Mayo Teatral

Chucho Valdez turns Chopin into smooth wooden building blocks. He stacks them up, knocks them down. Now they’re red, yellow, blue and black, taller, taller, nothing. The off-beat towers of a broken skyline. What I really don’t understand is how he can whittle a city with no knife.

These are some of the shows I’ve seen at The Mella, The Roldan, The Charlie Chaplin and the numerous other theatres within a five-minute walk from our house in Vedado.
A puppet show about when Che was Ernesto.
A contemporary dance company perform an hour long swinging, swimming, flinging, clinging, ticking, broken record of a story of five friends and their complex, suicidal relationships in Havana.
An absurdist play about the loneliness of old age.
The most impressive all-ages dance exposition: Danzon, cabaret, salsa, rumba, samba performed by dancers in the most ornate, velvet, silk, batik outfits.
Los Van Van.
An opera about the medieval crusades sung in an old incomprehensible dialect of Spanish. Never have I seen so many performers simultaneously passionate yet contentedly conscious of their unparalleled ability to put at least ¾ of the audience to sleep within five minutes.

Because artists are viewed as equal contributors to Cuban society they are compensated with a “living wage,” (that’s another topic) just as is any doctor, lawyer, teacher etc. Its pretty clear that, at least in Cuba, eclecticism is the result of removing the profit motive from the creative sector of society.

I can’t remember the last creative performance I’ve seen in Ann Arbor or Northampton despite the abundant artistic culture in both small cities. It’s overwhelming to think of the tab I would accumulate attending so many impressive performances, and of the uniform demographic that would be represented in the audience, in comparison to the black, white, teenage, abuela, infant and senile population that fills theaters here for 5 peso, aka 25 cent performances. But it’s also a healthy exercise in comprehending culture. Oh how colorful and participatory it is, aquí en Cuba.

Votemos por la dignidad

Somehow, somebody stole an instant and all the signs in Cuba changed from celebrating the anniversary of the battle of Playa Giron, what we know as the Bay of Pigs invasion, to a simple, subtle insignia, a fist, a ballot, A VOTAR. We vote for dignity.

Sure, in the past twenty years the Cuban voter turnout hasn’t once dipped under some 92 percent. Sure, student organizations, specifically the Federation of University Students (FEU), the same organization in which Fidel spent his formative years at the University of Havana, plays a key role in nominating delegates to pass through the system. Sure, Cubans assert that one of the most critical aims of the Revolution is to enable citizens to participate in the “toma de” political decisions, but check out the system:

This past Sunday, Cubans voted to elect delegates to the most local form of government, the Municipal Assembly. Later in the year there will be a similar election to select delegates for the Provincial Assemblies, one step up. Following that will be the election for National Assembly deputies. And it is from this National Assembly that the Consejo de Estado is elected. Indeed it is a private affair. And it is from this Consejo de Estado that the president is elected. And it is for this reason that in class we ask if Cubans consider their leaders to be directly elected by the people. And it is for this reason that one after another after another after another our professors say yes, yes, yes. Direct election, of course:

The president can only be nominated if s/he has already served as a deputy in the National Assembly. And more importantly, provided that s/he receives at least 50% of the vote in a random province of the current government’s choice. Direct election? The billboards scream, “we vote for dignity,” the professors say that the vote is direct indeed.

For the most part, Fidel was re-elected every five years. But it was as easy as determining and selecting a cohesive voting district, and holding the presidential election there.

“Are you going to vote today?”
“Yes of course. Its perfectly normal to vote.”
“For who?”
“Are you kidding? It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you excited to vote today?”
“I’m not voting.”
“You’re not voting?”
“What the hell is the point.”

The newspaper glorifies the Cuban electoral system using the US system as a reference point. Of course there is truth in its claim that “powerful campaigns contort reality” and that our bipartisan debacle forms “dos caras de una misma moneda y representantes de idénticos intereses.”

As with Cuban-American diplomatic relations in general couldn’t it be that we are both at fault? I hope we're not finger pointing till the end of time.

Discombobulated photos

Even though we’ve found better spots to purchase wi-fi than the swankiest of all, the Melia Cohiba, a hotel chain where air gives way to smoke exhaled by white, self-important businessmen with the most unpleasant of half mouth grins, the internet still won’t let me log into blogspot in any sort of normal way.

Starting with the jolly man sitting on a chair and working my way up…

1. A testament to the strength of socialized healthcare. Hiking through Las Terrazas, a remote eco-village in the westernmost province of the country, Pinar del Rio, we emerged from a trail so steep my friend Megan couldn’t take more than three steps without sliding down at least a few feet, into a clearing with two simple one-room, scrapped together houses. At the second one, we spent a few minutes talking with this man who responded entirely in gestures due to the tracheotomy procedure he had recently experienced. Remarkable, how happy he was living solitarily in a small shack. Even more remarkable, how despite the extreme remoteness of his location and without the apparent means to afford cancer treatment and the tracheotomy, he had survived a battle many non-Cubans would have lacked access to.

2. An afternoon baseball game in the southernmost part of Havana.

3. The view from absurdly cool, Gaudi-influenced artist Fuster’s home. Part of a monument celebrating the Cuban five—five Cubans unjustly imprisoned in jails throughout the US for attempting to infiltrate anti-Castro terrorist organizations based in Miami. Of course I’d never heard a thing about their case before arriving in Havana. Like the majority of American news sources, the New York Times hasn’t published anything mentioning the case except for one paid advertisement. Once.

4. A woman in triumph, guarding her genitalia with her man on the floor. Winning the battle that is rumba dancing.

5. Another simple house off the trail we hiked in Las Terrazas. Passing the Cuban day, esperando, esperando.

6. A trombonist filling in for one member of a brass quartet we stumbled upon practicing in Santiago de Cuba.

"El mundo es fuerte y bello por los amigos" –Jose Marti

Suspecting insincerity in Lionelle’s generosity tasted like coconut milk and fleeting smiles. A lookout tower crafted out of medium sized sticks stole the spherical nature of earth. The world is flat, the world is lush.

Ladders down straight drops of jagged rocks. Graveyards of coconut shells. This is the end? This is the end. Down and down. Don’t look up my skirt.

Light is jealous of caves. I can tell because it creeps in at every opportunity. The appealing stench of humidity, the sharp insignificance of pebbles on bare feet.

Mineral water is visible in the dark:
I can disprove science! And so can Lionelle and Margie and the blue goggles which give Lionelle fish vision for the first time in his life.

Fish vision, capitalism’s gift to children.

“No quiero pintar toda rosa, ni todo negro”

Junior year of high school, my English class read the absurdist play Waiting for Godot. The play’s humor lies in the fact that it is set in an indistinguishable, grey location, and the only characters are two dusty, possibly senile old men trying to figure out what the hell they are doing with their time, realizing, forgetting, and finding themselves more and more lost with each cycle of discovery and subsequent abstraction. Though of course infinitely more vibrant, I often feel like in Cuba, alongside everyone else, I am waiting for Godot. Forgetting, remembering, disbelieving, and, at the end of the day, recognizing that I am just another lunatic alongside so many others.

About a week ago now was the University of Havana’s spring break for all of its extranjeros, or foreign exchange students, during which a few friends and I felt compelled to plan our own trip to Baracoa, the illustrious little chocolate-producing town at the easternmost tip of the island. Though we had some idea of the insanity of Cuban public transportation from riding the city busses which are reliably filled with around 300 people stacked front to back like sweaty silverware, nothing could prepare us for the time-warp of the lista de espera, or waiting list, that was twenty-eight hours of sitting, and sitting, and sitting.

Of course, for tourists, it’s always possible to purchase tickets in convertible pesos (tourist money) experience no wait at all, and be shuttled off to your destination moments after your purchase. For Cubans, however, who pay different prices for different buses in a different currency, this is what traveling across the country so often involves:

1) Approaching a huge crowd of people surrounding a ticket window, and posing the question “Ultimo?” to find the current last person in line so as to position yourself behind them, not necessarily physically. The honor system is a big one, Cubans never cut each other in line.
2) Waiting however long it takes to see the person ahead of you make it to the cement alley in front of the ticket line used to bottleneck the crowd.
3) Finally arriving at the ticket window, after, what in our case was five and a half hours, only to find that the woman working in the booth has given herself a break and is giggling with another worker, eating peanuts and painting her nails despite the fact that one hundred people are waiting in line for her services.
4) Once their break is over, telling the ticket window woman that you will be going to Baracoa.
5) Waiting for her to check through a book with a record of all the people that have traveled there in the past year or so, and then adding your name and identification number.
6) Receiving a flimsy piece of paper with a number indicating your destination as well as your assigned number scribbled on it in ballpoint pen. Our five numbers were 48, 49, 50, 51, 52.
7) Searching for a dry erase board where an active list of trip numbers is kept. Below each trip number is the number of the last person called for the last bus leaving for a given destination.
8) Comparing your assigned number with those on the board to try to get an idea of how long it might be, but realizing that there is just no way of knowing.

Now comes the most absurd of all.

9) Waiting, with no concept of the length of your torment, for more minutes than you ever thought could exist in a lifetime.
10) Watching the sunset and realizing that unfortunately, most of your ride will be in the dark.
11) Getting hungry, and sending a delegate to hurriedly search for food so as not to miss an opportunity board your bus, in the event that your numbers are called.
12) Entertaining yourself and those around you. Playing tic-tac-toe with a six year old boy, making a list of all the country’s you can think of, talking about socialism in Venezuela, partaking in a poetry slam but realizing you only know one poem from memory, admiring the family photos of everyone who has a couple stowed away in their wallet.
13) Buying a bottle of rum to share with all two hundred of your new friends.
14) Listening for some anonymous woman to announce your destination and call numbers nearing your own.
15) Once in a while, sprinting to the second ticket window when the anonymous woman miraculously announces your destination.
16) Watching three or four people receive tickets to your destination, and hearing that that bus is full.
17) Wondering how the hell the bus could possibly be full.
18) Returning to your seat to notice that everyone has pulled out sheets and blankets and the majority of them are folded over head-to-knees, trying to retain their body heat.
19) Realizing that its 1:30am and you’ve been at the station for twelve hours.
20) Jumping up to buy coffee from a woman selling espresso shots out of a faded purple thermos.
21) Visiting the bathroom, only to find that the toilets don’t flush, and a lot of people have had to poop that day.
22) Trying to wash your hands, and realizing there is no running water.
23) Feeling obligated to give the woman stationed at the bathroom a coin for her “services.”
24) Returning to your seat. Realizing that your teeth are chattering.
25) Putting on every single item of clothing packed in your bag. Shivering, swaying forwards and backwards and attempting to share heat with everyone around you.
26) Realizing that you’re no longer waiting to hear your number, rather for the warmth that will come with the first rays of sunlight.
27) Hearing your destination screeched through the loud speaker which rouses you from one of many slumped periods of eye closing. Not quite sleep, not enjoyable like a daydream.
28) Sporadically running up hoping that this time, finally, your number would be the one called, because it just had to be.
29) Watching two people receive tickets to your destination, and hearing that the bus is full.
30) Wondering how the hell the bus could possibly be full.
31) Watching the sunrise in awe of the fact that so many hours later, you are still in Havana.
32) Wondering how hours can feel like milliseconds, while sometimes seconds seem like years.
33) Waiting, and waiting, and waiting.
34) Running up to the second ticket window when you once again hear your destination.
35) Finally, hearing your number called, but missing the opportunity because there are only four seats on this bus, and after all, you are with five people.
36) Wondering how the hell the bus could possibly be full.
37) Realizing the only two buses left going to your destination that day don’t leave till 3:30 and 7pm, and that its only 11:30am. But hell, whats a few more hours.
38) Trying not to list all the things you could have been doing in the numerous hours that you have been sitting on the same goddamn shiny orange bench that requires you to place your weight in just the right position or it bucks you off headfirst all because its missing a screw.
39) Pacing in front of the ticket counter beginning at 3:00pm, anticipating being called up at first 3:30.
40) Hearing your number, torpedoing your way to the front, and being told that this time, there are only three seats.
41) Realizing that you have to split up despite the fact that you have no idea if you’ll see the other group again before the end of the week.
42) Receiving three out of five tickets on which are anticlimactic pieces of newspaper stamped and written on illegibly.
43) Watching the three ticketed friends pass into yet another waiting room.
44) Waiting, and waiting, and waiting.
45) Questioning what differentiates you from the street dogs running in and out of the station. They’ve probably done a few more things than you in the past 26 hours. They probably smell better too.
46) Pacing in front of the ticket counter beginning at 6:30pm, determined to get on the last possible bus.
47) When you are called, fighting a war. Or at least surviving the wrath of 25 Cubans who think you’ve cheated the system and 25 other Cubans who are rooting for you.
48) Covering your ears while the woman behind the window yells at the top of her lungs over the intercom to try to silence the brawl.
49) With the help of your allies, who make space for you amidst the flailing limbs and sea of voices, handing over your identity card and then receiving two tickets which, like the last batch, are anticlimactic pieces of newspaper stamped and written on illegibly.
50) Being shuttled past a locked door into yet another waiting room.
51) Getting in, what in comparison to everything else, seems to be a normal line. Its normal in that it moves forward and takes no more than 25 minutes.
52) Paying $120.00 moneda nacional, the equivalent of about four dollars to finally receive a real ticket, which is a slightly more climactic non-newspaper version of the stamped, illegibly written collateral you had before.
53) Trudging out to the bus and frumpily yet victoriously boarding only to find that the last two open seats on the bus are the only two that don’t recline, and are situated conveniently behind an old, sleeping couple that has decided to really make a night of it and put both of their chairs all of the way back.
54) Essentially spooning this couple for all 18 hours of the cross-country Cuban journey.
The truth is, waiting for Godot for 28 hours was perplexingly gratifying. But that is for a group of students with a desire to see the country and a schedule to allow for it. What an unfathomable mess Cubans face when any sort of urgency is involved, be it to visit a sick family member in another province, to return to work, lo que sea. As for Cubans’ opinions on the potential for revising a system that is as inefficient as inefficient comes, and even more nonsensical, it appears there is no impetus for change on the transportation front.

“Of course you could always take the train, the wait is much shorter.”

But from what I’ve heard, it usually breaks down along the way.

“Todos tienen que ser mas que actores, sino directores”

Around every corner there is always someone’s son, father, grandfather, uncle, boyfriend, husband, waiting to hiss at the roundness of femininity. Except for March 8th,, International Women’s Day.

On this day, instead of hisses, we get smiles and felicidades. Congratulations, Appreciation, Thank You for all that you do.

One is better than none, but what kind of fraction is 1/365?

As for the scattered photographs

Cuba and Blogger.com are not compatible. Anyways, the three randomly placed pictures from top to bottom:

1. Dancer from Danza Contemporanea, the best national modern dance company, which we got to see rehearse for their international tour. Think rumba, hip-hop, opera, electronica paired with incredibly acrobatic, dramatic partner dancing, on top of bright red polyester androgynous dress/suits. Wild.

2. A neighbor in Vedado celebrating his birthday with skeptical friends.

3. The sky from El Moro, the castle on the outskirts of Havana where the international bookfair was held.