Flashback to late spring: I was sitting in my dorm room in Old West, overlooking the historical quad at this fine university, debating the costs and benefits of staying a final fourth year. I was finished with all of my requirements and credits, but I still had two semesters at my disposal. I had a minor lined up and some hopes and dreams about studying abroad in Habana, Cuba in the spring. With my intricately woven list of pros and cons in hand, I decided to ditch my hopes for a “real senior year” and instead start that lovely endeavor called financial independence.
To nurse my wounded Cuban dreams and as reparation for my canceled final year at UNC, I
bought a cheap flight to Cancun*, banking on the fact that Cuban airline prices rarely
vary and tickets are typically readily available. Bound for Havana, JClem and I hopped in the car and drove the familiar route down to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.
*Side note. To those of you who are not familiar with U.S. foreign policy in regards to
our Red neighbors to the south: it is illegal under the constraints of the trade embargo
(enacted when U.S. Administrators got pissed during the Cuban Missile Crisis), to spend
any money in Cuba without an OFAC-issued license. **Side note to those of you who are
still lost: We had to sneak in through Mexico.
So we were in south Florida and JClem, being the well-rounded and nearly-Latino individual that he is, suggested that we pay Little Habana a visit. In Miami, there is a street called Calle Ocho (8th Street) which boasts a 15-block stretch of everything Cuban. Cigar stores, dominoes and chess, pork sandwiches, Cuban coffee (java on ‘roids), Bay of Pigs martyr monuments—everything Cuban. Hence, we started our trip in the capitalistic version of a communist state, where the majority of refugees have flocked because they were inordinately opposed to the confiscation of their businesses and private property. Go figure!
Early the next morning we boarded a flight on Spirit Air, the (in)famous all-casino-destination-airlines, which whisked us away to Cancun, Mexico. Because you cannot purchase Cuban flights with an American credit card online we had to wait to buy the tickets with cold, hard cash upon arrival. The Cuban planes were booked for the day, so we arranged a next-day flight. Then we trekked out of the airport terminal bound for Piste and Chichen-Itza, one of the new Seven Wonders of the World, located a short 4-hour bus ride from Cancun.
The Mayans did a great job with the place. Big pyramids. Lots of rocks. Snake temples. Jaguar temples. Men-with-big-noses-meant-to-represent-big-something-else temples. Ball courts. Giant watery sink holes used for sacrificial ceremonies. Those people sure knew how to party.
We made it safely to Habana with nary a glitch in our illegal tourism. Old Habana wears
a tainted brand of beauty. The picturesque colonial architecture has been steeped in years
and years of neglect and has been breathed on by the corroding exhalations of the Caribbean
Sea. The result resembles something akin to present-day Elizabeth Taylor—an almost
gaudy brand of beauty that hints at past charm and elegance. There is certainly a fantastical
“once upon a time” written on each edifice, but the pristine and crisp etchings of beauty have since been erased.
When the Revolution happened in 1959, everything that was privately owned was outlawed. Naturally, this meant that the wealthy had a lot to lose, and they were given the option of leaving the country and all of their capital behind in order to start a new life in the States. This mass exodus of the affluent left numerous vacancies in the apartments and hotels of Habana. Subsequently, the government seized this property and redistributed it to the remaining folks who did not have housing. Ironically, the once posh flats became available as tenement housing almost overnight. The city’s feel of abandoned and wrecked beauty springs from this exodus event.
Our other wanderings took us all over the beautiful island, a luscious tropical wonderland that has been stabbed with exceedingly tall royal palms and carpeted in corn, tobacco, and sugar cane. We visited the obligatory historical/revolutionary monuments:
1. The Granma: The small American yacht purchased in Mexico by Fidel for the revolutionaries in 1958.
To nurse my wounded Cuban dreams and as reparation for my canceled final year at UNC, I
bought a cheap flight to Cancun*, banking on the fact that Cuban airline prices rarely
vary and tickets are typically readily available. Bound for Havana, JClem and I hopped in the car and drove the familiar route down to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.
*Side note. To those of you who are not familiar with U.S. foreign policy in regards to
our Red neighbors to the south: it is illegal under the constraints of the trade embargo
(enacted when U.S. Administrators got pissed during the Cuban Missile Crisis), to spend
any money in Cuba without an OFAC-issued license. **Side note to those of you who are
still lost: We had to sneak in through Mexico.
So we were in south Florida and JClem, being the well-rounded and nearly-Latino individual that he is, suggested that we pay Little Habana a visit. In Miami, there is a street called Calle Ocho (8th Street) which boasts a 15-block stretch of everything Cuban. Cigar stores, dominoes and chess, pork sandwiches, Cuban coffee (java on ‘roids), Bay of Pigs martyr monuments—everything Cuban. Hence, we started our trip in the capitalistic version of a communist state, where the majority of refugees have flocked because they were inordinately opposed to the confiscation of their businesses and private property. Go figure!
Early the next morning we boarded a flight on Spirit Air, the (in)famous all-casino-destination-airlines, which whisked us away to Cancun, Mexico. Because you cannot purchase Cuban flights with an American credit card online we had to wait to buy the tickets with cold, hard cash upon arrival. The Cuban planes were booked for the day, so we arranged a next-day flight. Then we trekked out of the airport terminal bound for Piste and Chichen-Itza, one of the new Seven Wonders of the World, located a short 4-hour bus ride from Cancun.
The Mayans did a great job with the place. Big pyramids. Lots of rocks. Snake temples. Jaguar temples. Men-with-big-noses-meant-to-represent-big-something-else temples. Ball courts. Giant watery sink holes used for sacrificial ceremonies. Those people sure knew how to party.
We made it safely to Habana with nary a glitch in our illegal tourism. Old Habana wears
a tainted brand of beauty. The picturesque colonial architecture has been steeped in years
and years of neglect and has been breathed on by the corroding exhalations of the Caribbean
Sea. The result resembles something akin to present-day Elizabeth Taylor—an almost
gaudy brand of beauty that hints at past charm and elegance. There is certainly a fantastical
“once upon a time” written on each edifice, but the pristine and crisp etchings of beauty have since been erased.
When the Revolution happened in 1959, everything that was privately owned was outlawed. Naturally, this meant that the wealthy had a lot to lose, and they were given the option of leaving the country and all of their capital behind in order to start a new life in the States. This mass exodus of the affluent left numerous vacancies in the apartments and hotels of Habana. Subsequently, the government seized this property and redistributed it to the remaining folks who did not have housing. Ironically, the once posh flats became available as tenement housing almost overnight. The city’s feel of abandoned and wrecked beauty springs from this exodus event.
Our other wanderings took us all over the beautiful island, a luscious tropical wonderland that has been stabbed with exceedingly tall royal palms and carpeted in corn, tobacco, and sugar cane. We visited the obligatory historical/revolutionary monuments:
1. The Granma: The small American yacht purchased in Mexico by Fidel for the revolutionaries in 1958.
2. The Museo de la Revolucion: They have outlined the entire history of the tyrannies that stirred up the revolution, the resulting coup, and its subsequent effects.
3. Fabrica de Havana Club: Havana Club Rum Factory, a cheesy Disneyland display of the rum industry and the slavery that supported it in Cuba.
4. The Capitolio: The capitol building, once a site of democracy in the hands of the U.S.' puppet governments, it holds the third largest bronze statue in the world and a mock-up version of the Hall of Mirrors from Versailles. Also the site where JClem sat in the president's (Batista's) chair, which would be akin to him having sat in the Oval Office.
3. Fabrica de Havana Club: Havana Club Rum Factory, a cheesy Disneyland display of the rum industry and the slavery that supported it in Cuba.
4. The Capitolio: The capitol building, once a site of democracy in the hands of the U.S.' puppet governments, it holds the third largest bronze statue in the world and a mock-up version of the Hall of Mirrors from Versailles. Also the site where JClem sat in the president's (Batista's) chair, which would be akin to him having sat in the Oval Office.
5. Plaza de la Revolucion: Think really large. Rallies. Fidel. Iron-work that is quoting Che. Think Revolution.
6. Plaza de Jose Marti: Across the street from #5, a large white statue that kinda looks like Abraham Lincoln picked up his chair and sat smack-dab in front of the Washington Monument.
7. The Malecon: a 7 km seawall/ boardwalk.
8. Che memorial sites: In Santa Clara, where El Comandante, Che, won a very decisive battle of the revolution by derailing a supply train to Batista's army.
7. The Malecon: a 7 km seawall/ boardwalk.
8. Che memorial sites: In Santa Clara, where El Comandante, Che, won a very decisive battle of the revolution by derailing a supply train to Batista's army.
9. La Playa Ancon: a gorgeous southern coast beach in Trinidad, which required a tiring but beautiful 30km bike ride to find.
10.Camaguey: Cuba's third largest metropolis, where the roads were designed to lose, abuse, and confuse and angry, looting pirates.
11. Santiago de Cuba: The second largest city, home to Carnival and the Moncada Barracks. This is where we saw President Raul Castro speaking about the 55th anniversary on the attack at the Moncada Barracks in 1953 (which marks the beginning of the Revolution de Cuba, even if it was a failed attempt at overthrowing Batista and even if it did result in the exile of Fidel and Raul to Mexico). This is also where we partied with the best of them at Carnival. Street parties, endless beer, pasties on parade gals-- oh yes, they were all of them borrocho y loco.
12. El Morro: A castle in Santiago where locals pay tribute and pledge loyalty to the patroness of their beloved island, leaving behind trinkets such as gold medals and baseball jerseys to express their gratitude and affection.
That is a pretty basic summary of our itinerary. We moved from the western city of Habana to the the eastern city of Santiago de Cuba, an 800+ km journey that left us 16 hours from the airport back in Habana. Being the industrial and frugal little travelers that we are, we decided to book a train back to the capitol. It was one of those now-I-have-a-story-to-tell-my-grandchildren kind of train rides, as 16 hours slowly turned into 22 hours because the communist train broke down in the middle of the night. Now, JClem would disagree, but I think that the train smell like a flock of farm fowl were given spray bottles full of concentrated urine, so thick with ammonia that it was bordering on being plasma rather than liquid, and proceeded to have a squirt fight till the death. The referees, who were onions rather than men, were given feces to throw down instead of flags, if the fowls ever committed a foul.
You'll have to ask JClem for his comparative description, but I am sure that it is equally as disconcerting. At least we had ample entertainment on the ride, thanks to the largest 4 year old the island has ever grown, who decided that eating, whining, singing, and stripping would be vastly more enjoyable than sitting still.
By Hour 23, we were glad to be on solid ground and back in Habana, which felt somewhat familiar and homey after our extensive travels of the world's 17th largest island.
We prepped our backpacks for home, cleaning out any and every piece of evidence of our illegal trip, and traveled to the airport the next morning at 4AM. Arriving in Cancun, we buddied up with the only other American tourist we met on our entire trip and waited for our plane back to the States. Being a poor actress and an even worse liar, JClem quizzed me on the U.S. Customs questions and answer and the protocol I would have to follow if an agent detected and badgered me. But in Ft. Lauderdale, we just looked like 2 student travelers who had wined, dined, and tanned in the sand of the beautiful Cancun beaches. [Sorry I don't have a wild and deliciously devious tale about being strip searched and beaten at the hands of the anti-Fidelistos... but it was really easy to break the law.]
Now I'm back here. Obviously. And I'm hoping that Hurricane Ike doesn't do a number on the island and also that Bush won't be an ass if indeed they need relief.
You'll have to ask JClem for his comparative description, but I am sure that it is equally as disconcerting. At least we had ample entertainment on the ride, thanks to the largest 4 year old the island has ever grown, who decided that eating, whining, singing, and stripping would be vastly more enjoyable than sitting still.
By Hour 23, we were glad to be on solid ground and back in Habana, which felt somewhat familiar and homey after our extensive travels of the world's 17th largest island.
We prepped our backpacks for home, cleaning out any and every piece of evidence of our illegal trip, and traveled to the airport the next morning at 4AM. Arriving in Cancun, we buddied up with the only other American tourist we met on our entire trip and waited for our plane back to the States. Being a poor actress and an even worse liar, JClem quizzed me on the U.S. Customs questions and answer and the protocol I would have to follow if an agent detected and badgered me. But in Ft. Lauderdale, we just looked like 2 student travelers who had wined, dined, and tanned in the sand of the beautiful Cancun beaches. [Sorry I don't have a wild and deliciously devious tale about being strip searched and beaten at the hands of the anti-Fidelistos... but it was really easy to break the law.]
Now I'm back here. Obviously. And I'm hoping that Hurricane Ike doesn't do a number on the island and also that Bush won't be an ass if indeed they need relief.
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