Occupy Wall Street

There is a statue of George Washington across from the New York Stock Exchange, on Wall Street. It’s banked by steps where tourists often stand, to get their pictures taken in the heart of American capitalism.  But at present, it’s difficult to get close to the old man. Around him, and around the steps are barricades, the metal kind, linked together to contain the statue, and the steps, from passersby. One can enter the steps, but only by passing through a narrow gap, policed by Federal police (because this is a federal monument). Some of the police are, oddly, wearing SWAT uniforms – as if someone was about to start a riot, or start shooting the street up. Not that they’d get very far, because Wall Street itself is barricaded, both at the ends, and along the edge of the sidewalk. It’s tricky to maneuver in this old lane. This, not coincidentally is also where Occupy Wall street activists are currently… occupying.

The original location had of course been Zuccotti Park, a hundred yards away. Since mid-march there was an occupation at Union Square, twenty blocks north, nightly cleared by police. Now the group, the stalwarts who hold down the space, have got prime real estate, one half of the steps, within the barricades, directly across from the stock exchange. But it’s a nerve grinding space of harassment and intimidation. I went by there yesterday for an hour or so. I was with Sidney and Mac and an Irishman and his three year old Scarlett. We had a stroller with us. We were told immediately that we couldn’t bring  the stroller into the steps. But we couldn’t leave it beside the steps either. In fact, we couldn’t stop touching it at any time. So we took turns holding onto it, outside the barriers, on the sidewalk as we stayed within the barricade.

It was a motley collection of folks inside the barricade. Most Occupy activists are busy elsewhere – organizing for Mayday, simply getting on with their lives, maybe going to meetings or organizing in their neighbourhood or workplace. Those who spend time here are able to do so for a variety of reasons. There was the one young man, about 25, bearded, holding a hand lettered sign from the AIDS march earlier in the day, that read how he lost two uncles to AIDS and that the government needed to tax the rich to end the ongoing deaths. He told me that he’d been at Occupy since the first day, and that his family is worried.”I’ll get a job”, he explained – but not until after Mayday. There was the veteran peace activist who had trained the young ones in Non violent civil disobedience. He’d been there a lot, and was tired but angry. He told us about how he’d been told that he could hold a sign, but not lean it against anything. When he’d been there the previous night, he rested it against his knees and the police snatched it. He put on his Guy Fawkes mask after a while and sat there quietly. The tall, young, African American man, silently holding his sign about human rights. The gaggle of college students talking about their courses. The older white woman with her canvas shopping bag. And the young, white man who was celebrating his 21^st birthday.  His long hair held back with an American flag bandanna, he argued that we needed to work together to resist the penny harassment. I agreed wholeheartedly. Because it’s the little things that are wearing people down. After a while, one of the federal police told us that we needed to remove the stroller. I asked him if we could put it up at the top of the steps or where we might put it and he advanced on me threateningly, yelling ‘didn’t you understand what I said?! Get rid of it!’ This of course meant that the stroller and its owners had to go. I walked with them to the end of the street and then returned to do some reading. Ironically, I was reading a book on the Public Sphere and 19^th century social movements. I tried to return to the steps and was told that only 25 people were allowed to sit in the ‘protest’ side – 25 filling maybe 20% of the space there. So I went to the other side of the statue. Unfortunately here, no one was allowed to speak loudly or sing, a fact we quickly learned when some folks tried to sing a version of Officer Krumpsky from West Side Story. Nor were we allowed to hold signs.  I tried to be tricky, simply holding up the title of the book as I read, hoping it would speak for itself. However, the idea caught on and people got sheets of the latest ‘Occupy’ newspaper and held them up as they were reading them. Immediately, we were all cleared from the ‘protest’ side of the steps. Spilling onto the sidewalk, one older activist held onto one of the barricades, rattling it. Immediately, he was tackled and arrested. No one was really sure what the charges were. Every day there are arrests like these, they don’t make the paper, and they are intended to dissuade anyone interested in protesting. It can work. As I was about to leave an older white man got onto the steps, called on the passing tourists to support these young people. He explained, “I came out of the civil rights movement, and I am proud to be here today with these young people as they defend our rights and our freedoms. God bless ‘em.” Despite the messiness and lack of clarity around what’s unfolding on those steps, I think that their endurance is a sign of how committed some of the people mobilized by OWS are. If they aren’t worn down by the police and the neglect around them, it bodes well for the larger struggle to create a fairer world.

Glitter Party

Our housemate Jen from Toronto was visiting and we wanted to show her a good time. So we went to the Glitter housewarming party on Saturday night.  I wanted to share it with you all. Glitter house is a rare breed – a collective house in New York city – where almost everyone lives in apartments. This is a cluster of artsy, activisty, gender-queer folks who have lived in a number of dwellings across Brooklyn and this latest establishment is in Bedford-Stuyvesant. I had been warned by the invitation that this was going to be a true fete. The house is an odd spiral, with only one room on a floor, circling up four flights to a ‘top kitchen’. Each wall was covered in draperies, posters for May Day's General Strike, and gorgeousness. But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

There was a basement kitchen with djs and a bar serving bourbon and lemonade, the ground floor housed only a pump organ, around which guests gathered singing four part Appalachian harmonies. I tried to do this and then slunk up the stairs, still unsure whether I was an alto or a tenor.  Then up to the mountain room – with piles of books covered in glossy black and green fabric - and the bed that the kids would crash on later. Onwards and upwards to the cloud room, all draped in soft white material and then to the kitchen where ‘alien heads’ were served. The alien heads were grape leaves stuffed with lentils, with faces poked into them. There was also a night sky of bean dip, punctuated by space ships of roasted carrots, planets of roasted beets, and salt as the stars. I am so lucky to know such weirdos.

Brooklyn Free School

Finding other parents who have a similar lifestyle to ourselves is a blessing – and in this we’ve found Henry. I actually met him in jail, when we were both busted for trying to provide legal support to high school students protesting against the Organization of American States in Windsor Ontario in 2000. He’s an amazing, high energy radical goofball, father to a seven year old known girl Lou. He works as a caretaker at the Brooklyn Free School in exchange for rent. I knew we were in luck when after running into him he simply said – ‘hey, I can look after Sidney and let you go out and you can look after my kid.’ Golden deal. But sometimes instead of going out separately, he hires babysitters and we all go out together. Last week he hired a sitter and I joined his crew to go and see an amazing cabaret show in Red Hook, with an ensemble featuring a classically trained Armenian singer squeezing our emotions out, followed by folk guitarist and then a brass band that I wasn’t paying that much attention to. I returned to relieve the babysitter about midnight and stayed over with the kids – awaking to the chaos of a free school. FYI a freeschool is a place where there are no classes as such, only teachers available for the students who want to take advantage of them. The idea is that when students are ready to learn, they will. Philosophically I agree. But I don’t think it “works” for everyone.  It can be loud. It can involve rollerblading indoors. It’s fun and challenging (but inspiring) to me. Still, I don’t see myself sending Sidney to one.

Occupy Wall Street – and Organizing Against Foreclosures

I thought I arrived six month late for Occupy Wall Street. And I probably did in some ways. I know I’ll be teaching about those hopeful days in September and October 2011 for a good long while. But I was hoping that things would still be moving along when I hit town this spring. And indeed they are. Its impossible to really get a sense of the massive mobilizations still underway across this city. There are more than ten meetings and usually at least two or three demonstrations every day. Wall Street is occupied once again, after a month of occupation at Union Square. There are arrests of those trying to lie down and sleep at midnight every single night. One message I read explained – come and see the street theatre – performances every evening at midnight. 

But we’ve been most able to hook in with the Occupy Foreclosures. Folks we know from ‘back in the day’ are involved in this. These protests are incredible and it’s a movement that will likely reach beyond the street protests and occupations. According to Organizing for Occupation (O4O):
“Every week, foreclosed homes are sold at auctions throughout the five boroughs of New York City.  Many of the families who live in these homes were victims of predatory loans and deceptive banking practices, but now face imminent evictions from some of the biggest culprits of financial fraud in the banking and mortgage industry. Others will have their house bought out by speculators, who are looking to flip properties, or gentrify new neighborhoods.” So… folks go to the courtroom where these auctions are held, fill the courtroom and sing songs and make it impossible to auction off the homes. Often, the auction is cancelled for the day and the disrupters are arrested. This is happening across the US, but all this last week in New York. Now, I must admit I haven’t yet made it into the courtroom, mostly because there are many others more prompt than I, and because we usually have Sidney with us – but on Thursday we watched as people joined in. I stood outside with a giant banner that read, “Banks, Stop Stealing Our Homes.” Person after person approached me with something supportive to say. From the old woman who blessed us for fighting for what’s right, to the high school kids who were sad that they had to miss the protest and go to class, to the man whose home had been foreclosed on – all of them easily understood that this madness must stop.

A Story of two Seders

Who wouldn’t love a celebration of an escape from slavery and a commitment to ensure that no one else ever suffers the same fate. Passover has food, music and wine. All good. Most of the Seders I’ve attended have been at my Aunt Heather and Uncle Mel’s house in New Jersey. They were kind enough to include us this year and so we went. At their house, Aunt Heather told me that she reads all of these blog postings – so of course what will I say except that it was lovely to share the food, stories and ritual with them, and my cousins Stephanie and David and their families. The kids asked the questions about the story of Passover, found the afikomen (the hidden piece of matzah), and played. There was matzah ball soup, we joked around, read through the text and ate. I’m always struck by the Haggadah (the sort of program/order of service) that is used – it intersperses the traditional readings with stories about Anne Frank, Chagall paintings and poetry. Super nice. Given that Sidney is too young to remember meeting his cousins in the past, it was special that he got to spend some time with them.  

The second night was much less traditional, and much anticipated. A beautiful setting was laid out across the floors at my dear friends Meredith and Jamie’s place. Meredith is a trombone player in the Rude Mechanical Orchestra and Jamie a radical techie with the May 1^st/People Link – that organizes electronic networks for social justice organizations. They’re also both amazing hosts and incredibly thoughtful about this Seder which they have held for years. It’s a radical Seder – one that celebrates the traditions of the radical Jewish left, and is collaborative with about 25 people participating.  We were invited to prepare a part of the evening – and submit readings, poetry and songs that were collected into a Haggadah. We chose to focus on the moment where Moses and the people are in front of the Red Sea and losing faith that they’re going to be able to escape slavery and win justice. Not that any of us might be able to relate to that? We collectively passed around the poem Angels of Death by Martin Espada to think about how change will come – and perhaps, as the poem proclaims. This is the Year…

There were some moments in the evening that stuck out for me.  Early in the seder, we stopped to talk about slavery and contemporary forms of slavery in Africa obviously, but also the slavery of rent, of wages, of an immigration system that leaves one vulnerable to abuse.  At one point we also talked about the welcoming of the stranger – and after a bit Famous spoke about her understandable uncertainty about welcoming a homeless refugee to live with her – apparently temporarily, but given that this person has limited resources, there is a possibility that the stay may be longer. After the discussion, she committed herself to welcoming that particular stranger, despite the risks. At another point we talked about the orange on the Seder plate – sometimes seen as a symbol of the inclusion women and/or the fruitful inclusion of gays and lesbians. And the olive on the seder plate, in solidarity with those struggling for peace and justice in the Israel and Palestine. One woman spoke about a friend who had recently passed away who had been part of a Jewish feminist collective in the 1980s who had initiated the ‘orange’ inclusion. Amazing histories and ‘herstories’ all around us. An Israeli woman at the Seder hadn’t known of these symbols and said she will bring them back home when she returns. We sang songs, some in Yiddish, some in English, some in Hebrew. We drank wine, ate our potluck and made a lot of noise.  Some had grown up with the traditions, and for others, this was all new. One of our friends from Toronto was also visiting, and even though he was half Jewish, he had been raised in an atheist household, and had never attended a Seder before this Passover. He was quite moved by the spirit of the event, and texted his dad to tell him about it - his dad replied, "I hope the food is better than it was when I was a kid" I'm confident it was... Again Sidney was part of a tiny crew of kids to find the afikomen and of course they did find it, winning false mustaches that they immediately put on, to great hilarity. I realize at events like this one, there is not enough ritual in my life – and hope I’ll be able either to return for Passover in the future, or help to build something like this in Toronto.

marching in New York

I got chills tonight as we marched through the streets of New York City. It was the Million Hoodie march the crowd of mostly young black, white and Latino folks demanding justice for Trayvon Martin, a 17 year old who was shot dead in Florida by a Neighborhood Watch volunteer George Zimmerman. Zimmerman had called 911 to report suspicious activity by Martin, who was walking to his father’s house, followed him and described him as a ‘fucking coon’ before shooting him. Zimmerman has not been charged. Tonight, the crowd gathered at Union Square, where activists from Occupy Wall Street had been staying since a mass arrest last Sunday. Martin’s parents  spoke, his mother crying 'my son is your son. This is not about black and white; this is about right and wrong!"  The crowd slowly headed into the streets, holding their cellphones aloft and chanting “No Justice, No Peace,”  “We are all Trayvon!” Repeatedly directed off the streets and divided into sections by the police, the section I was in marched in a circle and returned to Union Square, where, using the ‘people’s mic’ of the Occupy Wall street movement, where anyone can speak and the crowd repeats each thing the speaker says, the group sort of decided to march to Times Square. Once there, we had another discussion under the billboards. The remaining 200 or so people were divided about whether to go home or keep marching – although there was no clear target.  I thought that most people wanted to go home – as we’d been marching for two hours – but I was wrong – more than half the young crowd wanted to keep marching – and on we went, back to Union square. The crowd walked really fast, as if we were trying to exorcise our anger. I saw a tiny little guy in his hoodie, maybe five years old, holding hands with his Mom, running along, his arm outstretched in a peace sign as he yelled, "no justice, no peace!" Kids held up Skittles and cans of ice tea, yelling "Don't shoot me, don't kill me, for Skittles and iced tea." Passersby filmed us on their phones - making us take ourselves more seriously. The calls for justice echoed off the buildings, pumping us up. One taxi that insisted on continuing to push through the crowd had its window smashed by someone. Everyone rapidly scattered from the sounds. It reminded me of being in New York in 1999, when sad and angry young people of color filled Manhattan’s streets after Amadou Diallo was shot 21 times by New York police officers. People’s rage and sadness wouldn’t let them leave the streets. We wanted something to change. Tonight felt the same in many ways. But this time there were fewer chants against the police. One person who started the familiar ‘fuck the police’ chant, was ignored.  Another big difference was that this movement is merging and intersecting with the Occupy Wall Street protesters, their tactics and their desire to keep the momentum of that movement going. This is where the potential and where the threat is. If a movement emerges that clearly links criminal justice and economic justice, it has the potential for deepening the engagement of people of color in New York. Over the past six months, leaders in both movements have worked together – but as OWS has waned, the different goals, styles and participation have divided them. Now it looks like there could be an alliance of a different nature here in New York, and potentially across the country. I expect that a threat like this could push some authorities to try to ensure that Zimmerman is charged. But perhaps I'm dreaming.

Ice cream and Revolution

Saturday Day 12

Part of Cuba’s revolutionary strategy is to provide cheap and delicious ‘helados’ or ice cream for the people. And the people love the ice cream. We learned this from Kelly yesterday, but not from the Museum of the Revolution. Located in the old Palace, the museum was really fascinating and offered up a different and more detailed version of the revolution than the one that we see in the Che/Fidel/Camilo t-shirts and wall murals. It told the story of widespread student protest, of strikes by sugar workers, of women marching at the same time as the guerilla war. It also illuminated some of the interesting dynamics between the Soviet Union and Cuba. I knew that Cuba had initially wanted to continue to work with the US, but rebuffed after some nationalization of US industry had really little choice but to turn to Stalin’s Soviet Union. The USSR transformed things in Cuba dramatically, turning workers cooperatives into state owned enterprises, and de-democratizing things in many ways. Fidel became head of the Communist Party rather than the head of the government. Things exacerbated after the Bay of Pigs and the ‘reactionary’ attacks of anti-Castro forces.

The palace itself was gorgeous and is obviously not only a relic to the past (although I would have appreciated some discussion of the post 1991 period). There was a contemporary art display and a children’s choir performing. Mac and Sidney of course particularly appreciated the bullet riddled tanks and planes – some of whom had been built by the striking workers and used by student protesters. 

Then off we went to the Parque de los Ninos. Along with ice cream, the revolution offers up cheap and cheerful entertainment for the masses (albeit in exchange for some material wealth and political freedoms). Down by the water is the amusement park. We lined up with the crowd of parents and kids, bemused to see the pirated copies of Disney movies on offer.. (Sidney moaning, oh PLEASE can we…), amidst chicarones, sprayon fake tattoos, cheap plastic toys, popcorn and of course, ice cream. The parque only accepted moneda nacional, the money that Cubans use. This currency is 25 to 1 ‘convertible’ currency that tourists use. More about this later. What it meant in this context was that entrance to the park, that included a 10 minute ride cost the equivalent of 5 cents. Sidney chose to spend his ticket on clambering on the giant inflatable shark bouncy thing. You could slide down the tongue! Here he made his first Cuban friend, Mariano (note- I think that for Sidney any kid that can speak English is a friend – and Mariano had a half dozen words). They had a great time.  After getting a balloon dog from a clown for the equivalent of about a penny, we headed to meet Kelly and Wendy, our OCAP friends. From there, we walked down to the Malecon to hang with the teenage Cubans drinking rum and sprite and enjoying the sea air.  After Mac and Sidney went home, I stayed with the ladies to go dancing. Apparently we were going to see an all female performance at the National Theatre. Sounded fancy. But what happened was typical of our time here – unpredictable but entertaining.

It wasn’t feminist performance art, but an all male samba band, in a nightclub full of Cubans dressed to the nines. We spent most of our time watching the drama unfold at the table next to us. It was two couples. One woman lithe and dressed all in white spandex, the other heavier, long hair and a broad smile. Fellow number one was with the lady in white and a fantastic dancer. Fellow number two was with the other woman, and didn’t dance. Both women loved to dance and for a while, fellow number one danced with both of them. Both women were great dancers, but the lady in white was  extraordinarily sexy and athletic – and comfortable performing to the crowd. Both men are staring at her (as were we all). The non-dancing man and his date drank more and more. He tries to kiss her after ogling the lady in white.  No dice. He gets up to dance. Her arms are crossed and she’s scowling at him. Oh dear. By this point I’ve had a few drinks so I get up with Kelly to dance too. We can’t compete with the lady in white, but we have fun. I sort of mock the woman in white as I dance, which makes the other woman happier. Work done, we head out – its 3 am and I know I’ll be a tad delicate tomorrow.

Sunday Day 13

Our last day in Havana and I’m suddenly appreciating the gorgeous squares, buildings and parks much more. We go to the hotel to try to use the internet. Its down for the day. We have a snack in Chinatown (the only Chinatown with no Chinese people said our tour guide) and visit other hotels. Eventually we get internet for a brief moment – amazingly expensive. .  Then back to the amusement park where we ride the ferris wheel and terrify Mac. We eat cheap sandwiches and get our beer from the grocery store now – our budget clearly established. Good thing Sidney has fallen in love with ham.  Back at our casa, our owner has a surprise for Sidney. A few days before we'd gone to the Museo de Chocolata and Sidney had purchased a chocolate cat - it had been mislaid and our owners bought Sidney another one! What a lovely (and expensive!) gift.  We donate our eight pairs of eyeglasses to our casa owners asking them to distribute them as they see fit. They seem pleased. So am I... this will open up space in the bag! Tomorrow, Trinidad!

Monday Day 14 – Trinidad – casa, musica, turista.

Today we took the bus from Havana to Trinidad, chatting with a couple of US retirees who'd managed to enter Cuba via Mexico. We arrived in Trinidad to a horde of people promoting casas, but managed to escape to the place we'd reserved. Our lovely casa hostess  is a woman named Isabel who was a child in New York and still has a great Manhattan accent. We’re staying with her and her family – she’s a retired teacher, her husband a retired dentist. We have our own bathroom(!), and a sitting room to study and teach in. So nice., Their courtyard is partly covered with a roof of plants, so white orchids fall from the sky around the dinner table… quite glorious. Much more tranquil here than Havana.

What can I hear as I sit and write?

The animals - A rooster, dogs barking, birds

The vehicles – a tour bus grinding by, a motorbike roaring, a car horn, a bici taxi horn

Technology – the tv’s chatter,

The people - the baby squawking and the child amusing it, people talking, hand drums, hammering,

And the wind

Walking around this afternoon, I was horrified at the tourists taking pictures of kids in their classroom, toddlers in the street, people riding to work, talking to their friends. This city is a bit like a zoo, with all these white tourists with their cameras and little ability to fight back. Argh. Makes me relieved that my camera has no juice and no charger. Would I be as bad? No, I don’t think so.

Every night, we can hear live from as we hang out in our room.. Every half hour it changes, salsa, rumba, afro-cuban, samba. I’m not sure what its all called, but the city vibrates from 9:30 until midnight with music. I wanted to go out but sighed at the expression I must adopt when I go out on my own to a bar. 

Wednesday Day 16 – La politica

There is a lot of fear about talking about politics with foreigners, it seems. Either that or these people are like people everywhere, not particularly interested in politics. We’ve been trying to talk politics with our hosts at the casa. During the day, I hear them talking politics – and was curious. I’m not saying I want people to criticize the regime – not at all. I’m actually just curious about the regime itself, what its doing and what ‘the line’ is. One day, while I was working, I tried to listen in on a conversation/meeting about changes to the economy – but my Spanish wasn’t good enough to really follow. It did sound like a meeting though – with people taking turns and some people dominating discussion.  Similarly, its been difficult to find newspapers in Trinidad – much more so than in Havana. I think most people get their news through the television, and I just don’t’ know where to go.

There is an intense segregation between tourist life and local life here. It isn’t just the dual economy – its spatial. Whereas in Havana, it was all jumbled up – here in Trinidad, there are certain streets that are just art shops and restaurants – that take the convertible currency. Then other areas where you can find farmers with bunches of carrots, pineapples and bread shops – all in moneda nacionale. From reading Gail Reed’s Island in the Storm about the Fourth Congress of the Cuban Communist Party in 1991 I know a bit about this strategy. Undoubtedly things have changed since that hellacious time, when the Soviet Union collapsed and cut Cuba adrift as it were. At that time, they were in desperate need of hard currency to buy things that the country needed, machines, fuel, etc. So they turned to tourism reluctantly. They decided that they needed to invest in tourism infrastructure that would get that money. So tourist-specific buses, hotels, resorts, restaurants etc were developed. The goal was not to make things inaccessible for Cubans, but to bring in the currency that would fund the Cuban system.  I wonder how people think it has gone – because of course it feels really segregated and weird. And yet, I respect the desire to get the tourist dollars. In other places I would try hard to get away from other tourists, and yet here I know I’m asked to stay with them. And its impossible that all the tourist wealth doesn’t aggravate tensions here. Us with our cameras and computers and mobility on the air conditioned buses, while Cubans take the truck or the horse to go to the same place. Hard choices – and ones that are difficult to reverse.

Tonight Sidney and I roamed the streets, watching the salsa band and playing ball. He’s a good companion and when I asked him if he liked Trinidad he assured me – ‘sure, I got used to this place in 20 minutes!’

Thursday Day 17

We got on the internet today. Hallelujah! At the internet café four of us waited for an hour as two German twentysomething hipsters chatted on facebook. It was a good lesson in patience. Breathe.

It was ‘my night’ to go out tonight and see music. By this I mean that Mac was putting Sidney to bed. I headed first to the rumba place – a large group of (mostly male) singers and percussionists, and then the dancers. All Afro-Cuban. There were women in full skirts and head wraps, shirtless men in shorts with machetes and a number of characters in a sort of mock colonist garb – scaring the children with snakes and googly eyes. On my way home I saw some performers at the Playa Mayor, carrying a woman on a table in their teeth – much to the delight of the ‘all inclusive’ tourists in their lime green wristbands. Ay carrumba!

Friday night - magic

If I haven’t mentioned it before, Sidney is obsessed with Harry Potter, and through this - magic, auras, out of body experiences etc. Last night we had met a magician in the square who had given Sidney a magic box and told us about his magic show the following night. This excited Sidney all day and in the evening we headed over to the bar where this was supposed to happen. Instead of a stage show, there was instead the requisite salsa band playing the requisite numbers. The magician from last night was absent, but his magician friend of the fellow the night before did tricks at our table and taught Sidney a card trick. So sweet!  Our magician was a bit triste though, his Canadian ex-wife having gone to Canada with their five year old – with little chance of seeing his baby again. He was surprised that we ‘nice’ people were Canadians.

The complexity of tourist-Cuban relations is everywhere here. We saw a British guy who had been incorporated into a local family, having a baby with a local woman. Older white gals with black Cuban men. Older white men with young Cuban women. We see many Cuban women with obviously mixed-race children – possibly of tourist parentage, and then we have men like the magician – having had a relationship with a tourist. Power? Exploitation? Love? Money? Sex? Borders? Immigration policy? A big jambalaya.

Saturday Day 18

Today was our big trip. We’ve been travelling pretty cheaply – no souvenirs, no lunches, no  tours. But today we splurged and paid to go horseback riding and to see a waterfall. I should clarify, Mac is scared of horses since a childhood accident, so he went hiking but Sidney and I chose to ride. Along with two Parisian glamourpusses, Sidney and I were dropped with a local campesino to go riding up in the mountains. Our horses looked like they needed a good feed and water – poor bony creatures they were, and the farmer showed no reluctance to ‘encourage’ them to keep moving with a piece of metal pipe.  Argh. In the front of our wee posse were the Parisians – two tall blond, tanned creatures who spent the whole time taking pictures of each other with their IPhones and bedazzling the farmer.  Sidney, smaller than expected, was placed with me on the saddle – his bony buttocks rubbing against the leatherwork uncomfortably. He started whining that it hurt very early on. I tried a number of different options, but ended up jumping off my horse and walking beside him – trashing my shins on the local thorns in the process. But the scenery was spectacular, and the idea of riding the ranges appealing. We left our horses after a bit and headed to the waterfalls which were one of the most gorgeous places I’ve ever been. I swam into the falls, and under them into a series of caves, bats afluttering above me. For some reason, none of the other tourists swam that far, staying in their hot sweaty clothes, taking pictures. Fools! It was glorious and we ran into Mac there, returning with his tourguide who pointed out birds, plants and a cliff full of wasp nests. Yii!

Back in town, we went to the square to play ball and met a whole bunch of boys who were quite lovely and passed the ball gently to Sidney whose ball skills are a tad undeveloped. Nonetheless, he felt left out and got grumpy. Alas, the poor boys didn’t know what to do.

That evening, we went to the Playa Mayor after a lovely dinner at our casa. We were approached by a somewhat drunk Afro-Cuban fellow, in a cowboy hat who, like so many people, overwhelmed Sidney with his affection. He took his own bracelet off and tied it onto Sidney’s wrist for protection, tucking some of his money into it, then crossed himself. It’s a blessing related to Santeria I believe, and he wanted to protect Sidney from trouble. Sidney was a tad overwhelmed – but tried to accept the love at least for a bit.

Sunday Day 19

Our last day in Trinidad. I visited a santeria temple that welcomes visitors and learned a few things about this religion. I hitchhiked onto a tour group and learned that Santeria leaders are in the Cuban parliament, and meet every new year to do rituals and predict what will happen the next year. They issue a letter for their followers. There was an altar to the saint of the sea here, where people left offerings. At the end of this useful introduction a German tourist asked – why do you have white pigeons – a subject the guide had avoided because of the exotification of animal sacrifice in Santeria. But the priest explained that yes, they are used in purification rituals. In the afternoon, we spent a lazy time, talking and learning Spanish from a musician in a bar who has a cousin in Montreal. So many Cubans seem to have relatives in Quebec or Montreal. Goodbyes to our host family, Mac’s tourguide Ramon and this beautiful city.

Santa Clara –

Now we’re in Santa Clara, the site of the last battle before Batista stepped down from power. This is the site of Che’s big victory.  But even still, tourism here is a much smaller proportion of the economy. What a difference!  We walked to the square last night and met a security guard Barbaro who, when he heard we were Canadians told us that Canadians held a special place in Cuba because after the Revolution, they weren’t allowed to listen to the imperialist music of the United States, but they were allowed to listen to Paul Anka because he was Canadian, and so then we all crooned “Put your head on my shoulder….” And laughed. He recommended a local restaurant and there we went –full of Cuban families, folksingers and great, cheap food. We had to pay in convertibles, as we have had difficulty finding moneda legally – but our whole dinner and drinks ended up being something like 13 bucks. Then off to Coppelia – Cuba’s famous ice cream institution. After waiting in line for quite a long time, we were befriended by a Protestant church youth group – the leader of whom spoke English. They seemed a bit alarmed that we didn’t define ourselves as Christian, but were ingratiatingly friendly and helped us with the confusing Cuban ice cream system. I purchased something called ‘tres gracias’ which included three balls of guava ice cream (no choice on flavor – you get what you get), cookies, and cream, all in a sundae dish. Yummy. The flavor of the day was guava.  But of course Sidney only likes vanilla or chocolate. Sigh. He’s had a difficult time being polite to people he doesn’t know. Totally anxious, which I understand, but it’s really embarrassing and annoying when he refuses to look at people who want to chat and play with him. And given the attention los ninos get here, that’s almost everyone. We’re going to deny him the ice cream he likes (Nestle’s ice cream sandwiches) tomorrow if he’s impolite. That will be fun.

How can I best understand this revolution? What does it teach me?

It’s obviously still a poor country, not equal, but more equal than most of the others in the Caribbean.

Many people want to travel. They are stuck in many ways in an earlier era, without the technology of the past twenty years – as a product of trying to limit inequality.

How does one best understand this place?

Santa Clara continued. We’ve developed a rhythm here. I’ve worked in the mornings in the Santa Clara library, which is a grand old structure in the main square – Parque Vidal. Its doors are open to the street and the main foyer is full of gigantic tables, with people reading and students working. The collection of books has a few weaknesses however. There doesn’t seem to be any more recent than 1990, and only a dusty old card catalogue if you were interested in finding one. The only book I’ve found in English is one on Malcolm X. But it’s a good place to work. I’ve been reading about Italian communism in the introduction to Gramsci’s Prison Notebooks and learning a great deal about the struggles the Italian communist party had with both social democracy and fascism. Damn, I know so very little.

The first day we had in Santa Clara I thought I’d walked into the movie Hair as I walked into the Parque Vidal. Jimi Hendrix blared from loudspeakers. It turns out that all afternoon, the people of Santa Clara enjoy pop, classic rock, and jazz in the square. Given the number of people eating ice cream, flirting, and lounging and hustling, it’s quite appropriate. There should be a music soundtrack – but why its not Cuban music? Not sure about that.

We went to the Che memorial here – Mac and Sidney had gone to the train where Che had confronted Batista’s forces and forced him out. Today we went to the giant Che memorial and mausoleum. We walked there, seeing murals that included one about the US involvement in Libya. Holy up to date Batman! The Che statue was impressive and faced a large square, perfect for manifesto making. The mausoleum was moving – with the bodies of 36 men who had attempted to create a revolution in Bolivia. And then there was the Che museum. I know a fair amount about Che – I’ll call him a distant cousin given that we share a connection to the Lynch family from Galway (his grandmother Ana, my mother) but it was interesting. I particularly appreciated his report cards and the peach pit carved in his likeness. But I do have to say, I get a little rebellious when told that someone was more than a human being and should be worshipped. He was amazing, I get it. But he was amazing because of the ideas – its them, the idea of international solidarity and justice, and care for the common person that are admirable. He himself? Very attractive, yes. Incredibly brave, yes. A giant statue? Well, that’s just a little overwhelming. 

Last night Sidney and I went to the circus at the Gran Teatro. An amazing experience in a gorgeous big theatre. The cost was the equivalent of 20 cents each, with an extra 20 cents for popcorn. About 100 kids and their chaperones were there to watch acrobats, a clown, and the kids from the audience dance to really loud pop music. The acrobats were terrific – although they did inspire some homophobic groans when they positioned themselves in particular ways. There was also the ‘perro hombre’ who had a small dog jump on the backs of a row of boys. Great hilarity. Sidney it turns out has never  gone to a circus before. This set the bar low; but he loved it.  

Off to Ciego de Avila by bus… I should say a few words about the whole bus system. The long distance buses are divided between Astro buses for Cubans paying Moneda Nacional, and Viazul buses the wealthy Cubans (?) and tourists ride. I don’t know if there is much of a difference in terms of quality – I assume there must be in order to convince the wealthy Cubans to spend their hard earned CUC money. Our bus from Santa Clara to Ciego de Avila was nice – air conditioned, with Nicolas Cage speaking Spanish in some action flick. In the bus station we met a fellow traveler  – a fellow named Blair from Vancouver who works for CUPE (Canadian Union for Public Employees). Small world scenario absolutely. He gave me the low down on the politics of the NDP leadership race, and some clues about Cuban politics – it being his third time here.

Inernational Women’ Day in Ciego de Avila.

I‘m falling in love with non-tourist Cuba. Don’t get me wrong, I understand and appreciate the importance of getting foreign currency from tourists. But is super-nice to be in a place where no one is trying to sell us anything, and things are gorgeous, relaxed and friendly.  

Ciego De Avila has, according to the Rough Guide to Cuba, no tourist attractions. Nonetheless, the city is a lovely spot – known to Cubanos as the city of porches. Avilenas as they are known are proud of the deep porticos that flank each of their streets  - painted blues, pinks, greens – the sidewalks often tiled. There is music, benches, trees and squares everywhere – all full of people chatting and romancing each other.  Like Santa Clara, it has horse carriages as a regular form of transportation and as I lie here I hear the clip clop of hoofs on concrete.

The women of Cuba – in the squares and in the streets lean towards tight clothes, lots of jewellery and well groomed fancy nails. The sixties are not over for the schoolgirls who all seem to favour the miniskirt length for their uniforms, as do waitresses and government employees. Yellow is a fashionable colour it seems. Women older than 25 or in the more ‘serious’ jobs tend to wear patterned fishnets with their miniskirts. Hair is uniformly long. The men almost all have extremely short hair. Young guys go sleeveless, older men wear short sleeved dress shirts. Tattoos aren’t uncommon for the alty guys. You do also see some heavy metal fans, and punk kids – but haven’t yet caught their music being played.

We’re staying at a hotel. Glory be – its our first hotel in Cuba and what fun it is to be in our own space. It’s the Hotel Ciego de Avila and is a three star hotel set up for Cuban athletes. The Lonely planet guidebook describes it as dreary and intended for  ‘Cubans on government sponsored holidays’ – whatever that means. There’s a pool and our room has a bathroom and a tv. There is a shop where they sell beer and cookies.  Its next to a great big parque, which has a pond and beer gardens and small restaurants – all for Cubans and thus ridiculously cheap for us. We paid about 2.50 for a pasta dinner for three of us yesterday and tonight, about 3.50 for steak, chicken, rice and salad – beer included. Generally I don’t want to seek out peso restaurants (moneda), but as we’re about to run out of cash, the price is appreciated. 

Today was International Women’s Day, which is a big deal. Fellows selling roses – both real and artificial roamed the streets, selling to any fan of women. It seemed to be a general holiday. The museum was closed, and instead people crowded around listening to karaoke performers, lining up for ice cream, and having a dance – in what appeared to be a bank. Apparently Santa Clara had a huge march.

And this is where I start to try to consolidate my thoughts about this revolution. I’m of two minds about the whole thing and its success.

On the one hand – I’ve never been to a country in the ‘developing world’ where prosperity seems to be as widespread as need. There is definitely a great proportion of the population who are well fed enough to worry about fashion, politics, film, art and getting a cell phone. Its not that people aren’t needy – food is rationed and if you want something that isn’t on the ration card, you’ve got a problem if you don’t make enough. The big inequality is emerging out of tourism. Ironically though it is in the places away from tourism that I see the most genial and successful communities – where families seem happy and relaxed, going to dinner, hanging out in the square, where there are no beggars, nor new cars.

 On the other hand, It is a bit creepy to see the relentless repetition of revolutionary iconography without a sense that its meaningful for people. Che, Fidel, Camilo, Raul. Their names are repeated ad nauseum as are the dates, March 26^th, 54 years of the Revolution. The only people wearing Che shirts or hats are tourists. Is it still a revolution now, or it’s a state, right? Or can it continue to be a revolution because even 54 years later its definitely still a struggle within global capitalism. I have a great deal of respect for those who still engage and are committed to this project, - apparently the number of people in the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution continues to rise, and the Cuban Women’s Federation has three million members. But I wonder, is it real or is it out of self interest? What of those who wished for a non-state revolution? Those who are interested in challenging the powers that be – not necessarily pro-capitalist, but outside of the existing structures? There is of course dissent here, but it mostly is channeled through the party or through culture. Maybe that’s appropriate?

There is less visible corruption than I would expect, and little visible anger at either the revolution or tourism, but I keep wondering, is it real? What does it mean to stay democratic? I saw a sign today to city hall, and the direction sign read = “poder populare”.  Or popular power. What does it mean to say that this system is still democratizing, that they are moving towards popular power – as they have been saying since the fall of the USSR?

This is not China – with its maquiladoras,  export economy and imprisoned artists. But from what I’ve heard before coming, it is still authoritarian in its way. I don’t know about the level of imprisonment or police repression. There is definitely more freedom of religion than there once was, there is more acceptance of gay and lesbian relationships and critical art, writing and culture. I’ve been told that anyone hassling a tourist gets into serious trouble, as do people who drive dangerously. But I don’t see police checking people’s documents – although they may well be. Instead there seems to be a whole lot of government offices for this and that – its bureaucracy as a weapon. Even the smallest casa or shack selling beer is licensed and approved. We’ve heard that racism is a serious problem, and that tourism is creating deep inequalities. Those problems are not new for any of us in North America. They had little choice if they wanted to quickly gain hard currency, but I wonder what the future holds here. Will it become a revolution in name only as inequalities increase? Can they open up without abandoning their project of education, health, sustainability and self determination? You can now sell your home, within a number of guidelines and so one sees handmade signs on doors  ‘Se Vende’ – for sale. What will that bring? Can they create democracy without capitalism 54 years after the revolution? Can you transform state socialism and make people commit themselves to democracy and equality? Can you inspire enthusiasm from the next generation who didn’t choose this path themselves? These I know are the questions that Cuba and its people are wrestling with at present.

Day whatever, time whatever – two days before we leave

We made it to Cayo Coco, I’m at an all inclusive resort, Blau Colonial – yes, that’s right a colonial(ism) themed resort! We’re here with our good friend Sarah, her daughter Amina and Kelly our housemate. It’s gorgeous, a mix of ‘colonial style’ buildings with lots of palm trees, amix with restaurants, bars and swimming pools. We have tended to favour the chlorine pool, largely because it’s beside the entertainment people who organize activities. Our first day Sarah and I were the only adults lured into something we thought was an exercise class, but ended up being a race where one had to swing a coconut between our legs (hung from out waists on a rope) to try to move another coconut across the pool deck. 

It is gorgeous here - swimming pools surrounded by small buildings, palm trees, a beach with waves, hot and windy.

Today we went on a speedboat ride and got to snorkel with fish. Amazing. Fricking amazing. Kelly and Mac were speed demons while Sarah got instructed to speed up by the guide. If I was driving, I would have had the same warning…. We snorkeled down a channel  through mangrove swamps and we saw blue angel type fish, tiger type fish, parrot type fish (I’m being as vague as our guides were). We also got to see what we’ll call (along with Lonely Planet) the tree rat (juchilla?). These are the size of beavers and pretty cute and will emerge from the forest for breadcrumbs.

Now I’m alone at the disco. I have a serious weakness for discos. I tried to get Kelly to come out with me tonight, similarly two days ago, I tried to involve Sarah. Neither really has any tolerance for bad dancing encounters – I respect that. But I really feel the need to dance on occasion. And well, when no one else is involved, what the heck? So I went alone – I wasn’t the only middle aged lady there- there were two others, both bottle blondes in their late 40s, wearing micro mini-skirts and well into their cups. Kelly referred to the one as ‘scary mom’.  They whooped it up with the fellow wearing the ‘Blau colonial entertainment’ t-shirt. I , in a madcap attempt to maintain my dignity, tried to keep myself apart from the three of them, and the teenagers shuffling to bad pop music, their parents asleep in their rooms. At one point, admittedly after a few over-enthusiastic spins including one where I stumbled, a couple of the teenagers wanted to dance with me – possibly out of sympathy. .

That said, why not dance with those paid to do so. The staff here are quite lovely, and most seem to have a sense of humour about the tipsy and sunburned Canadians.  Our party spends far too much time trying to imagine what the staff thinking. Do they hate us? Are tips important? We are fully aware both that those who work here earn far more than the average wage and that tips have become a serious problem in terms of creating inequality in the Cuban economy. We’re also of course fully aware that not tipping doesn’t solve that problem. We also know that people here with their wristbands are incredibly rude and dismissive with the staff. So we’ve taken to a policy of enthusiastic acknowledgement and moderate tipping. It sure as hell doesn’t resolve some of the contradictions, but nothing small can.

Honestly, I understand why Cuba decided on tourism as a source of hard currency, but this environment is really bizarre. The people here have no idea they’re in Cuba – only that they’re in a resort in a yet-undisclosed Caribbean location. There is no evidence that this is a socialist state, no information about even the context here – if you exclude the salsa dances where Sarah and I were told that ‘in a few minutes, you’ll be Cuban’. Yeah, right! In some bizarre fantasy/sci-fi world,. That would be amazing and weird.

It’s now almost 1 am, and I’m sitting on the patio writing this in. The façade of cheery daytime life has lifted a layer as I watch the backstage performances emerge. More of the staff are smoking and flirting with each other. Possibly telling stories about the tourists. What DO the people who work here think about us and about Cuba? Do they see Canadians as desperate and rude as they seek oblivion from their workaday lives? Or do they see us as incredibly privileged aliens, able to do what we want when we want, and able to obtain everything everywhere. Thus one of the many contradictions here – we’re living off of the contradictions of global capitalism. This place is 5 star, and very luxe. But the clientele itself are supremely middle class – even lower middle class – we’ve met an inordinate number of insurance salesmen, mechanics, and Quebecois middle managers – and not a single doctor, lawyer , professor etc. My sense is that ‘living la vida loca’ here is paid for on credit, and only gradually paid off.

Blau Colonial was the first all inclusive resort in Cuba – and as a result, faced a terrorist attack from right wing US based Cubans (what does one call them, anti-Cuban Cubans?) in the early 1990s but there is no evidence of this attack.

March 16^th

Whew, what an (expensive) whirlwind this last twenty four hours has been! We left the sheltered beaches of Cayo Coco yesterday morning. Our plan to catch a flight to Havana, take a taxi to Varadero and fly home from there collapsed into smithereens. Our first flight was late – and we finally got our luggage in Havana at 12:10. Our next flight was from Varadero at 2:30. “How fast to get to Varadero airport?” I asked. Two hours the driver estimated. Oh no. No. We had been supposed to arrive at 11 am. We had also been told that it’s about an hours’ drive. Encouraging our grey haired, stocky driver that ‘hell, the plane could be late!” we headed out and he roared across the countryside – dodging cyclists, trucks full of workers, school kids in their uniforms, herds of cows and of course La Policia, who might not see our desire to catch our flight as one that justified our velocity.  

El Campo

The countryside we passed through was gorgeous – fields of green plants, palm trees, red earth and small mountains. We frequently passed dairies, sugar cane factories, schools, and small homes. As we spun along, we also got to see many, many exhortations of revolution. I won’t be able to remember most of them, but some that stuck out included “No Liberacion Sin Arte”, or ‘there is no freedom without art’. There were also dry quotations by El Presidente, Raul Castro, about stabilizing the economy, words to encourage Vigilance. “Unity and Independence.” There were a series of portraits beside the highway  of independence heroes. I know my friend Michelle who is here too complains about the propaganda, but if the choice is pro-revolutionary slogans urging solidarity and freedom versus advertising, I think I’ll choose the slogans.

Unfortunately we did miss our flight. And Westjet tells me that they can get me on a flight in a few days, for 1200 bucks. Erm. Wow. Or, they offered, we could go on a flight on April 13th for the same price. Yeah. 

So I talk to the gal at the information desk at the Varadero airport and she suggests that I stay and share her job. Not a bad idea, I think - but perhaps there are other alternatives. The valiant fellows in the airport management office suggest that we can pay to get on another airline. Canjet has two spots, but only two. They think that just maybe, there will be a third. Terrific! So we wait until its clear that indeed, there are three spots and off we go - arriving at midnight in Toronto to see the warm weather. Weird. Exhausted. Home.