Readers’ Forum

Part I of II

Out of Cuba 2007 

By Lou Christine, March 30, 2007

The consensus by many is that the one-time architectural marvel called Havana is a decaying city that’s coming apart at the seams. Havana is hot and humid. The place is a bit pricey and there’s hardly anything to buy. The food is insipid but the music is spicy.

And the women do live up to their erotic reputation! From my perspective, after spending five days in Havana, all the above rings true. Yet my slant here is strictly a thumbnail sketch of Havana, and can’t be compared to the whole of the nation and its people.

The economic effects from the 40-some-year US embargo and the Soviet pullout have both isolated and reduced Cuba into an impoverished existence. Havana’s past splendor is apparent, as is its present anemic condition. One could bray, “What the hell happened here? Who’s in charge?” Putting those negative aspects aside, it’s the Cuban people and their unique spirit that makes the place fascinating. 

Tourists are forced to buy a currency called CUC. It’s a government-sponsored ripoff regardless if you are cashing dollars, Mexican pesos or euros. Ten to fifteen percent comes off the posted exchange. You’re getting a Cuban CUC for about US$1.30. Prices in tourist joints are more expensive than here and food wise it’s mostly lousy and ill prepared, with inferior ingredients. I ordered Chow Mein in a Chinese restaurant, only thing, there were no noodles!

I skipped the government-provided tourist hotels, deciding to rent a second-floor apartment (casa particular) in a run-down barrio of old Havana. The neighborhood could be compared to tenement sections of the South Bronx. Despite the rough surroundings I found Cubans friendly, accommodating and hospital. Hardly anyone seemed serious, if anything most acted sophomoric other than the downtrodden that have been crushed by the system or bad fortune.

My landlords were Jesús and his wife, Dora. The apartment wasn’t spiffy, yet clean with essentials. The affable couple had me feeling welcome and comfortable as I began to experience a slice of life in old Havana. For some reason they both called me Louie.

“Louie! Louie!” was shouted by a voice in my direction as I bopped down the block the following day. It was Jesús. In Latino fashion he hand signaled me to hold up. Catching up he latched onto my elbow only saying another Louie while leading me into the back patio of a dingy bar. The TV blared. Some Cuban pretty boy was up on the screen singing his heart out. Jesús ordered two cold cans of Crystal and got down to business. 

Jesús said, “Louie,” two more times. We were up to five “Louies” and I still didn’t know what was on his mind. Evidently, the night before, I mentioned an affinity for baseball when Jesús clicked on the apartment’s TV with a game in progress. Sipping his beer and moving his hands in a certain way, Jesús began to paint a vivid picture. It was in 1951, Yankee Stadium, the top of the ninth and the great Boston Red Sock, Ted Williams, was at bat. The Yanks were ahead by a run, with one out, and a runner on third. Jesús’ uncle had promised the then nine-year-old a trip to New York City to see a big league game and his favorite player, Yankee Joe DiMaggio. 

Jesús paused his story to elaborate how he revered DiMaggio and how “Jolting Joe” was “El Mejor!” After the brief DiMaggio eulogy, Jesús continued telling me how he was seated in the left-center-field bleachers. Williams launched a screaming line drive seemingly out of centerfielder DiMaggio’s reach, yet the “Yankee Clipper” got a good jump on the ball and made a spectacular run-saving catch.

Jesús became more animated, describing how the Red Sox runner on third tagged up and began to race home to tie the game. Gracefully, according to Jesús, DiMaggio maintained his wherewithal, retrieved the ball from his mitt, and rifled a bullet toward Yogi Berra, the Yankee catcher, to make the tag-out and to win the game! Jesús then just slowly nodded his head and looked away for the moment as he savored the past.

Those are the indelible, first-hand memories the Cuban has of his hero, Yankee Stadium and his beloved baseball. Then Jesús extended his chest somewhat, telling me how he went on to become a hard throwing pitcher and a pro prospect, saying he threw a number of no hitters. In 1958 he signed a US$5,000 minor league contract with the Brooklyn Dodgers, but all changed with the revolution and his dream to become a big leaguer died.

From the looks of things in present-day Havana, many dreams died back in 1959. I am not qualified to judge, if Uncle Fidel’s system is a travesty of justice, or a continuous-and-challenging socialist experiment with a severe case of spinning wheels disease. On the surface things don’t look all that prosperous. Yet discounting the obvious pitfalls, when ferreting a bit deeper, there’s something striking about the place.

Up to the point with Jesús I was having a love-hate relationship with the city. I almost wanted to leave after fifteen minutes. There were waiting lines at immigration and customs and longer lines for everything else.

But I could also sense there’s a special feeling, being in the mix with the multi-racial Cuban people, that had me feeling so alive! 

In Jesús’ case, most of our conversations covered the golden age of baseball. He doesn’t think much of today’s big leaguers. We searched our brains making a list Major League 500 home-run hitters, those with 3000 hits and 300-game winners over their careers. Once back home I checked. Jesús and I nailed about 90 percent of the 60-some baseball playing-icons. I seemed to be the called-for soundboard to talk about the sport we both love. 

I was living mostly a one-block existence. Fellow sanmiguelense Jeffery Brown was my neighbor. We shared shots of vodka with some men out of the trunk of a ‘54 Plymouth resting on its axles. There was Yasser, mid-twenties, strong and handsome. He inquired about gyms and weight-lifting equipment in the States. He hates his name. Seems he was born on the day Yasser Arafat visited Cuba and therefore stuck with the moniker. One of the men, Manuel, Jesús’ brother-in-law, wanted to know about present-day cars. He frowned some when I told him today’s autos are all about computers and that sidewalk tune-ups are out of the question. He and his cronies were then installing a clutch into a ‘49 Hudson. The men had us feeling at ease and the vodka helped. We took more swigs and posed for buddy-buddy photos. I asked about the Soviet influence. Were they still around? Manuel said the Russians never really fit in, that they built decent roads but ugly buildings, along with bad running cars, motorcycles and tractors then the 
Ruskies left them in the lurch. All and all the men agreed that the Russians presence meant little one way or another, other than the introduction of vodka.

After a day and a half “Louie! Louie!” peppered my ears from various directions each time I took to the street. I smiled. They smiled back. Take in part, it’s their block, and residents on such close-quartered blocks don’t miss a blink. Ironically I was residing on Calle San Miguel, the length of your average street here in San Miguel. The row homes were three-storied, with six-to-eight apartments in each. Most were occupied with Havanans yet I observed tourists with luggage exiting taxis then disappearing behind doors. 

To appreciate Cuba one has to seek out the silver linings from what seems like a hopeless situation. The system offers Cubans little incentive, so goes a desire to upkeep buildings and infrastructure. The streets are teeming with life 24/7. That memorable, far-out alien bar depicted in the film, Star Wars, seems pale compared to the outlandish street scenes in Havana. There’s big-time stoop life primarily because of the stifling heat and humidity; kids play baseball and grab ass using homemade baseballs fashioned from rolled up white tape and broom sticks and sticks of all kinds are swung as bats. A parked, banged up ‘55 Chevy might be first base, and broken manhole cover second, a curbside third, while home plate might be a cutout portion of a cardboard box. Some kids just play catch or handball. With the 50ish cars and street baseball boyhood memories flashed in my mind’s eye. I could have been any one of those kids. I saw some sun-baked basketball courts, mostly deserted, marred with potholes and lopsided 
backboards, minus baskets. Kids played soccer with makeshift balls and even tin cans.

The plethora of street scenes is both poignant and heartbreaking; men get haircuts in the street, transmissions from vintage American cars, now jalopies, are yanked out with brute strength and then jury-rigged as to get them back on the road. The shelves of the few available tiendas are bare, except for nine or ten items; people look disheveled and beat, except for the exquisite smiles they dole out toward neighbor and stranger alike; the pulsating beat of Latin music pours out of barred windows and open doorways. One day I went out to the avenue and bought eight, pork sandwiches. Problem number one: The sandwich maker didn’t have a bag. I think I’m resourceful and tried to buy a bag but didn’t possess the right currency but a kind lady gave me one. Then I was in search for mayonnaise or mustard. I would have been better off seeking out the Holy Grail. None was to be found, but lo and behold in the basement of a foreign investment market I found mayonnaise. Viola! But didn’t you know the computerized cash register system crashed and there would be no more sales that day, mmmmm, dried pork sandwiches.

(To be continued next week)






Letters, March 30, 2007



Editor,

Borrowing the title of Barack Obama’s recent book, I’d like to say I have “The Audacity of Hope” regarding the future of San Miguel. Three recent occurrences fuel this.

First: The well-attended meeting on March 8 of the Basta Ya organization in the Allende Museum. Dr. Székely’s 27 point program was fantastic. I hope his enthusiasm and optimism will be contagious throughout the community.

Second: The very well articulated letter in the March 23, Atención, by Roger D. Jones and Rosana Alverez Martinez. Three cheers to both of you!

Finally: The article in the March 23, Atención by Arte en Resistencia. My hope is that you can join forces with Basta Ya and Dr. Székely in order to blend your mutual interest in, and concern for, San Miguel. Working together, rather than separately, can accomplish more. Good luck to you all.

Peter Mudge

Editor,

I wish to thank Atención and the San Miguel community for their support of writer and Death Row inmate Jarvis Masters, who until recently was in solitary confinement at San Quentin. In December, 2006, five local artists and writers read from Masters’ book, Finding Freedom: Writings from Death Row at an event sponsored by the Authors’ Sala. For 21 years Jarvis has survived, in solitary confinement, under dire circumstances through the vows he has taken as a Buddhist, by his own inner strength, and with the support of a worldwide community of hope surrounding him. Finally, justice may be served in Jarvis’ life. Called “unique and breathtaking in its scope,” the California State Supreme Court has ordered state prosecutors to hear Jarvis’ appeal and his claims of innocence. This is a breath of good news in a world desperately in need of hope. For more details on the decision and to read excerpts of Jarvis’ writings, visit www.freejarvis.org. Jarvis continues to meditate, write, and answer his large correspondence from within his 4.5 by 10-foot cell. Copies of Jarvis’ stirring and life-affirming memoir can be purchased in the Biblioteca Tienda, Tecolate Books or from me. Just call 150-0058.

Con Esperanza,
Patrice Wynne





Editor,

In response to the article “Speaking Out” by Arte en Resistencia in the March 23 issue:

Yes. Be conscious of your actions. I agree with what you are saying but not how it is being implemented. Does being conscious of YOUR actions mean pasting your stickers on public sidewalks, business entrances, and people’s private homes? That’s graffiti and it makes you no better than the people you speak out against. I would much rather someone hand me a pamphlet on my way to Mega than have stickers (that are not easily removed) all over the street and sidewalk. It is YOU who is not welcome to deface our homes and streets. It is YOU spreading garbage with messages full of banality, frivolousness, mediocrity, and aggression as much as those you preach against. Congratulations on creating awareness for our community but I hope that you, as artists, look in the mirror sometimes. The art community is not without fault.

Chris Stevens

To the new hospital via Atención,

One day, sick, I sat in the waiting room of the emergency ward filled with what I thought were many patients. Later, I realized entire families were there. So my wait was short and I was examined and diagnosed.

The doctor gave me a prescription, and I went to the cashierwith what he had given me. She handed me a bill which said 63. I thought she meant US$63. Then I realized, no, it meant 63 pesos. I was delighted and surprised.

Well, I love children and feel more happy in Mexico than I ever felt in the US. People in Mexico tend to have a big heart: even the poor help those who are poorer. But, the wealthy hold on so dearly to their material wealth. They don’t realize that what makes them different from other children of God is their lack of compassion. Of course some are compassionate and some even give a small fraction of their wealth to charity. But nonetheless, the wealthy continue to get wealthier.

I am lucky God gave me the wisdom to overcome such ignorance. So I want to present this box of lollipops. Sometimes these lollipops are so powerful they cause a child to smile and forget their fear or for a moment distract them from their pain. Children’s pain is my pain as in most cases they are closer to God than any adult could hope to be, free of many sins that adults, in their ignorance, commit. Please, doctors, give these lollipops out freely, always with a smile and a loving word to a child.

Then wait for the miracle as more people of means with conscience after receiving a bill for 63pesos will find ways they can help. Maybe more lollipops or small tables with crayons and paper to draw on might appear. A group of those 63-peso, appreciative, well-off people might get together and pool a small portion of their wealth to continue to create one miracle after another.

Getting one of the most up-to-date, life-saving pieces of equipment is always a miracle doctors pray for. Sometimes generous people just need a guide to show them how they might help, so posting a list in order of importance and the cost might just speed up those miracles.

Name withheld upon request

Editor’s note: A box of lollipops accompanied this letter and it was passed onto staff at the hospital.

Editor,


In the most recent edition of the Atención there was a quarter page ad and subsequent article by Charlotte Bell titled in bold letters, “Insiders Guide to....” As most readers and visitors already know, the title “Insiders Guide” is associated with my best-selling guidebook, “The Insiders Guide to San Miguel.” The book, now in its 17th edition, is well known to thousands of readers. This title is also protected by international copyright and trademark laws. The person mentioned in this announcement used this name to promote a work which had an entirely different title. I know the public is obviously confused because I have been contacted by many people inquiring about the lecture and book signing. I am surprised that the paper does not require more stringent copy editing before publication and also that in this small and friendly community a fellow writer would infringe on another author’s title. 

Archie Dean

Author/Publisher

The Insider's Guide to San Miguel