Notes From A Small Island

So I’ve now been in Cuba for just over a week, and the idea of summarizing everything I’ve done seems – unrealistic, to say the least. To me, this week seemed like four; every day has been packed with things new and strange and wondrous. So if I’m not entirely complete here, you’ll have to forgive me, and if I manage to get a tenth of the things written that I’d like to I’ll regard it as a success.

The day we arrived in Cuba was unseasonably cool. The temperature hovered in the low sixties; a breeze blew off the ocean; and clouds came and went overhead, promising rain but seldom delivering. It would remain like this for several days, and the Cubans I met during that time would apologize for the frente fria without fail. When I would ask how long it was expected to last, they’d spare a quick glance skyward, suck in their breath, and shrug. This is what passes for a weather report in Cuba.

The plane we came over on was a small, rickety prop plane old enough to have a marked-off ‘Smoking Section’ near the bathrooms . There were thirty of us coming over through NYU (twenty-seven students, two TAs, and a professor), although because there was also a group of American University students on our flight, it was literally full of twenty-year-olds. (The two groups were easy to tell apart, though: the AU kids wore preppier clothes). The flight was remarkable only for its brevity: forty-five minutes after we set off, the stewardess came over the intercom and said, “Welcome to Havana.”

We landed at Jose Marti International Airport at about three in the afternoon, marking our first of many visits to Things Named After Jose Marti. A freedom fighter and writer from the late 19th century, he is Cuba’s biggest hero, and they seldom pass up an opportunity to honor his memory. I can remember seeing an airport, a park, four monuments, ten statues, and at least a dozen busts since I’ve been here, but I’m sure there are others I’ve passed without noticing. Despite its auspicious name, the airport was as unpleasant as any other, and we soon made our way out of it and onto a bus.

On that first bus ride from the airport to our hotel, I remember being surprised both at the things that were exactly as I expected them to be, and the things that were different. For example, there really are old cars everywhere. The streets of Havana are littered with 1950s-era Chevrolets, Packards, Buicks, and Chryslers. Most are barely running, but others are immaculately kept, and these are as beautiful as it’s possible for an automobile to be.

(Incidentally, the only other cars on the road are these ugly, boxy, Volvo-esque cars that the Soviet Union sold to Cuba in vast quantities during the 80s. Today, these cars serve as a testament to Cuban creativity as much as anything: they’ve become the medium of choice for many artists, and its rare to see one without a vivid paint job.)

After a few minutes on the bus, we arrived at the Hotel Riviera, our home for the next three months. The living arrangements were born mostly out of desperation: we were originally slated to stay at a much smaller house, but Harvard got their application in first, and housing had to be found for us quickly.

The Riviera was built by the Mafia in 1957, right when everyone believed that Cuba was about to become the number-one gambling destination in the Caribbean, and indeed the hotel wouldn’t look out of place in Vegas. (Gambling is, of course, outlawed by the government, so the hotel’s awkwardly large lobby is the only testament to the slot machines that once stood there.) Upon closer inspection, the hotel reveals its many years of neglect: the paint is flaking; the tiles in the bathroom are chipped; and the skylight in the lobby is missing a pane, letting in both wind (which is often welcome) and rain (which usually isn’t).

Although it was a bit startling at first, this air of decay would prove inescapable in Cuba. For many years following the Revolution, Cuba survived at the mercy of the Soviet Union, giving them over 80% of their trade in return for hefty subsidies. During this time, Cuba made just enough money to keep the Communist government afloat and implement its policies, some of which worked to the benefit of the people (Cuba has a 95% literacy rate, a reasonably healthy population, and very little violent crime) and others of which didn’t (there has never been enough money to provide for the adequate upkeep of all the property owned by the government, so every building, road, and structure is in need of repair in some way).

In a rather shortsighted move, Cuba neglected to prepare in any way for the collapse of the USSR, and it hit them hard. Between 1989 and 1995, Cuba went through what is euphemistically called the ‘Special Period’, a time of chronic food shortages, rolling power blackouts, and uncertain water cleanliness. It was only at this time that Cuba began, as an emergency measure, to exploit its uses as a tourist destination, and while today the situation is much improved, many Cubans haven’t forgotten the difficulties of the Special Period.

The economic situation in Cuba is complex and sometimes confusing. For example, a large black market (or la bolsa negra, as its called) has sprung up since the Special Period, and it does a fantastic job clothing the citizens; many Cubans on the street are more fashionably dressed than we are. It also provides them with luxury items not usually available in third-world countries: DVD players, iPods, and so forth. So in Cuba there is a well-clothed, well-educated, healthy population that still lives in conditions of the most abject poverty. It’s a situation that has perhaps never existed anywhere before.

It’s also difficult to get used to the idea of everything – and I do mean everything – being owned by the government. When walking through the University of Havana one day, one of us turned to our guide and asked whether the University was public or private; all she got in response was a perplexed look. There is no such thing as a private university in Cuba. Nor is there such thing as a private newspaper, a private store, or a private hotel; all of these things are owned and run by the state.

(This is actually no longer entirely true. After the Special Period, Castro allowed for some small-scale free-enterprise to come into being, in the form of the casas de particular and casas de palidare. These are homes that have received permission to let out rooms or run restaurants out of their homes, and they give very little of the money they make to the government. But they are as yet few and far between, and capitalism’s toehold here is still very slight.)

Most of our first week was spent going to Spanish class and exploring the Vedado district of Havana, where we live. Our Spanish class is at the University, which is one of the most beautiful campuses that I’ve ever seen, full of majestic, column-adorned buildings and shady paths. The entrance to the University is a tall, sweeping staircase topped by a benevolent woman spreading her hands out toward Havana below.

The Vedado district is one of the more upscale areas of Havana, although the term is relative. The hotel sits right on the Malecon, the seawall that runs along Havana’s coast for several miles, and so at night I open the windows and listen to the waves, and during the day I sit on the wall and read and watch the fishermen.

There’s much more I’d like to say, but this is more than enough, I think, to start. I’ll get more up here soon, and if there’s anything I’ve said that you want to know about, let me know!