Cuba
A Reflection on a Mysterious Country
Black licorice, caramel, tobacco, honey, dulce de leche, vanilla and toffee. The rich brown tones of the
Caribbean. Tones celebrated in their infinite shades. Yet, nother gem revealed to us in this place
where the only American influence appears to be in the metal beasts that spew black soot from their
rusted pipes. Everywhere 1950s Chevy Impalas and AMC Ramblers roam the streets in their bright reds
and fading blues.
Sultry winds blow off the seaside as the three of us leave the Morro Castle. Trina pushes her single
braids back from her face to relieve herself. It feels like a lifetime to hail a taxi. Finally, a purple monster
approaches; its brakes shriek as it comes to a begrudging stop. I step off the curb and descend below the
ragtop to make eye contact.
“Calle quince, entre ocho, La Habana, por favor. Cuanto questa?” I was able to muster. My
Spanish was growing stronger by the minute since all the translating had unexpectedly fallen on me.
Still, I withheld cordial greetings to show the man we would not be ripped off.
“Ciento viente,” he rumbles. I lift my chin to him in acceptance of his proposed fee, relieved that
this encounter did not require any negotiating.
Traffic began to build. Engines chugged as they came to a halt. And there, in a deserted lot off the
highway that lined the seaside, were hundreds of people, dancing.
Trina and I, always in sync when met with the opportunity to infuse ourselves with music and adventure,
looked at one another and immediately we both knew we were no longer heading back home.
I point to the festive scene, “Por favor, puedes llevarnos alli?” Our driver gripped his fingers into the
curves of the old wheel and veered it to the right. The buffeted back seat screeches as we bounce on its
rusted, coiled springs. The white walls kick and shuffle up the rubble as we enter the plot.
Outside, the air is thick with humidity, fervor and intensity.
Maracas clamor, conga drums pound, the shrill of brass belts its wails, a conduit for excitement from
robust lungs. Hips undulate and oscillate. Hands clap. Music fills the air. Latin Jazz, a harmonious blend of culture and of
sound.
Tunes zigzag their way along the seaside of the Malecon where the youth have enormous boombox
stereos from the 70s and 80s perched along the wall; the sounds from both sides meeting up with and
melding with one another.
This is summer in Cuba.
Feet scrape and pound the asphalt, sending loose gravel rolling from one shoe to the next; they roll and
ricochet to the Latin beats. People off all ages move their bodies in the swelter of the Caribbean summer
night.
Salsa is different here. The men have their own signature move. Momentarily, they break away from the
whirling and twirling of their heart-pounding partner to set up their coveted move. I gaze intently at a
man in a straw boater hat, lined with a red fabric. With great pride and passion, he puffs up his chest,
throws back his broad shoulders, leans forward from the hip and shimmies, slowly, at first.
Left, right, left, right.
I watch curiously as he leans further down toward his intrigued partner and suddenly, his shimmy
gathers speed, as if he has been electrocuted by a nearby wire. Each thrust of his shoulders sends a
pulse of pure love that emanates fiercely from his heart.
The gentleman’s face is no longer hidden in the shadow of his hat once he is upright. His deep, dark,
watery eyes are nestled into mounds of mocha skin; what look like tears only add to the glimmer of joy
and adoration of his country’s music. His smile awakens the creases near his mouth that have bent and
curved, many a time, to accommodate a plethora of smiles in his lifetime; the island sun to thank for
baking those jovial lines into permanence.
Surrender. Unadulterated enjoyment as each man, woman and child abandons their worries and cares
to every twirl and whirl. Freedom. Joy. No comparing, no judging.
I peer out into the crowd and relish in the view, waves of diverse human bodies, shiny with sweat. All of
them, smiling, laughing, swinging freely.
From Afro Cubans with beautifully carved cheekbones to lovely
blonde-haired ladies with skin like ivory and blue eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea, each one of them
a celebration in their own right.
Was it communism that granted this phenomenal co-existence? And as Cuba continued to flirt with
capitalism, would Cubans soon see one another in color? Would this mysterious island soon become a
place of racial obsession, oppression and imbalances?
Would bigotry crawl into the scorching leather seat of a 1957 baby blue Chevrolet Sedan and make
itself at home?
Or, had it already and I looked upon the crowd with the hope and wonder of a traveler; wishing to see something different than the ills of her own country?
I don’t want to go home.
