Island She Is Not

These weeks have gone by in a blur. I feel as if I’ve only really been in Cuba a week or two, and I’m just getting comfortable; yet October is right around the corner. I think I credit this time lapse to studying abroad in a tropical setting. And while yes, Cuba is a tropical island, it is an island nation—there is a strong sense of identity, not of being yet another Caribbean cruise stop, not of being a former colony, not of being called “communist”. No, Cuba is much more.

The Cuban way is to be at least 20 minutes late to everything, but managing to finish on time, probably due to the Cuban speech-rate of 1000 words per minute. Within moments, a speech on the Platt Amendment can turn into a whirlwind of explanations, historical dates and figures, personal anecdotes and peals of laughter. Then there you are, dumbfounded but wanting to smile because—well—Cuba.

It also seems to be the Cuban way to have a cure for everything, whether it’s legitimate or highly irrational. So, if you slice your thumb on a pane of glass while showering, while holding your hand above your head might slow the gushing blood from the wound that will most certainly end in multiple stitches, what works best is pouring raw sugar on the open wound. Insane, maybe. Unsafe, probably. Effective, definitely. Before I even had a choice, María, our house mother, whilst scold-ranting to me about not opening windows I don’t know anything about and how she knew someone in the house would do this, grabbed my hand and poured what seemed like half a pound of raw, Cuban sugar on my accidentally self-inflicted gash. A sludgy, brown sediment with a sweet odor of cane sugar settled in our sink as I stared at María’s Cuban cure, hearing my two roommates frantically running around snagging my passport, finding clothes for me, calling the program director to inform him of our eminent field trip to the hospital. How poetic. Well, Cuba.

There are moments of peace here, too. And although it’s cliché, the Playas del Este provide that calming effect that is hard to find in Havana. With waves the color of gemstones, unending sunshine, picture-perfect palm trees in groves with jam sessions abound and cold beers being shared, Playa Santamaría is a paradise. Compared to the bustling yet seemingly empty Havana streets, Santamaría slows down the Cuban lifestyle even more. For a few hours, we let the week’s worries sink with the creamy sand beneath our toes as we wade into the most picturesque water. Simply bliss.

But back to Havana we must. After all, we’re living like Cubans for the next few months. That includes sweating constantly, walking everywhere unless we take a máquina or the wa-wa, eating pork every…damn…day…learning to walk on the side of the street that makes slivers of shade on the sidewalks, expecting the elevator to not work sometimes so we have to climb 13 flights of stairs, and of course, speaking Cuban Spanish wherever we go. Though this daily struggle sounds exhausting, we find paradise within the city, too. We have done extensive research, and these are our findings:

1.     The Riviera Hotel has the best piña coladas and their WiFi is only 2 CUC for an hour.
2.     Studiant Café always has 1 CUC mojitos, and they’re really good.
3.     The best food is found in caged-in hole-in-the-wall cafeterias with chalkboard signs and no seating whatsoever.
4.     A batido a day keeps you happy (not so sure about the healthy part).
5.     There is nothing like coming home to a house mother who scares the bejesus out of you but also thinks the world of you.

Cuba most definitely is not an island. It’s a country; an island nation maybe if you want to be uptight about the definition. But here, Cubanos don’t cater to your every need that your American look gives off. They’re here, busy, effortlessly trying to live in a country so screwed by history, so you learn that you too have to live along with them and try to find a place in this country that has become our home.