Intro to Cuba
Submitted by Keeley jade Dakin
Getting off the plane was trying. Hustling my way out through the stick-up-the-ass customs officers while successfully rounding up my supposedly ‘lost bike’- the careless bastards!By the time I deplastisized my bike and hit the highway, it was late afternoon, around 3-4pm. The sun softening and casting small shadows on the softly rolling, green hills.
Huge trucks trundle past me, full to spilling of muscular, dirty men and well dressed-if out of date- young women. School children waving egerly as they weave past in sputtering, coughing, ancient buses.
One moment breathing fresh, clean, warm, rain-on-the-cusp air. The next choking on fumes from vehicles that wouldn’t have passed Air-Care when they where new, 40 years ago.
Crossing the road of an over-pass, I can’t help but ignore the rumbling trucks grumbling by, and just stop. Stop and stare out at the lush green hills lit by a cloud-screened sun. Molten yellow meeting verdant green, misting together in the moist air.
And it begins to rain.
I push off again, with my heavy, unevenly weighted bags throwing my balance off.
The warm rain keeps falling as I climb, coasting through gently rolling hills till I come upon a decrepit looking series of concrete and plaster buildings. A town.
Sliding to a stop, I ask a nicely dressed lady in a button down blue frock and bright head wrap-both vibrant against her dark black skin- witch fork in the road would take me to Havana. And how much farther was it?
Her surprised smile and incredulous headshake would describe most people’s reaction to my query.
Pointing me in the right direction, she waves her hands and tells me in the strangest damn Spanish accent I ever heard ´ohhh muuuy lejos!’- It was very far.
Everyone I questioned after let me know with surprised eyes and whistling noises that I had yet to reach my destination.
As I peddled through huge puddles, on past bus shelters -full to spilling- of people waiting for a ride, the rain began to pour. Truly pour; rain doesn’t begin to describe the drenching that, in Cuba and other tropical lands, is commonplace. It rained like an open faucet, cranked to full. With me desperately trying to tighten my bike bags closed, while still peddling. Not wanting to stop cause id never be able to get started again!
I sloshed through dips in the road where the water came so high my bike bags where half submerged and drowning in the water, trying to pull me stubbornly to a stop. My feet swam in the down stroke of my straining legs. So incredibly wet I was hysterical with laughter and astonishment both, my witchy laughter cackling out wildly.
I was grinning like a madwoman!
I passed people, many people, seemingly returning from work or just loitering, passing the time.
They watched me with curiosity and bewilderment. From the safety of cracked plaster awnings and the yellowed overhangs of old, crumbling buildings. They would, wisely, wait out the rain.
Half-drowned taxis hauled heavily forward through groups of young boys, chasing after each other in the muddy depths that of the temporary river the road had become. My sopping wet pants where cotton, and so heavy they dragged wetly at my legs, trying to catch in my gears. All I could do was to keep rolling them higher and higher. Hoots and hollers of encouragement -and like other things- followed me as I cruised through the lessening downpour.
A massive orange buss full of leering men sped past, splashing me to no effect. How much wetter could I be?
At the back, a teen and young boy slid behind the bus. Crouched down and clinging onto the fender, they water-skid on their thin-soled heels until the buss slowed to pick someone up. They disengaged quickly to trot on behind till it picked up speed and then sprinted to latch on again!
The sun is low, and struggling through the dispersing clouds. Shining down to sparkle magically on every surface. Every detail wet and moving in a collage of motion as sparsely clad bodies take to the streets again, jogging in front of motorcycles that spray great shimmering arcs of water as the pass.
Comes to me the thought... wow, everybody’s black.
And so damn beautiful too!
And I’m laughing again, cause I look so ridiculous- and SO white!- weaving through the traffic in the sprinkling, sparkling rain, as the sun warms my cheek.
Hollers and offers for lodging-and many other things- batter me from all sides as I dart through the over crowded streets of Central Havana. Time worn facades of buildings, like a beautiful young woman gone old. Still beautiful, but sad in her lost youth, to retain so much of what she was but be so clearly poor and weathered. Yet she is loved and loved fiercely by her children and her wisdom pervades in the easy smiles that light on the faces of her children. Despite what they have seen, and done and suffered. And perhaps more, because of it.
I finally located the little casa de hospidaje where I was to meet two friends from Canada. They had been moved as the first place was full, but only a couple blocks. I was guided to the new door by a heavyish, scantily clad Señora with long, bright red painted nails and soft cocoa skin. As we walked I could feel the dark, intense eyes of dozens of pairs of eyes. Lounging in doorways, out of frescoed windows, on ancient automobiles. Women, and many men. Simply staring, curious. Evaluating, judging and appreciating.
The ride only took me about 2 hours of pedaling and circling to reach Habana Central from the Air Port, just as dusk was rolling in.
What an introduction to Cuba….
