Mural Conservancy of Los Angeles’
CUBA tour, May 26-June 2, 2014
AT LA GUARIDA
Let’s start at the end. Well, near the end. By now it's Saturday evening. We have been in Havana since Monday,
but today has been unquestionably the hottest day of all. The digital clock aboard our bus was
recording an exterior temperature of 35 degrees centigrade this afternoon. That’s 95 degrees fahrenheit. Add in the humidity factor and it feels
like 110 degrees. And it’s
still hot out there this evening.
But we’re cool in our
air-conditioned tourist bus. We
have plush seats and a plentiful supply of water. And we’re driving off for a previously scheduled dinner at
La Guarida, touted as one of the best restaurants in Havana. The big bus lumbers through once elegant, now decaying
neighborhoods, where the streets are teeming with the Saturday night crowd,
with bicycle rickshaws and taxicabs, and with those gas-guzzzling monsters of
American cars, relics from the 50s, for which Havana is famous. Along with the flutter of multicolored wash hung
out to dry, many of the rusting iron balconies boast a human figure, man or
woman, who leans out over the busy street seeking the relief of a small gust of
the slowly cooling breeze. It’s a
wonder the balconies don’t collapse under their weight: the sometimes skeletal hulks of the
tenements on either side of the street have been deteriorating for decades, as have the occasional small, ramshackle houses in between. The numerous vacant lots are filled with the debris of fallen structures, attesting to the neglect of decades.
Our bus comes to a halt at the foot of one of these decaying tenements and the automatic door hisses open. At once, a crowd of ill-clad youngsters who had been playing in the street surround us, eager to part our party from a few of our CUCs--the tourist currency These are not the sad-eyed, rheumy, energy-depleted kids who beg for change in other cities I have visited. These are high energy, spirited young entrepreneurs who are smart, bright-eyed, eager for success. Who can blame them? I don’t know about others, but I can’t help but take out my wallet and sort out some small change, and even then with the feeling that it's absurdly inadequate.
Our contributions made, such as
they were, we walk up the crumbling steps into what was once the fine,
high-ceilinged lobby of an upscale dwelling. Once inside, we’re guided to a staircase that winds up, past
a mural tribute to Fidel Castro, in the form of a long quotation from the words he used to explain his oft-repeated motto: PATRIA O MUERTE, country or death...
The words are in Spanish, though, and I’d need a translator if I wanted to understand them. Shame on me. A long-time Southern Californian, I should have taken the trouble to learn my neighbors’ language years ago.
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| All photos are mine or Ellie's, except where otherwise indicated |
At the top of the first flight, we find ourselves on a spacious landing, barely lit by the light that filters in through the gaping holes once occupied by windows, and still in a state of decaying splendor...
Washing lines, now stripped of their daytime load of flapping clothes, are strung the length of the empty space...
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| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
To one side, the remains of
an atrium that went from top to bottom of the building...
... and a long, abandoned
corridor, leading back into darkness and allowing the eye to guess at the
original grand size of the structure.
... where we were mightily grateful to find a comfortable room awaiting us.
... for our first Cuban dinner in an elegantly appointed colonial house with stained glass and murals and, according to our tour guide, original 19th century floors...
... offering mostly secondhand, and perhaps a few rare books to
tourists like ourselves.
Legitimate or not, it was clear that the post-Special Period Havanan is
an enthusiastic entrepreneur.
A decorated stairway led us up to the main floor...
... where the
trompe l’oeil paint work on the skirting and the lower parts of the walls
continued throughout the living area...
A friendly guard offered to let our group into the roped-off area of a
gracious, elegantly appointed living room and dining room...
... where all the furniture and decorative objects were of the period—though I was never quite sure if they were original to the house. I would happily have taken home a few of them myself…
...the Columbus cemetery—with our fellow travelers Peter and Andrea, and Tricia and Sarah. For a mere 10 CUC a person, we got a couple of cab drivers to drive us out to the cemetery and wait for an hour to bring us back to the hotel. Christopher Columbus is not, as it turns out, buried in the Columbus cemetery. That’s another Havana hustle. His remains did, it appears, spend some time there, but were eventually taken back to Spain. The story of his final resting place is contested.
... much of it recycling old, pre-Revolution American corporate signs, mostly from oil companies, laminated with familiar political images and layers of baked-on paint. Here's one:
You see one another in the background below, on the left. I also liked the three-dimensional work:
The artist has representation in the
States, and will be showing later this year at Bergamot in Los Angeles.
Back to the hotel in… our tour bus! What a come-down!
... beautifully choreographed and performed with passionate, engaging energy by the two dozen young dancers, male and female, who form the troupe. And after the dance, we have the opportunity to sit and talk with the performers about their lives, and the kind of work it takes to achieve their level of skill.
Delightful young people. I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that character is formed in good part by the kind of discipline and dedication that it takes to be able to perform at this level.
Another flight of stairs,
narrower than the first, and a short corridor lead us to the entrance to our destination. A step across the
threshold and we’re in a different world.
Here everything is subtle lighting and contemporary design.
We glimpse through glass partitions
into separate dining areas, where smartly-dressed diners sit at well-set tables,
with gleaming silverware and glasses.
The bar is backed by shelves stocked with liquors from throughout the
world—Pernod and Martini, single malt Scotch whiskeys, Belvedere gin and Remy
Martin cognacs. Contemporary art work is displayed on every wall. Waiters and
waitresses, dressed fashionably in black, dart about with laden trays,
murmuring polite greetings to the new arrivals. We are led to a back room set with a long table for our
group, and a smaller one for our Cuban guide, our driver, our tour
manager. We are regaled with a
preliminary mojito (a rum cooler with
lime juice and fresh mint) and menus offering a variety of delicacies. I order, to start with, a delicious
cold gazpachio and a glass of wine…
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| Oscar surveys the art at La Guarida |
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Al and Tricia
|
So this is Havana, a place of sometimes stark contradictions, a place, at once, of deprivation and excess, of exuberant color and drab frontages, of incessant high spirits and repressive bureaucracy, of magnificent generosity and ubiquitous street hustle. In the course of the past week we have eaten so much, and so often, that many of us can barely face the feast we’re to be treated with tonight. We are pained by the knowledge that most Havanans must scrape and scratch for the basics of life, while much of the food that is served us will be left on our plates. Riding through these mean streets that teem with both life and poverty in our air-conditioned luxury, we are called on constantly to be aware of our privilege—as among the relative handful of human beings thus privileged on the planet Earth; as Americans, in a third world country; as educated folk, who know enough to count art and culture among the necessities of life; and certainly as among those fortunate enough enjoy the financial resources to afford this kind of travel.
These thoughts were on my mind throughout our Cuban adventure. From our conversations, I have reason to believe that they were shared by my fellow-travelers, along with the gratitude I feel for an extraordinary experience and a big piece of learning about how others live. But for now, enough with the commentary. Let’s just get back to the start of it all…
*********
We left Los Angeles early Sunday
morning, May 25, for an incredibly fast ride to the airport—never before made it in such
good time. Having upgraded our airline tickets (to First Class! No
business available on this flight) we expected better things of American
Airlines than our last experience…
Alas, it was not so. But
let’s not make that a part of this story.
We have better things to talk about.
First, the group. This is the most complete group photo I've been able to find to date. I'm pretty sure that the image came from Sarah's camera, since she was the one who forwarded it. Who the trigger-person was remains a mystery, since Sarah herself is in the picture. Missing from the picture are (the other) Peter, Rene and Gail--though I suspect it's Gail who is hidden between Tricia and Harriet. (Oh, an email from Gail confirms this...) Wish I had an image that included us all, but failing that...
First, the group. This is the most complete group photo I've been able to find to date. I'm pretty sure that the image came from Sarah's camera, since she was the one who forwarded it. Who the trigger-person was remains a mystery, since Sarah herself is in the picture. Missing from the picture are (the other) Peter, Rene and Gail--though I suspect it's Gail who is hidden between Tricia and Harriet. (Oh, an email from Gail confirms this...) Wish I had an image that included us all, but failing that...
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| ENLARGE WITH A CLICK. From the right: Al, Kent, Steve, Kate, Sarah, Ellie, PC, Andrea, Isabel, Tricia, Gail, Harriet, Lana, Stash. Jeanna and little Stash |
We could not have wished for better company!
Monday,
May 26
HAVANA
BOUND
Having booked a room for the
night at the Miami International Airport Hotel, we ran into the first of our
fellow-travelers already at the reception desk, and were delighted to be
reminded that Harriet Zeitlin was a friend from quite some time ago—and a
friend, too, of Ellie’s family. We
enjoyed a pleasant catch-up conversation with Harriet and, later, Isabel, who is representing the Mural Conservancy of Los Angeles, the organization sponsoring our trip. A rather indifferent dinner at
the hotel restaurant, overlooking the airport runway from the seventh
floor; but thereafter, we were
grateful for a comfortable bed and a good night’s sleep, before showing up at
eleven the next morning at our meeting point outside a Chilli’s restaurant in
our departure concourse. Tour
management was on hand in the form of Fierce Frank to collect our passports and arrange for our visas and tickets for the flight to Havana
aboard Vieja Hoy.
Scheduled for 2PM, our takeoff,
we soon discovered, had been postponed until 5:30, extending our anticipated
three-hour wait to an unwelcome six-and-a-half hours. Ellie and I had more than enough time, then, to do some desultory
airport shopping before joining some of our group for lunch and lengthy
conversation at Chilli’s. At least
that left us the opportunity to make some new acquaintances with several of
those with whom we’d be spending the next week—a jovial and remarkably patient
bunch with varied interests and experience in the world of current art. We have some artists among us, some
teachers, some involved in different aspects of arts management and
administration. Aside from
Harriet, we found another old friend in Kent Twitchell—a former student in my
Otis days and a muralist joining us for his long—indeed
distinguished—experience with the art that was to be a focus of our visit.
Having made the best of a long
wait, we were finally able to board our flight for the short hop across the Straits of Florida to Havana, where we were delighted to be greeted by what we took to be a
propitious rainbow in the sky above the airport....
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| Hope you can make it out... |
Past immigration and customs, we were further greeted by
another old friend, Adolfo “Al” Nodal, whose travel company had made all the
arrangements for our trip; and a
short time later, on the bus that was to become our principal means of transport,
by our Cuban tour guide, Oscar...
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| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
... and our driver “Mandy” Armando. Oscar—who proved during the week to be
a charming, affable and knowledgeable escort—provided us with an orientation
and an introduction to the streets of Havana as we drove to our hotel, the
Telegrafo...
... where we were mightily grateful to find a comfortable room awaiting us.
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| Here's a fine image of the Telegrafo bar but Kent Twitchell. Thank you, Kent, and for more to come! |
... for our first Cuban dinner in an elegantly appointed colonial house with stained glass and murals and, according to our tour guide, original 19th century floors...
 |
At the far end, Jeanna and little Stash, big Stash; right side, Isabel, Gail, Oscar
Los Mercaderes is a “paladar”, originally one of the early privately
owned and operated restaurants opening up as Cuba began to emerge from the
“Special Period” that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union and the
consequent loss of its most important trading partner and political support
system. We were to hear much about
this period and the recovery from it in the course of our stay. In the meantime, though, we enjoyed the
first of what was to become a familiar culinary pattern: a complimentary mojito to get us started, followed by a menu of rice and beans with a selection of
pork, chicken or fish and, finally, a flan. One glass of wine or beer was usually included; the
second needed to be paid for in CUCs.
|
After dinner, the bus drove us
back to our hotel, up the wide boulevard we came to know as the Prado. After a long day, the comfortable bed in
our hotel room was a welcome sight.
Tuesday,
May 27
FOUR
PLAZAS… AND MORE, IN OLD HAVANA
We started in good time for
another—daylight—stroll through Old Havana. The bus took us to the Plaza de Armas, the site of the
oldest Spanish fortress in the Americas and of the city’s founding back in 1519. On the far side is the grand Palacio de
los Capitanes Generales, the early seat of government. As we left the bus, we were greeted by
an impressive outdoor, pop-up exhibition of large-scale images of Papua, New
Guinea by the photographer Stephen Dupont...
... a striking reminder that good art can
be displayed in public places, and not necessarily in exclusive galleries.
Our first steps into the plaza
introduced us to the ubiquitous Cuban art of the hustle. People who wanted to sell us postage stamps, or
candy, or picture postcards—anything, really, or even nothing—swarmed around
this new batch of American tourists with the insistent offering of things we
did not want or need. A group of
women in colorful colonial Cuban costume were on hand, posing for pictures or
offering scarlet kisses in exchange for a CUC or two. More reasonably, the square was crowded with the stands of
booksellers...
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| Colonial seat of government |
Our guide, Oscar, introduced us
to a new escort, Raquel Carrera...
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| This lovely portrait taken by Kent Twitchell |
... a young art historian who could tell us
something more about the history of the plaza and, as we walked on, a
large-scale ceramic tile mural on the wall of a maternity hospital, created by
the artist Ismael Gomez and depicting—in traditional, illustrative form—the
universal theme of motherhood. Passing
through the spacious plaza that fronts the church of San Francisco de Assis...
... we
were impressed by the trompe l’oeil mural at the far end of the church’s
chancel...
... depicting the absent altar and reredos. Also, incidentally, on the church steps, the “living
statue” of a cellist offered a fine surprise for those taken in by his bronzed
make-up and attire.
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| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
Trompe l’oeil, in three dimensions…
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| Stray dogs, everywhere, seeming happy enough to snooze or cruise... |
We were happy to be allowed a
half-hour’s coffee break when we reached the third of our plazas, the Plaza Vieja—a large, open square...
with several modernist sculptures and what was
billed as “the best coffee shop in town.”
We were about to pass up on the opportunity when confronted with a line
that stretched for half a block, but soon discovered that the line was not for
a cup of coffee in the coffee shop, but rather for packages of ground coffee to take home. Inside, the brewed stuff was fine,
though the heat outside prompted the choice of an iced version.
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| Harriet, Plaza Vieja. Photo: Kent Twitchell |
A short-ish walk in the midday
sun brought us to the restaurant Nao...
.... where we downed a plate of rice and beans
accompanied by—in my case—shredded pork and a bottle of the local brew called
Bucanero, which soon became the choice beer for our group. I also enjoyed a conversation with
Oscar and, with his interpreting skills, with our driver, Mandy, about politics
and the embargo. I had brought
along my own simplistic view that the embargo was a blot on America’s
relationship with our island neighbor to the south… but seems that for Cubans
things are a little more complicated than that. Not everyone in Cuba worships at the altar of the 1959
Revolution, and the embargo also provides a useful scapegoat for all economic woes.
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| Ellie and Kent at Nao |
An after-lunch walk took us past
the block-long, sepia mural portraits of notable historical figures from Cuba’s
history, which seemed to invite a group portrait of our members, strung out in
a line in imitation of the mural...
Raquel was still on hand to tell us more about the figures included in
the mural than I could either write down or remember. On, then, to the Plaza de la Catedral, a beautiful, small
square surrounded on three sides by buildings dating from the 16th
and 17th centuries; and on the fourth, the Cuban baroque façade and
two towers of the cathedral itself.
A side street led us from there to the Taller Experimental de Grafica, an artists’ collective founded in 1962 by a group supported by the Chilean Poet Pablo Neruda and by Che Guevara. The Taller hosts artists from throughout the world, and we were delighted to be able to watch a group of young American art students hard at work...
... apparently with great enjoyment and commitment. The Taller’s gallery houses an impressive range of woodcuts, lino cuts, etchings and lithographs.
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| My IPhone picture, not near the quality of the one taken with Sarah's camera, included above... |
A side street led us from there to the Taller Experimental de Grafica, an artists’ collective founded in 1962 by a group supported by the Chilean Poet Pablo Neruda and by Che Guevara. The Taller hosts artists from throughout the world, and we were delighted to be able to watch a group of young American art students hard at work...
... apparently with great enjoyment and commitment. The Taller’s gallery houses an impressive range of woodcuts, lino cuts, etchings and lithographs.
From the Taller, it was a short
walk to the Wilfredo Lam Centro de Arte Contemporaneo, where the current HavanaBienal was on display. Our group
was particularly taken with an installation by Alexis Leyva Machado, known as
Kcho (Kah-cho), in the central atrium...
... a tall, oddly balanced tower of ships and associated marine objects entitled “Archipelago in my Mind.” We thought, of course, of those many who have sought to escape the island in rickety boats, and of the many who have lost their lives in the attempt. Other standouts, for Ellie and myself, included paintings by Antonio Ole...
... and Haimal Herido...
Having recognized the name on our itinerary, we had been looking forward to seeing some works by Lam himself—arguably the best known of Cuban artists of the 20th century… but we would have to wait for these until later, when we visited the Museo de Bellas Artes.
... a tall, oddly balanced tower of ships and associated marine objects entitled “Archipelago in my Mind.” We thought, of course, of those many who have sought to escape the island in rickety boats, and of the many who have lost their lives in the attempt. Other standouts, for Ellie and myself, included paintings by Antonio Ole...
... and Haimal Herido...
Having recognized the name on our itinerary, we had been looking forward to seeing some works by Lam himself—arguably the best known of Cuban artists of the 20th century… but we would have to wait for these until later, when we visited the Museo de Bellas Artes.
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| Not sure where or when this was taken, but happy our friends found a handsome Cuban guy to consort with! Photo: Kent Twitchell |
Meantime, before boarding the bus
to return to our hotel, we made a quick tour of the Cathedral of San Christofde la Habana, and were taken with several of the unusual dioramas of sacred
scenes behind the altar and in chapels to either side, combining painted sculptural
elements with background paintings...
... also a particularly dramatic life-sized crucifix.
... also a particularly dramatic life-sized crucifix.
A
HUSTLE HERE, A HUSTLE THERE…
The bus brought us back to the
Telegrafo in good time for some serious relaxation before heading out for an
evening, as the itinerary put it, “on your own.” Ellie and I joined up with the other Peter and Andrea—both
professors at USC—for a walk across the square and an obligatory stop at the famed Floridita. This favorite Hemingway
watering hole (for daiquiris) boasts a bronze figure of the macho writer
leaning up against the bar—and ready to pose for pictures with anyone who
chooses to put an arm around his shoulder. Ellie and the other Peter both complied...
For the sake of proper form, we downed
daiquiris before setting off down the Avenida Obispo in search of a restaurant
for dinner. Obispo turned out to
be a major tourist trap. Hustlers
armed with menus lay in wait outside every restaurant along the way and, truth
to tell, not one of them looked the slightest bit appealing. We did, though, make an interesting
stop at a “five artists” studio—where three of the five were actually at work
on canvases, one of them making some pretty interesting land- and city-scapes...
He seemed glad enough to find us interested in his work, and was happy to talk at length about the studio and about his own painting process. Paints and other art supplies are hard to come by in Cuba, so this artist has established a source through a dealer in Mexico. Another example of Cuba's crippling shortages.
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| ... and Ellie was treated to a Hemingway kiss |
He seemed glad enough to find us interested in his work, and was happy to talk at length about the studio and about his own painting process. Paints and other art supplies are hard to come by in Cuba, so this artist has established a source through a dealer in Mexico. Another example of Cuba's crippling shortages.
Having walked the length of
Obispo and back to La Floridita without having found a place to eat, we turned off
in another direction toward Sloppy Joe’s—reputed home of the original “sloppy
joe” and highly recommended to us by our friend Al. I did, indeed, order the house speciality and, along with a
glass of red wine, it went down pretty well. So well, in fact, that the other Peter was tempted, after
finishing his own order, to order one for himself. How he managed both remains a mystery.
Leaving the restaurant, the four
of us were accosted by a friendly couple who purported to love Americans and,
coincidentally, longed to visit our home town of Los Angeles...
Once our lasting friendship was firmly
established, they discovered that we loved Cuban music—and knew just the place
to hear the very best of it, if only we’d walk along a couple of blocks with
them. Ellie and I began to smell the
hustle after only a block, and turned back home—though on the way we ran into
another couple playing exactly the same scam, though this one involved not
music, but cigars that purported to be much better than the Cohiba I was
smoking on our way back to the hotel.
We worried a bit about Peter and Andrea, but were amused, the following
day at breakfast, to hear how it had played out, involving eventually multiple
players working both with and against each other. Havana, we have discovered, is a hotbed of this art. Everyone has a hustle, some shady, some
legitimate. It’s a way of life, in
a place where it seems to be a required skill for survival.
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| Ellie took the picture... |
At least the streets are filled
with adventure late at night, and everyone seems to be having fun.
Wednesday,
May 28
A
WALK ON THE WILD SIDE
After a drive through the now familiar streets, where buildings seem about to collapse, or have already collapsed...
... we find ourselves standing beneath a revered baobob tree in the Parque Trillo, “the center of Cuban African identity” in the Cayo Hueso district.
In front of us, Elias...
... a short, stocky man in a bright African shirt is holding forth about the pagan religions that, along with Catholicism, form the spiritual belief systems of the Cuban island. The tree itself, he tells us, is a living force that “absorbs negative energies”, a shrine beneath which offerings may be made, or to which amulets may be attached. According to these naturalistic, non-Christian beliefs—the heritage of more than a million African slaves—all human energies are represented by an array of deities, whose help may be invoked by those empowered as spiritual leaders to heal or provide guidance. Santeria, he tells us, “a religion of here and now,” which “helps people to face shortages and solve their problems.”
... we find ourselves standing beneath a revered baobob tree in the Parque Trillo, “the center of Cuban African identity” in the Cayo Hueso district.
In front of us, Elias...
... a short, stocky man in a bright African shirt is holding forth about the pagan religions that, along with Catholicism, form the spiritual belief systems of the Cuban island. The tree itself, he tells us, is a living force that “absorbs negative energies”, a shrine beneath which offerings may be made, or to which amulets may be attached. According to these naturalistic, non-Christian beliefs—the heritage of more than a million African slaves—all human energies are represented by an array of deities, whose help may be invoked by those empowered as spiritual leaders to heal or provide guidance. Santeria, he tells us, “a religion of here and now,” which “helps people to face shortages and solve their problems.”
A delightfully enthusiastic and
knowledgeable guide, Elias fills us in with the basics of Santeria and Palo delMonte, the two principal religious sects, before leading us off on a brisk walk
past a famed rumba night club, the Rumba Palace...
...
A tiny farmer’s market offers vegetables and fruit. Stray dogs wander hither and yon, or
stretch out lazily in the sun.
Everyone seems to know our guide, and greet him with a shout, sometimes a hug… He leads us in through a modest doorway and down a dank corridor...
... with doorways to either side, open for a glimpse into small, dark dwellings and their busy occupants; and finally into the tiny room that serves as the sacred work space of a “palero”—a black man who sits quietly in a corner, robed in African garb and seeming at first oblivious to his visitors, lost within his own thoughts.
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| The Rumba Palace, on the right |
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| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
Everyone seems to know our guide, and greet him with a shout, sometimes a hug… He leads us in through a modest doorway and down a dank corridor...
... with doorways to either side, open for a glimpse into small, dark dwellings and their busy occupants; and finally into the tiny room that serves as the sacred work space of a “palero”—a black man who sits quietly in a corner, robed in African garb and seeming at first oblivious to his visitors, lost within his own thoughts.
The palero is a priest in the
Palo del Monte tradition, with origins in the Congo. His cramped, barely lit shrine is packed everywhere with
objects of all kinds, dolls and carvings, totems and textiles, charms and
amulets—some of whose meanings were revealed to us as Elias spoke with our
spiritual host and interpreted his words. Palo del Monte's principal spiritual concern is with death, but the palero has the power to channel the spiritual energies for those who
seek his help in dealing with the problems and challenges of life. He speaks to us familiarly of the
spirits of the dead, projecting a supreme confidence in the exercise of his
power to communicate with them, and appears undismayed by either the heat, the humidity, or the poverty of his
environment.
Out on the streets again...
We
follow our cheerful leader for a few more brilliantly sunlit blocks to the home
of a “santera”—a priestess of the Santeria tradition. Her home, on the second floor of a tenement building, is
also chock-a-block with shrines and sacred objects of every kind imaginable...
But her rooms are spacious, filled with light, as though her spirits were more those of life than death. The high wall that greets us as we enter her space is decorated with framed portraits of Fidel and Raul, Cesar Chavez and Abraham Lincoln...
... the latter revered here for having freed
the American slaves. (I like the Don Quixote carving in front of them!) Marta, the
santera, awaits us calmly, brandishing a cigar, and offers us a lengthy introduction
to her religion...
Originating in
Nigeria, she explains through Elias’s interpretation, Santeria is “the way of
the saints, the deities that live inside your head, empowering all aspects of
life.” It welcomes and embraces
all other religions, Catholicism as well as Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism...
Each of us has a personal energy, represented by a particular god, who acts as an oracle or spiritual guide. Her job is to identify that deity and interpret the oracle. Animals, she says, are sacrificed only to “save people,” and the ceremonial eating of their flesh assures their “healing properties.” (For those interested in further clarification, by the way, she recommended “The Santeria Experience,” by Migere Gonzalez-Wippler. It’s available on Amazon.)
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| Photo: Kent Twitchell |
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| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
Of the beautiful image below, Stash writes: "In the photo the other little boy is giving Stashu a piece of wrapper from some candy. Then we gave the little boy a peso and he tried to give it to his dad. His dad told him to keep it. The little boy was our guide's assistant's son. I forget his name. The boy was named after his father as well. I think it might have been Jorge."
But her rooms are spacious, filled with light, as though her spirits were more those of life than death. The high wall that greets us as we enter her space is decorated with framed portraits of Fidel and Raul, Cesar Chavez and Abraham Lincoln...
 |
| Photo: Kent Twitchell |
Each of us has a personal energy, represented by a particular god, who acts as an oracle or spiritual guide. Her job is to identify that deity and interpret the oracle. Animals, she says, are sacrificed only to “save people,” and the ceremonial eating of their flesh assures their “healing properties.” (For those interested in further clarification, by the way, she recommended “The Santeria Experience,” by Migere Gonzalez-Wippler. It’s available on Amazon.)
STREET
ART… AND MUSEUM ART
There followed a short walk to
the open-air “Afro-Cuban Religion Sanctuary”...
... where the local artist Salvador Gonzalez has taken over the entire length of a back alley, “adorning its walls,” our itinerary tells us, “with evocative Santeria murals paying homage to religious cults and currents of African origin.” His bright, sprawling murals and ceramic tile works form a single, dazzling, large-scale installation. At one point, a set of steps winds down into a small underground gallery where Gonzalez shows and sells his work along with that of the students whom he encourages to work with him. Ellie and I were much taken with one tiny painting, and brought it home with us. When framed, it will be a vivid reminder of our Cuban visit.
... where the local artist Salvador Gonzalez has taken over the entire length of a back alley, “adorning its walls,” our itinerary tells us, “with evocative Santeria murals paying homage to religious cults and currents of African origin.” His bright, sprawling murals and ceramic tile works form a single, dazzling, large-scale installation. At one point, a set of steps winds down into a small underground gallery where Gonzalez shows and sells his work along with that of the students whom he encourages to work with him. Ellie and I were much taken with one tiny painting, and brought it home with us. When framed, it will be a vivid reminder of our Cuban visit.
(This may be an appropriate
moment, as an aside, to mention that we encountered the hard—or soft!—sell
almost everywhere we went, and the Gonzalez alley was no exception. One stand sold talismans and amulets in
the form of bright, beaded bracelets and necklaces; another, soft drinks and
food; a third, a variety of souvenirs.
Havana is no different in this respect, of course, from other tourist
meccas throughout the known universe; but the urgency seems somehow a little
more intense than other places—perhaps because the need is greater. It’s just another aspect of the great
Cuban hustle.)
Before lunch, we were treated to the spectacle of three street dancers...
... in a high energy performance accompanied by a variety of drums--and some of our number were included, willingly or not, in the performance. We settled in for lunch...
... in the
Gonzalez residence, its interior furnishings and decorations in keeping with
the rest of his installations. A
buffet selection of good dishes awaited us, along with the inevitable mojito and a can of Bucanero. After lunch, Elias
escorted us back to our bus and offered us an astute piece of parting wisdom. “Enjoy my country,” he exhorted us:
“Don’t try to understand it, just enjoy!”
 |
| Tricia and Ellie in the background--Ellie about to receive a dancer in her lap! |
 |
| Photo: Kent Twitchell |
 |
| The cigar is de rigueur in Santeria-land |
The afternoon found us on more
familiar territory, with a visit to the Museo de Bellas Artes, devoted to the history of Cuban art.
The museum itself is a fine example of modernist architecture, built
around a graceful central courtyard.
Following a long ramp up to the third floor (no photographs!), we were
treated, finally, to an extensive survey of the work of Wilfredo Lam—an artist
as much influenced by the Cubism of his friend Picasso as by the later period
of Dada and Surrealism. This
substantial collection led to several subsequent galleries devoted to the work
of individual early modernist artists, amongst whom my personal favorite was
certainly Amelia Pelàez, of whom I had never heard before and about whom I was
happy to correct my ignorance.
The rest of the third floor
brought us up through mid-century to the end of the twentieth century, with
some interesting examples of art work from around the time of the 1959
Revolution. The last galleries we
visited, those hosting the work of our contemporaries, were particularly
interesting in revealing more of the ambivalence toward the revolution that we
have also found amongst our Cuban hosts.
In a culture that until quite recently was dominated by the fear of
speaking openly about political and social issues, many of the artists found
ways to express their feelings of ambivalence in double entendre and other forms of subtle
irony. I regret not having
examples to include, because many of the contemporary works were powerful in
their critique of cultural constraints.
Ellie and I enjoyed a quiet walk along the Prado...
... back to the hotel, just a few blocks distant; and the luxury of a long rest from the heat and exertions of the day. Before dinner, we found Al in the bar, treating a growing number of our fellow travelers to a shot of excellent, seven-year old Cuban rum. Most of us had not been rum-drinkers in our lives to date, but it took no more than a few sips to convert us to its rich, warm, tropical flavors. Then Oscar arrived to round us up and escort us back to the bus, where Mandy was waiting patiently as ever to drive us out for the evening.
... back to the hotel, just a few blocks distant; and the luxury of a long rest from the heat and exertions of the day. Before dinner, we found Al in the bar, treating a growing number of our fellow travelers to a shot of excellent, seven-year old Cuban rum. Most of us had not been rum-drinkers in our lives to date, but it took no more than a few sips to convert us to its rich, warm, tropical flavors. Then Oscar arrived to round us up and escort us back to the bus, where Mandy was waiting patiently as ever to drive us out for the evening.
A lovely drive, down the Prado to
the shoreline and up along the bluffs into a quiet, green area overlooking the
ocean, where small private houses with blossoming gardens and mango and coconut trees...
... line the narrow streets. Here we enjoyed a pleasant dinner al fresco in one such garden, Doña Carmela’s paladar restaurant...
... where we found friendly service on a shady patio, to the
accompaniment of Latin music. CDs available for purchase...
After dinner, we took a long walk up the palisades and through a remnant
of the original defensive wall, into the old citadel...
... that once guarded the city of Havana...
Despite the crowds, we managed to get a decent view of the ceremony before heading back to the bus for the drive back to the Telegrafo.
... line the narrow streets. Here we enjoyed a pleasant dinner al fresco in one such garden, Doña Carmela’s paladar restaurant...
 |
| Photo: Kent Twitchell |
... that once guarded the city of Havana...
 |
| Havana, night view, across the bay |
Here, every night, the
Cuban military dress in in 18th century costume to re-enact the
traditional firing of a canon to mark the closing of the city gates at
nightfall...
Despite the crowds, we managed to get a decent view of the ceremony before heading back to the bus for the drive back to the Telegrafo.
 |
| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
Thursday,
May 29
THE
INDIAN CAVES, LUNCH IN THE COUNTRY, CIGARS…
Breakfast at the hotel is buffet
style. There are trays of fruit to
choose from, as well as meats and cheeses and a selection of other dishes, hot
and cold. My choice is to make
life easy this early in the morning, so I stop by the hotplate where a friendly
man rustles up a variety of eggs—fried, scrambled, omelets, you decide. The gift of a CUC buys you a nice smile
along with the eggs, so that’s what I do.
And then stop at the coffee counter for a double espresso, to which I
add hot milk from the regular coffee counter. Espresso is free, but latté costs you CUCs, so I get the espresso
and add the milk myself. The
regular coffee, by the way, is awful.
Get the espresso…
Today we leave town for a trip to
the countryside. It’s a two and a
half hour bus ride from Havana to our destination, Vinales, in the Western
Province of Pinar del Rio...
As we
start out, Oscar offers his usual commentary on the sights around us as we
drive and today, passing the crowds gathered at bus stops...
... or small knots of others trying the thumb rides at roadside or—as we drive further—at every highway underpass...
We learn a great deal more about the life of average Cubans living in the city. Transportation, Oscar tells us, is a constant challenge for commuters. You never know when a bus will come by, or whether it will be too full to take on new passengers. Living some distance from the city center, he has to worry daily about how to get to work on time. “Every Cuban worker,” he tells us, “goes to sleep at night wondering how he’ll get to where he wants to go the following day. And every Cuban mother goes to sleep at night wondering what she’ll feed her children.” The shortages, not only of food but of every other commodity, from AA batteries to toothpaste and aspirin, are evident everywhere. Life in Cuba, we have come to understand is a constant battle to find even the most basic of necessities—the kinds of things we take for granted at home.
 |
| This image of Steve and Kate aboard the bus is by Kent Twitchell |
... or small knots of others trying the thumb rides at roadside or—as we drive further—at every highway underpass...
We learn a great deal more about the life of average Cubans living in the city. Transportation, Oscar tells us, is a constant challenge for commuters. You never know when a bus will come by, or whether it will be too full to take on new passengers. Living some distance from the city center, he has to worry daily about how to get to work on time. “Every Cuban worker,” he tells us, “goes to sleep at night wondering how he’ll get to where he wants to go the following day. And every Cuban mother goes to sleep at night wondering what she’ll feed her children.” The shortages, not only of food but of every other commodity, from AA batteries to toothpaste and aspirin, are evident everywhere. Life in Cuba, we have come to understand is a constant battle to find even the most basic of necessities—the kinds of things we take for granted at home.
The countryside, to begin with,
is quite beautiful, very green from the frequent tropical rains, and for the most part untended. Watching through the window...
... I wonder why such arable-seeming land is not more used for agriculture. The cattle and goats wander aimlessly, uncontrolled, mostly with free access to the highway. Produce like corn and other vegetables seem to grow in patches, rather than in whole farms. We drive by rice paddies, but they seem scattered, disorganized, a relatively small in number. There are orchards of mango trees and banana palms, but there is nothing to compare to the vast acreage of agriculturally developed land in, say, the San Joaquin Valley in poor, drought-ridden California. How much better they could do here, where the soil looks rich and the rain is plentiful.
... I wonder why such arable-seeming land is not more used for agriculture. The cattle and goats wander aimlessly, uncontrolled, mostly with free access to the highway. Produce like corn and other vegetables seem to grow in patches, rather than in whole farms. We drive by rice paddies, but they seem scattered, disorganized, a relatively small in number. There are orchards of mango trees and banana palms, but there is nothing to compare to the vast acreage of agriculturally developed land in, say, the San Joaquin Valley in poor, drought-ridden California. How much better they could do here, where the soil looks rich and the rain is plentiful.
We pause for a break at a rest
stop, taking pictures of a pair of oxen...
... in front of a beautifully thatched tobacco barn and the “pregnant” palms that surround it, with their curious, pot-bellied trunks. Dogs wander freely through the coffee show; a little pig snuffles at the perimeter...
... along with a hen and her chicks. We follow the call of nature, leave the required quarter CUC tip, buy a cup of coffee, return to the bus, and drive on.
Soon we’re driving through the national park of the Vinales Valley, lush with green trees and undergrowth...
On either side, weather-worn limestone cliffs loom up above us. We drive through the colorful tourist village of Vinales, where all the houses are kept trim and freshly painted...
... and where, Oscar tells us, home owners make a handy living renting rooms to tourists.
... in front of a beautifully thatched tobacco barn and the “pregnant” palms that surround it, with their curious, pot-bellied trunks. Dogs wander freely through the coffee show; a little pig snuffles at the perimeter...
... along with a hen and her chicks. We follow the call of nature, leave the required quarter CUC tip, buy a cup of coffee, return to the bus, and drive on.
Soon we’re driving through the national park of the Vinales Valley, lush with green trees and undergrowth...
On either side, weather-worn limestone cliffs loom up above us. We drive through the colorful tourist village of Vinales, where all the houses are kept trim and freshly painted...
... and where, Oscar tells us, home owners make a handy living renting rooms to tourists.
Arriving at our destination, the
Cueva del Indio (the Indian Cave), we head up a series of steps past the reenactment of an Indian village...
... to the mouth of a large cave and follow the wet path that leads down into its depths, with limestone rock formations on either side.
At the end of the path, we board a small boat with an outboard motor...
... and
penetrate further into the cave...
... along the waterway to an underground waterfall...
The guide points out familiar formations, the Snake, the Sea Horse, the Indian Head. We emerge from the tunnel into bright sunlight...
... pausing at the edge of another waterfall, and disembark to find a
series of souvenir stands selling basketry, jewelry, crafts… We buy a basket, a wooden car for our
grandson, and a nicely crafted humming bird.
 |
| Isabel demonstrates her iguana handling skills |
... to the mouth of a large cave and follow the wet path that leads down into its depths, with limestone rock formations on either side.
 |
| Photo: Gail Nathan. Thanks for this great image! |
... along the waterway to an underground waterfall...
The guide points out familiar formations, the Snake, the Sea Horse, the Indian Head. We emerge from the tunnel into bright sunlight...
Before lunch, there’s a planned
stop at the Mural de la Prehistoria, the Mural of Prehistory, supposedly the
largest in the world, or in the hemisphere, or something… Supposedly the
Commandante Himself commissioned it.
Painted roughly in simple swaths of color on a mountainside, it purports
to depict the ascent of man from prehistoric times. We ask our mural expert, Kent Twitchell, for an
opinion. He says, “This location
doesn’t need Kent Twitchell”...
It’s
a consensus: badly painted, badly designed, the mural is little more than the
desecration of a beautiful natural site.
On the plus side, there are people offering horse rides and bull rides,
and for no more than a CUC.
Irresistible. I take a bull
ride...
The massive creature rocks
and rolls beneath me, swaying powerfully as it walks. I find it surprisingly hard to stay on top—and harder still
to get off. Our friend Isabel is
quick to take my place.
 |
| ... but Kent took this picture... |
 |
| Still, good for a group photo, at least |
 |
| Isabel is more stately, I think |
Next stop, lunch. We drive back through the village to a
small, family tobacco farm, Finca Rojas, where Mandy parks our huge bus
precariously on the narrow roadside.
We eat lunch on a tiny, thatched patio and watch the gathering thunder
clouds.
Scrawny chickens scratch
at the ground around us, and we wonder if others will stop to eat these poor creatures, just as
we, now, are eating what may have been their parents or grandparents. We drink Bucaneros. And after lunch we are invited down to
the tobacco barn…
 |
| The tobacco farmer's granddaughter looks on... |
What a treat. The barn is hung everywhere with drying
tobacco leaves...
The aroma is delicate, a bit intoxicating. The paterfamilias, an elegant older man, tall and lean and serious, demonstrates how a cigar is made...
... stripping a coarse leaf of its tough ribs and bunching
some of the soft parts into a central core; he then strips a finer leaf and
rolls it skillfully around the core; and finally takes a still finer leaf for
the outer wrapping, sealing it off with a twist at the blunt end. I accept the offer of the finished
cigar and a light. Delicious. I never tasted a cigar so fresh, so
aromatic. The non-smokers around
me begin angling for a taste. Pretty soon, even they are shelling out for a two-dollar cigar and
lighting up. The barn fills with
smoke and laughter.
It’s as though we were all smoking not tobacco but marijuana.
The aroma is delicate, a bit intoxicating. The paterfamilias, an elegant older man, tall and lean and serious, demonstrates how a cigar is made...
It’s as though we were all smoking not tobacco but marijuana.
 |
| Even Ellie smokes! |
A crash of thunder breaks into
the laughter… and the rain starts outside. In moments, it’s coming down in sheets, but we’re all happy where
we are. Pictures are taken. Smoke is blown. The most reticent among us are
persuaded to join in the general merriment. The thunder continues to crash outside, the rain pours
down. The path to the barn turns
into a small river, a torrent of rushing water...
We are already off schedule by an hour at least… Finally, sensing no let-up in the storm, I head out of the barn and back to the restaurant, hopping through puddles and over streams. Others follow, too much caught up in the hilarity to worry about sodden shoes. Oscar calls for the bus, and we pile aboard…
We are already off schedule by an hour at least… Finally, sensing no let-up in the storm, I head out of the barn and back to the restaurant, hopping through puddles and over streams. Others follow, too much caught up in the hilarity to worry about sodden shoes. Oscar calls for the bus, and we pile aboard…
We drive back up out of the
valley, pausing only for a brief stop for pictures at a vista point.
It’s time—well past time, in fact—to
head back to the city, where we’re scheduled for a visit at the José Fuster
studio and the surrounding neighborhood.
The studio is closed when we arrive, but we spend a half-hour wandering
around the enchanting environment of mosaic street murals and houses decorated
wall-to-roof with colorful ceramic tile...
Fuster is billed as the Cuban Gaudi, but his vision was not only to construct his own fantasy environment, but to persuade those who lived around him to join the adventure. The result is a whole village joyfully transformed into art, essentially, but charmingly, of the amateur variety.
Fuster is billed as the Cuban Gaudi, but his vision was not only to construct his own fantasy environment, but to persuade those who lived around him to join the adventure. The result is a whole village joyfully transformed into art, essentially, but charmingly, of the amateur variety.
 |
| Your blogger found a leaf. Photo: Kent Twitchell |
Our return route to the hotel
takes us, with Oscar’s commentary, through the once wealthy districts of El Verdado and Miramar. We turn on to
the famous oceanside boulevard, the Malecon, at its southern end and drive back up with the ocean on our left,
passing the “U.S. Intersection Building”—not quite an embassy or a consulate, but at least an
American business presence on the island our country has chosen to ignore. Immediately in front of the building,
Castro has built a plaza specifically for anti-American demonstrations, and a forest
of flagpoles to interfere with radio communications. Also, a block away, a statue of Cuba’s great national here,
Jose Martí, stands with the famously abducted child Elian Gonzalez in his arms,
a finger pointed accusingly at this remnant of (here) disreputable America.
Tonight it was “dinner on your
own” again. Ellie and I wandered for a
while, then followed Isabel’s recommendation to try La Terrazza, on the third
floor of a building nearby. It was
excellent. Fresh food, not too
much of it. A glass of wine. We sat at the edge of the balcony,
overlooking the Prado. Looking
back at the Hotel Telegrapho, we realized that from this point your could look
directly into our hotel room.
Need to be more careful in the future…
Friday,
May 30
WALL
PAINTINGS, MURALS…
Today we met up with a new
guide, a young woman still in graduate school with a special interest
in murals. Interestingly, her
definition embraced all kinds of painting on both interior and exterior surfaces,
including historical shop signs and trompe l’oeil decorative detail. Starting us off in the Old Havana
district, she pointed out several examples of 18th and 19th
century shop signs along the way...
... nicely preserved from under the more recent coats of paint.
... nicely preserved from under the more recent coats of paint.
Next on her tour was the beautifully restored 18th century Colonial house, Casa de la Obra Pia, long owned and occupied by a single wealthy family, with an original ceramic tile mural on the
wall of a spacious central patio...
A decorated stairway led us up to the main floor...
... where all the furniture and decorative objects were of the period—though I was never quite sure if they were original to the house. I would happily have taken home a few of them myself…
From there, we strolled back to
the Plaza de Armas, this time to hear a little more about El Templete, a small
building and fenced courtyard...
... that marks the spot where the city of San Cristobal de la Habana was founded in 1519. The original silk-cotton tree beneath which the ceremonial mass was celebrated has been replaced by a stone column since the founding, and an adjacent shade. The Neoclassical building is home to three monumental murals depicting the event...
... painted (in neoclassical style) by the French artist Jean Baptiste Vernay.
... that marks the spot where the city of San Cristobal de la Habana was founded in 1519. The original silk-cotton tree beneath which the ceremonial mass was celebrated has been replaced by a stone column since the founding, and an adjacent shade. The Neoclassical building is home to three monumental murals depicting the event...
... painted (in neoclassical style) by the French artist Jean Baptiste Vernay.
On the way to our last downtown
stop for the morning we passed by a state sponsored political mural by the
Union of Communist Students, featuring “Ché, Patria o Muerte.” Unsurprisingly, there are a good number
of this kind of mural around the city, many of them celebrating the image of
Ché Guevara (el mejor amigo), and
most displayed on huge billboards.
We were surprised to learn, however, that there are no murals featuring Fidel Castro, who frowns on the “cult of the individual.” He will likely be celebrated in many similar murals after his
death. Unless much changes in Cuba
before then. Che, however, is everywhere...
Coming back to the
center of town, our guide led us into a deco building—if I recall, a bank—with
a large frieze painted by the Mexican muralist-inspired Cuban artist, Ippolito Hidalgo Caviedes, depicting “the spirit of the first half of the twentieth
century” as expressed in the printing and distribution of the local newspaper,
El Noticioso de la Habana. (Only two
women, our guide pointed out; though one of them is shown reading!) Here it is:
 |
| This one protests the imprisoning of five Cubans in America--a cause célèbre in Cuba |
 |
| Photos: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
Heading out to the El Verdado
district for lunch, we stopped along the way at the former Hilton, now the
Habana Libre Hotel, to see a monumental mosaic mural by the artist Amelia Pelàez, whose work we had so much admired at the Fine Arts Museum—a blue-toned,
mid-century modernist work...
... that we personally found “interesting” but uninspiring. In the hotel itself, we found an impressive wall piece constructed from hand made ceramic elements, “Revolution Car,” by Alfredo Sosabravo...
Made in 1973, it combines a purposefully klutzy charm and energy with a
good dose of humor. And finally,
in the bar, another mid-century work by Rene Portacarrero, “Flora y Fauna,” an
11-panel ceramic affair occupying the entirety of a long wall.
Impressive, in its own way, but again not to my personal taste.
... that we personally found “interesting” but uninspiring. In the hotel itself, we found an impressive wall piece constructed from hand made ceramic elements, “Revolution Car,” by Alfredo Sosabravo...
 |
| (detail) |
Impressive, in its own way, but again not to my personal taste.
And finally, approaching
lunchtime (!), we drove past an outdoor sculpture garden featuring a spare
ceramic tile mural by Marta Arjona...
... the head of cultural affairs in Cuba after
the revolution. Mandy slowed the
bus for us, but we had only a glimpse of the garden and library behind it.
 |
| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
Lunch (!) at El Aljibe in the
Miramar district, a large, open-air restaurant shaded by a neatly thatched roof
and surrounded by lush tropical flora. “The specialty,” our itinerary informs us, “is the El Aljibe chicken, which combines roast chicken with French fries and fried plantain, delicious
black beans, white rice and salad.”
The spread was accompanied, as always, by a Cuban music
band (guitars, drums, flute) whose singer was soon at our table offering CDs
for sale. I think that by this
time all those interested in our party have a stack of CDs yea high…
 |
| Sarah at El Aljibe |
Refreshed and restored from the morning’s labors with our mural guide, we boarded the bus for a short drive to
the rooftop studio of the artist Luis Camejo, whose large scale, expressionistic paintings capture the spirit and energy of the city Havana with great
brio.
His scenes of the Malecon at different times of day and in different weather conditions, particularly, seemed to summon the peculiar spirit of the famous boulevard. Of all the art we have seen to date, his seemed to me the most vital and contemporary—and indeed Camejo enjoys an international reputation and commands good prices on the global art market. Learning that today, May 30, happened to be the anniversary of our meeting 45 years ago, he was gracious enough to sign and dedicate a catalogue of his paintings to Ellie and myself.
His scenes of the Malecon at different times of day and in different weather conditions, particularly, seemed to summon the peculiar spirit of the famous boulevard. Of all the art we have seen to date, his seemed to me the most vital and contemporary—and indeed Camejo enjoys an international reputation and commands good prices on the global art market. Learning that today, May 30, happened to be the anniversary of our meeting 45 years ago, he was gracious enough to sign and dedicate a catalogue of his paintings to Ellie and myself.
The final lap of the day’s art
tour was a bus drive through the city, passing several political murals like this one, by university art students, depicting the human species devouring the planet...
But we were soon in the middle of another tropical rain shower, and at this point most of the group, like myself, were too art-weary to pay much attention to murals that were hard to see through sheets of rain...
We did, however,
pause for long enough to take pictures of the monumental, building-high
“murals” in black, painted-metal outline, depicting Che Guevara...
... and fellow revolutionary Camilo Cienfuegos on Revolution Square. We had passed them several times before in our travels, and we glad to have the photo op. Oh, and then was the Che mural, near the bottom end of the Prada, which we had also often seen in drive-by moments, too late to get the cell phones out for pictures...
But we were soon in the middle of another tropical rain shower, and at this point most of the group, like myself, were too art-weary to pay much attention to murals that were hard to see through sheets of rain...
 |
| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
... and fellow revolutionary Camilo Cienfuegos on Revolution Square. We had passed them several times before in our travels, and we glad to have the photo op. Oh, and then was the Che mural, near the bottom end of the Prada, which we had also often seen in drive-by moments, too late to get the cell phones out for pictures...
A welcome rest late afternoon, accompanied
by a huge tropical storm...
... which Ellie and I watched in wonder from our balcony on our return to the hotel...
Later...
At 7:00 o’clock we
headed out for dinner at Atelier. Like La Guarida (see the beginning of this narrative), this upscale
restaurant, formerly a mansion, was located in a now unprepossessing
neighborhood. Still, the row of toilet
tank planters lined up at the entrance suggested a light-hearted sense of décor
that was soon confirmed by the elegant, contemporary design of the
interior. Long tables, white table
cloths, sparkling glassware, spare art work on the walls all contributed to the
“sparse modern lines” evoked by our tour itinerary. We sat inside...
... but rather wished we’d been placed on one of
the two balconies, where an evening breeze had begun to take the edge off the
day’s heat. Still we ate
well—though probably too much, as usual!
And were happy to return to the Telegrafo for a good night’s sleep.
 |
| Our maid found a new way to surprise us every day! This one...? Hmmm! |
 |
| An elephant... with my glasses! |
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| Add caption |
|
| Add caption |
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| An anniversary glass of rum before dinner, on the hotel terrace |
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| Ellie finds a new friend. Little Stash wins Best Baby on the Tour Award. Hands down. |
Saturday, May 31
ACROSS THE BAY... AND PAPA HEMINGWAY
ACROSS THE BAY... AND PAPA HEMINGWAY
A nice change of pace. The bus was on hand...
... to drive us out to
the passenger ferry that took us on a ten-minute ride across Havana Bay to the
city of Regla. Great views of the
harbor and the city, all around—and it’s always pleasant, I find, to be on
water.
 |
| Andrea surveys the scene |
Then, too, it gave us the
opportunity to be shoulder-to-shoulder with a crowd of regular citizens, and
feel a wee bit less like the tourists that we obviously are.
Disembarking on the opposite
side of the bay, we were greeted by the spectacle of Santeria rituals taking
place at dockside...
... with santera women crouched down by the water, scattering rose petals and various sacred objects on the surface as they uttered incantations intended, we assumed, to dispel the negative energies and attract the positive ones. Even given the scant knowledge we’d acquired on our Santeria day about animal sacrifice, I found the sight of sacrificed, dead birds bobbing on the surface to be not a little unsettling. I could wish for some other way to appease the spirits!
... with santera women crouched down by the water, scattering rose petals and various sacred objects on the surface as they uttered incantations intended, we assumed, to dispel the negative energies and attract the positive ones. Even given the scant knowledge we’d acquired on our Santeria day about animal sacrifice, I found the sight of sacrificed, dead birds bobbing on the surface to be not a little unsettling. I could wish for some other way to appease the spirits!
It was a short walk from the
ferry to the church of Our Lady of Regla, built in homage to the Black Virgin
who offers her protection to the mariners who come to worship her here. Today, we discovered, was the Cuban national
day that honors children, and the church was filled with the noise and jostling
of young families come to join in a community ritual of baptism.
The spectacle offered a curious juxtaposition, it occurred to me, with the rituals taking place on the docks just a handful of yards away. As we left the church, we had the opportunity to have our fortune told by one of the white-robed santeras sitting on the church wall outside...
We declined. Instead...
... Ellie had a word with Jesus.
The spectacle offered a curious juxtaposition, it occurred to me, with the rituals taking place on the docks just a handful of yards away. As we left the church, we had the opportunity to have our fortune told by one of the white-robed santeras sitting on the church wall outside...
 |
| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
... Ellie had a word with Jesus.
Mandy had driven the bus around
from the other side of the bay, and was waiting for us for the drive through the suburbs...
... to Finca La Vigia, the lovely hilltop house above the village of San Franciscode Paula where Ernest Hemingway lived for many years before his death.
... including the bathroom, where Hemingway made daily pencil notations of his weight on the wall...
... and the closet in which his wartime journalist’s uniform
hangs alongside shelves of boots and shoes...
Every room is lined with heavily laden bookshelves...
... and bottles of his favorite booze still stand on a table behind the living room couch. The heads of the poor wild creatures that he shot for his macho entertainment are mounted on the walls.
We climbed to the top of the two-story tower where he wrote...
... looking down over a large swimming pool as he did, Oscar assures us, when Ava Gardener swam naked...
Next to the
pool we found his sport-fishing boat, the Pilar...
... constructed in dark wood with immaculate detail. Near the pool, also, his pet cemetery...
... to Finca La Vigia, the lovely hilltop house above the village of San Franciscode Paula where Ernest Hemingway lived for many years before his death.
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| Finca la Vigia |
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| We came upon this lovely scene near the Finca la Vigia parking lot
Cuba’s National Trust has done an excellent job in restoring the house, at the family’s request, to exactly the way it was when writer left it in
1961. Windows and doors have been
left open through the house, to allow visitors to look through into every
room...
|
... including the bathroom, where Hemingway made daily pencil notations of his weight on the wall...
 |
| Photo: Sharon Stone |
Every room is lined with heavily laden bookshelves...
... and bottles of his favorite booze still stand on a table behind the living room couch. The heads of the poor wild creatures that he shot for his macho entertainment are mounted on the walls.
We climbed to the top of the two-story tower where he wrote...
... looking down over a large swimming pool as he did, Oscar assures us, when Ava Gardener swam naked...
 |
| Tricia and Ellie, relaxing by Ernest Hemingway's pool |
... constructed in dark wood with immaculate detail. Near the pool, also, his pet cemetery...
On from there to the coastal
village of Cojimar, where Hemingway launched the Pilar on his fishing expeditions. We lunched at Ajiaco, rated the top
paladar in Cuba by the Guardian newspaper. I don’t want to sound snarky, but it was beans and rice
again. Okay, very nice beans and
rice, but still beans and rice.
The palate longs for a change of tastes. Well, mine does, anyway. And to judge from other responses from the group, I’m not
the only one. No matter, here's some views of the decaying grandeur of the Malecon, taken from the bus on the way to our next stop:
And, by contrast, a view overlooking Havana Bay from our next stop, the elegant Malecon apartment of the curator Juan Delgado Calzadilla...
Here, drawings and paintings by contemporary artists are stacked salon-style
on every wall, with barely a gap between them...
Every one of them, Calzadilla tells us, is for sale. This is his way of supporting younger
artists, capitalizing on an international reputation as a curator to promote
their work. Most recently, he
upstaged the Havana Bienal with his exhibit Detrás del Muro (”Behind the Wall”) a spectacular series of performances and
installations exploring the cultural significance and topography of the
Malecon, some of them interactive with the crowds that spend their leisure
hours on this popular Oceanside promenade. As our itinerary informed us, “Detrás
del Muro captivated viewers and critics alike for its self-reflective
subject matter as well as its accessibility. Many of the installations and
interventions involved participation from pedestrians and viewers wandering the
Malecón. Detrás highlighted works
that played with illusion, many of which were further activated when
approached, touched, and explored by the public.” Well put! We
were served cool mojitos on this hottest of hot afternoons, and watched an
extended video documenting the event...
... and were impressed by the quality of the
work and its reception by both art enthusiasts and lay people, out for a day of
relaxation and hardly expecting to encounter art.
 |
| Photo: Kent Twitchell |
 |
| Photo: Kent Twitchell |
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| No disrespect, Steve! I think many of us felt like this, in the heat of that afternoon! |
At this point, many of us were
overcome by the heat and humidity, and we were happy for a couple of hours of
respite at the Telegrafo. Then, at
7PM, on to La Guarida (and, for hardy readers with a good memory, back to the
beginning of this narrative…)
Sunday,
June 1
SORRY, NO COLUMBUS...
On a day when our tour had nothing scheduled (!) for the morning, we had a lazy start and a late breakfast. I even took some time in our room to get started on this travel blog, anticipating the substantial task that would be awaiting me on our return to Los Angeles. By mid-morning, though, we were ready for an expedition to the “Cementerio Colon”...
SORRY, NO COLUMBUS...
On a day when our tour had nothing scheduled (!) for the morning, we had a lazy start and a late breakfast. I even took some time in our room to get started on this travel blog, anticipating the substantial task that would be awaiting me on our return to Los Angeles. By mid-morning, though, we were ready for an expedition to the “Cementerio Colon”...
...the Columbus cemetery—with our fellow travelers Peter and Andrea, and Tricia and Sarah. For a mere 10 CUC a person, we got a couple of cab drivers to drive us out to the cemetery and wait for an hour to bring us back to the hotel. Christopher Columbus is not, as it turns out, buried in the Columbus cemetery. That’s another Havana hustle. His remains did, it appears, spend some time there, but were eventually taken back to Spain. The story of his final resting place is contested.
Anyway, here we were. Al Nodal had advised us to ask for
Octavio...
... as a guide, and he proved to be an inspired one. His voluble dramatic narratives and wild gestures kept us entertained for the hour of our visit. Highlight, we thought, was the tomb of Amelia, that has become the pilgrimage site for petitioners from throughout the world. She was buried in tragic circumstances—I have to abbreviate Octavio’s fifteen minute narrative—after the death of her child with the baby’s corpse between her legs. When exhumed some time later, the baby’s bones were discovered on her breast with her skeletal arms wrapped around it. Miracle! Behind the grave site, almost buried in freshly placed bouquets, there is a mass of "thank-you" notes engraved in stone from those who requested, and received, her help from beyond the grave. (There's a beautifully illustrated online entry about the cemetery here. Worth a look!)
... as a guide, and he proved to be an inspired one. His voluble dramatic narratives and wild gestures kept us entertained for the hour of our visit. Highlight, we thought, was the tomb of Amelia, that has become the pilgrimage site for petitioners from throughout the world. She was buried in tragic circumstances—I have to abbreviate Octavio’s fifteen minute narrative—after the death of her child with the baby’s corpse between her legs. When exhumed some time later, the baby’s bones were discovered on her breast with her skeletal arms wrapped around it. Miracle! Behind the grave site, almost buried in freshly placed bouquets, there is a mass of "thank-you" notes engraved in stone from those who requested, and received, her help from beyond the grave. (There's a beautifully illustrated online entry about the cemetery here. Worth a look!)
Our taxis brought us back to the
hotel, where we stopped across the way for lunch. Pizza! Somewhat
indifferent by American standards, it had the appeal of gourmet pizza after nearly a week of beans and rice.
(Sorry to harp on about this, but it did get to be an “issue”!) A brief rest, and back to the bus
for the trip out to Muraleandro (literally, “making murals”), a community
arts project that serves both local artists and children by providing them with
a space—and to some extent with supplies—to exercise their creative
talents...
A number of the artists involved came
together to treat us to a performance of music and dance in the space outside
El Tanque, “the tank”, a former water tank they persuaded the government to let
them convert into an arts center and show space. At Al’s suggestion, many of our group had brought art
supplies as gifts, in a country where such basic things as pencils and paints are hard to
come by, and we took pleasure in passing them on to this worthy group.
 |
| Here's Victor, who greeted us and explained everything! |
No bus to dinner tonight. Instead, we were greeted outside the
hotel by a parade of classic cars, American monsters from the fifties, restored
with incredible skill and passion by their owners, immaculately maintained, and
put to use as taxis for occasions such as this...
Here's some more pictures of the parade:
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| Photo: Isabel Rojas-Williams |
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| Photo: Sarah Stone |
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| Photo: Sarah Stone |
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| Photo: Sarah Stone |
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| We two, again, taking pictures of the rest of the group. Photo: Sarah Stone
Thanks, Sarah and Isabel!
Great hilarity, cruising down the Malecon in these truly
magnificent convertibles, the ocean wind blowing in our hair. An unforgettable experience.
|
The cars brought us to the home
and studio of the artist Kadir Lopez, where we were warmly greeted and given the
run of this lovely restored mansion, hung everywhere with the artist’s
work. Along with others, I
requested a Cuba Libre (rum, coca cola and a shot of lime) at the open bar, and
enjoyed a conversation with the artist about his work...
... much of it recycling old, pre-Revolution American corporate signs, mostly from oil companies, laminated with familiar political images and layers of baked-on paint. Here's one:
We ate out in the garden, under
the trees, enjoying a wonderful buffet of fresh vegetables and fruits...
... prepared by the artist’s family. It was a delightful, rather romantic way to spend our last evening in Havana.
... prepared by the artist’s family. It was a delightful, rather romantic way to spend our last evening in Havana.
Back to the hotel in… our tour bus! What a come-down!
Monday,
June 2
Our last day in Havana. Our plane is scheduled to leave at 4
PM, so there’s still time for a half-day’s tour activity. We’re breakfasted, packed and climbing
aboard the bus by 9 AM, greeted for the last time by our driver, Mandy, and our
tour guide, Oscar. Even Che
Guevara is on hand to bid us farewell in front of the hotel…
We enjoy a last view of the Malecon...
... as the bus takes off for our
first destination of the day, the former mansion that is now home to the Grupo Folklorico Nacional de Cuba (the home page is in Spanish, details translate into English), the national dance company that specializes in Afrocuban
performance. The rehearsal space
is a generously proportioned space on the first floor, where we are invited to
occupy a row of chairs set up against the wall and are treated to the
performance of a half dozen different dances...
... beautifully choreographed and performed with passionate, engaging energy by the two dozen young dancers, male and female, who form the troupe. And after the dance, we have the opportunity to sit and talk with the performers about their lives, and the kind of work it takes to achieve their level of skill.
Delightful young people. I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that character is formed in good part by the kind of discipline and dedication that it takes to be able to perform at this level.
 |
| Here are some of those beautiful girls outside, in mufti |
(I've been meaning to say how much I have been appreciating the infinite varieties of skin color in Cuba, and this would seem to be the last opportunity to do so. It seems to be so problematic at home. Not so here, where colors range from dark ebony to lovely, milky coffee and white white, and no-one seems to take much notice of it, beyond its obvious, glowing beauty. There may be, for all I know, hidden prejudices about how dark dark skin should be, or how white, white. I sure didn't notice it. In my observation, skin color appeared to have little or nothing to do with social standing or class. Everyone seemed perfectly happy with what they had, and was content to accept others with theirs. More of a pleasure, then, than a problem.)
The final leg of our Cuban journey takes us back to the home and studio of José Fuster, where we arrived too late, the other day, to get past the outer gate. With a few minutes to spare before heading to the airport, we wandered around the maze of brightly colored corridors and stairways, admiring the fantasy of this artist’s fecund imagination...
The final leg of our Cuban journey takes us back to the home and studio of José Fuster, where we arrived too late, the other day, to get past the outer gate. With a few minutes to spare before heading to the airport, we wandered around the maze of brightly colored corridors and stairways, admiring the fantasy of this artist’s fecund imagination...
The whole environment is magical, provocative, and a lot of fun. I can’t say the same
about the hundreds of individual paintings and ceramics that were on display
everywhere for sale. They seemed to
me to be repetitive, hastily made for commercial purposes, and hackneyed when
compared to the endless creativity of the surrounding forms and spaces that
could please both the eye and the mind with their peculiarity.
Off to the airport, then. For our 4 PM flight, we arrived at
noon, with more than enough time to spare—only to discover on our arrival that
our flight had been “delayed.” No
one could tell us for how long.
Ellie and I were booked on a 7:50 American Airlines flight from Miami to
Los Angeles, leaving us nearly three hours to catch the flight after our
scheduled 5:00 PM arrival. Others
were booked to leave at 8:30.
Should we pay the extra $300 to take an American Airlines flight, due to
leave on time, and be assured of our connection? $600 for the two of us. It seemed like too much money. It was only after we’d decided to take the risk that we
learned our Havana-Miami flight was now rescheduled to leave at 7:30! So we were left, waiting, waiting, stuck
with the rest of our group for more than seven hours, in all, in the bleak departure
hall of Havana airport…
By
the time we finally deplaned in Miami, we had all missed our connections, and
had to spend the night at the Miami Airport International Hotel. Not exactly the way we would have
wished to end our tour… To add proverbial insult to injury, we heard that Tricia lost her luggage!
 |
| Apologies for this one, Kent! I couldn't resist. Your pose expressed exactly how I felt! |
Still, we had a great time, didn’t
we? So much to see, so much to
learn, so much to experience. So
many good people to have met and talked to. So much life and passion, even in circumstances that were
often, at best, deprived of so much that we take for granted in our lives. If we failed to come back changed in
the way we see the world, then we most surely weren’t paying attention. So I think I speak for all of us when I say...
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