DOS (for those who remember what that is). It's true that Cuba is free from corporate meddling but how is that price being paid?

I found Cuba to be a country of beautiful, idealistic, sadness. The revolution served a great purpose but a purpose that is no longer there.