STUDENT JOURNAL:
ONE LAST NIGHT IN HAVANA
by Dennis Wilson ’01
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- The Malecon
is the five-foot wall that separates the city of Havana from the Bay
of Havana and the Atlantic Ocean. It winds along for three or four miles.
In some places the wall is eroding under the repeated pounding of the
bay’s salty waves. In most areas, though, the Malecon is still
intact, and on hot June and July nights it beckons the city’s inhabitants
to perch on the edge of the island and to enjoy the cool, dark breeze
that whispers in off the ocean.
During my visit to Cuba this past summer, I had the opportunity to stroll down the entire length of the Malecon one final evening,
starting as the sun set over the bay and finishing after midnight. Thinking back on it now, it’s an experience that seems to possess a dreamlike quality; then again, one could argue that (to an American guest at least) all of Cuba maintains a dreamlike hold—a dream not without depth or complexity, but a dream just the same.
As soon as the silent, beautiful frenzy of the pink, purple and orange sunset had receded into night, I was filled with the strange sense that I was skirting the border between Earth and Infinity. Beyond the sea wall, there was no distinctive line between the inky darknesses of the night sky and the ocean’s horizon, making it look as though only the wall stood between myself and an expanse of empty space and night. By looking in the opposite direction, however, I could see the city itself. Even from a distance it seemed alive; the echoes of distant Latin music, whether real or imagined, seemed to pulse out from unseen alleyways and rooftops. It was between these two extremes that the people of Havana came each night.
One of the first things I noticed as I proceeded down the Malecon was the constant presence of music. In some places, groups of young men and women had gathered together with a few guitars and perhaps some bongos or a pair of claves. As I passed by these groups, many of them, seeing that I was not from Cuba, approached me with enthusiasm. Speaking English, they would ask me to sit for awhile and listen to their songs.
“Do you know this one?” they would sometimes ask. “In Cuba, this is a traditional song. We Cubans are very proud of this song. If you know it, sing with us!”
Following this, they would play songs such as “Hasta Siempre, Commandante,” a ballad about the national revolutionary hero Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevera, or “Siboney,” or the ever-popular “Guantanamera.” I had heard them before, but, truly, they were beautiful each time.
Other Cubans, however, wanted to learn new songs as well as to share old ones. Playing a few bars of a very familiar song, one local named Enrique said, “I heard a song on the radio yesterday, and I like it very much. But I don’t know the lyrics. Can you help me?”
“Sure,” I told him, and we smiled together. He was playing “Hotel California.” I began to sing to his playing: “On a dark desert highway ...” After going through it a few times, it seemed he had a pretty good grasp of the song. He left his address as we parted company.
Other figures along the wall, also sensing that I was not from the island, would approach me with guitar in hand. Their motivation, however, was slightly different from those who wished to share old songs or learn new ones. Aggressively or passively, eagerly or sullenly, they would ask for dollars. Many of them would politely move away when I told them I could give them nothing. Some of them, however, would begin to play anyway, hoping that I, feeling remorseful or wishing to avoid a scene, would dig into my pockets and give them some loose change or a few bills. After awhile, though, they would give up, disappearing back into the night in search of another out-of-towner. I felt awkward and sympathetic, but in a way it was not unlike the situation in every American city. Only in Cuba, I was easily identifiable as the ‘ugly American,’ and thus an easy target for Havana’s musically-talented hustlers.
Some musicians whom I passed, however, seemed not to notice my presence, or the presence of anyone around them. At many points along the wall, old dark men were sitting in the shadows thrown from the streetlights, folded over their guitars, pulling sad Spanish songs out of their strings. These people played only for themselves; their music filled the air with a kind of sadness, a feeling of loneliness. It was a fitting complement to the beautiful emptiness of the sea and the sky that stood on the other side of the wall.
In a way, the constant presence of music along the Malecon did not surprise me.
If I had learned one thing during my trip to Cuba, it was that most Cubans seem to feel a close connection with all varieties of music, whether it be traditional folk ballads or modern dance rhythms. At the end of our first full day in the city, in fact, we had found ourselves on a rooftop in the middle of Old Havana. It was a rooftop owned by Dulce Maria, a warm, cheerful Afro-Cuban woman who, along with her band, had introduced us to the basics of Cuban music and dancing. It was a lesson we found ourselves putting to extensive use in the following days.
It seemed that wherever we went, whether it was the University Students Union at Cienfuegos, or the neighborhood “block party” in Havana, the music followed, offered up as a sign of friendship and cultural exchange. Crystallized in my mind was the night we visited a Committee for the Defense of the Revolution in one of the island provinces and, after they presented us with red carnations, a girl no older than eleven or twelve played for us on her guitar, accompanying her instrument with her quiet voice.
Other infrequent yet noticeable presences along the wall were prostitutes, referred to as jiniterias among the Cuban population. By the end of the night, I had been solicited by one or two of the young women, discreetly approaching me, asking me if I would enjoy some company for the night. I was surprised, because they weren’t dressed in the stereotypical fashion associated with the profession. They were wearing shorts and T-shirts, hardly distinguishable from the other girls along the Malecon.
In Cuba, I learned that prostitution is a multi-dimensional issue. Before the Revolution of 1959, prostitution in Cuba, and especially in Havana, had been widespread. It was generally associated with the culture that arose from the foreign- (and primarily mob-) owned casino industry; its main patrons were the wealthy Europeans and Americans who had come to Cuba to gamble, to drink rum and, in many cases, to purchase companionship for the night. One of the first reforms the new revolutionary establishment tried to accomplish was the eradication of prostitution.
Eventually, by shutting down the casinos and cleaning up the culture of corruption that was analogous to the marketing of sex, the plan succeeded; prostitution became a peripheral issue in Cuban society.
Now, however, prostitution is resurfacing in the streets of Havana. Yet this time its presence is associated with the legalization of the American dollar in Cuba that occurred a few years ago. Because the dollar is valued much more than the Cuban peso, many Cubans have tried to exploit the tourist industry any way they can to gain access to American currency. This is represented not only in the re-emergence of prostitution, but in diverse aspects of the Cuban society, as seen in the existence of dollar stores, and in the fact that, in some regular restaurants and shops, there are now two lines—one for those who hold pesos, and one for those who hold dollars. Many are worried that the legalization of the dollar is pulling Cuba further away from its principles of equality and socialism. They claim that a new economic division has been created in Cuba, a division that favors those who have access to dollars. In a statement that is becoming cliché in Cuba, people are complaining that there is an obvious problem with the dual system, when it is a given fact that taxi drivers can earn more than doctors.
Because of this, the government has had to renew and, in some cases, revise its efforts to limit those things associated with the negative impact of the dollar economy, such as drug use and petty crime. As for prostitution, the practice itself has not been completely illegalized. What was made illegal, however, are those things that organize and help to spread the practice, such as pimps, or houses of ill repute. I was told on numerous occasions that, within Cuban society, prostitutes are not viewed with the same hostility they tend to be viewed with in America; their position is understood, rather then looked down upon. Also in contrast to American society, the incidence of drug use and crime are comparably rare. This was a reality that I, an American guest, could feel in quite a tangible way; I felt far safer walking through the streets of Havana at night then I did walking through the streets of Philadelphia or Baltimore.
Despite the potentially stratifying effects of the dual economy, however, it was obvious to me that the Cubans I had talked to during my visit, both on my own and through the seminar, still held on to the revolutionary ideals of social equality and holistic welfar
e. I could see these values in very real forms when I visited a mental health clinic, for example, and observed the way it was not set aside from the surrounding community but closely intertwined with it. It was embodied in the buildings of Havana, constructed by urban planners who had taken into account not efficiency or profit, but the human and communal experience. Thus, the Cuban social structure still seemed to maintain the foundation of humane ideals that had been built in 1959, despite the changes that were taking place at all levels.
Above all else, few could deny that Cuba was a country experiencing great change. As I walked down the Malecon, I met a photographer from California who had come to Cuba illegally, via Mexico. He had done so about ten years ago as well, and as I sat down on the wall next to him, he described the changes he saw around him.
Pointing to the road running parallel to the Malecon, he asked, “You see all those Japanese cars over there?”
I nodded. Interspersed between the usual pre-revolution-era Chevrolets and squat-looking Soviet model vans and motorcycles I could see modern-looking Mitsubishis and Toyotas.
“Hardly any of those were there ten years ago,” he informed me. “Nobody had new cars like that. Now people are telling me it’s even dangerous to ride a bicycle in some areas.” This was a big concern in Cuba, where bicycles constitute one of the main modes of transportation. Or they used to, at least.
“I’m also noticing a lot more Nike and Reebok T-shirts.” He laughed. “The other day, I saw a bunch of young guys walking around with their shorts pulled halfway down their backsides, like you see kids doing in America.”
“But what can you do?” he asked. “Places change.” He smiled at me. “I’m just here to take pictures.”
After conversing for awhile longer, we parted company. It was always strange to come across another American in Cuba. It was as if you shared some wonderful yet tragic secret, the knowledge of a place that was beautiful but forbidden, that was dying to be heard but was deeply misunderstood. It was hard to believe that America was only 90 miles away, across a small swath of ocean. So close, yet so distant.
It was getting late. As I continued to walk, cars passing by would slow down and pull over to the side of the road.
“Hey,” a shadowy cab driver would call out, “you need a ride?”
“No, gracias,” I would reply, and the taxi, obviously illegal and unregistered, would quickly drive away.
As I approached the end of my walk, I took one last look at the figures lining the Malecon: the men with sleepy eyes who were smoking cheap cigars and dangling fishing poles out, out, into the dark waters; the group of university students engaged in quiet discussion, their exchange of words punctuated with quiet laughter; the pairs of young couples, loving each other closely, intimately, whispering to each other on the wall, silently beautiful in the way they held each other; the lonely men with their small dogs resting at their sides; and two old gentlemen, sharing a bottle of Havana Club, talking to each other in the smooth tones of the Spanish language. Maybe they, too, were talking about the changes happening around them. Or they could have been discussing, perhaps, the timelessness of the Malecon—how, despite the changes, people kept coming back, night after night, to share with each other the strange splendor of being human.
Dennis Wilson is a history major. He was among 12 students taking part in Washington College’s Summer Seminar in Cuba program, led by political science professor Daniel Premo, last June. He will spend next semester on academic exchange at Rhodes University in South Africa, where he will begin work on his senior thesis—a comparative study of civil rights movements.
PHOTOS:
#1 - top: A gecko lizard.
#2 - on wall by ocean: Dennis Wilson catches a cool afternoon breeze atop the Malecon in Havana. He celebrated his 20th birthday during this, his first trip abroad.
#3 - man on mule: A man in Trinidad offers his mule for rent for 50 cents an hour.
#4 - old cars: Through the ingenuity of the Cuban people, 1950’s vintage cars still operate on the streets of Havana.
#5 - shopkeeper: A storekeeper in a rations station explains that because of shortages a month’s rations of basic foods lasts only 15 days. Other foodstuffs are purchased at bodegas, or outdoor markets.
#6 - Dennis with woman: Wilson and Dulce Maria on her rooftop.
#7 - bottom city photo: Urban planners are striving to create traditional communities within the changing city to maintain a sense of unity among its inhabitants. Vedado is shown in the foreground.
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