Friday, February 21, 2014

My Trip to Cuba - (Part 8)

"Men are like the stars; some generate their own light while others reflect the brilliance they receive." - Jose Marti

As the ashes of the cigar fell away and the stories turned to talk of food, I realized I was hungry. I wasn't sure how things were going to be here as far as food went. My father had assured me that they would take care of us and that we wouldn't go hungry. He was right. No surprise to him, I'm sure.

To my delight, my aunt, anticipating our arrival, cooked dinner for us. I really didn't feel comfortable eating their food knowing how little they had. But you can't tell them no. They will sit you down and force-feed you.
 
As I sat down, they placed a plate in front of me with rice, some beans and a chicken thigh. I stared at the food knowing that between Eric's drumstick and my chicken thigh, someone had given up their entire month's worth of meat. I also noticed that there were only two plates of food served. Eric's and mine. I was told to not wait on anyone so we began to eat.

I mentioned to Eric that we should only eat what is on our plates and not get seconds, no matter how much they insisted. The food, to my surprise, was delicious. I tried to figure out how, with such limited resources, the food could taste so good. By the end of my trip, I came to the conclusion that it had to be the freshness of the food, the spices, though simplistic, seemed to impart more flavor. We were, after all, eating organic.

As I was nearing the end of my meal, my aunt insisted I eat more food. As she made her way to me with a pan of rice, I told her I was stuffed. Without saying a word, she put a heaping spoonful of rice on my plate. Well, some things are the same here. You can't argue with the cook. By this time, my uncle Mongo had prepared a plate of rice and beans and sat down to the seat vacated by Eric. I asked him why he wasn't eating chicken and he stated that he doesn't eat chicken. He explained to me that as a young man he got gravely ill. That coupled with a food shortage, (there always is a food shortage), the only thing he was allowed to eat for months was chicken broth. He didn't just not like chicken, he despised chicken.

As we ate and talked, it began to get dark inside so my uncle stood up and twisted a couple of wires together on the wall and the small eating area was softly illuminated by a single bulb, hanging by its wire above our heads. After I finished my plate, everyone else served their food and sat down around the table or stood and ate as we continued sharing stories. These stories were mostly centered around food, but I was doing most of the talking. I told a story of my grandmother from Cuba visiting the US.

I remember when I was about 21 years old and living in Miami, My grandmother from Cuba was granted permission to visit us in the U.S. One day, we took her to a grocery store. She stood in awe at the size of the store and the quantity of food on the shelves. Her entire life, she had been told that there wasn't much food and rationing was done so everybody could get their equal share. Imagine being in your seventies and realizing you'd been lied to your whole life.  They nodded in agreement, but nobody there had ever been to the U.S. so I felt as if my story had lost some of its significance.  They echoed the same story as it was told to them by my Grandmother after her return.

My grandmother also had to learn to use modern plumbing. She had no idea how to use a faucet, much less one that has hot and cold water. You'd think that with her husband dead she would have stayed here, but she returned to Cuba. "I wonder why," I often thought. But living your whole life in the same area surrounded by family, I can see why she returned. She returned and lived till her eighties. I never saw her again. When she passed my Father wasn't allowed to return for her funeral. Any family that was here in the US was unable to properly say goodbye. That just doesn't sit right with me, but if the government doesn't care about you while your alive, why would they care about you when your dead?

We stepped outside to talk some more as the sun finished setting over the jungle - red and orange hues painting the sky like a water color painting. What little light it offered seemed to last for a few minutes as it clung to its last existence. I was tired and we needed to wash up and get ready for bed. We decided to wash up and my aunts had already began to boil some water from the well. Eric was first and I knew that this would be a new experience for him. Since there was no running water in the house, there was no shower head.

I'm the type of person that likes to stay in the shower with hot water raining down on me. Sometimes it's as if the water is washing away the stress from the day. It's therapeutic in a sense.  They brought in a large container of water with a cup for us to scoop the water up to rinse.  Both utensils, having been used for years for this purpose, wore the scratches from falling or rubbing against the concrete floor in the shower.

The bathroom, for lack of a better word, was simply a small room with a small hole in the corner where you bathed. There were a couple of ropes stretched across the bathroom, I assumed, for them to dry their clothes and a small bench. There wasn't a sink or a toilet since the house didn't have running water and there wasn't any electricity so there wasn't a light either. There also, wasn't a door. You simply pulled a curtain across the entrance for privacy.

When my aunt took the water into the bathroom, she saw Eric looking towards the ceiling with the light from his cell phone and busted out laughing. She assumed he was looking for a shower head. Through her laughter and her broken English, she tried to explain to Eric that the bucket in her hand is what he uses, there is no shower head. Eric, to his defense, was looking for a light. I went in and explained to him that there isn't a light, showed him where the bench was where he could place his clothes when he undressed and explained to him how to bath with the bucket of water.

We were still laughing when Eric exited the bathroom a few minutes later. He tried to explain through the laughter that he was looking for a shower head. It's difficult to change a Cubans mind especially if it's something amusing.

After Eric was done it was my turn to bathe. As I stood in the pitch black bathroom, I thought of a trip I took a few years ago to Las Vegas. At night the city shone like a beacon through the sky reaching, it seemed, into outer space and beyond. I thought of night time airplane flights -- how you can look down and see the city shining through the night with lights flickering as if a billion lightning bugs are flying by.  How much light we waste with our night lights and motion sensor flood lights. I was also thinking, "Don't drop the soap!"

I got out of the shower and, after more stories and questions, the fullness of the meal, I quickly began to tire. Another Uncle, Onelio, whom I had shared a cigar with notified me that we would be sleeping at his house which was built behind my cousin Julita's house. Her house is where my Grandmother lived in before she passed away.  As we all walked out of Mongo's house and began making our way down the dirt road, Onelio explained to me that we would be sleeping in his bed.  He had a single bed that he would be sleeping in. I protested but Julita and Onelio insisted. Tired and knowing it was a lost battle, I didn't argue back.

Walking down the dirt road, I remember looking at the few houses along the way and wondering how each family survived. My only conclusion was that they survived by helping each other. Could we do that in this country?

Hurricane Andrew, as tragic as it was, did bring most people together. I remember the solidarity amongst the people during that time. The determination and the willingness to help each other rebuild. It seems, however, that sometimes we quickly forget about our fellow man. About helping each other. I felt helpless as I continued walking down the road and seeing the homes in which my family lived. God, as if knowing my thoughts, gave me silence.  Not by shunning me, but by making me realize that there wasn't a single sound. No noise pollution of any kind, an eerie peaceful silence.  The tranquility of the night air made it seem as if my voice would be carried over a thousand miles.

Onelio broke the silence when he began sharing stories of him and my father, of his life after my father left, of a life that I knew nothing about, but desperately wanted to know. He primarily did thatch roofing when he was younger.  He still would if his children didn't get on to him so much when he climbed a ladder, he joked, which garnered a smack from Julita.  He enjoyed his cigars and flirting with the women, he told me to which my cousin agreed. I smiled and quickly realized that humor must be hereditary, since my father would have said the same thing. 

As we approached his house I was overcome with the unmistakable smell of a farm - you know, the smell of manure, mud, animals, of stagnant water and decay.  On this small piece of property, there was a horse, several emaciated dogs and several chickens. The farm smell, for lack of a better word, was a little overwhelming at first, but I got accustomed to it. 

We made our way around the main house and into Onelio's house and as I glanced in, I noticed he had a cot of some sort with a mosquito net over it. To the room behind it was a double bed and it, too, had a mosquito net over it.  "The double bed," he said, "is for you and Eric."  He noticed my inquisitive look at the mosquito net and he explained "the mosquitos here get so bad that sometimes you have to wear a mosquito net over yourself just to eat!"  He continued, "In another month, it will be unbearable for those not used to it."  He showed me his bathroom which consisted of a toilet and a wall hung sink. There was no running water, but he had a couple of buckets full we could use to flush the toilet if necessary. Eric and I brushed our teeth with our treated water and settled in for the night.

As I lay down to go to sleep that night, I began thinking of all the stars I saw walking down that dirt road. Shining down on us were millions of magnificent stars.  Away from city lights or the illumination of neighborhoods, the stars shone so much bigger, bolder and brighter. I thought back to a night when I was 12 years old and my father had taken me fishing in the Florida Keys. I remember the stars from that night as we lay down on the catwalk looking up at God's creation.  Just like these, those stars seemed to be within arms length, brightly shimmering as if they were a reflection on a glass-smooth pond. I wonder now, what my father was thinking as he looked at those dancing stars those many years ago. Was he lost in their tranquility as I was, or was he yearning for his family? Perhaps, tonight, we were all glancing at the same stars and thinking of each other.  To my memories of family, of love and those dancing stars, I fell asleep.