Massacre at Matanzas

To what do I refer with this powerful word "massacre", you might ask. To which I would respond: the hearts, souls, and spirits of twelve American students who had the mishap of being yoked for a three day tour with a tour guide who had never been to said areas and a professor who had never thought about logistics. Though I will write a greater explanation, you should know that this picture says it all:Our first morning in Matanzas dawned grey and cloudy: an omen. We boarded the tour bus and set off for our first destination, a famous old theater. My first inkling of the issues to come was that the theater was not yet open. I guess if you thought your tour guide should know such things or have planned out a schedule, you'd be wrong. The next planned destination, a seminary, was not yet open either, so we had to kill time (we hadn't done anything and we were already trying to kill time...) by stopping at a pharmacy which opened in 1882 and has been preserved ever since. Cuba thinks its such an important place that it charges visitors a whopping 3 CUC to enter. We students did not feel it was so important to see this place, and were prepared on such an "opportunity". After much negotiation, we were made to enter the pharmacy, and told to pay "what we felt appropriate" as we were leaving. I realize right now that this makes us sound like a bunch of ungrateful SOBs. I promise you, that really wasn't the case. Everyone started off excited about the Matanzas trip and we really wanted to get to know another part of the country. At this point, so many things were working against our enjoyment: the early morning, the last dregs of confusion and horror from the previous night's sex show, the fact that our tour guide was an imbecile...etc.to wait outside while our professor went it. He, rather than taking responsibility for the fact that A) the trip was poorly planned, and B) we weren't supposed to have to pay for anything besides meals on this trip, instead seemed to think that we were crazy and a little cheap for not immediately opening our wallets.

Anyway, the most interesting thing from the entire pharmacy debacle was (as another student pointed out) that most modern Cuban pharmacies don't even have a fourth of the products available that they had in other times.

Onward and upward to the seminary, which was indeed situated a bit outside of Matanzas on a hill. Mostly we checked out the view and spent time talking with an older theologian who talked to us about the different religious theories developed since the Revolution. The most interesting to me was the "Theory of the Absurd", which, while I still don't quite understand the name, was created during the Special Period in Cuba. The Special Period was during the nineties, right after the dissolution of the Soviet block. Because that was Cuba's major trading partner, the country suffered severe economic hardships during those years, and it was a very frustrating time, especially for the youth of the country. This theory more or less centered around trying to instill in these youth a sense of hope for the future. It seems to me that this theory should still be in practice right now, only I haven't sensed any hope in the youth we know, just the frustration.

The seminary was followed by lunch in a hillside restaurant. To cut to the chase, we waited about two hours for undercooked, bloody chicken. At some point during the wait, Honorio and I decided a bottle of wine was a good idea. An even better idea was getting a second bottle to go when lunch was finally done. We made one more stop at a little workshop that makes handmade books, and I passed the afternoon and most of the evening in a pleasant state.

Anticlimactic as this day was, it was nothing compared to what was to come. We found out Saturday morning that we were driving two hours away from Matanzas to see some rural villages. Interesting concept, executed because Profe wanted to, despite the fact that our tour guide had never been to these towns...It went about as well as you can imagine. We arrived in the first town, whose name will be forever lost in the annals of my history (in there?). We were told to disembark and walk around for 15 minutes before returning to the van. Imagine this, please. A rural town, in Cuba, which means dusty and poorly (if at all) paved roads. Many of the buildings are in a sad state. It was not a work day, so most people were out and about in town. Some cars could be seen, but it was apparent that biking or hoofin' it were the main modes of transportation. We roll up in a nice, AC-blasting tour bus and walk down the steps into this other world. I experienced some discomfort because everyone was staring at us, which was only natural, given the circumstances. But even more discomfort came from the realization that we were there more or less just to state at them as well. Oh, hai, we're a bunch of Americans and we're going to tour your town like it's something really strange. It's not that I didn't want to see a rural Cuban village, but I don't like making others feel like their life is under the microscope.

So we departed from this town and headed to another, called Jaguey Grande. En route, we passed miles and miles of orange orchards, the big industry in this part of the country. There are also a good deal of schools out in the countryside, and the students attend class in the morning and work picking oranges in the afternoon.

Jaguey Grande was...well, refer to the first picture in this post. This trip was full of half-assed (brief and inaccurate) and unnecessary translations, a random man that we picked up on the street to tell us about the town, and unsatisfying food despite the fact that a fantastic burger joint was just down the street. My favorite experience, however, was walking into an old, dusty building. A few chairs and some dilapidated boxes were in evidence, but not much else. We continued through into an inner patio. Where were we, we wondered? That's right. We were in a run-down building that contained nothing. There are plans in the works for it to eventually become the Municipal Museum of Jaguey Grande, but in the meantime, zilch. Actually, that's not true. They had one artifact, an ancient gasoline-powered iron. Good times.

I can't even write much more about this trip, except that for a short time it took away my will to live, because I also got sick in Matanzas, and suffered a sore throat since then until yesterday. Sunday we did spend on the beach, but I needed about a week's worth of beach days after that weekend.

Gardens, Diplomats, and Sex Shows

Date of writing: 2-05-09

It’s been a while since I last wrote, yet at the same time not too much has really happened. I definitely feel like I’m well-adjusted to my lifestyle here in Havana now, which scares me somewhat, as I now have less than 2 months to enjoy it.

One of the new things that we’ve done recently is pay visits to different community projects that are funded by the Cuban government. One of them was in Cojimar, on the outskirts of Havana. It was basically a co-op founded in order both to keep up sustainable agriculture and to teach people about better eating habits. It’s also tied into a school program. It was interesting to visit, although we spent more time looking at photographs of scarecrows that the co-op members make than seeing the actual results of their labor. This past week we also visited some more sustainable agriculture sites; these were rather anti-climatic as they mostly resembled big gardens in peoples’ back yards. Never seen one of those in rural Pennsylvania… Although, I really shouldn’t scoff. The whole “permacultura” movement (permanent agriculture) is tied into the ideas of caring for both the world and the people that live in it. So at heart, there are some really good ideals behind this. And when you think about, for instance, all the resources that are wasted so that I can have an avocado in Boston in January, you begin to realize that having a larger base in local and sustainable agriculture can really impact the environment. Other odd note, based on these materials we found in the gardens, SOMETHING isn't quite right about the embargo.

Speaking of agriculture and nature and whatnot, we also visited the National Botanical Gardens last Monday. Oh, Cuba. We arrived there after a fairly expensive cab ride. Apparently (and as we saw) the grounds of the gardens are quite extensive. We were hoping to nosh on some vegetarian fare at a buffet in the heart of the gardens, and were duly informed that we would have to wait a half hour for the tour car to return to the front of the garden to pick us up. How far is said restaurant, we inquired. On hearing that it was about a mile and a half, we decided that it would be a jolly good time to walk there, which would take a half hour anyway. But, oh no, it was MONDAY. Apparently, on Mondays, no one is allowed to walk around inside the park; you are only able to take tour cars. We ended up working it out with our cab driver that he would just drive through the park and take us to the restaurant. It was probably worth all the hassle to enjoy the all-you-can-eat buffet of greenery, not to mention the addicting pizza. After a brief digestive romp in the Japanese garden and a gander at 602 different species, we were on our way back to Vedado.

Today (Thursday) I went with Whitney to the hospital so that she would have company/backup in Spanish if necessary. During the wait, we met a diplomat from Mozambique who works at the UN but was delivering a package to her embassy here. Even after Whitney went in to her appointment, I continued chatting with the diplomat in the waiting room. First of all, we were talking about the state of affairs in Cuba, and the lack of opportunity that exists for Cubans, no matter how hardworking they are. I eventually asked her if it was hard to work at a place like the UN, which works supposedly to improve the world, when in her actual travels in different countries she sees so many hard things. She talked to me about feeling frustrated sometimes, that they spend so much time in meetings, and that the UN pays a good salary to so many people, yet at the same time so few tangible results are really accomplished from all of this. Lately I’ve been feeling somewhat out of touch with real life and the United States, because I’m getting so used to life here, and having this conversation with her in some ways brought me back to a different state of mind.

This afternoon we left for Matanzas and Varadero. We are staying in a nice hotel here in Matanzas, and to welcome us to the province, tonight we attended a cabaret show. I don’t know how to properly describe it. There were lots of mostly nude women, whose dancing costumes barely covered their va-jay-jays, let along their rears. The men were clothed in tight and revealing body suits. It almost felt like some type of barely veiled sex show. Steph and I spent time discussing the people in the show. Granted, it was a good show, and I’m sure they are paid fairly well. So for those who aspired to be dancers in the spotlight, this might be a terrific job. But for those who couldn’t find employment elsewhere and were forced to take this job as a way to make ends meet, this must be terrible. The women never stopped smiling the entire show, but mostly it didn’t seem to be in earnest. It seemed more or less the same as going to a strip club in some ways, because we were these tourists almost taking advantage of the fact that these people have to do these things to survive, yet we’ll watch the show and be taken in by it. I really can’t explain how uncomfortable it made me feel. It's even more bizarre, considering it was exactly this type of thing that Castro wanted to do away with after the Revolution- the idea of sex as an easily found commodity in Cuba. That coupled with the fact that it’s an outdoor show while Cuba is experiencing an uncommonly cold cold front made Meg and I depart early from the show. More on Matanzas soon!

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.