The Guys

I feel like I've been really picking up on the Cuban lifestyle this past week, or at least the sleeping patterns. AKA, I haven't been getting much. Some of the girls had already been friends with this group of Cuban guys, and since I hit it off well with one of the guys, I've been spending alot of time with them as well this past week. The guys are Yohandy, Alex, Ruben, and Jose. There are a few others that come out too, but these are the ones who are always around and who are a really good time. With them, we've been playing lots of dominoes and going out salsa dancing. I don't think I've ever felt as incompetent in my life as when I'm on the dance floor with Yohandy. Basically, Cubans are born dancing. I was not. This puts all of us girls at a slight disadvantage. But it's so much fun trying to learn anyway.

Dominoes, thankfully, is much easier to pick up on, especially given my time in DR and all the sessions at Penguin's with people from Sociedad. A lot of our nights are spent just hanging out, sharing some rum, and laughing over dominoes. I'm really glad that we've become friends with these guys; it adds another dimension to life here to have contact with Cubans. You become alot more aware of the realities here and what Cuban life is really like.

One interesting dynamic in the relationship that we have with them is that we have money and they don't, to put it bluntly. Before we ever came to Cuba, Profe told us that if we were going to go out with Cubans, it was more or less necessary that we'd pay for them to get into a club or bar or whatnot, because they couldn't afford it (the cover to the last discoteca we went to would have been about a third of Yohandy's monthly salary) otherwise. Obviously for us, it's worth it to pay their way because it's fun going out with Cubans and dancing and talking with them. But I know it's also hard on them; Jose and Yohandy have talked with Whitney and I, respectively, about how they don't like us paying for them. That's why, a majority of the time, we end up staying in with rum and playing our own music and dancing (which I think is just as fun as going out anyway). Like I said, it's not such a big deal to us, but I keep trying to put myself in their situation. I thought about Boston and how, if I want to go out for a drink at night, I go without thinking twice about it. There are so many things that I take for granted at home, and being here makes me see it alot more clearly. I wish that the youth from Sociedad could experience life here; a lot of them have talked about wanting to make more money or have more hours. I can understand that, and granted it takes a lot more money to live in America than it does here, but I want them to understand that they could have it so much worse, as well. As could we all.

More Santeria Stories

So much has been going on since I last wrote. First and foremost in my mind, since they just happened, are the two santeria rituals that I've gone through since I last wrote. Last Saturday, Chelsea, Honorio, and I had to go back to the Padrino to buy herbs and do our cleansing rituals. My cleansing ritual occurred first. I had to stand in front of the altar to the orishas. Padrino took a handful of the herb called vencedor (I don't know what it is in English, but in Spanish that literally means the Vanquisher). He then broke a small piece of chalk all over the herb, and as I slowly began to twirl in circles. Then- as violent and unpoetic as this sounds, but I won't beat around the bush, if you will- I was beaten with the bush. Of herbs. It didn't hurt, but it also wasn't a caressing motion. I mean, hey, he had to get rid of the negative energy around me, right? So that took a few minutes, and then I was properly cleansed.
Honorio was next, and his was the head-cleansing ceremony, because "he doesn't have a head right now", according to Padrino's reading of the shells. He sat in the chair with his palms facing up on his knees. Padrino then used some sort of watery substance (water itself? holy water? coconut milk?) to draw a series of crosses on Honorio, starting at the top of his head, moving to his temples and the back and front of his neck, down to his hands and then his feet. These crosses were then topped by shredded coconut and pieces of cotton to complete the cleansing. Not gonna lie, watching this happen and watching the Padrino chew up cocoa butter to spit on top of Honorio's head were rather amusing moments and I'm a little surprised I didn't end up laughing. We had to wait about 45 minutes or so while Honorio sat with a cap tied around his head to keep in the cleansing properties of the cocoa butter and coconut. After the ritual, all the materials that had been used to cleanse him were tied up in a little baggie, which Honorio had to offer to the sea (his orisha lives at the bottom of the ocean).

We went back again on Tuesday for our final necklace ceremony. First thing, Chelsea and I had to go through the same head-cleansing ceremony that Honorio did (see picture above). Another part of it is that, as all of the cleansing agents are in place on your body, the padrino asks the names of your deceased relatives. I listed mine, and he threw the coconut shells a few times, and told me that my ancestors were pleased with me, which is good news. He didn't say that to either Honorio or Chelsea during their ceremonies, so in a way it gives me a comforting feeling to think about Grammy being happy. We each were then made to kneel on the sacred mat another time, and we were given our santeria necklaces. I got four, for the four main orishas. My personal orisha, Obbatala, is one of the four. Chelsea and Honorio got five necklaces, because they belong to other orishas that are not part of the major four. In this picture, the white necklace is for Obbatala (peace and purity), the red and white is for Chango, the blue and clear are Yemaya (the ocean), and the yellow and gold is for Ochun (beauty and sexuality). The other thing we each received was the stone you see in the middle, which represents Elegua. We are supposed to, once a week, spit a little bit of rum and blow a little tobacco smoke at the stone, and speak to the gods through it.

We also recently attended another tambor, or drumming ceremony, this one to honor Elegua. This one was at the house of one of our professors, who is a big-time santeria priest here. We weren't there for long, but long enough to be impressed by the intricate altar. Here I am kneeling on the sacred mat and asking for a favor from Obbatala.

I'm still thinking about santeria and exactly how I feel about it; my sentiments are mixed. I'm definitely planning on seeing the Padrino once more before I leave; I can use all the help possible for the upcoming job search.

Hija de Obbatala

Thursday was the day of destiny. Chelsea, Honorio, and I went to the Padrino (and I don't mean the Godfather, although that is the literal translation of the word). The Padrino was our professor's guide into the world of Santeria. Now, he is technically ours as well. We went to him in the afternoon for a reading of the shells, in which he would be able to see our destinies as well as tell us how to take precautions if he saw anything negative coming up.

The Padrino was seated on the floor, on top of a blue and white woven carpet, which is sacred. I sat on a chair on the edge of the carpet, with my shoes off (otherwise would be an insult to the orishas). The Padrino started the reading by three times dipping his fingers in a small bowl of water next to the mat, and flicking droplets onto the floor; I think each of the three splashes were to honor his orisha, his Padrino, and his Madrina. He then began mixing the shells on the floor while chanting in the Yoruba-Spanish creole used in Cuban Santeria. Finally, he lifted the shells and touched them to my head, shoulders, knees, and feet, before resting them in my hands for a moment. He then threw the shells on the floor, and with them, my destiny.

The first thing that came out for me was related to the orisha Ogun, one of the war orishas, lord of knives and metal. You can imagine this doesn't bode well. The first admonition I received was to "beware the blood" or "take care of the blood". He further explained, telling me to take care when needles are involved, saying that I am prone to infection. Basically, my blood is weak and something could happen to me because of that.

The second warning I received (and Mom, you'll love this, since you always warn me about the same things- have you been in touch with the orishas lately?) was to be careful in the street. Honorio got this same warning, only his meant to actually beware of people in the street that will try to trick him. Mine was to legit take care when crossing the street, because it's possible that I will get hit by a car.

Now this all sounds like a lot of bad news, doesn't it? However, the first step towards winning the battle is knowing what the battle is, so I know what to watch out for. Also, we are going back to the Padrino's tomorrow, because we need to do a variety of cleansing rituals, so that should make for another fascinating blog.

Here's my favorite part of the reading. First understand that the Santeria belief is that everyone is the world has an orisha that looks out for them (akin to the Christian idea of a guardian angel). Regardless of whether or not you are a practicant of the religion, this orisha is with you and guiding you. So Padrino did the readings for each of us, and it came to be known that Obbatala is my guardian orisha, hence the title of my blog, which says in Spanish "Daughter of Obbatala". Obbatala is the most powerful orisha, and her realms are those of peace and purity. She is represented by the color white and the symbol of the dove (new tattoo idea right there). This fits in rather well with my world view, so I'm glad that this was what Padrino read in the shells.

Yesterday was also Rebekah's birthday, so as a group we all went to hang out with the Cuban guys that some of the girls have befriended. We basically just had a huge dance party in the salon where some of them work. Everybody had a great time and there are definitely some great stories, but hey...what happens in Cuba, stays in Cuba. There is a blockade, after all.

Obamarama 2K9

So during these three months in Cuba, there were only two things that I knew I'd be sad about missing. One of them was the Lost Season 5 Premiere. The other was, obviously, the inauguration. Instead of being in DC, though, we are in Havana and therefore harassed our teacher until he agreed to give us a one hour break in the middle of class to watch the swearing in and the speech. We left class and went to the nearby, aptly named, Hotel Presidente to watch the inauguration on the pool-side television while having a celebratory drink. Not many other people were around, so some of the hotel staff actually gathered with us to watch the ceremony. Later that night, we carried the party into Habana Vieja, although no one really seemed to be partying like us. We did get invited to a random house party, where we danced reggaeton for a half hour before moving on to our next destination. The house party was an interesting experience because, although the facade of the building was gorgeous, the interior was falling apart and we had to step over a makeshift bridge to get to the other side. It makes you think about things and how there's this certain outward presentation, although inside things are rotten and festering. In some ways that reminds me of the system going on here in Cuba. They put on this great face to the world, look at our medical skills and our literacy rates. And I don't mean to disparage those things, because they matter as well. But you can't say that your system is thriving when it is remittances and family-brought goods from the United States and other countries that allow people some sort of cushion that would otherwise be a difficult lifestyle.

Being here gives me the chance to think about what might come in the next four years. First of all, as glad as I am to see Bush go, it's also a little scary, in the sense that he's been the president for as long as I've been politically conscious. Also, he led us into this utter mess (I could use my new favorite Cuban slang, reajo, which translates roughly to clusterfuck), and now Obama's stuck with the job of trying to get us out. I feel like there are so many things riding on Obama's shoulders, so many things that he has to fix from previous mistakes, before he can ever really lead us back into a better place. And it worries me because I don't know how our country will react to that, if people will have the foresight to see those things.

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.