Ninety Miles Away: Eight days in Havana, Cuba

I look around and see old houses.  Light shades of blues, green, and yellows are all stacked next to each other as if the color of the other only helped to show its uniqueness.  My North American gaze drifts from distinctive archways to Caribbean palms, adding to this urban scene.  A flash of color and a gust of wind awake me from a culture-induced stupor as a baby blue, 1950s Ford taxi zips through the street, temporarily disrupting the street music coming from around the corner.  All this to say, “Bienvenido a La Habana, Cuba.”  

                While stepping off the plane a short drive from Havana, I know immediately that I’ve entered into another world.  The first cubano I meet is a young man approximately my age, dressed in a military uniform, and working the customs section of the airport.  I’m prepared for harsh drilling on the purpose of our trip and have my official university letter of educational purpose on hand to combat any opposition.  What I am not prepared for is the warm smile and excitement of this officer after seeing my U.S. passport—the most pleasant customs officer I’ve ever met.

                The warm welcome into a politically and culturally restricted country catches me by surprise, and the car ride to our hostel only elevates the contradicting thoughts racing through my head.  As we leave the airport I notice a billboard denouncing my country, claiming it’s responsible for the biggest genocide in history, it depicts the island of Cuba with a noose around it.

                After settling into our hostel, we walk to the Malecón, a sidewalk where one can feel the ocean spray when waves crash against a large concrete barrage.  The Cuban experience then grows into an adventure as my friend Andrew and I are approached by a 23-year-old named Fernando.  Telling us how excited he was to meet Americans, he leads us through Havana on what could have easily been a professional tour.  Untrustingly, we follow.  

When we return to the Malecón, finally accepting our guide as trustworthy, our interests are sparked by the way he boisterously speaks of his country, explaining how Cuba has two monetary systems: el peso cubano, used by the citizens of Cuba, and the convertible peso, used by tourists.  He says that the government uses the convertible peso as a way to further the tourism industry, which is largely government owned, separating the people from economic growth.  Worried by stories I’ve heard about the lack of freedom of speech in Cuba, I cautiously approach the topic of politics.  I am the only one afraid of the subject, however, and our new friend burst out into a political testimony in high-speed Spanish of the lack of la democracia and the failure of el socialismo in Cuba.  Three hours later, Andrew and I bid farewell to a friend who was previously a stranger, baffled at our first day in Cuba. 

                Throughout the week, many Cubans speak fearlessly about politics and their government, but strangely I only hear one person speak well of socialism, and even she claims that the current economic system is not functioning well, pointing to the very clear poverty that one can see alongside beautiful people and a beautiful culture.

             

                Cuba, however, is not all politics.  I’m relieved to find small groups of friends singing and playing instruments in the middle of the street, enjoying the company of others freely and rambunctiously.  I’m reminded over and over again by strangers and friends that the Cuban people are not our enemies.  I’m asked on numerous occasions to forward this to my countrymen:  The Cuban people are not at war with the American people, no matter what governments might tell you.  

                We enjoy a variety of events during the trip, such as listening to one of Raúl Castro’s economists, attending a play about Havana, watching a Cuban baseball game, and visiting old Havana and the U.S. Interest Section (the functional equivalent of an embassy) all while flying by the seat of our pants as our bus driver, Miguel, blasts the Christian rap song “"Pao pao pao".

 Unfortunately, halfway through our visit I find myself bed-ridden and without vision, overtaken by a sickness that lasts the remaining three weeks of our spring semester (part of the reason this blog post is so late).  My sick conditions don’t matter to the hostels amazing kitchen staff and a group of Cubans in their twenties take the time to hang out with us and share about their lives.  This exchange of cultura only enriches my sliver of time in Cuba and shatters political boarders of fear and manipulation.

                Feeling the warm Caribbean breeze on my face, I stare out into the sea at the line where the sky kisses the waves.  If I follow that horizon my nation is a mere 90 miles away.  It seems strange to be in a neighboring country (and the closest I would be to the U.S. for another six months), but to have arrived in fear.  This fear was not based in personal experience, but rather passed down to me by society from a Cold War mentality.  These misconceptions painted Cuba as an old bearded man with nuclear tendencies rather than the students, the musicians, and the poets who shape a land I have been trained to ignore when looking at a map of the Americas.  But the truth is that no matter how much we’ve been trained to ignore this island and no matter how much los cubanos read anti-U.S. propaganda and no matter how much fear there is in our shared history, our neighbor to the south must be neither ignored nor feared if we are to learn from the past and continue in a future of reconciliation.  I saw this fear shattered by Cuban love and international friendship.  Although only a taste of something bigger I dream of, it was as sweet as agua de coco, as strong as la poesía of José Martí, and as true as the warm Caribbean breeze.

-Austin Vander Wel

Moments of Nicaragua (pt. 2)

This story isn’t about me, but is one I promised to tell when José Alí Rueda asked it of me in Managua, Nicaragua.

The heat seems to bake us inside the concrete-box of a building that a small neighborhood of bananeros uses for their gatherings.  Four of the people living there agree to meet with a group of students from a far off university, although we’re not the first.  I strain to understand the Nicaraguan accent of José Alí as Dr. Patrick Van Inwegen, another student, and I inquire of his story.  It goes like this:

 

                José Alí began working for Dole Food Company, examining the quality of bananas, when he was sixteen.  He inspected the size and overall appearance of the bananas to make sure they were up to par for this international company.  Then began the use of the product Nemagon, whose main ingredient, dibromochloropropane, is known to cause sterility in some male mammals and has hideous effects on humans.  Due to these side effects the chemical was banned in the United States in 1979, but was used afterwards in countries such as Nicaragua and the Philippines.  

                He recounted that the chemical was first put into the irrigation water and the order was given to spray it only when there was no wind and the workers weren’t present.  The poison was spread over  the banana fields at night, when supposedly it was less windy.  José Alí was unaware of the new chemical’s effects on human health, and was completely unaware that when he drank the “clear and fresh” water he was ingesting a toxin that would later cause him to have chronic urinary infections, cancerous boils on his skin, and gastric complications.  He stated that the companies knew, but decided not to tell the workers of Nemagon’s hazardous nature.  

                At first the workers didn’t feel any different, but over time headaches and unexplained vomiting became frequent.  In addition, boils from within the body began to show themselves on the exterior of their leathery skin.  Nemagon was literally eating José Alí and his compañeros alive.  

                Upon realizing the destruction that simultaneously affected multiple banana fields in Nicaragua, between 3,000 and 7,000 (7,000 was the number given to me by José Alí, while Dole claims 3,000) bananeros had to make a choice:  Do we continue to work and possibly get compensation or do we leave our jobs and fight for reparation?  Many chose the latter.  He recalled the intense 342 kilometer march from his home in Chinandega to Managua.  This journey took eleven days, said José Alí, but people along the road took pity on the banana workers and let them stay in their homes overnight.  

                Upon arrival in Managua the workers sought political help from the powers that were in place, but received little and were forced to settle in champas, clusters of tents used for temporary housing.  It was not until Daniel Ortega quite recently took office that the people received concrete houses, potable water, and electricity.  These people are not economically poor, they claimed, but have been incapacitated due to continual health conditions and believe they’ve been wronged.

                In order to further their cause, the bananeros hired attorneys from the U.S. to fight Dole in the United States.   However, they felt as if their lawyers, charging around $300 per hour, did very little to further their case.  This could be due to greed or busyness, but after trying several lawyers and many years the workers found their pockets empty and their problems persisting.  The justice system seemed futile. 

                A similar story can be found of the faith the workers had in film crews bent on making emotion-igniting documentaries of injustice.  However, after interviews and chilling stories, these film-makers were not heard from again.  Perhaps they struggled to break even or made off with the profit.  The remorse felt by the workers continues.

~

                I forget about the heat and a chill runs down my spine as José Alí discusses the afterlife.  It’s apparent that his faith is the only thing carrying him through this one.  Counting himself as a dead man, his wrinkled face brightens as he speaks of death, when he’ll leave his terrestrial body and join his Father in Heaven.

                His mood changes alarmingly, though, as he considers out loud the consequences of his death.  He looks away from me as he speaks of his wife and daughter he would leave behind.  He has fought for his children ever since the Nemagon crisis, so that they might have a better life and receive some sort of solitude from Dole Food Company.  Our eyes meet again.  They remain fixed as I focus in order to correctly translate what he’s telling me.  After feeling cheated by so many for so long, the thought of dying and leaving his daughter causes his eyes to fill and his lip to quiver.  As a tear rolls down his cheek I’m unsure—Is it his tear?  Is it my tear?—maybe we share it.  

                I ask him what a few chele students from the U.S. could possibly do to help their situation.  The response brings me abrupt frustration:  they already see themselves as dead men and women, and all I can do is relay this story and make their afflictions heard.  Here I pass it on to you all, as promised; so that you know someone suffered and continues suffering because of corporate greed and unrealistic customer demands, many of which came from the United States.  The story of José Alí is not one of violence or bullets, but he has fought and his scars remain.  In a globalizing world it can seem like some actions have no consequences.  However, this man opened my eyes to the fact that even if the consequences are nonexistent or hidden within the U.S. they are felt by another.  We’ve inherited a world that is every day more interconnected, but with this comes responsibility to educate ourselves and own our actions.  

I would like to say thank you to José Alí Rueda for his openness on this subject despite the personal and collective pain he lives with.

-Austin Vander Wel

Moments of Nicaragua (pt. 1)

          As a couple of you might know, I went to Nicaragua on an eight-day trip full of challenging interviews and sights, of which I’m still not sure how to feel.  However, in writing about these instances I hope to form clearer ideas. Each paragraph is a different moment of something I experienced:

I zoom down the street in a bus, Ticabus to be exact. Through the window I see a more arid landscape, scattered with casitas.  The walls surrounding the houses are not of concrete, as in Costa Rica, but rather incorporate wire, zinc, and wood.  An unfamiliar sight catches my eye and takes hold of my neck as we fly past the horse-drawn cart carrying bundles of wood along the busy street.  Through the other window I see a billboard colored with magenta, mustard yellow, baby blue, and a portrait of Daniel Ortega holding up the peace sign.  It reads, “¡Vamos por más victorias!”

 

                Walking through the Managuan mercado I see sights very different from the ones back home.  To my left a woman is vending shoes, making sure that everyone within an ear-shot knows that hers are top notch and the cheapest around.  I walk past a man seated on the ground in the middle of the market; he’s selling pirated videos at about $1.50 a disc—our guía recommends them.  To my right is a large piece of carne hanging from a stand, free of any plastic wrap.  Below the meat is a huge pot, steaming despite the already oven-like heat of the eatery.  I walk past iguanas tied and muzzled.  They average the length of my forearm and are ready to be cooked for a meal. 

                I’m standing above the central plaza of León, looking at a museum designated to the Nicaraguan Revolution carried out by the Frente Sandinista de la Liberación Nacional (FSLN).  Red and black decorate the building and slogans commemorate the movement.  I look at the words scrawled on the outside walls in spray-paint.  They read, “BUSH GENOSIDE / ENEMIGO DE LA HUMANIDAD / MUERTE AL INVASOR (Bush genocide / enemy of humanity / death to the invader).”  On top of the museum we overlook the city square.  On a backdrop of volcanoes I see the legacy of a recent revolución.  I begin speaking with our tour guide.  He tells me openly that he lost many friends in the civil war.  I ask him if it was worth it, all the violence, all the death.  The unexpected “Sí” is hard to comprehend.  He recalls that even though his generation had to die or suffer with psychological consequences, it was necessary so that his children and the following generations could live a free life.  He only received psychological help four years ago, he says, but he has learned to live despite the past.  He asks me if I could understand 45 years of authoritarianism.  I cannot.  We then take a picture and he throws up the peace sign and a smile.  As I leave he waves and says, “¡Bienvenidos a la tierra de Sandino!” (Welcome to the land of Sandino!).  I wave and exit the museum perplexed.  Never before had I heard someone talk so comfortably about both violence and peace. 

               
          We board our bus once again, but this time with a visitor.  The students all know who he is, we’ve been instructed beforehand, but don’t hurry him with questions.  We return with this stone-faced man to our hostel outside the city.  He tells us that he was a fighter for the Nicaraguan Resistance against the Sandinista Movement (depending on what side one is on the term “Contra” of “Resistencia Nicaragüense” applies, I choose to call him part of the Nicaraguan resistance because it’s what shows most respect towards his position).  The sun is setting as his story is being told, which seems to symbolize soldiers forced into hiding after continuing years of civil war with deep international ties (Iran-Contra Scandal) His accent is thick and he sounds to be from a very rural area.  Perhaps most interesting is what he doesn’t say.  His gaze is elsewhere as he describes a period of time, but never specific details or personal memories.  He’s the third asked to talk to us about the unspoken events, the other two declined.  No pictures. No first-hand accounts. No laughter.  Words are essential for chronicles; silence, for recovery.  I leave with a surreal qualm in my chest. This stuff is real here.

Well, that's enough for now.  I hope you can see it was a lot to process.  It was difficult, but good.

Como siempre, gracias por leer,

-Austin Vander Wel