What do I say about a long-looked-forward-to trip to a place my own government discourages visiting?
I guess first I must acknowledge having had definitely guilty initial thoughts about going. After that, rationalizations came in handy. For instance, it's not REALLY against the LAW to go; our own government's policy (embargo, etc.) may be a bit out of date, given the end of the Iron Curtain, the demise of the Soviet Union, and the cessation of the non - trade- with - China era. And finally, there's the travel agency's assurance that there'll be no tell-tale stamp on your American passport.
All mental reservations having been put into the back corner of my perhaps over-active conscience, my adventurous husband and I made plans through a travel agency in San Antonio Tlayacapan, paid the slightly under $750. a piece for airfare and seven nights plus breakfast buffets.
A Boeing 727-200 flew us to Cuba's capitol city, which in Spanish is spelled Habana. We were informed from the cockpit that the distance from Guadalajara to Mexico City is 460 kilometers (288 miles), and the flight from Mexico's to Cuba's capitol is 1,770 kilometers (1,106 miles). The somewhat less than three- hour flight was uneventful and included an excellent lunch. From the handsome Jose Marti Aeropuerto we were transported by bus to our hotel, one of twin towers built in the 1980s and now completely revamped. It's along the coastline of the Miramar district which is the location of many embassies, consulates, businesses and financial centers. This area is just a short ride west of old downtown Havana.
Although the hotel's desk clerks appeared somewhat harried, we managed to get our room assignment on the 24-story hotel's 12th floor. We again hoisted our modest supply of luggage (two ) and rode up to look at our ocean view. The room was neatly decorated, with a small refrigerator, a full bath with tub and shower, and a balcony the full width of the room. We had a handsome vista of sea and irregularly shaped 11-sided swimming pool; the latter had a palapa and bridge spanning its middle. After a quick unpacking, we set out to tour the building and grounds and take some exterior pictures of the buildings.
Then began one of the most pleasant encounters of our entire trip: The bellhop who went up with us to review the quick-touch door-opening method, was gracious, friendly and soft-spoken, with nearly flawless English. For the purposes of this story and because of Cuba's political situation, I shall refer to him as Carlos. We established an immediate bond with him when he told us that his job before joining this hotel's staff nine years ago was as a teacher of English as a foreign language. We told him briefly of our own experiences in that field - - my husband's in Greece and both of ours in Poland. Carlos told us he had had to give up teaching in favor of the higher income possible as a bellhop. Teachers, he informed us, were only paid fifteen dollars a month, the standard salary for all workers of every sort in Cuba. Having a wife and small daughter, he understandably found that not to be a living wage. We asked how people survived on such a low pay scale. He gave us an example:
"Suppose a person works in a factory that makes socks," he said. "Every day or something like that, he takes home a few pairs of the company's product and sells them. And this is done in almost all kinds of jobs."
It was clear that he disapproved of the ways things were, but could only shrug his shoulders at the persistence of this un-fortunate result of the revolution of the late 1950s and the subsequent Communist economy and political system.
My husband then asked Carlos what benefits the ordinary citizens do get under the present system.
"There is completely free education and also health care" our new friend explained, adding that this included university level education. "But after you get the training , it does not help, if you still cannot earn more money," he said sadly, speaking from his own bitter experience.
Carlos helped us write a list of several places he thought we would probably enjoy - - some restaurants, a couple of nightclubs and the historic sights near old downtown Havana. Then he gave us an extremely valuable tip:
"There is a small bus, called "Vaiven," which charges you four dollars for a person to ride as many times each day as they wish, and then get on the next one. They go about each half hour he told us.
Carlos only worked at the hotel every other day, but we thought of him gratefully each time we boarded a yellow, blue and white Vaiven bus. There are four that travel the mostly east-west route that links old downtown Havana with Miramar's Avenida de Hoteles and the area of the Acuario National, the embassies and the banking centers. They run from 9:30 a.m. to 9 p.m.
Each Vaiven has not only a driver but a bi-lingual guide to answer questions and point out places of historic, cultural or social interest. Actually some speak more than the obligatory two languages. "Mercedes" was quadri-lingual. Before the decline and fall of the Soviet empire she had taught Russian. This woman, stylishly coiffed and neatly dressed in a mini-skirted red suit, told us she very much enjoyed her alternating-day employment on the little tour buses.
The bus approached one of Havana's prominent intersections, and the familiar face of a young Cuban presented itself on a large billboard. There was the appealing countenance of the half orphaned six- year-old the world has taken to its empathetic heart.
"Oh, there's Elian on that billboard," I said. "How I'd love to get a picture." Even before Mercedes spoke to the driver in quick Spanish, he had slowed to a crawl, and she had put the window down, so I could get a quick shot with my instant camera.
"Devuelvan a Elian a la Patria", the sign pleaded.
Seeing his innocent face on signs in the land of his birth was more affecting than the hundreds of newspaper images we have been exposed to. And it seems to me that people from almost every side of the political spectrum feel compassion for this small victim of man's inhumanities.
