My Trip to Cuba – (Part 3) Havana

As we were making preparations to visit Havana, a couple of cousins decided to stop by.  They were close to my son's age and came over as soon as they heard we had arrived.  One of them was named David and the other was Alex. There is always that awkwardness you feel when meeting someone for the first time, part from anticipation, part from excitement and part from sadness.  Sadness that it took so long for this to happen.  However, immediately after meeting Alex, the awkwardness was quickly forgotten!

Alex was trying to learn English and attempted to communicate with both of us.  My son, having struggled in Spanish I and Spanish II in high school (go figure!), was trying his best to speak Spanish.  It was actually quite comical.  When Eric couldn’t understand Alex or David, he would ask them,  "¿Que?" (Spanish for "what?"), and when David or Alex didn’t understand Eric, they would ask him "What?"  Only it sounded like "Hwhat?"  Every few minutes, Eric would ask “Dad, how do you say this?” or Alex would ask me  "¿Como se dice _____?"  Needless to say, I was the translator for most of their early conversations.

One moment in particular, Eric called, “Hey dad, come here!”  So I drank my last bit of coffee (Man, this stuff is addictive!) and made my way outside.  He wanted me to translate what Alex was telling him.  

"Tu hijo se parece a Yusten Beever." 

I laughed, "Eric, he said you look like Justin Bieber." 

We both got a laugh out of that, but I’m not sure Eric really thought it was funny!

They tried their best to communicate, but most of the time, all I would hear was Eric's  "¿Que?" and Alex's "Hwhat?"  Back and forth, until they would give up and call me to translate.  (I still smile at the memory!)

 Eric (My Son), Alex and David

Being that Alex and David were close to Eric’s age, I asked them if they were planning on going to college and what they would study.  David tilted his head and said, "College?  We don’t get to go to college."  They explained to me that you only go to college if the government picks you to go. "Oh, you’ve got to love socialism!"  I thought to myself. 

Photo I took of Morro Castle

Before we left for Cuba, my father had told me there were a few places that we must see.  One of them was the Morro Castle. “Morro,” in Spanish, means a rock which is very visible from the sea and, therefore, serves as a navigational landmark.  I had seen a few pictures of this fortress, but couldn’t wait to see it in person.

Built in 1589 when Cuba was under the control of Spain, Morro Castle is a beautiful fortress that guarded the entrance into Havana Bay.  It still dominates the port entrance and can be seen from miles away.  Since Cuba was the main port for goods going to the new world and back to Europe, it was built to protect the city of Havana, along with a large wall which completely surrounded the city.

                                                                                                            

Night after night, at 9 o’clock sharp, the guards would fire a cannon to warn citizens that the gates would be closing.  They would also raise a chain that spanned the entire entrance to the bay to prohibit ships from coming in or leaving.  It was a warning to everybody that it was time to take refuge behind the thick walls and avoid walking in the forests of exuberant vegetation surrounding the city.   

But as the city grew, it stretched beyond the walls and, although most of the wall has been destroyed, parts of it and the huge doors still remain today. Also remaining, is the 9 o’clock tradition of firing the cannon, which many Cubans use to set their clocks.  As part of the ceremony, guards dress in authentic Spanish uniforms, like those worn during colonial times, and march towards the cannon to fire it.  Loli and Enrique asked if I wanted to see this ceremony and I jumped at the chance. 

I wish we had gotten there earlier because I would have loved to have seen the entire fort.  I couldn’t believe how big it was.  There were two very large sets of doors with a drawbridge mechanism that looked as if it may still work.  There was even a dry mote around the entrance.  This would be a great location to film the HBO series Game of Thrones.  

I was only able to step inside one of the smaller museums, where I saw a catapult and some other perfectly preserved ancient war artifacts -- some with horse drawn carriages.  It was like taking a step back in time.  I didn’t get to see the barracks, which were four stories high, the underwater archeology exhibition or the huge lighthouse.  We only saw a small portion of the exhibits.  Maybe on our next visit, we can spend more time there. 

  Morro Castle

It was close to 9 and we had to get in a position to see the ceremony.  I honestly attempted to film the ceremony, but when the cannon went off, I almost peed in my pants!  I jumped!!  And yes, I’m man enough to admit it!  At least I can say I didn’t scream like the man in front of me!  I wonder how many people leave the ceremony with chest pains.  I didn't know what to expect, but I never expected it to be so incredibly loud.  I failed at videoing it, so I found the following video where you can watch the ceremony. 

Afterward, I stood on the wall overlooking the bay and the city of Havana.  It was a beautiful sight - seeing the city breathing and moving and the lights reflecting off of the water.  As I looked to my right, a huge Cuban flag was swaying in the breeze.  I could see why so many Cuban exiles miss this place, miss its potential, its possibilities.  You can’t help but feel sad for the people and their struggles, when they could have so much more if not for its dictatorship and its oppressiveness.

We left to return to Loli’s home and were making plans on going to Havana the following day to see the old Havana as well as the new Havana, where all the tourists go.  I wanted to see the contrast between the two, to see the places where Ernest Hemingway walked and was inspired to write about and to also put my finger on the pulse of the city.  But for now, more importantly, I wondered if we would get back home in time for some more coffee?

The next morning, I was awakened by a sound I didn't expect to hear in a city of over 2 million people.  A rooster.  That's right, a rooster.  It took me a minute to realize where I was -- I thought I might be in a dream or having a caffeine hangover.  I cleared the cobwebs from my brain and decided to get up and go outside and listen to the city wake up.  The sun was just coming up over the roof tops and the love birds were singing, greeting me as I walked outside.  

I looked around and noticed that all of the houses had tanks on their roofs.  Some had tanks made out of cement and others had 55 gallon drums up there and each one had pipes, one high and one low, connected to it which ran into the home.  I thought it was kind of weird, so I decided to investigate. 

As it turns out, there is no constant running water system in Havana.  On average, they turn the water on every other day for an hour or two.  The tanks are filled when the water is turned on in order to have water when the supply is off, which can be up to 2 days or more at a time.  The tanks are on the roof so that gravity can provide the needed pressure for the water to flow inside the home.  As a plumber, I was intrigued at the idea of installing a good water system in this old city, but I could only imagine what an undertaking that would be.  

I was warned not to drink the water, so before leaving Atlanta, I purchased a water purifier. There were many areas where sewer pipes were open and the water lines ran into the same ditch, which causes cross contamination.  This is quite possibly the reason there is currently cholera outbreaks in Cuba - many of which have resulted in death.

I was constantly treating my drinking water with a UV light as seen in the photo to the left.  I was also warned that if I bought bottled water in Cuba and the top appeared to be tampered with or looked as if it may have been previously opened, I needed to ask for another one.  You want a new bottle every time!  

     

While I was sitting outside, I heard some commotion coming from the house next door.  The neighbors were apparently building a home.  They had some crude forms installed and the cement that had been poured the day before was now dry.  An elderly gentleman, who looked to be at least 70 years old, had a cigar in his mouth and was digging a trench to install a drain pipe for a toilet, before the slab was poured.  He didn't have a shovel.  He only had an old pick and a metal pot that he was using to get the dirt out of the ditch.  Man, the things we take for granted!  I complain when I have to use a shovel.  I hate those things!   But,  Wow!  I see that it can always be worse.


Eventually, helpers arrived, the radio was turned on and music began booming through the city.  "They obviously don't care whose asleep," I mumbled.  The song that played was a classic Cuban song I have enjoyed listening to most of my life, only this time I was actually there, appreciating it in a totally new way!  I stayed outside for a little while and watched and listened to Havana awake.  I watched him work -- I say 'him' because the other four "helpers" sat around a table playing dominoes, while 'he' installed the drain pipe.  Was that rum they were drinking?  I couldn't tell. The classic Cuban song finished and Daddy Yankee came on.  "Cool!  I haven't heard that song in a while!"  I thought to myself, when suddenly, I heard Loli calling...

"Hola!  ¿Quieres cafecito?  ("Hey, you want some coffee?") 

 Actually, all I heard was, "Hey, you want..." before I blurted out, "Yes!!!"  I saw her opening the bag before she even asked and, at the sight of that, my right arm started twitching and my shoulder was itching.  Again, visions of the great Cornholio filled my mind!

Eric was waking up and the possibilities and excitement of the day had me anxious.  About an hour and 10 more Daddy Yankee songs later(!!!), I was ready to kill somebody!  I was secretly planning a way to kill any Reggaeton musician!  "Death to Reggaeton!"  ran through my mind when mercifully, the song ended and then a classic rock song came on.  "Thank you, Lord!"  I whispered to myself.

"You think they like Daddy Yankee here?" Eric asked. 

"Either that... or they are torturing prisoners!" I replied.

As we finished our coffee, Enrique asked us if we wanted to go "chopping."  Actually, he was saying "shopping" in English, but with his heavy Cuban accent, it sounded like chopping.  "Sure!" we both said.  He explained to us that only on certain days, locals are allowed to sell goods or food items for money.  Normally, you would go to your assigned store on an assigned day and pick up your rations for the month.  (More on the rations later in this post.)

As we walked through the streets, there were people selling items out of wheelbarrows in front of their homes or in carts on the street corner.  At the next block, there was a small open air market, similar to a small farmer's market with local produce, some spices and other items.  Enrique grabbed some beets, green beans, dry black beans, potatoes, red peppers and some tomatoes.  Each time, he bargained with the merchant and had enough money left over to buy a head of cabbage.

We walked a little further to a small store where they sold about 20-30 miscellaneous items - shaving cream, toothpaste, razors, etc.  I bought some shaving cream and a pack of toilet paper.  I wasn't about to chance not having any ever again!

Enrique further explained to me that the government has allowed these people to sell goods on certain days hoping it would curtail the black market that is so prevalent in Cuba.  Of course, in order for them to sell goods, they must buy a license and pay certain fees, but at least the opportunity was there.


The average salary in Cuba is $10.00 per month. No, that isn't a typo, $10.00 per month. There isn't much you can buy unless you sell goods on the black market to make the extra money needed to purchase food or other goods on those "legal" shopping days.  It's crazy!  Everybody sells something to get by and better provide for their families. 

For example, if they worked at a gas station, they would sell gas on the side.  If they produced honey, after meeting the government quota, they would sell or barter the extra.  (If they do not meet the quota, the amount is deducted from their salary.)  Getting caught would certainly mean jail time, but Cubans must do what they can to make ends meet. 

On the way back from the market, Eric pointed out an elderly man who was scooping rice out of a dumpster into a container.  There were countless flies buzzing around his head and bugs crawling all through the rice as he scooped it into his small bucket.  In Cuba, the elderly struggle to make it on what is rationed to them, unless they have family to help them.  They are unable to produce anything to sell on the black market, so they end up either begging for food or digging through garbage like this man was.  I know there are homeless people in all countries, but here, it appears that they don't have a choice.  They are just victims of circumstance.

I mentioned rationing.  Below is a photo I took of a monthly ration booklet.  A family of 3 receives the following PER MONTH:

Monthly Ration Booklet

Bag of Coffee

• 30 small eggs (10 per person/per month)
• 3 kilos of beans (about 7 lbs.)
• 1-1/2 liters of oil
• 15 kilos of rice (roughly 33 lbs.)
• 3 packs of coffee  (small bags - see photo for size comparison)
• 12 kilos of Raw and Refined Sugar
• 3 kilos of grains
• 1 loaf of bread

Women receive 1 pack of feminine pads every 90 days and that is only if any is still available at their turn in line.  They may randomly get certain items like soap, toothpaste, etc., otherwise, if it isn't available during the monthly rationing pick-up, they will have to look for it on the black market.


Condiments and spices are also luxuries in Cuba.  There's no butter, mayonnaise or ketchup in any refrigerator.  However, later in my trip, I purchased some mayonnaise and it was eaten on bread with nothing else.  They eat it like we would butter.  

They also don't receive any milk.  The only people that are rationed milk are children less than 7 years old and those over 80.

After reviewing the ration booklet, I understood what a sacrifice they were making just to have us stay at their house.  Every meal I ate, I did so knowing that they were truly going without for Eric and me.  We both realized just how fortunate we are with all of the food available to us in the United States.

After our morning shopping was over, we returned to Loli's house, had a small breakfast and began to prepare for our trip through Havana.



(SIDE NOTE:  Yesterday, May 14, 2013, my cousin, Loli, who met Eric and I at the airport and allowed us to stay a few days in her home in Havana, arrived in the United States for the first time ever for a few week's stay.  I am thrilled for her opportunity to come and will love seeing her.)

 

My Trip to Cuba - (Part 2) Havana

Exiting the Airport

First, I must admit, I did a horrible job filming and taking pictures on this trip. I had just purchased a new camcorder and had never used it until I arrived.  I didn't even read the instructions!  Most of the time, the camcorder battery was dead, so I used my Galaxy smart phone instead.  Hopefully, you will still be able to capture all I am explaining.

When I first exited the airport, I had so many mixed emotions.  I was grateful and relieved that my cousin, Loli, and her husband, Enrique, had found us, and happy that we'd finally made it there.  Loli is a very kind person.  She is always smiling and laughing and that put me and my son at ease instantly.  To the left is a picture of her.  Her laugh is infectious and when she smiles, she has a gap in her front teeth that would make Michael Strahan proud.

I was sad that my father couldn't be there, but thankful that my son, Eric, was.  I was a little nervous as I took it all in -- the sounds of the airport and of the people.  We didn't know a single soul on this island and didn't know where anything was located.  The only information we had to fall back on was a sheet of paper with the US embassy's address and phone number.  I'm not sure what good a phone number would do with no cell service and no phones anywhere in sight and I'm also not sure what good an address would do either.  If someone wanted to kidnap us, they could easily have done it!  This thought had occurred to me before we landed and I decided I would pull the "Yo no hablo!" card, but I hadn't thought it through beyond that.  Maybe once I bought toilet paper, I could use it as bribery?

My cousin explained to me that a neighbor would be picking us up.  He had a nice car he acquired when he worked for 5 years in Guatemala for the Cuban sports program.  As I looked around the airport, I saw some nice newer cars, but those were rentals!

I had heard about all of the classic cars in Cuba leftover from the hay days of the 40s and 50s when Cuba was THE place to be.  Gone are the days when Hemingway wrote of Cuba's beauty, when Cuban music was at its pinnacle and when Cuban cigars were truly legendary for the right reasons. Cuba was a Latin Las Vegas then.  Even during those times, there was an undercurrent of dissatisfaction among the people of Cuba.  They were tired of Communism.  While the right people were living well, many others had less and less and the spirit of the revolution was growing.
 
So... not long after stepping to the curb, my cousin's friend shows up in a 2006 KIA. I was still in a bit of shock with so many things running through my mind.  And as I loaded our luggage and got into the car, I took a last look around and began noticing the older model cars arriving.  

There were billboards (see pic below) hailing the murderer, Che Guevara, as a "guardian of children and a good Samaritan to all."  Propaganda was everywhere.  I wondered what would happen if I spray painted over his face on one of these billboards.  "I've got to stay out of trouble!" I tell myself, "I've got to stay out of trouble!" 

Luckily, I see palm trees.  No matter what my mood is, palm trees always calm me down.  They remind me of beach vacations, sitting under a palm tree, listening to the wind rustle the large leaves and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.  As I'm envisioning myself in a hammock under these palm trees, I was quickly brought back to reality by a very sharp jerk of the car.  What the heck?  For no apparent reason, our driver swerved out of our lane and into oncoming traffic!!  A few hundred yards ahead, he did it again and then I saw why.  Pot holes!  There are pot holes everywhere. Not your average potholes either.  These could be historical landmarks!  Sure, there are small ones, but the big ones appeared to be staring at you with fangs ready to pounce on any tire that came near it.  


In the United States, if you have a car problem or you need parts for your car, you can go to an auto parts store.  In Cuba, there are no such stores.  A flat tire could be catastrophic and crippling if you use your car to make a living.  This makes it even more amazing that these old cars are still running.

Potholes are not the only obstacles.  In a city where most people don't have cars, you see many people walking, riding bikes or motorcycles.  Some people were also driving horse and buggy.  There were dogs everywhere - many of which were pregnant.  I only saw one on a leash.  People are overflowing the sidewalks or walking in the road.  When you mix all of this together, driving through Havana is like a bad video game.  You constantly hear car horns honking as the faster drivers let the slower ones know they are passing.  The horn is their method of communication and a reminder to the slower drivers not to move over to avoid a pot hole or risk getting hit as the faster drivers pass them.

They also honk the horn to let the people who may be crossing the street know that they are approaching so they don't step out into the road.  Many of the pedestrians look at you like they want to play a bad version of chicken and walk out anyway, just to force you to stop.

Then, there are the stop lights.  There are many Cubans in Miami and when I lived there, I wondered why as soon as the light turned green, you had to be moving.  Not beginning to go... moving!  If you weren't, someone behind you would honk their horn to let you know it was time to go.  I would always look in my rear view mirror as if saying "I'm not interested in driving, I just want to sit here at this intersection and enjoy the scenery, you idiot!"  Sometimes, I'd show them who was number one!  Ah, I don't miss living there one bit!

But, in Cuba, it's even worse.  The red lights blink to let you know they are about to turn green. Some intersections have timers to let you know exactly when the lights about to turn green. You better be rolling a second before that light changes or you're going to get an earful of a car horn, or four or ten, advising you the light has turned green.  I quickly figured out that, in Cuba, you stop on yellow... you don't even think about going on yellow.

With all of the pot holes, slow cars, people and animals crossing the road, the lane dividers are just meant as a recommendation.  I filmed this video too late.  The road opens up and there isn't as much pedestrian traffic as was in other areas. This drive was for me to inspect the car I would be renting for the next four days.  As we approached a Toyota land cruiser that had been converted to a mini bus, the driver explained to me how Cubans earn extra money -- by selling items from work on the side, and in this case, it was fuel.                                                                                                                            
Finally, we arrived at my cousin Loli's home. As I peeled myself out of the seat and stepped out of the vehicle, I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  I still have trouble explaining the scenery.  It was like looking at an old, rusted, beat up car in a junk yard.  You know that at one time it had to have been beautiful and new, but it's so far gone that it's difficult to imagine it that way.  That's the way the homes are in Havana. Their Spanish influence is very apparent.  What was once a beautiful baroque or neoclassic home looked more like a patched up cement box with few signs of its past beauty. Occasionally, you would see a partial statue, an ornamental column or a huge wooden door that you knew was made long ago.  It clings to existence only because it can't be repaired or replaced.  It's truly sad.  There are no Home Depots or helpful hardware men here.  To an ordinary citizen, there are no means of making repairs. If you can, you patch it.  If not, you just go with it and live in it until it's no longer safe to do so.

                                               

Loli motioned to Eric and me that she lived down at the bottom of the hill (see photo). As I turned around to see where she was pointing, there was a long narrow alley on a steep hill and, of course, her home's at the bottom.  We grabbed our suitcases and began our walk down the steep hill. As I walked by the other houses, everyone had their doors open.  The inside of these homes reminded me of some of our housing projects, or the ghetto, if you will.  Most of the people were sitting by their front doors or sitting outside.  Women were hanging clothes out to dry.  A sofa, maybe, and an old tube television or a couple of chairs made up the living rooms.  These rooms were about the size of a small secondary bedrooms in the US, about 10 x 10. These were more like condos or townhouses instead of homes.

Loli explained to us that everyone knows one another, so we exchanged a few "holas" as we made our way down the alley.  I noticed a pregnant woman who looked like she was about to explode.  There are no maternity clothes shops, so her belly was out for all to see.  Her belly button, which looked like the knot on an overfilled water balloon, had a tattoo of a star around it. 

"She is due any day now," Loli tells me. 

"How nice!" I said, but I don't think the look on my face matched my words.

We came to a seven-foot tall steel gate covered with a sheet of metal so you couldn't see the other side and Loli unlocked the door. When she opened the door, I was a little surprised.  She actually has a very small back yard.  It was a little oasis in the middle of a concrete jungle. This brought me comfort and I was happy to see the flowers and small banana trees in her back yard. She had a couple of love birds in a cage, something that I realized is very common in Cuba. Their singing helped to drown out the noises of the city and I welcomed that.

She opened the door to her home and ushered us in.  We walked right into a small, 10 x 10 living room with two rocking chairs and a tube TV.  There was a large box on the wall and I guessed, correctly, that it was a fold-down bed. The front door was on the right side of the living room and the opening to the kitchen / dining room was to the right on the far wall.  No door, just an opening. The kitchen was about the same size, maybe a couple of feet longer.  There was only a cement floor in the kitchen area, as they haven't been able to buy any tile or mortar to finish the floor.  She had a small 3-burner propane stove, like you would see in an RV, and a small single-bowl kitchen sink. The refrigerators in Cuba are about one-third the size of our refrigerators in the US.  Again, they reminded me of RV appliances.
 
On the right side of the kitchen / dining room was a small door which led to the only bedroom.  There was a full-size mattress and about one foot of clearance on each side of the bed. There was also just enough clearance between the front of the bed and the door opening to open my suitcase fully.  Across from the foot of the bed, there was a small alcove that served as a closet. 



On the left side of the kitchen was a small door that led to the bathroom. The bathroom didn't have a normal door, it had a vinyl folding, collapsible door. The bathroom was remarkably nice and appeared to be newly remodeled. The toilet; however, did not have a seat.  But, they did have a roll of toilet paper!  I never thought I would talk about or write about a roll of toilet paper being such a big deal, but man, try not having any and see what you think!!  The shower head had wires which ran to it and, as a firefighter AND a plumber, I was curious.  As it turns out, my cousin actually had hot water. It was an instant hot water shower head.  (see photo)  Actually, an instant warm water shower head better describes it.                                           

In between the bathroom and the kitchen was another door leading to the back yard. I went outside to look at the scenery and have a seat as the day was winding down.  

As is tradition in Cuba, Loli made some cafe Cubano or Cuban coffee. Drinking coffee is still a social and cultural activity in Cuba.  Now... there is coffee, and then there is cafe Cubano!  Cafe Cubano is basically espresso that is sweetened with sugar as it is being brewed.  It's given to you in a small cup about the size of a shot glass. The cups remind me of small teacups used by children when playing tea with their stuffed animals.  So small your pinkie finger will always be up while you hold the cup with your thumb and index finger.  But nothing that is served in shot glass portions should ever be taken lightly!  After a cup of Cuban coffee you will talk louder, use your hands more when you speak and generally be more animated, as if Cubans needed any additional help with that!  It could also be the reason we are so impatient.  Maybe it's why they drive the way they do in Cuba.  Try to picture me, six-foot-one holding a tiny cup, pinkie finger up, drinking coffee-flavored octane fuel.  I picture myself as Beavis on a caffeine overdose, "I am the great cornholio, ahhhhhhhhhh!!!"  

The coffee tasted different here, not sure why.  I'd have to investigate that later.  It was still delicious and I'd never turn a cup down.  And, for that moment, I was happy to finally be there.

Outside in their backyard, Loli's husband, Enrique, had a couple of cages with pigeons in them and, immediately, two caught my eye.  One of them was grey and black and the other was white.  Enrique explained to me that he could release the grey and black pigeon and it would always return.  He pulled it out of it's cage and released it.  Up, up and away it flew until I could no longer see it.

I examined the white one closer and noticed it was moving it's head in circles and to the sides. It reminded me of Eddie Murphy's imitation of Stevie Wonder in 48 hours. As this pigeon did this, it would walk in circles touching the sides of its cage. When I asked Enrique why, he told me that the pigeon was blind; therefore, it remained in this cage all of the time.  "Hmmm, strange!" I thought to myself.  It would stink to have wings and never fly, but, I guess, it wouldn't do you any good if you couldn't see.


I decided to go back inside to unpack, but, of course, I checked to see if there was any coffee first so I could have another hit... er, shot serving?  There was and the itching subsided.  Loli told me that we would have plenty of time to see Havana if we wanted to go sightseeing. I named a few places I wanted to see.  

"Great idea," she said, and, as preparations were being made, we unpacked our suitcases. 

My Trip to Cuba - Part 1

We all have dreams. Those certain things we want to do in our lives before our time on this earth is done.  Most people call them bucket lists or life goals. Jumping out of an airplane, check. Fishing in various locations around the world, check.  Some; however, are too personable to be a bucket list item. Such is the case with a dream I've had since I was a teenager. A dream of seeing my Father's homeland and of visiting family I've never met. A dream of seeing what shaped my father into the great man he is.

As a child, you often don't realize you’re different than those around you. I never considered myself different. But life is cruel and some people look for reasons to not like you -- reasons to prevent you from dating their daughter, from being your friend or to just be mean.

I'll be the first to admit I was a little naive as a child. I was taught to respect everyone regardless of their skin color or heritage and I just assumed everyone else thought the same way. Unfortunately, I was wrong. They say, “Ignorance is bliss,” but I had a great childhood and feel very blessed for my upbringing.

My parents are both from other countries. My mother is from Colombia, South America. She came to this country with my grandparents at a young age and left a very good, upper-class lifestyle in Colombia. My Grandfather owned several successful restaurants and they had a very good life there. But, my Grandfather had dreams, too. Those dreams brought them to the United States. They struggled, but ultimately persevered through hard work and determination. My Mom has shared stories with me about my grandmother having to sew dresses by hand for them to wear to school, of the difficulties of learning the English language and of the challenges of their family of 7’s survival while my Grandfather worked odd jobs to make ends meet.

At 11 years old, I traveled to Colombia with my family. It was an incredible experience for me. I remember meeting my aunt and uncle and seeing the lifestyle there. They were well off and they took good care of us, but there was poverty everywhere. As we made our way through the mountains to stay at a family farm, I saw poverty like I hadn't seen before. Heck, I didn't even know it existed!  I guess I had been shielded from it while growing up. But a seed was planted and that seed would be constantly watered throughout my teenage years.

As a kid and a teenager, I was heavily involved in baseball. I loved playing baseball! Periodically, I would get heckled about being Hispanic. "Rodriguez, why don't you go back to the country you came from?" I often heard. Sometimes, I wish they had never put our last names on the backs or our shirts. But, I never let it phase me.  It was just fuel to play harder.  Every once in a while, I would let it get to me and say something in return. Usually in Spanish. I even got thrown out of a baseball game for speaking Spanish to the umpire. But, it always left me wondering, where is my family from? What is it like there? I'd already been to Colombia. What is it like where my Father came from?

You see, my Father is from Cuba -- only 90 miles from the United States, but an insurmountable distance for many reasons. My father's story is an incredible one; one he rarely talked about when I was younger.  He had been captured by Castro's troops in the Bay of Pigs, imprisoned and escaped twice to get to The US.  But, that story is for another day.  This story is about my dream to visit Cuba -- to see aunts, uncles and cousins I've never met. To see the land that my father played on as a child, hunted and fished as a young man and escaped from because he had hopes and dreams and wanted freedoms that weren't possible in Cuba - freedoms that are still denied to Cubans to this day.

I could have taken this trip earlier in my life, but life flies by in the blink of an eye. Marriage, kids, careers and the day-to-day challenges of life really make time fly by. Only God knows why I waited till I was 46 years old to go, but I'm glad I went. I was even fortunate enough to take my son with me. I hope that it made as great an impression on him as it did on me.

Cubans are a very passionate people. Just watch us playing dominoes, listening to music or watching a baseball game and you will see what I mean. We're loud, animated and we speak our mind. Sometimes to a fault. In Cuba, I was told on more than one occasion that I could stand to lose a few pounds. Some honesty I could do without!  :)

My journey began well before I stepped off of the plane in the Jose Marti airport in Havana.  It started in Miami. Another trait Cubans are well-known for is our punctuality!  Actually, it’s the lack of it! The agency that gathers all of the required paperwork and airline tickets knows this. They must because they had us show up at the Miami airport at 8:00 a.m. That wouldn't have been too bad if the plane to Cuba didn't leave till 1:00 p.m. But, we were told this was to assure that everyone made it on the plane on time.

You are only allowed to bring 55 pounds per person. Anything over and you pay a certain amount per pound.  I believe it was $7.00 per pound.  Based on what I saw, they turned a profit on that alone!  I saw a 55-inch flat screen TV and several 32-inch flat screens. Later, I found out that, in Cuba, these people will have to pay an import tax to the Cuban government that is usually equivalent to the cost of the item and, sometimes, more. For example, if the large flat screen cost you $1,000.00 in the US, you will pay about the same amount in Cuba to take it into the country. That's a very nice TV to have, especially since the only TV reception is through an antenna on the roof. There is no cable nor satellite dishes in Cuba.

There are people, called mules, who actually make a living taking goods into Cuba. Families in the US will pay per pound to have these mules transport the items into Cuba and deliver it to family members still living there.

Now… take a large group of Cubans, put them in a stressful situation, such as a busy international airport, and you have the makings for great entertainment. I can already see the reality show!
After going through all of the security, customs, baggage check and so forth, it was finally time to board the plane. They called for the first section of seats to start boarding, but it didn't matter. Everybody stood up and got in line regardless of where they were sitting.  Patience is not a Cuban virtue!

My Father did not receive his visa in time for this flight. We were told by the agency that it should be in by Monday, so my son and I boarded the plane without my father. We were going to a country we've never been to, to see family we have never met. That increased the stress factor just a bit!
Once on board, everyone began stuffing the overhead compartments and under the seats with the carryon luggage. It reminds me of trying to stuff a new tent or a sleeping bag back into its original bag. The gentleman next to me needed the room under the seats in front of me and my son.  Four carryons!  Really?  Finally, everyone was seated and we were ready to go.

As we began taxiing to the runway, we were asked to sit down and fasten our seat belts. Children of a certain age or size had to be seated, in their own seats, with their seat belt fastened in order for the plane to take off.  Apparently, someone forgot to tell this sweet little princess or her mother because she wasn't having anything to do with it – she wanted to be on her mother's lap. Oh boy, I had forgotten what a temper tantrum was like!  This was like a warning siren to the other flight attendants and all 3 converged on this mother to try and get this spoiled rotten brat child seated.  Combine that with the plane full of Cubans, who are passionate and honest, and, apparently willing to give free advice on how to handle the situation and you have pandemonium.  In Georgia, there was ‘the switch’ to keep kids straight.  In Hispanic culture, it is called the chancleta, or sandal in English. There were several chancletas offered up!  One guy was yelling to the child "Quit being so spoiled and sit down!"  Another gentleman told her to sit down or they would throw her off the moving airplane. “Man, don't hold back!” I thought.

It took all three flight attendants and the mother to force this screaming, kicking demon child into her seat so we could take off.  I was looking for this child's head to start spinning and her pigtails to turn to horns and, man oh man, could that child scream!  

Finally, we are on our way!

Once we were in the air, it was time for the passengers to give advice to the pilot. “Turn left here!”  “Turn right in five minutes!” One guy even yelled, “Take the turnpike - it's faster!”  Another asked the pilot if he remembered his Sunpass so he wouldn't have to stop and pay tolls. “You just can't pay for entertainment like this,” I thought.

On a plane leaving Miami to Cuba, you would think that they would have Spanish-speaking flight attendants. Out of the three, there was only one. He was your stereotypical male flight attendant with perfect hair and feminine characteristics. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

The lead attendant was a middle-aged woman around 50. After dealing with the demon child, she looked like she was ready to retire!  She had this "I can't believe I'm still doing this" look on her face.  The third flight attendant was quite attractive.  She was of European decent; she had a Russian or Bosnian accent. She had pronounced cheek bones, strong facial lines and big blue-green eyes. I'm not sure my son noticed her eyes once since she had obviously had some work done. You can't be that thin and have that up top!  It just doesn't happen.

About 10 minutes into the staggeringly long 30-minute flight, it was time for drinks. Not sure why they needed drinks on such a short flight, but I had a bit of an upset stomach and I was looking forward to a ginger ale or a sprite. As the attendants began making their way down to us, my son told me to listen to the Russian flight attendant when someone asked for a Coke. “Ummm, ok!”  I thought,  “What is so special about that?”  And then it happened!  Someone just ahead of us asked for a coke.

“One cock coming up!” she answered.

What?  Did I hear that correctly?  It's a good thing I didn't have my soft drink yet or it would have come out of my nose!  She couldn't pronounce coke, but pronounced it cock. “Oh man, awesome!”  I thought.  It was now my turn and she asked me, “What would you like to drink?” I said to myself, “There is no way you can order anything but coke!”  My son and I both ordered cokes. "Two cocks coming right up!" she said back.  To myself, I was thinking it was a good thing they didn't have cherry coke, as they made their way past us.  Just a row or two behind us, they ran out of cokes and she yelled to the flight attendant in the front of the plane, "We need more cocks!!"  Coke burns when it comes out your nose!  Trust me, it does!

We then began our descent into Cuba and this begins my journey, the dream of visiting my father’s homeland.  I'm landing in a country with no phone service, no internet, and no means of communication with anybody in the US. My father isn't with me to guide me and I am with my son who speaks little to no Spanish.  How is my family going to find me in this crazy group of people? Do they know what I look like? All these questions and the anxiety I felt had my stomach churning like a crab boat in the Bering Sea.  Man, I needed to get to a bathroom... and quick!

As I stepped off of the plane, I couldn't help but to notice how small the airport was. To go from Atlanta's airport, the largest in the world, to this, was hilarious. There are some Super Wal-marts bigger than this airport. It didn't matter to me though; I just hoped they had a bathroom!

I couldn't get through customs or the airport securities two scanners quick enough. Once through, there were only two baggage carousels. Before I could get a single word out, my son looked at me and said "Dad, I've gotta go to the bathroom!"

What! You've got to be kidding me. “Hurry up!”  I said, “Please hurry up!”  I was suddenly stricken with the thought of what would happen to my son if we were separated.  He speaks very limited Spanish and doesn't even know any of the names of our family members. This thought was quickly gone when the stomach cramps began. I saw him come out of the bathroom and I quickly made my way there.

The bathroom sign shone like a full moon on a pitch black night. Beckoning to me. I swear the sign had an aura around it. As I got within a few feet of the bathroom, I noticed a lady in uniform standing in front of the door. I glanced around her and noticed the universal sign for male. I knew I was in the right place. Before I could say anything, she stepped to the side and informed me that I could use the bathroom, and that today, they had paper. Then, I remembered there isn't always toilet paper in Cuba. It is somewhat of a luxury. Just before I left Miami, my mom recounted a story of a bathroom attendant, or security guard as I called them, handing her two squares the last time she visited Cuba. They actually ration toilet paper. I felt relief that they had paper today because I was surely going to need it!

If you are easily grossed out, you can skip this paragraph! There is no pretty way to write this next experience. There were two toilet stalls, so I made my way to the first one. As I opened the door, two things were immediately apparent. There wasn’t a toilet seat and there was no roll of paper. “No problem,” I thought, “I'll just use the other one.”  Well, that was the wrong choice. The other toilet was not only was missing the seat, but it also looked like somebody just died, and.... there was no toilet paper.  I slip into panic mode, beads of sweat were forming on my forehead and I began looking for a plant or something, anything I can use to replace toilet paper. Then I thought, “Maybe she was saying there was paper to dry my hands.”  Yea, that's it!  On the wall next to the sink, I see it.  Hanging on the wall, enclosed in a see-through and locked case was a half roll of toilet paper. Seriously, you have got to be kidding me!  I quickly rip off a few feet!  I even got extra, as the thought of me running out and having to waddle over to the wall for more was not a pretty vision. I walked… no, I sprinted… over to the toilet and began my business. In the middle of what was major decompression, I simultaneously saw a pair of women's shoes in front of my stall and a female voice asked me if I had enough paper. What the hell? "Yes ma'am, thank you!" I reply. If I thought she had watched Seinfeld, I would have asked her for a square, but I laughed to myself and finished my business. I couldn't walk by her fast enough as I left the bathroom. “Have a nice day!” she says as I walked by. “Lady, I'm probably going to have nightmares, but thanks for making sure I was taken care of,” I thought to myself.  I made a mental note to buy toilet paper if I could find some and carry it around with me.

As I walked up to my son, our luggage was there, so I grabbed it and we began to leave the airport.  What awaited us outside the doors was pure chaos. Everyone was crowded around barriers, holding up signs. It looked like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Luckily for me, there weren't many 6-foot, 1-inch, bald-headed Cubans, and my cousin, Loli, noticed me right away from the pictures that my parents had sent. “Thank God for small miracles!”  I had no idea who to look for or if they knew what I looked like, since my Dad wasn't with me.

All of this and I hadn’t even been in the country for 1 hour.

I will be posting pictures soon and will continue writing of my experiences in Cuba. Until my next post, God bless and have a great day!