Cuba, Storm Sandy Style

     I've been home about 2 weeks now from Cuba and I've had little
opportunity to share my trip with any of my family and friends.  What's 
happened since my return is that my brother was on life support and now
is off, the Giants won the World Series (I just learned that!) my yard needs raking and Storm Sandy has captured all our airwaves and Facebook postings. It's hard to think about my trip when so many are right now without power and have been re-located to school gymnasiums.  Somehow, it coincides with my memories of Cuba.
     There, families of 20 or more live everyday in assigned apartments where
they must walk long miles to work and to their food distribution areas.  Where
taking a long shower isn't a luxury, there just isn't warm water for a
decent shower. Where nobody tries to take care of themselves.  Two generations of families are so used to being taken care of, albeit poorly, by the government, that they don't even think about what's missing from their lives.
     And now, as tourism is on the rise, people are beginning to discover that
they are missing out on fresh oranges and flowers and birds that pollinate 
the world.  I never saw a grocery store.  Only long lines at government stores that sold tomato sauce for $4.00 and only had one type of soap and shampoo.
Most of what we in the Western world consider average items in a grocery store are luxuries in Cuba.  Cuba, where there is no such thing as functional obsolescence.  Where American cars from the 1950's are still running using Cuban invention. 
      Our first day in Cuba we were driven to a "Rum Factory".  A glorified
plant that reminded me of the "I Love Lucy" classic where Lucy and Ethel
are in the chocolate factory and can't keep up with the production.  Only here in Cuba, the 20 or so people  all crammed into a room sat or stood around watching the bottles drop from the assembly line, get put into the proper upright
postion awaiting the label. Three very disinterested women slouched in chairs and slapped on the rum labels.  Others took the bottles and stacked them into crates to be carried into the next room to receive the rum.  The smell was
intoxicating.  Sweet and potent.  Like inhaling straight 100% alcohol. Rooms full of ancient oak barrels, aging the rum to perfection.  We were given a generous shot of 17 year old rum.  Oh wow!  Set for the day with alcohol content!  The first of many tourist trap gift shops awaited us after we all sampled the delicious dark rum.  We are told to drink as much rum as we could, "It's the best in the world."  I know my rum and I agree with that.  But how much rum can one person drink in a week full of early and long days traveling from place to place in a Chinese made bus that seats 30 or so?  
     From the rum factory we were bused to the Revolution Museum.  We would have called it the Bay of Pigs Museum. It houses the Jeep that Castro rode around in during the altercation.  A Russian missel used to shoot down an American bomber sat side by side each other.  Green uniformed guards slowly paced around the outdoor setting.  I walked too far around the corner and got a shrill whistle followed by rapid footsteps to stop me. It was the first time I thought I was in a communist country. It was Cuba's pride showing through the remnants of a botched American takeover attempt. It was the outward
illustration of an inward government gone haywire. 
     Back on the bus we passed buildings crumbling, while fresh laundry strung from the tiny outdoor places flapped in the wind. People stood outside amidst the
rubble waiting. For time, for friends, for change. They watched as another tour
bus ambled past their lives. As people free to move about the world, moved about their country.  They wanted to come. They wanted to go. But it was 
forbidden. Their lives for now is waiting for the laundry to dry.

Baseball

      It's playoff time in Major League Baseball again.  The leaves have 
turned umber, the days are shorter and somewhere in Cuba, little boys are wishing they could just sit in their homes and turn on the telly.  San Francisco is about to shut out the Cardinals in the seventh game of the National League playoffs.  We take television for granted here.  We take everything for granted here. We have electricity and hot water and televisions in every room. We may or may not even care that it's almost the World Series. 
     Not in Cuba.  In Cuba, baseball is the way out. Of the food lines and crowded apartments and sub-par medical treatments. In Cuba, boys of all
ages play baseball in the streets, in the alley's and in the fields. They play 
barefoot with sticks and rocks. They use their shoes for the bases. You see
them playing as you drive through their crumbling country. They cheer and
applaud and smile.  It's the only relief they have from all the grey that surrounds them. 
     Since 1913 when Merito Acosta somehow managed to escape the insanity
in Cuba and become the first Cuban to play for a major league team, there 
have been 172 (baseball almanac) players to leave Cuba for riches and fame
in America.  Jose Canseco and Alex Ramirez are two playing here now. Ramirez was born in Pinar de Rio, hours outside Havana where mountains rise up
and the weather is perfect for growing tobacco. The farmers all lost the
ownership of their family farms when Castro came into play. They get up at
dawn and work the fields using oxen, only to be forced to give 80% of their
income and yield to the government. The sun browns their skin and they
raise chickens and turkeys to feed their families of 10 or more. Three 
generations live in one house. Sometimes four. Electricity comes and goes. A breeze from the mountains cools their concrete block homes. They have no screens on their windows. 
     They are proud. They are kind. They serve dark, rich coffee to all who visit. Without the milk. Without the sugar.  They must walk miles into town to wait hours to collect their food rations which won't stretch the month. They must keep track of what they receive for free. Sugar and flour and salt.  But it's never enough. Everything else they must buy. If they are lucky, they live on $25.00 a month. 
     One sees very few vegetable gardens growing in their yards. They have 
no yards and until recently, they didn't know how to grow anything other than sugar and tobacco. 
     It's raining now in San Francisco. The Giants are one out away from
the World Series. People in the stands haven't left their seats. They are
waiting for that moment when they will feel complete exaltation. 
Something rare in Cuba. Something only those baseball players who get out
can feel.

   

Reflections on

     It's hard to know where to start when I think about sharing my 

experience about Cuba.  Given the circumstances of my day, it's fitting that

I start with the health care systems.  

     On my third day in Cuba, a Wednesday, my group of 25 travelers and I arrived in a small village a day's drive outside Havana.  There we were to visit a sugar cane

museum and see a little film about the history of sugar cane in Cuba dating

back to the 1600's.  I wasn't really thrilled about going to a place that hadn't been 

in operation for several years.  This was an old mill, and that was fine enough

except the Cubans had brightly painted everything fire engine red and grass green

in order to spruce up the place. It didn't help. We first stopped at a small office where two women were assigned to show us how in the past, large pieces of sugar cane

was pushed through a machine that squeezed out the juice.  The canes fell out

the back of the machine while the juice fell into a bucket at the front.

One woman took the juice and poured it into a pitcher and then into

our plastic cups.  Our capable guide, Yaritza, then added a hefty shot of rum.

It was ten in the morning.  Once we were all spiked up,  we walked about 30 steps

to another building where we were to watch our little movie.  It was air 

conditioned so we were all eager to get inside.  One of our companions, I'll

call her Jane,  was talking and walking while looking over to her right shoulder

to see her friends.  She inadvertently tripped over a large clay pot situated

just outside the door.  

     Immediately Jane cried out, "Oh! Oh! Oh! This really hurts".  A chair arrived and

someone went in search of ice. Returning with a handful of ice, our driver took his 

handkerchief and wrapped it around her ankle.  I saw her immediately as I was

right there with her.  Her foot and leg swelled instantly.  Jane keep telling us that 

she really hurt and that she could, "feel things moving around in there."

She looked very pale and felt nauseous.  Our group leader decided that an X-ray

was in order. Our guide did not.  At first that seemed callous to me but I quickly

learned that there wasn't a clinic for miles and miles and the closest machine

was 4 towns away, about an hours drive.  With much persistence by Jane's friends and Cathy, our group leader, Yaritza was convinced that an X-ray must be taken.

Jane was carried onto the bus, and along with her two friends, was driven to the

"Hospital".  They report deplorable conditions. Although health care is free in 

Cuba, it is obviously sub-par.  The room where they took Jane had three other

patients and no privacy.  There was black mold growing beneath the ancient

window air conditioner.  The doctor never washed his hands between patients.

       Jane had her x-ray taken by a machine that was new in the 1950's.  The film

was so blurred and so dark that it was difficult to determine whether her leg was broken or not.  She was given Advil and had to pay $45.00 for the x-ray.

Carried to the bus by the driver and her friend, (there weren't any crutches in the

hospital) they all arrived  back at the hotel  by 5:30.  They story goes that the guide 

kept insisting all this was unnecessary and we really think that she was just embarrassed for Americans to see how deplorable the state of their health care

system really is. After consulting with a Kansas City doctor, arrangements were

made to fly Jane out of Havana on Friday. Our state department had to get special

permission from Cuba to allow Jane to leave the country ahead of schedule.

      Jane arrived back in Kansas by Friday evening and was rushed to St. Luke's Hospital.  There, doctors were standing by to re-xray her.  She was taken into surgery where they put 12 pins and 2 plates in her leg.  Unnecessary indeed!

     By contrast, I am writing this in the wee hours of the morning. My brother

wasn't feeling well today and was brought into the ER at one of our top

hospitals. Within minutes he was assessed, given oxygen, had blood work done

as well as a chest X-ray.  Within the hour, the doctors knew my brother was

in grave condition. He now lies in the ICU attached to five machines, 19 medical 

bags and is attended by a nurse who only has one other patient. The nurse is in his room every 15 minutes.  He has been seen by a hospitalist, a pulmonologist, cardiologist, kidney specialist, infectious disease specialist, GI doctor and a radiologist.  He is alive but fighting for his life.  Had he been on the trip we me, 

he would not have survived.

     With all the name calling and bad mouthing going on in the presidential campaign

one thing is for sure,  this kind of care should be available to all of mankind.

Cuba, say "Coo-buh

     Here I go again!  Only this time, into one of the most restricted islands in the world.  Cuba.  After missing an opportunity while living in Costa Rica, I jumped at the chance to go with the Kansas City Chamber of Commerce, People to People program.
Six exciting, entertaining and educational days await. Forty of us will spend the week 
driving around the country in one of those obnoxious tourist buses. I absolutely loath those things as I always end up car sick even when I'm driving. 
(No comments children!) 
     They are however, the only way we Americans can safely navigate our way through this country, rumored to be unchanged since the 1950's.  Our packed itinerary begins in Havana where in one day we will be shuffled around to nine places. 
I am excited to hear the variety of music, eye the colorful artwork and drink rum, rum, rum!  I'm certain I'll even partake in a good Cuban cigar.  From Havana we move to Santa Clara Art School and Cultural Center, the UNESCO Biosphere Reserve in Cayo Santa Maria, with a stop at the Che Guevara Museum to learn more about Cuba's beloved hero.  The busy day is topped off with a salsa dance lesson.  Perfection!
     Day two and three takes us to Caibarien and Remedios to hear musicians and walk through the colonial jewel town of Remedios which was founded by the Spaniards in 1578.
     On day four we will travel to the French founded town of Cienfuegos which will showcase the new architecture and urban planning that Cuba's newest cities have.
We will also be treated to a choral concert by locals. 
     On our fifth day we are off to Guanabacoa which is a rich religious town and will be blessed to visit colonial churches. I'm currently reading the Nick Adams Stories in honor and anticipation of our visit to Hemingway's farm, Finca La Vigia.  What a thrill for me! Our last days are back in Havana to visit small area towns and a trip to a local school.  I have packed plenty of crayons for the teachers to use as we were asked to bring school supplies. 
     As I sit in the Atlanta airport writing this, I am so excited to be afforded this 
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!