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Cuba Diaries: Part 1
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Ives
Ives is my 27-year-old second cousin, who was having his back
checked for zits by his younger sister. He is brash and cocky
and loving, kind and funny and trapped. His parents are away in
South Africa; they are esteemed doctors of the Cuban medical system,
and he is the new man of the house, responsible for everything.
His dream is to leave Cuba, to meet his girlfriend and adopted
daughter in Tampa, Florida. He desperately wants our help. He
earns a hundred and fifty U.S. dollars a month (one American dollar
= 20 Cuban pesos). He drinks approximately three packs of beer
a day, and eats at the most bizarre times, 12 midnight or four
in the morning a bowl of rice. I suppose that is his way of dealing
with what we will from here on refer to as the “crisis.”
This is also the way so many men and women in Cuba deal: strong
tobacco, drinking, and I suppose sex, music and dancing because
there is so little to eat.
Wednesday morning June 30th: I cannot wait to leave this system,
these conditions, I am counting every moment trying to figure
a way to make it less miserable for me. I feel like a coward.
For my relatives stay on sweetly oblivious, to a certain degree,
of their degradation. I can barely discuss this with Dad, but
I think he’s feeling the same way too.
There is something going on here in Cuba that is akin to being
subjected to rape, or trapped in a fire in a telephone booth.
Everyone is being forced to change, like a trial by fire in an
alchemical transformation. You either find your will and determination
to live or you resign, you either seek to escape the unbelievably
harsh conditions or you learn to be stoic, philosophical, pray
for the day when change finally comes or watch things slowly alter,
invisibly. You can live with the intention of dignity or die.
However, you cannot prosper, for to prosper is impossible in the
Communist system. In order to prosper you must be willing to commit
illegalities, black market transactions, which robs you of your
integrity, or you must be willing to stretch your definition of
integrity indefinitely. Ah yes, that’s it.
Daisy
She is the arms and legs of Hilda, her best friend, her sister,
her “mother” for over 50 years, Daisy has worked for
Hilda as a servant and now she is a member of the family. Daisy
carries herself with dignity and presence and speaks like an Oracle.
She is beautiful and black and a proud woman over sixty years
of age. She bathes Hilda – feeds her daily, tends to her
toiletries, brushes her hair, dresses her, powders her body as
if it were her own. I will hate leaving Miss Daisy.
Gilberto listens to her long talks about history and family genealogy
with rapt attention. She speaks clearly and slowly. If I do not
ask her for something I take away her essence. She glares at me,
with a hope that I will let her make espresso for me. Her kitchen
is spotless, relatively, but her knives and forks are rusted.
With olive oil rationed three months in every year, she fries
our meat in water.
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Gilberto
click to enlarge |
It took me a day or so to realize at meal time, Dad and I ate
arroz con pollo, lechon and avocado, while everyone else talked
and laughed. One morning I woke with a start: there was only enough
food for me and my father. We went shopping at the American dollar
store that day. That night we all feasted. They were too proud
to ask for help.
Orlando
Orlando features are so fine, cheeks and eyes clear and noble.
His hands however are like black doves fluttering and singing
as he speaks. It is literally poetry, poetry of spirit and words.
He speaks the absolute truth about the conditions of life in Cuba.
He said: to believe not what you hear but what you see. Orlando
is the father of Ives’ new “esposa” who lives
in Florida. The family extends itself, endlessly branching out
over one generation 20 times more than in any other preceding
generation.
Evis, Ives’ father, had five wives with children from each.
Orlando could be Daisy’s soul mate. He is a 47-year-old
man whose daughters are now around 18 to 27 years old and are
having multiple “marriages” and children of their
own within a span of eight to nine years. He asks me, with his
hand dancing the meaning of his words, if he could come back to
the U.S. with me and be my slave, seriously!
Profound ironies
The revolution continues as an intellectual process, slogans
and posters and separation. The revolution promises victory, but
over what? Communists view the world outside as antagonists.
This nation uses the currency of the nation that it reviles and
politically hates the most. The people were promised everything
but get nothing from the promises.
There is no toilet paper in any public bathroom, or practically
in any home. The basic human dignity of the 20th century, wiped
away as it were. Communism is more than willing to supply you
with inconsistent and dangerous medical services. Frightening
transportation, medieval roads… they will provide you with
a free burial and a decent vacation, a stomach full of paranoia
instead of food, but no, not any toilet paper.
There so many ironies inconsistencies and hypocrisies that you
could take anything and began to expound. A store you may not
go into in less you have U.S. dollars, but the things that you
need can only be found there, and you cannot make enough money
to go there; the average income is about $150 per month per person.
A good portion of which goes to the government. There is very
little or no privately owned housing or business or cars all,
of which revert back to the state if you want to sell them or
leave Cuba.
Mechanical parts for outdated items of any kind – a refrigerator,
car engines, fans, pumps, locks, lights – are very difficult,
if not impossible, to find. Later. |
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