In Transit

For those of you who don't know, I have a habit of chatting with random people on public transit, or just in public places in general. Friends of mine have occasionally questioned me as to how/why I do this, and express amazement at my willingness to to talk to random strangers. The reason is that I often meet interesting people this way and, though the interactions are usually fleeting, sometimes they're not. When I informed my friend Shayna that I met my previous boyfriend at a bus stop, she shook her head and responded: "Of course you did."

Tonight was one of those fleeting experiences. In general, I've found Uber drivers here to be rather quiet, but my driver this evening was talkative. I was on my way home from Coyoacán when he asked me where I'm from. When I told him that I'm Canadian, he informed me that he had heard my new government was going to change the laws to make it easier for Mexicans to get into Canada. "Is that true?" he asked. "Ojalá," I replied. God willing. But even if the laws change, I told him, I don't expect it will be much easier for Mexicans to migrate. This led to a lengthy conversation about migration, which kept my driver talking for the entire 20 minute drive home. He told me about the last time he illegally crossed into the US, when his pollero (smuggler) left he and his wife in the Arizona desert, where they wandered for a day and a half without food or water. After twelve years in Mexico, they want to go back to the US, but his wife is now disabled and she can't make the crossing. Maybe they'll try their luck in Canada.

Years later, he was working as a cab driver in the Estado de México when one day he was approached by 8 Honduran migrants looking for a ride. Like him, they too had been abandoned by their pollero and had no idea how to get across Mexico to the US border. The driver took the migrants, who were ragged and hungry, back to his house where he and his wife gave them food, soap, and a place to sleep for the night. When he found them a new pollero to get them to the border, the man asked how much the driver wanted for them. With a going rate of $8,000/head to cross into the US, they were worth a lot of money: $64,000, in fact. Disgusted at the idea of selling people "like animals," the driver explained that he didn't want any money. Like the Hondurans, he knew what it was like to be undocumented and abandoned in a foreign country. "Solidarity," I said. "Solidarity," he replied.

This is why I talk to strangers.

Return to Los Mapaches

As usual, I'm late posting this. Unless otherwise stated, you can all safely assume that everything I post on this site happened at least a week or two in the past. I'm just going to put that out there and stop apologizing for my tardiness from here on out.

Anyway...two weeks ago I arrived back in Tulúm for the first time in seven years.  SEVEN YEARS! Oh, how time flies. The area itself has changed a fair amount since I was last there. You can definitely feel the creep of Playa del Carmen as it spreads down the beach. Don't get me wrong: Tulúm is still super chill compared to Cancun (which is just two hours up the road), but it's noticeably busier. The upside of this is that there's now a pretty good selection of food--though not all of it is cheap. One place that amazed us with both price and quality, however, was a little no-frills comedor called El Rincón Chiapaneco. Upon the recommendation of our host, my friends and I ate there multiple times. It seems to be a favorite among the locals, as it's always packed...with Mexicans. Having grown accustomed to Mexico myself (and thus not surprised by prices), I took great joy in witnessing my friend Maria freak out over the bill every time it came. She'd convert the price to US$ and spend a full ten minutes shaking her head at how much amazing food we just ate for under $10. For three or four people.

The downside of Tulúm's development is that some of the best spots are now swarming with people, many of whom catch a bus down from Playa for the day. On one of the two days that it didn't rain, we went to Cenote Dos Ojos. Last time I was there, there was nothing more than a shack on the side of the road where you paid admission; then you walked half an hour up a dirt road to the cenotes themselves. That shack has been replaced by a proper building and guides wearing official uniforms who offer you a number of different package deals, depending on how much time and money you have to spend. Since we took the cheap option, we still got to walk a half hour up the dirt road. Apparently a ride to the caves is reserved for those who buy the deluxe package. Even more off-putting was the fact that the entrance to the caves now boasts not one, but two bars/restaurants, and an assortment of businesses selling t-shirts, snorkel gear, etc. The morning we visited, they were preparing to host an electronic dance party later that night, and the place was swarming with tourists decked out in full scuba gear, preparing to go deep into the caves. I didn't even recognize the place.

But here's the thing about Tulúm that hasn't changed, and it's the reason I wanted to write this post in the first place: Posada Los Mapaches. I first visited Los Mapaches when I was backpacking around Central America and Southern Mexico, and it was far and away my favorite place that I stayed on that trip. In fact, I've yet to stay in any guesthouse that comes close to my experience there. When the idea of going to back to Tulúm for a few days came up, my first thought was of Los Mapaches. I quickly went online to see how much the price had gone up...only to find that it hadn't! I began bombarding Pete and Maria (my partners in crime) with photos of thatched-roof cabanas and Chelo's amazing breakfasts. As we knocked on the door, I was worried that I had oversold the place. I mean, how often does the quality of something great not decline after seven years? Much to my delight, Los Mapaches was exactly the same! We were given our bikes and told to wear our headlamps; we enjoyed the company of the resident pets; and after so many years of increasing coffee snobbery, I was still amazed at how good the coffee was. And the breakfasts! Oh, the breakfasts! Like clockwork, every day around 5 pm, Pete and I would look at each other and ask: "I wonder what's for breakfast tomorrow?" The most amazing thing of all: Chelo and Daniel remembered me, after seven years and countless guests. How is that for service?

Before I wrap this up, I have to say there is one thing that's changed at Los Mapaches, and it was the source of hours of entertainment. Three years ago, the municipal government installed a GIANT speedbump directly in front of the posada. Despite the warning signs, probably one in every four cars fails to slow down until the last minute. Every few minutes, the peace and quite is punctuated by the sound of squealing tires, the occasional sound of a car's undercarriage smashing down onto the asphalt, and then--when it's really serious--the sound of doors closing and people conferring about how much damage was done. Most times we only got to listen in on this, but one night we were coming home from dinner and watched a car catch air. A lot of air. Although it could be disturbing at night, we mostly found this strange new quirk of the posada to be rather amusing, and certainly memorable.

Many thanks to Pete, Maria, and Sandra for their good company and, most of all, to Chelo and Daniel for their hospitality. Espero que nos vemos pronto!

90s Flashbacks, a lo cubano

 I had a rather surreal experience last night.

With only one week left in Cuba, I suspect my friend Elisa is trying to find me a Cuban novio. She called last night to invite me to a concert in the Plaza Vieja. I arrived to find her there with her boyfriend, Arnaldo, and his friend Miguel.

Miguel is tall and dark. He wore jeans with a sport jacket and a button-down shirt, open at the collar to reveal his bling. Oh, and large diamond stud earrings. Elisa assured me that Miguel is very funny—and he is—but he also left me shaking my head for much of the night.

We ended up at the restaurant that he owns in Chinatown. After an evening of Mexican rock in the Plaza Vieja followed by a long cruise in Arnaldo’s car blasting reggaeton, the sound of Mariah Carey was something of a shock to my system. Miguel blasted the volume on the TV as he informed me that he loves American music, especially R&B. The videos playing on the screen were his personal collection and he was eager to show me.

“Do you like Craig David?” he asked me. I responded that I don’t know Craig David, so he proceeded to show me who he was talking about. As Miguel informed me that Craig David is his favorite singer in the world, a song came on that I vaguely recalled from the bygone years of my youth. Miguel assured me that, in the world of R&B, Craig David is the best, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the dude was a one-hit wonder from the late nineties who has long since been forgotten by the developed world.

Miguel went on to tell me how much he loves American fashion. “You can see how I dress?” he asked me. “American fashion is the best.” He also frequents a club in Vedado every week where they only play R&B from the US. I imagine everything the DJ spins at his favorite club is at least ten to fifteen years old.

I wish Elisa weren’t so determined to find me a Cuban novio, especially since she’s so far off the mark with her matchmaking. Fortunately for me, she doesn’t have much time left.

Las Locuras de Cuba

 Cuba is a crazy, weird country. There’s so much about this place that defies logic that it’s hard to convey what it all means sometimes. That said, I thought I would attempt it anyway, with a list of some of the most incomprehensible things about this place.

1. In Cuba, killing a cow often carries a heavier punishment than killing a person. After the Revolution, the state guaranteed that every child under the age of seven would have access to a steady supply of milk. After seven, the supply is cut off and your average Cuban drinks only powdered milk. That supply of milk is apparently worth more than human life. The penalty for killing a person is usually a mere eleven to fifteen years, whereas the penalty for killing a cow is anywhere from fifteen to twenty. To be caught selling beef carries a penalty almost as heavy. There is no beef in Cuba. All of this leads me to the question: Why don’t they just buy more damn cows?
2. In Cuba, there is an entire generation of people marked by names beginning with the letter ‘Y’. Beginning in the mid-1970s, parents paid homage to Russia by giving their children names that sounded Russian. Apparently this involved the letter ‘Y’. So far I’ve met a Yoanka, a Yoannis, and a Yalaina, but my favorite (by far) is my friend Youdorkis, who counts among his extended family: Yonnel ,Yanorkis, Yamilia, Yoelvis, Yamilka, Yamileidis, and Yaniuski. I’m dead serious.
3.  In Cuba, it’s possible to get an advanced degree in computer programming and yet the average person doesn’t have internet access. What does it mean to have a master’s degree in computer programming when you’re working with technology that’s already outdated by ten to twenty years?
4. The lack of connection with the outside world carries over into other areas as well. Some Cubans have contacts outside the country, and thus they have some idea of how far the rest of the world has progressed without them, but others have no idea. Some people are shocked when you explain to them the concept of 4G, for example: that we have internet access anywhere, any time. The other day a Cuban woman asked my American friend how many flavors of ice cream there are in the United States. How do you even answer that question
5. There are two different currencies in Cuba: moneda nacional for Cubans and Cuban Convertibles (CUC) for foreigners. The CUC is pegged to the US$, which makes zero sense. If you change US$ here, you have to pay a tax of 10% to the Cuban government that you don't pay when you change other currencies. There are 25 moneda nacional to one CUC. Admission to museums, for example, is the same in nacional as it is in CUC: 5 nacionales for locals vs 5 CUC for foreigners. 
6. In Cuba, the average salary is roughly $18 CUC/month. The minimum is $10. The other day I went to buy canned corn in the grocery store, and the price was $7 CUC for 3 small cans. A t-shirt costs between $10-$15 CUC. Imagine working a month just to buy a t-shirt. Canned corn is out of the question.
7. During the special period, after the fall of the Soviet Union, life was so hard in Cuba that people couldn’t afford shoes. Many people took to making their own sandals out of old rubber tires and pieces of rope. In Guantánamo they called them chupamiao. (For the record, miao means urine). Strips of rubber from old tires were also used in place of elastic, to hold up people’s pants.
8. Havana is constantly in a state of flux. Since the government opened the door to private enterprise, businesses have sprung up all over the city. Massive restoration projects are happening everywhere, but one wonders where the money comes from. Many of the large hotels are owned jointly between Cubans and foreign investors, and money flows in from abroad. However, the biggest restoration projects are run by the state and they are all centered in Habana Vieja, which is the tourist hub. The restoration of Habana Vieja is managed by the official historian of the city, a man by the name of Eusebio Leal, who is an infamous figure around Havana. And yet no one really knows where his money comes from, or the money that is paying for state-run projects that are scheduled to last for five to ten years. I feel like I can come back here in two years and find a totally different place. Nothing is ever static. For the record, the rest of Havana is literally crumbling to the ground. After a heavy rainfall, you have to constantly be on guard for chunks of concrete that fall from above. The state is doing nothing to prevent this.
9. For a supposedly communist country, a powerful capitalist impulse drives everything in this country. Every Cuban is a hustler, and they hustle because they have to. They’ll do anything to earn a buck. Many of them do it illegally, usually through prostitution or by scamming tourists, but the rest all hustle legally. I’m constantly amazed by the ingenuity of Cubans and their ability to make something out of nothing. But seriously: everyone is trying to make a buck. Viva la Revolución comunista!

I'm working. I swear.

Lest we all forget that I’m here to work, I should probably say something about this particular aspect of my stay in Havana. At the same time, since this is my travel blog and most of you who read it aren’t terribly interested in dusty archival finds, I’ll try to keep it brief. Really, I’m just trying to prove that I actually do work.

As previously noted, my research got off to a bit of a rocky start when it was confirmed that the IHC records are locked up for the next five to ten years. I spun my wheels for a bit, waiting for permisos, but I eventually got into the National Archive last Monday, with three full weeks left to accomplish something. At the rate I was moving, three weeks was sounding like very little time, especially since the National Archive doesn’t allow the use of cameras and I would have to type detailed notes on everything.

My first day at the archive was rough. I was suffering the resurgence of a cold that I thought I had kicked upon my arrival in Cuba. My already sensitive nose was irritated by the dust in the archive and dripped relentlessly the entire day. Having used up my supply of quality Kleenex during my first few days here, I was in bad shape. For the record, Cuban toilet paper is not something that should ever make contact with a person’s face. I toughed it out until 3 pm that day, before I finally went running for the comfort of my room, only to find that my nose dried up almost immediately upon exiting the research room.

The next day, armed with a heavy dose of cold meds and antihistamines, I made my way back for a second day. The drugs seemed to help my nose, but they couldn’t do anything to make my research productive. The fragments that I found at the National Archive were only of peripheral interest, and I began to feel like I was spinning wheels yet again as I waited to hear back from the archive that I expected to be the most productive for my work: the Foreign Ministry Archive (MINREX).

When I still hadn’t heard back from them by Wednesday, a full week after I dropped off my paperwork, I contacted MINREX only to find that my permiso had been ready after only a day, but I hadn’t received the message. Confident that I was finally going to accomplish something, I headed out for MINREX the next day. Today was going to be the day. Finally. I swear.

I arrived at MINREX and met with the lovely Damila Hechaverria Argudin. What followed was the single largest communication breakdown that I’ve experienced since I’ve been here. I brought my camera, as I had been told that I could use my camera as long as I transferred the photos to the archive as part of their efforts to digitize their collection. Or, at least that’s what I thought I was told. I’m no longer sure. Damila took me to her office, where she asked me if I had a USB drive with me. I thought it was for the purpose of transferring my photos and assured her that we could just connect my camera to her computer. She disagreed and undertook a massive project of moving files, which I interpreted as clearing off the flash drive for my use. It was a while before I realized that what she was actually doing was moving files onto the drive.

It took a disturbingly long time for me to figure out that all this time I had no idea what was going on. I wasn’t going to take photos. I wasn’t even going to look at a single sheet of paper. The documents were already digitized and she was transferring the entire collection onto the flash drive so that I could load them onto my computer. Twenty-three years worth of communication between the Cuban and Mexican foreign ministries was being handed over to me with almost zero effort. When I finally grasped what was happening, I couldn’t believe it. I kept asking Damila, “but what about the paper records?” I had to be missing something. She assured me that this was everything that had been declassified; that I was lucky to come at this time, because I didn’t need to spend weeks searching through dusty records. When I couldn’t get it through my head, she began to look at me like I’d grown a third eye.

After roughly two hours of transferring files, Damila sent me on my way—probably much to her relief. I made my way home, shaking my head all the way, still unable to believe what just happened. The most Cuban phrase I’ve learned since arriving here is nada es fácil—nothing is easy. After two weeks of waiting—waiting for permisos, waiting for the power to come back on, waiting for them to finish fumigating the archive—followed by days of turning up nothing at all, in the space of two hours I had everything that I came for without having to expend any more effort than catching a cab to Vedado.  

I took a cursory glance at the MINREX docs and realized that there was likely a wealth of information contained in the files. That said, I’d have ample time to sort through them upon my return. After my windfall, I decided that the remainder of my time would be best spent trying to dig up something, anything else at the National Archive. With every day that passes, however, I turn up nothing and find myself turning back to the MINREX files, wondering if my time would be better spent combing through the digital files in the comfort of the IHC’s air conditioned library.

This is where things stand today, as I sit here pondering my best course of action. I’m becoming convinced that my search at the National Archive is completely futile. With a week and a half remaining, I need to make the most of my time.

Complete and Utter Perfection

Last night I experienced one of those perfect moments in life that are so rare and fleeting.

It was close to midnight and my friends decided to wind up a birthday party with a swim at the beach. The weather has finally cooled down a little and I’ve been fighting a cold, so I decided I would wait on the shore and forgo the swim in the hopes that I’d feel better in the morning. As everyone crashed into the waves, I looked up at the most amazing sky I’ve ever seen. It was perfectly clear and I swear I’ve never seen so many stars. It was breathtaking. I realized then that the moment was too good to pass up sitting in the sand. I stripped down to my underwear, ran for the water, and floated out into the ocean, staring up at the stars while the waves crashed over me.

Something a little more upbeat

Cuba has been full of ups and downs. I’ve written about the lows—when I was perhaps feeling at my lowest—but there have been plenty of highs as well. There are moments when Cuba is everything you want it to be. Walking along the malecón, watching the waves break along the sea wall, a man with a trumpet offers to play you a song. Wandering the streets of Habana Vieja, music pours from every corner, every bar, every restaurant. You can’t go anywhere without hearing the sounds of Buena Vista Social Club or “Hasta Siempre, Comandante.” Those are mainly for the tourists though; when you wander outside the main streets, you’ll likely discover that Cubans prefer reggaeton.

Photo courtesy of Alex Roach

Havana is noisy, lively, and vibrant, but after a while, it can be overwhelming. Luckily it’s only 20 minutes by bus to escape to the beach. You can rent a lounge chair and an umbrella for 3 CUC and pass a whole day drinking cocolocos by the water—rum poured straight into a coconut, mixed with coconut water. When you’re finished, you find a man with a machete who’ll cut up your coconut for an afternoon snack.

After a relaxing day at the beach, you come back to discover that Havana really comes alive at night, with countless discotecas blasting music until the early hours of the morning. It’s not a myth that Cubans love to dance. People here dance with abandon. If you come to Cuba, be prepared to dance and to make a complete fool of yourself if necessary. Cubans rarely take no for an answer and they won’t let you hold back, so why fight it? This isn’t a place to be uptight.

Nor will you find the kind of self-consciousness that plagues North Americans, and women in particular. I was shocked the other day when a man asked me if I’ve always had such large legs. I’ve always been self-conscious about my legs, so to be asked that question so bluntly caught me off guard. I arched my eyebrows and responded that yes, I have. When it was clear that I was offended, I was told not to worry: “Here in Cuba we love women with big legs. After all, who wants to eat a skinny little chicken leg? Yo quiero comer tus piernas!” Dios mio! What more could I do but laugh and shake my head?

Ah, Cuba. There are highs and there are lows. You just have to take each as it comes.