Hugs from the Gods

I’ve been feeling very Cuban lately; it’s been a weekend full of activities both mundane and extraordinary. First thing Friday morning, a few of us went to a press conference over at Casa de las Américas; they were announcing information about the literary prizes to be awarded in February. This wasn’t nearly as exciting as our introductions to two FAMOUS Cuban writers, Roberto Fernandez Retamar (also President of Casa) and Nancy Morejon. I’ve read some works by each of them throughout school, and it was a thrill to be able to meet them, especially Nancy, because she’s about to go to France for a bit, but said that she’d meet with our group on her return.

Later that day, I did like a Cuban woman and went to the salon. I ended up getting my hair cut (Mom, you’ll be so happy). I was a little leery at first, because as the girl made the first cut, she told me that this was her internship through University of Havana, where she is studying hairdressing. But she did a terrific job- I can’t complain. The only interesting part of the haircut experience is that here they charge you extra to comb your hair between the shampoo and the cut…unfortunately, I didn’t figure this out until the end. Oh well.

Friday night we were back at Casas for an art opening. The art didn’t particularly grab my eye; it was supposed to be abouot kinetic art yet most of what we saw was very stationary. Then again, I’ve never claimed to have an eye for art- I like what I like and that’s that. Probably the best part of the art show was the free wine and the fact that Chino, who is part of our house family, was there drining with us and kidding Megan about the crush she has on one of the computer techs that works at school.

So I think I already wrote abouot our friends getting taken away by the police, and we didn’t know what the deal was with them getting arrested…still no news on that front.

Saturday morning I did my laundry. Although they do use washing machines here, dryers aren’t so popular because they suck up a lot of the precious energy. And why bother when you have free breezes outside your house to do it for you? I just got a kick out of standing on our roof deck, hanging out my laundry. And there’s definitely something to be said for the scent of fresh air in your newly cleaned clothing.

Saturday afternoon we went to a tambor, which is a ceremony to attempt to call down the gods. Pulling up to the location in our van-taxi, we could already hear the rhythmic pounding of the sacred drums. We stepped through the doorway into a living room painted white and emptied of most furniture. The drummers were at the head of the room, flanked by someone leading the songs or chants to Yemaya, orisha of the seas. The music was beautiful, though I couldn’t understand the lyrics because they were in Yoruba, an African language. The middle of the room was full of dancers, Santeria practicants, my professor being one of them. The pace of the dancing was usually slow and steady, though at times the urgency of the music and the crescendo of sound would urge the dancers’ feet into more frenetic movements. We filed along the back of the room, some of us cramming into the small nook which held the altar that you see pictured here ( we couldn’t take many pictures, because it is forbidden to photograph the drummers, but a professional photographer was there and we will be getting copies from him eventually). The dancing went on for an hour or more until we noticed that something was starting to happen. One of the male dancers was slowly making his way to the center of the circle, as the others instinctually moved aside to give him room. His dancing had become more akin to spastic body movements, and at times his entire back was bent horizontal to the floor. His eyelids were not completely open, but you could see the lack of connection to the earthly world in the portion of his eye yet visible. The dancer’s body gyrated more quickly and the sweat began pouring down his face, occasionally mixing with spittle from his mouth. I watched, feeling anxious, not knowing what was happening, until the dancer threw his body erect and emitted a loud, “AHA”. The goddess Yemaya had descended into his body, and promptly began to greet those present in the room. Yemaya did not only greet the Santeria practicants, she made her way around to the rest of us as well, giving each a hug. With not a little trepidation, I stepped up to receive my greeting. I’ve always been fascinated by the supernatural, yet being confronted with something like this that I couldn’t understand was frightening in a way. Yemaya then closeted herself with my professor and his two guides in Santeria, his madrina and padrino. The rest of us took breathers of fresh air right outside the now-muggy tambor room. Finally, Yemaya and the others made their way back into the main room with the rest of us, and Yemaya made her way around the room, stopping to speak to various people…including a few of us. Yemaya (channelled though the dancer) spoke to us in a creole of Spanish and Yoruba, which to me sounded a bit like Portuguese. She was first telling us that we are known to her because we crossed the ocean, of which she is the god. Furthermore, she advised us to be careful and to always be listening to the people that speak to us while we are here. I cannot explain to you all the sight of this man, who was now dressed in the costume of Yemaya, and how it felt to be watching him as the voice of a god came out of his mouth. I write that as though it is something I believe. I still don’t know what to think about what I saw, but I can tell you that the others in the room certainly believed that that was what was going on. Yemaya spent more time dancing with the group, periodically releasing those startling, “AHA”s that I never quite became accustomed to. Finally, the dancing seemed to wind down, Yemaya once more was closeted with the principal actors of the day, and the rest of us were served the food that had been placed before the altar. Eventually, the closet conference was broken up, and from it emerged no longer the god but the male dancer, looking exhausted and haggard. This was our exit cue to walk home. I’m still waiting to talk to Profe to find out about a lot of things, but I am so glad that I was present to see what happened.

Coming home, we encountered another aspect of Cuban life: the frequent breakdown of the elevator in our building…and we live on the 13^th floor. Let me tell you, if I hadn’t been able to keep focused on the idea that waiting for me above was my dinner, I don’t know how I would have made it. Just kidding, we’ve had to do it a bunch of times already, and we do it for exercise sometimes as well. But man, it is a long, grueling haul, let me tell you.

Yesterday we went to a rumba “concert”, although it wasn’t nearly so organized as a concert, plus it was free, in the Callejon del Hammel, which is the grotto of the artist Salvador Gonzalez (this statue, for lack of a better word, is his work). It was loud and hot, but the music was incredibly good- something about the African-inspired beats just won’t let me keep my feet still. We also met a pirate (seriously, he was like Johnny Depp in “Pirates”, down to the mannerisms) who told us he was a “boy prostitute”. His words. He was pretty terrific.

We then went for a walk towards the Capitolio…ok, we were really heading to a pastry shop, and it happened to be near the Capitolio. Both pastries and the building were a good time, and then the final piece of the weekend fell into place: we had to take egg carts. I’ve already posted (maybe not on the blog but on my online photo album at http://picasaweb.google.com/haughney.t) some pictures of them, but they’re the little yellow three-wheeled conveyances. I should note here that normal Cubans probably wouldn’t take an egg cart, they are more expensive than other modes of transport, but I felt like it was an experience unique to Cuba and that I should do it. Normal Cubans would go either by their own cars, buses, or Cuban taxis (which can be paid in moneda nacional and not just CUCs). This was an worthwhile experience, despite the constant worry I felt upon realizing that our driver and the driver of Honorio and Steph’s eggcart were intent on playing bumper egg carts the entire way home…but we made it safely in one piece, and I’m glad we did it.

Time has been going so fast here, and I can’t believe our trip is a sixth of the way over already. It’s such an interesting feeling to be an American here. In some ways it’s great, because most people are really willing and eager to talk to you. On the other hand, there’s always the anticipation or expectation that once befriended by a Cuban, they will ask you for something or expect something from you. Yes, we are college students, and in the US just saying that tells a lot about your economic situation. That doesn’t work here, because if we had the kind of money to travel here and not be working for a couple months, we are rich by their standards. And thus the expectation- almost necessity- that we pay their way, because otherwise they basically wouldn’t be able to afford going out with us. Here, being an American in the minority position is also loaded in the sense that we want to positively rep our country and everyone at home. For Cubans, I’m sure interacting with us isn’t always easy, either- Maria was telling me the other day that she and Chino get a lot of pressure from Casas and whatnot to make sure that we are well taken care of, because if something happens to an American here, it sours things for the entire Cuban nation. This is just so much more than an ordinary study abroad. In terms of being a minority racially, I don’t see that as such a big deal. I mean, yes, obviously we stick out, but I often feel that its more because we are a large group of people speaking English than how we actually look- Cubans come in a pretty large array of shapes and colors, so it’s not inconceivable that some of us could pass.