Cuba Diaries: Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Nassau, Bahamas; so here we sit, already, in the paint peeling humidity. The feeble air conditioning smells of mold and strangeness. The people of Nassau, I’m not sure whether they’re naturally discourteous or whether they just resent white rich tourists.

Oh my God! On the tarmac is a Russian plane, a jetliner from the twilight zone. I hope the machismo of the men working around it won’t let it fail or crash, and neither will my intention if I get my way. “Angels of light and love be with my father and me.”

Well, the interior of this jet is like a submarine; there is an eerie, unsettling amount of condensation emitting as clouds of steam from the ventilator ducts. It looks similar to a scene from “Cats.” This particular jet is an IL 62 m; somewhere around 1976 was its heyday. The upholstery on the seats is an indescribably mottled brown pattern, exuding the vibrations of ineptitude and danger. All the pot warmers and controls in the galley are large and black as if made for a child.

Or trip is smooth, until we get over the island and the plane goes through one of those instantaneous thunderstorms that explode in the late afternoon in the Caribbean. I am sure we will die here and now. The pilot seems to fly like he is suicidal, slinging the pitiful jet around in the sky like a roller coaster. And then it’s over, we land, my heart is pounding, we return; father and son after 40 years. Gilberto is 83 and I am 51.

click to enlarge

To our great surprise, after running the gamut of Cuban security, scrutiny and immigration, emerging into the great humid heart of Habana Airport’s parking lot, we are greeted by Ives, my dad’s cousin’s son. He had driven back and forth between Habana’s two airports all day not knowing which one we would arrive at or when. He is thrilled and relieved to find us; we had never seen him before. He greets us as if we had never left, let alone never laid eyes on each other. Ives drives us back to his home, in a vehicle that has been their family car since 1976, some Russian thing. The doors shut, but are not guaranteed to stay closed; success can be achieved only by an explosive slam as you bend the door up on its hinge. The original gas tank has a few bullet holes, so Ives has suspended a two-liter empty plastic milk container from the underside of the trunk with a wire. He then snakes a rubber hose from the carton to the fuel line. Cuban resourcefulness at it finest!

Michael in Havana 1959 click to enlarge

He was working on renovating the entire upstairs of the family house. so only the lower half of the house was available for our use. The house itself was imprisoned in time; I last saw it in 1959. The light fixture over the kitchen table, once at three-tiered statement of dignity and modernity to my 11-year-old mind, was still dangling there unused, and tarnished.

Gilberto visiting the grave of Fausto & Elvira

Out in back of the house, my memory was shocked, stunned by the sight of centuries-old graveyard that Marsha and I used to play in. Memories of Marsha, my sister, and my Cuban life style swirled around my head, the decay and the inequality.

The bathroom was the greatest deprivation of human dignity. You must use newspapers to wipe your ass and deposit them in a trash can. In order to flush one must fill up a bucket from the shower and pour it into the toilet. No hot water at all. The water pressure was practically nonexistent. The pumps that still fill the water-holding tank are feebly working, as is the kitchen light, which is as dim as dusk.

Evonne

Evonne is my second cousin. She is 13. A beautiful young woman totally at the service of her brother, Ives and her grandmother, Hilda. She, as they jokingly say, has been allowed the opportunity to learn to cook and to serve.

On Monday night, she walked to the local bodega three times to buy her brother more beer. She came became back each time with less and less enthusiasm until she practically threw the bag in his lap the last time. However, later that evening around 11 p.m. he was sitting in her lap as she searched his back, popping his pimples like a monkey.