My COVID-19 Diary 1: Canuck Pandemic!

We're back at Toronto's Pearson International Airport from our winter travels. It's sheer pandemonium. Next day, the WHO officially declares the COVID-19 a pandemic. Today, the panic is quite palpable. So dense, you can feel it in the air. 

We join the long lines snaking through the jam packed terminal. Beneath the pensive gaze of the custom and border guards, some in medical masks and gloves. Some not. Faced with a seething, angry mob. 

People push. Shove. Heave to and fro. There's lots of line jumpers. Angry shouting matches. Janet and I are stuck, at the weary end of our long, winter journey. Two tired travellers seeking repatriation; to just be back in the safety of our own home. But faced with a frightening spectacle. A pandemic that's suddenly turned very real, for us. Along with everybody else and their mother, desperate to get home asap, before the shit hits the fan.

This winter, we've been to Japan, Florida, and Cuba. I've got a headache. We've both got the sniffles. All symptoms of the virus. But also very typical for this time of year. So who knows?

The politics of the Great 2020 Pandemic are maddening enough to burst a blood vessel!

Here in Ontario, Premier Doug Ford's Conservative government has eliminated sick days for our lowest paid workers. If away, they must pay for sick notes, they can ill afford. While Doug the Thug claims that no cost will be spared to ease the economic crisis. Perhaps for his big, fat corporate friends that is! 

Hello Corporate Socialism! Watch the big business bail outs begin. While the little guy once again, gets stuck with the bill!

Stateside a befuckled President Donald Trump has been all but in complete denial. Crying fake news. Wasting valuable time before he flip flops. Promising that he'll keep the stock market open for his big, business buddies. Other partners in crime. A small consolation for the poor working American stiff. 

Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, is in self imposed social isolation for two weeks. There are so many words and terms that seem benign in our new COVID-19 lexicon, eh? 

His wife Sophie was diagnosed with the virus, so he's being prudent. Cautious. And very Canadian. Likewise, Toronto Mayor John Tory self isolates too, after possibly being exposed to the virus, while travelling over seas. 

Two different political. Different levels of government. Both setting a good personal example for a jittery public. Like them or not, and I'm not usually sold on either, it's a big plus!

Now a days, these emergency measures are called "flattening the curve". Think better safe than sorry. An ounce of prevention. Nipping it in the bud. 

Italy is in lockdown. Whole cities in China quarantined. Welcome to COVID-19; a new respiratory virus for which there is no inoculation shot, yet. Nor clearly defined public and medical procedures yet in place. Everything is evolving by the minute.

In Ontario, we're caught with our pants down, so to speak, amongst all Ford's health cuts to ... ahem ... balance the conservative provincial budget.

Hell, truth be told, testing centres are just now being set up here in Toronto and across Ontario. A full week after we've returned home! 

Most of us probably don't have the virus, though most everyone is very worried that they do. 

So here we are, trapped in our very own Toronto, Ontario, Canada existential crisis!

What can Janet and I do? Japan's close to the epicentre, but we travelled there in November. As for Panama City Beach, Florida? Or Santiago de Cuba? Could we have gotten infected there?

We've decided to self isolate for two weeks. Take it from there .....

Anyway, here we are, back home from our travels. But quite frankly out of everything. The kitchen shelves bare. 

My ... er ... unregulated weed man provides free home delivery, so I quickly load up on Rick Simpson Oil, a THC tincture, and some nice bud to tide me through the crisis. Calm minds will prevail! In our home, anyway!

The pharmacy renews all my other prescription for three months, over the phone. Delivers them too. 

But we absolutely need to make a grocery run to Costco. And so we do.

Oh no! A frantic crowd quickly strips a skid of water bottles clean, no sooner than it's wheeled out on the floor. 

The mad frenzy continues. Get this -there's no more toilet paper left! Anywhere! Explain stockpiling toilet paper for me, please! 

Only in Canada you say?

A couple grab at the Maple Syrup. Madly staring at us. Not so little knives shooting from their dazed eyes. 

Jeez. No problemo. it's yours!

It's only fitting, I suppose, that come March 2020 we are faced with yet more crisis, shock and awe. I should be very upset.

But here Janet and I are stuck at home for two weeks. With a great excuse to relax and do absolutely nothing! 

Family and friends call to check up on us. Our building super and neighbours too. 

I smoke another doobie. Put on some more tunes. Janet couch surfs the huge backlog of all her favourite TV shows on the PVR. 

How surreal! Despite the gnawing uncertainty, all is well. Still, it's hardly a happy occasion. And after so much adventure and excitement on the open road, the homebound boredom is definately setting in. 

Sigh. Alas.

Anyway, with spring just around the corner, we'll be off to the Land o' Lakes soon enough. 

Meanwhile, I hope you are staying well. Taking good care of yourself too, wherever you are. 

Remember, it's okay to go outside for a nice, refreshing walk. Some exercise, Maybe in the park. Or the countryside. Just so long as there aren't lots of people around.

Works fine for me. It was getting too peopley outside, anyway. 

Heh. heh. Er .....

Though last time I looked out our window it was rather eerie. Busy, bustling Weston Road is now quiet and empty. It's rather unsettling, but let's hope for the best. 

We are all in this together. So let's take every reasonable precaution, for both ourselves and the sake of others!

And hey -we've still got the internet! Expect lots more of my blog site updates in the daze ahead!

Pax/
Salud!

David C

COMMENTS:

On The Road In Cuba!

DTC: 1996 A Cuba Story! [Complete] 

Chapter 1: Palma Soriano!

My adventures in Cuba continue: There was a long weekend ahead at the Toronto Friendship School. Willy, Ramon and Mati offered to take me on a road trip over the mountains to visit the interior of the island. We hired an older gentleman, "Popo" (means papaya...) who owned an old beat up Polski Fiat. There aren't any post 1961 embargo American cars in Cuba. Was an option. Turned into a good adventure. Not your usual tourist tale. Indeed, allow me to share with you my real life Cuba Story.

Popo showed up about 6 hours late. No big deal in Cuba, the "land of waiting." A popular joke claims that at first everyone was waiting for the revolution, then for the workers' paradise, now for Castro to leave. Waiting is quintessentially Cuban. Popo had stopped along the way to pick us up at a party. My tour guides were glad for him. Glad he had a good time at the party, even though we'd be left stuck waiting! They thought that was great! Because he stopped at a party? And now we were running late!

To his credit Popo brought me a bag of fruit from the party. No token gesture in a land where most everyone goes hungry! I'm boiling mad but what do I say? Anything? When in Rome, or in my case Cuba, how does the saying go? Oh well. O.K. Climb aboard! We're off! Up into the foothills of the Sierra Maestra and onwards and upwards into the mountains!

We are soon high up overlooking the 500 year old crumbling city of Santiago de Cuba. The glistening late afternoon Caribbean sea. On the other side of the mountains, we drive down into the valley of "El Cristo", permanently shrouded in cloud. Only moving silhouettes are visible to the eye. Strangely beautiful. Quite unreal!

We continue puttering along in his car, out onto the plains towards the small old Spanish colonial town of "Palmas".  Tall swaying palms dot banana and sugarcane plantations stretching as far as I can see. We drive past a huge run down sugar mill into the sun bleached ruins of a town where everyone and everything is moving in slow motion, in the sweltering late afternoon heat. I thinking this is all right. Very picturesque. Quite hot, but hey; our trip is indeed looking like an adventure!"

Sitting in our sweat soaked shirts, dust swirling about, we proceed into the town square .... where the radiator boils over! Psssssssssss! And dies. So much for the Popomobile! The hood's up. A crowd gathers. Everyone peering in as the long late day shadows stretch across the square. What to do? 

Once again we are engaged in the great Cuban past time of waiting! Fortunately, a friendly family invites us to stay overnight in their simple overcrowded quarters. Folks walk through all hours to check the gringo out. Hola! Hello there! It was different. It ended up being quite the party. An End of the World Party!

The End of the World Party is another great Cuban national past time. What else have they got to do most of the time? We are stuck waiting again too. Well, hooray for the End of the World Party! Tinny salsa music blasts in the back alleys under a Habana moon. Hips sway. Hand rolled cigars are passed out. There's much story swapping and good laughter. Then, an electrical blackout grinds everything to a halt. Damn those Yankees! Ha! We laugh. Call it a night.

Next morning Ramon finds another chico with a car! A beat up, old, baby blue, 1956 Chevy with a cracked, window shield. A Madonna sticker on the dashboard. The cheap fan barely works. A dumpfy kinda charm! Not unlike Palma. Yes Palma is different than Santiago. Like small town Ontario is different from the big city. Let's drive on further inland to see more of what it's really like................

 The early morning heat builds quickly. Sometimes I don't feel alive until it hits 30 degrees Celsius. Even in far less than ideal conditions like these. Am I a stickler for pain? It's a case of quality verses quantity.There's a trade off. In the First World, we've got most of the wealth. Yet we often seem to forget how to enjoy the simpler things in life. Not so the Cubans, whatever else they lack.

Everyone is out on the street to see us off -the whole community! There's old folks. Young amigos y amigas. Toddlers too! The End of the World Party isn't over. All of them are like family now, so sorry to see us go! 

Fortunately, I suppose, there's no electricity still. So no salsa music. Or they'd all be dancing. Cuba's like that: it doesn't matter where you are or what you're doing. Any time's a good time to dance. I kid you not. We'd have never gotten out of Palma! So we toss what's left of Popo's bag of fruit in the back seat. Mucho kisses. Warm embraces! With a wave we rumble down the street. Off on day two of our Cuba trip!

From the holy to the profane: The Sierra Maestra mountains recede behind us, along with El Cristo valley. We drive down the streets of Palma past the towering palms back out onto the plains. The banana and sugarcane groves stretch outward past the horizon. Sitting with the windows rolled down. Drinking it all in. Still quite enchanted. However, soon there are warning signs that's about to change. The once lush vegetation grows increasingly sparse. Half starved cattle, matted hides hanging on bony frames, stand placidly along the roadside, nosing about in the sun dried grass, occasionally swishing away the hordes of flies with their tails. Is that a buzzard circling around and around overhead? We motor across a swaying bridge hanging precariously over a very deep river valley. A great divide of sorts for what lies ahead.

Chapter 2: Contramaestra!

We drive into the town of Contramaestra, a couple of hours later; another old Spanish town forgotten in time. Head for the city centre; the plaza. Circle about in the car looking for a place to stay. Contramaestra is an endless vista of old ruins. A mad mix of Spanish colonial, the occasional American deco structure. We drive past an old rundown Soviet flatbed army truck; closest they'll ever get to public transit in this poor place!

The locals are just standing around -nowhere to go, nothing to do. Look at the despair in their faces! Some seek refuge in the doorways. Under the stark palm trees. In the little park in the centre of the plaza there's a hula hoop contest! Little school girls with skinny stick legs swirl them around and around their impossibly tiny waists. The innocent brown faces squint under the glare of the hot relentless mid- day sun.

Everyone looks up as we pull up front of an old run down building,  "La Cucharacha Motel" as Matilde half jokes. The faded sign promises air-conditioning! Says they accept payment in pesos! Willy slips into the office, returns a few minutes later to explain the situation, "They only have two rooms with air conditioning."

We wearily cart in our bags through the wall of heat. Unpack. Take a cold shower with a hose and a pail in the shared, stained shower stall at the end of the hall. Close our room window shutters. Shut out the sun's glare.

The rattly room air conditioner in my room slowly kicks into gear. Lucky there's electricity! And a black and white Soviet era t.v. set! That's as good as it gets! Don't drink the water though! Ugh! What's scurrying about in the sink? There's not much spring left in this bed. Boy does it sag!

"Well, it's beeg!", Mati notes, "Willy + Ramon only have two small beds in the other room. Mas pequito!"

"Well, we can figure out the arrangements later. It's dinner time. Let's eat!"

The menu shows spaghetti is served morning, noon and night. An over boiled mess with a runny, red sauce. My entourage decides to head to the countryside to see what they can scrounge up for supper instead. I decide to wait. Sit on the rusty, wrought iron balcony. Drinking a thick black espresso. Smoking a cheap Cuban cigarette, a Cuban quick fix, until they get back. 

"So what did you find?" Ho boy! I grow silent. Mystery meat? I wouldn't feed that to my cat, but can't say that. Not here. They try so hard to please! 

"Listen amigos, I don't think so. No. No. I will be fine! Dinner can wait."

Later on, out of desperation I slip out for a stroll. Aha! A dollar store! Its dark and musty inside. The shelves are bare, but for a case of Coca-Cola. And, in a locked glass counter -a Neilsons "Mr. Big" bar! A prized trophy.

"So uh, how much?",  $1 for the "Mr. Big" bar. 75 cents for a Coke. "Well, all right then, I'll take Mr. Big and um .... a can of Coke." 

The handful of locals grow silent. All eyes upon me. The clerk takes out his key. Slowly sticks it into the lock. A low murmur. "Somebody bought the "Mr. Big" bar! Somebody bought the "Mr. Big" bar!"

How embarrassing! On the wrapper it says it's made in Toronto at a factory I drive by every day. The Canadians have arrived in Contramaestra!  Perhaps a hint the Americans will be returning too?

I quietly place two crisp US dollar bills on the counter. The clerk desperately fishes about the old, battered cash register for enough change. I quickly slip back onto the street. Beat a mad retreat to our hotel room with my booty.

Willy greets me, quite excited, "Guess what? There's a concert at the Tropicana tonight. A local band knows some Beatle songs! They came to ask you to go see them play! Can you help them learn the lyrics better in English? We can tape it!"

"Okay! Okay! Willy, get out the ghetto blaster. Where's your Beatle tape?  Put it on. Let's see what we got. We'll go over the lyrics with them beforehand for practice. Willy, you can translate! Matilde and Ramon too!"

This definitely appeals to the teacher in me. Plus its looking like another End of the World Party, as I unravel the electrical cord. Lean over to the wall to plug it in. Then ...

"BBBBBBBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!"

Oh no! The Soviets wired the hotel for 220 volts! We sit, dejectedly staring at the burnt out player. Our last link with the outside world. Ramon later managed to fix it! At home, we'd just toss it out! But here? Once it's gone, quite possibly there's no more ghetto blaster for Beatle tapes. 

"Well, amigos. Amiga.", I sigh, "I think I'll cut my losses. Take a siesta. We can still go to tonight's show! Figure out what to do then. ­Hasta luego! See you later......."

Chapter 3: A Night Out On The Town!

I awake from my siesta in the early evening. Stare at the creaky old overhead fan futilely moving the stale, hot air around and around. Where am I?  Dazed and confused from all the heat and exhaustion, I yank open the shutters. Contramaestra! 

The long evening shadows create a Cuban twilight zone in the plaza below. Some good hombres hang about below a lamp post smoking cigarettes. Passing around a bottle of rum. Everyone's spilling out into the street.

The chicos' strut about in impossibly tight pants. The chicas' in bright makeup and minis. Everybody trying to catch one anothers eye. Naked toddlers race about at play. The little girls practice twirling the hula hoops around their impossibly skinny waists. Looking at my watch, I notice it's time to get ready for tonight's big show. 

Willy suggests we don't dress up too much so as to not draw attention. Highly unlikely! One suspects by now most everyone in town knows that visitors have arrived. With me, a foreign one. Very rare indeed!

I head to the hotel washroom. Can't drink the local water. So I brush my teeth and gargle with the last of my Coke. Blech. A little boy, waiting for his father by the toilet stall, watches intently. A little wink. He smiles. Stares shyly at the floor. Cute.

First stop -the dollar store. I buy three more Cokes to take with me. Damn. I feel so guilty! Off we head into the Cuban night, the streetlamps casting a pale glow down the narrow cobblestone streets of Contramaestra.

Suddenly -a blackout!!!! Damn those Yankees!! By now a conditioned scream! We'd almost break out laughing except for the chaos that ensues. Cubans on clunky old Chinese bicycles crash into each other, people walking on the street. A mad cacophony of angry voices, bruised arms, shins and knees. Even a fist fight or two as tempers flare. Ho boy! For awhile we stumble about. Total strangers lost in the dark Contramaestra night.....

Somebody resourceful has rigged up a generator at the Tropicana! Around it's tall fence a tumultuous sea of locals mill about. In gay lipstick. Faded party dresses. Baggy button down shirts and worn ill-fitting freshly pressed slacks. Hoping against hope that tonight they will get in! It's a Cuban promised land of bright lights and thundering drums! Tonight's­ el spectacular supreme!

Look -the gate man! "Amigo! ­ Estoy Canadiense! I'm Canadian....."

He gestures for security to let us in. The guards fan out parting passage among the jostling sea surrounding us. We dart for the gate. Matilde determinedly hangs onto my hand for dear life. Ramon bravely tries to fight back the crowd. Willy's bringing up the rear. The crowd descends crashing upon us, picking him clean! At the last second we yank him through. For the rest of our trip he'll bemoan his lost pocket calculator. A cheap gift but all he had to work out the school finances.

"My Chinese slippers! I lost one! I lost one!", Matilde cries!

"We'll get you another!"

"But, I bought them in Habana!" 

"Don't worry!"

A table has been reserved for us up front of the decrepit old stage. I nervously sit down. The band soon joins us. Yes. They've heard a lot about Canada. Another Cuban joke: if Quebec separates from Canada they'll join us. Then we'll have the United States surrounded. Ha! Unlikely.

Chapter 4: Tropicana!

A pale spotlight shines on centre stage:

"BABALU!!! BABALUAAA!!!", a skinny Ricky Ricardo look a like, a forgotten out take from the "I Love Lucy" show, breathlessly pounds away on his conga drum. The Tropicana Orchestra joins in. Dancers in swirling skirts, hips swaying round and round, delicately balance fake fruit baskets on their heads. Everyone is looking pretty tattered and frayed but that hardly matters tonight! The show has begun! The spectacular supreme!

Striking a match, I light up a fine Cuban cigar I've been specially saving. Enjoy one along with the other hombres. A fine, thoughtful plume of smoke. The fragrance tickles my senses. You know, the whole trip is worth it if only for this one night alone! Whatever else the Cubans might lack they enjoy a rich sense of music and culture without compare. 

I can't pronounce let alone name the rich smorgasbord of songs and dance that we are treated to tonight! The rich array of horns, percussion and rhythm instruments. The stand up bass. Tres guitars. We are treated to Son-Montuno. Changui. Guaracha. Mambo. Bolero. Merengue. Yoruba. Afro-Cubano. Every strain and combination of Cuban musical styles there within! The list goes on and on. Absolutely fabuloso!!!

Suddenly, the Tropicana falls silent. A nervous Cuban Frank Sinatra gingerly steps into the limelight. In broken English he bravely attempts to croon "My Way" to the hushed audience. The orchestra awkwardly struggles to back up his foreign Broadway tune. Little of this would've been tolerated a little over a year or so ago. All eyes are upon us as they finish the song. A stunned silence. I politely clap. Whistle enthusiastically. Stomp my feet. Everyone seems pleased and gives him a huge round of applause!

And now, the act they've been waiting for all these years: It's the Cuban Beatles!!! With guitar strings made from stripped electrical wire. A battered old out of tune keyboard. Drum skins that have definitely seen better days. But nothing's going to keep them from their moment in the spotlight in this really big show!

Oh no!! Not Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da!!! Too bad I screwed up the ghettoblaster and we couldn't do our teaching thing! But the Cubans love it. Totally gobble it up. Then a few more songs. The Cuban Beatles throw in a McCartney number "Hope of Deliverance". Sadly fitting and all things considered quite sweet. And then OH NO! 

"Come up! Come up! On stage!", There's excited whispers and shouts. They know I'm fluent in English! Arghhh!

Well, we do what we have to do to fight the good fight. The Cuban Beatles break out into a rousing rendition of "The Ballad of John and Yoko" (Lennon not Lenin...). I try to help them along. I swear to god this is the only place in the world where ANYBODY will ever clap and cheer while I sing Beatle songs on stage or anywhere else. For an encore I show them them how to do the twist while the band bashes away at "Twist and Shout". I'm even really getting into it now. Ha. In Cuba nobody really cares as long as you catch the spirit. That's about all they're going to get from me tonight!

Okay folks, that's about it! But no, no! "Speech! Speech!"

The Cubans love speeches. Long, long speeches like Fidel gives on t.v. at night. Truth be told, I'd make a pretty lousy Cubano Communist. Instead we indulge in a little patriotic good cheer. Always a safe bet. 

"VIVA CUBA! VIVA CANADA!", I cry out, pumping my fist in the air.

A sea of hands and fists wave in unison held high under the full Habana moon. Pretty crazy! Indeed they go nuts! Cuba's like that. It's truly an enigma. You've just got to love Cuba for being itself. Maybe it truly is impossible to figure it out. You've just got to experience it with your heart.

Chapter 5: Putting On The Ritz!

Awoke next morning. Figured we'd better get head back for work in Santiago. That's really what the Cuban School Project's all about. Everybody would be getting worried about us too. 

First we'd need to make the good bye rounds. Say farewell to all our new found friends in Contramaestra. I began to roll over the new names and faces in my mind as Willy and I pack up the baby blue 56 Chevy on the street out front of the Roach Motel. Glad to be done with all that, or so I thought.

"Excuse me sir!" An old man is standing beside me watching with great interest. Obviously no razor. His thread bare suit has seen better days. Sunken cheeks. Yellowed and missing teeth. A survivor. He raises a keen eyebrow, slyly leans over to me and says, "I can tell you are a veeerrry reeeeech man!"

"Oh yeah? How can you tell that I'm rich?"

A big warm grin spreads from cheek to cheek as he gazes at me with sheer amazement in his sparkling eyes, "Because you stay een a motel and brush your teeth and gargle with Coca Cola!" 

Chapter 6: Corazon!

Driving through the outskirts of Contramaestra we spot the Cuban Beatles relaxing on their front porch. Trying to escape the insidiously creeping, mid morning heat. Ricky and Frankie are there too! Pretty soon it's a jam. An acoustic one -easier on the strings! A little Spanish guitar. Some sweet tight harmonies. I may have heard the old Beatle songs a zillion times, but never like this! Somebody leads us in the "Ballad of John and Yoko" one last time;

Christ you know it ain't easy

You know how hard it can be

The way things are going

They're going to crucify me

I hope the embargo doesn't crush Cuba. That they don't get nailed on a long, lost, Cold War, political cross. Or caught in the crossfire of the next dubious world crisis. But with the way things are going down here -well, God only knows what comes next! It's such a sad, sad situation. You couldn't meet a better people. Anyway, before long the whole neighbourhood's gathered around the porch. It's another End of the World Party! Everybody clapping and singing along! English songs! Cuban songs! It doesn't matter!

"See the drummer?"

"Yes Willy."

"Pedro is the local school director." 

As the Cuban Beatles launch into an obscure Cuban folk number he does the dance that they all love. Up and down Pedro bounces face down on the floor. Keeping his balance. Lightly touching it with his tongue. Could you see your school board director getting down like that in Canada? Hmmm.

Everyone's still dancing, as we drive off. Cubans are like that! Any excuse will do. Anywhere. Anytime. I watch them disappear in the oppressive, sweltering heat through our rear view mirror as we make our way out of town. Back to Santiago de Cuba.

We'll drive across the plains to Palma. Rendezvous with Popo. Probably he's somehow fixed his Polski Fiat by now against all odds. Drive us up back up into the mountains, through El Cristo headed for a return to sheer Godliness; boiled water, a cooked meal and shower at the Toronto Friendship school! I wince at the thought of leaving our Contamaestra amigos y amigas trapped in their desperate hell. And yet, and yet, I'll bet they are still dancing and singing there today against all odds!

We stop for a stretch in the open plains. Everybody has diarrhea except me. Never thought I'd admit it but thank God for Coca Cola and Mr. Big bars! Ha. A lone condor circles lazily overhead as I walk out into the parched wind swept grass. The soil beneath my feet seems to give a hot heavy sigh; caught in an endless cycle of poverty and despair. Cuba; holding on like there's no tomorrow!

We didn't get very far on our road rip into the interior of the island this trip. Maybe it's more than I could take. By all accounts, it only get worse past Contramaestra. We are but on the cusp of the disease and hunger awaiting further inland during the current Special Period. As unimaginable as the embargo. 

I sigh. When my time and money runs out, I get to leave. Catch a flight back to our own little hellish First World malaise. I know, our neo con reality can really suck. But it's all very relative. My Cuban amigos y amigas will always be in the back of my mind. It's an especially heavy cross they must bear. Nothing they can do about it. I'll keep going back to try to help out. A big chunk of my heart will always be in Cuba.

Salud!

Davido

PS: "Cuba and the Night" will continue ......

RELATED READING: 

The Cuban School Project @ CSP

Toronto Friendship School @ Cuba + The Night 2

Traditional Cuban song + dance @ Santiago de Cuba Diary 4

Afrocuban culture, song + dance @ Santiago de Cuba Diary 5

Another Short Story: "Christmas in Cuba [1996]" @ Christmas in Cuba!

Cuba + the Night Part 2: Toronto Friendship School!

March 1996

We arrive at the school under the cover of night: a makeshift, concrete block and sheet metal roof top shack on a dark, narrow, winding street in the barrios. Surrounded by towering palms. Sprawling Ferns. Everything is so still and quiet in the dark, tropical Santiago de Cuba night.

The Toronto Friendship School: An orphan of the night. Born of quiet desperation. I open the door to find everybody waiting in the dark classroom. Quiet whispers. Hushed anticipation. For much needed supplies: used clothing, old textbooks, medicine, simple toiletries. First world cast offs worth -a kings ransom here. They sit on the floor in two bulging black suitcases from Canada, a world far removed.

Nothing illegal. Nothing is being sold here. But the Santiago night has half million pair of eyes and everybody wants a share. Born of economic necessity. Broken dreams. Quick! Let's get rid of this stuff quick! We will divide it among the students and staff. Drat blackout! Fortunately somebody resourceful has rigged some flickering lights. I look about at the familiar faces peering from the classroom shadows. Smiling brightly. Like little children on Christmas Day!

Willy the principal. Matilde, a teacher. Ramon. The other helpers. "Como estas tu/ How are you? Si! Si! I see! I'm so sorry, si! ...."

Much hugs and kisses. Warm embraces. Teary smiles. Tinny salsa music pulsates from an old battered radio for a few hours washing the nightmares away. Hips sway. Everybody laughs, in the face of such adversity as I hope to never suffer.

Willy compulsively counts the school supplies. Meticulously adding everything up with the new calculator I brought him. Once the supplies are gone? Maybe nada/ nothing. The school and his family depend upon simple donations for their very survival. He eyes everyone with suspicion. A good hombre. His noble aspirations perhaps twisted through desperation into a great distrust that eats away at him from within. "Nothing must be wasted!!!"

"Si, Willy! Relax and have a beer!"

Ramon sits skinny arm around his fiance's tiny shoulders. Two sunken faces. A strained smile. Tomorrow they line up for extra food rations which never arrive. She will go to far away Holguin province. A deathwatch over her dying grandmother; for grandma, for the house. If nobody is living there when she dies the government will take it. Someday her and Ramon hope to live there. Raise a big Cuban family. Help each other out. Their only hope. Only chance. Already a broken dream?

Matilde leafs through my Time magazine. Ohhhh! The new cars! The pretty clothes! Someday she will come to Canada. A broken dream? Her family says no. Good communistas. They say no more working at the English school. You don't need to learn English to live in Cuba. Stay here. Marry a good Cuban man. Raise a good Cuban family. Live your life with us in Cuba. But she suffers severe headaches. Stomach pains. No medicine is available. She's still young. Wants so much more. Like food to eat. Decent quarters. So they sent her to Habana to teach mathematics. The few dollars in her pocket, she spent on a cheap pair of Chinese shoes. A pretty cotton dress. A ticket back to the Toronto Friendship School. For how long? She tosses back her long black hair. A look of quiet desperation on her face. Nobody knows what tomorrow will bring.

I hand out the clothing, toiletries and supplies. Ask Ramon to go get the car to head back out into Cuba and the night. Mission accomplished for tonight. Still, it breaks my heart. I feel like a first world Faustus. Look into my eyes, a window to another world, where all your wildest dreams can come true. A brief glance. A little much needed help. But maybe it will cost you your soul. You can never go back to accepting the old ways without question again. Really, your only choice?

I don't mean harm. Don't want your soul. I only want to help. By crossing this impossible divide! To let you know that there are others in our world who care! And yet and yet. I head back out with a heart breaking from under the weight of all the broken dreams into Cuba and the night.

To be Continued .......

RELATED READING

More on the history of the Cuban School Project @ Here!

Part 1 of story below, also more info links .....

Cuba + The Night Part 1: Arrival!

"Cuba and the Night" was originally published on the ENO [Education Network of Ontario] in spring 1996.

"Dos patria tengo yo: Cuba y la noche/ 

Two fatherlands have I: Cuba and the night." 

*Jose Marti*[1]

Flying into Santiago de Cuba through the dark of night; Cuba y la noche/ Cuba and the night. The towering Sierra Maestrae mountains a dark backdrop, highlighting the few sparse city lights lost among the pitch black night. Another blackout? Santiago is a city of 500,0000. Life goes on against all odds. But for how much longer? God only knows! Each time I'm here I think it can't get any worse. But Cuba is plunging deeper and deeper into the dark abyss of the economic boycott. Cuba: dead in the water! Lost in time! A land of ambiguity! Of waiting!

We land between the foothill runway lights at Antonio Maceo airport over looking a black hole where the city should be. Are greeted by a faded mural of Che, 37 years after the revolution, painted on a hanger wall. Faded and peeling. Lit up only by the aircraft lights darting about randomly on the darkened tarmac. Hello third world. We've arrived!

I've got 140 extra pounds of much needed clothing, toiletries and supplies for the Toronto Friendship School. A short line up snakes through customs. Few visitors even though it is March break.

The Custom man wears a home made khaki uniform. Crudely cut red felt stars on his shoulders. A bored look on his face. A pretty sad state of affairs. Cuba, the last battle ground of the now forgotten Cold War. A desperate little island where revolutionary flags still wave and hips sway. He stamps my passport. No problems. So it might seem. 

"Are these for you?" An officer at the exit gate points at my extra big, black suitcases. 

"Er, yup ....."

"Open them please." Soon all my careful packing is sprawled out on the counter.

"School supplies? So many clothes ... what's this? Baby clothes!" Looking up, he pauses. Eyes me queerly,  "And a dress....?" 

"Ummm. Huh. Yes." Oh, for Christ's sake. A dress? Could be tense. I hope not.

Looking me over with bleary eyes, he gives me a devious wink. "Lissen senior .... I can help you out."

"I bet you can."

With a sad nod he explains, "There's a 100% tax on all non personal items entering the country, but for you? $20. That's all. For you, from Canada, its not much..." [2]

"What? Now listen my friend that's...."

"Ah senior, whats this?!?" Pulls out a copy of Time magazine from the side of my carry-on bag. Damned subscription card! Order now and get a free pocket camera? Right. The magazine flips open. Surprise! What luck! We gaze at a cartoon of Cuban President Fidel Castro on the next page. The headline? "Why We Shot Them Down" The picture? Fidel in khaki green. 2 Cessna aircraft buzz around his head. Pesky mosquito's on a hot Caribbean night. He holds up 2 fingers and is smiling. The other officers glance over. Start to gather around. Look at the picture. Look back at me. Their poker faces tell all. Prohibido/ This is not allowed! Shit! [3]

"Amigo, no problem. Canada and Cuba are friends. I am sorry." 

They watch me glumly in stone silence, "My Spanish is not so good. Perhaps there is a misunderstanding. $20 you say?"

"Si. $20." 

"Here. Here is your $20."

"Si. Sign here." 

I try scribbling down my name. Wouldn't you know it. His pen doesn't work. Cheap commie pen. Ha. Fish around in bags. Use a school pen.

A travel rep saunters over, "Sir, which hotel are you staying at?"

"Er ... Yours!"

"Well, we are all waiting outside for you on the hotel bus."

"OK. OK. Here amigo. Please, let me give you my pen. With so many problems in your country, its the least I can do!" 

I hand the pen to the customs officer, "Well then, I better be off." 

Sweating buckets, I close my bags, "Better catch my bus to the hotel. Yup. Can't keep everybody waiting!"

Nonchalantly pick up my magazine slipping it back in my bag too. Hand my new friend of sorts an extra pen, bidding him farewell.

Whew! Outside the arrival gate, my car from the school waits. 

"Quick guys! El pronto! Let's get out of here quick!"

From the rear window I can see the tour rep waving frantically, "Senior! Senior! Your bus! Your bus to the hotel!"

The police lean against the railing. Bored. Listless. Look up. God knows they need something to do! Always another dollar to be made! But we are out of here! Nobody any the wiser. Without pause, calmly driving off into Cuba and the night.... 

So begins another Cuban adventure!

RELATED READING:

The Cuban School Project Story @ CSP

Santiago de Cuba: Faded Glory Lost in Time @ Here

Christmas in Cuba: The Complete Series [1996] @ Here!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Poemas de Jose Marti: "Dos Patrias" 1:1

[2] I will go to the Ministry of Education in Habana to complain about the tax and duties on donations in a later story, "A La Habana". 

[3] It was a complicated news story that nixed one of a number of earlier efforts to normalize US Cuba relations. The Cessna aircraft had been flying through flight paths over Habana air dropping propaganda flyers. The cartoon seems to have long disappeared from view, but I will see if I can still find it. Time magazine wants $$$$ but you can see links to the article and issue @ Time [March 11 1996]

A Whirlwind Trip To New York City!

More pictures still coming ....

At the Freedom Tower

Whew! That was quite a whirlwind trip to New York! Janet and I arrived from Toronto at 9 am Friday. I was rather bleary eyed and cranky but still feeling up for it. We were pretty much just go go go from then til we got back last night. It was bitterly cold, except for yesterday when we could finally walk around. Otherwise we had to take cabs. Too bad! I like walking about just exploring. No matter, we still had a fine time!

We dropped our bags off at the Roosevelt Hotel at 45 + 5th Streets about 10 am. It's a reno from the mid 1920's. Quite grand in a period piece fashion. Our 16th floor room was typically New York sized; small but quite adequate, and the price was right: 2 nights for about $800 [Cdn] each, including round trip air flight. We enjoyed the better part of 3 days in NYC, so it worked out well.

The Empire State Building

Our first stop was the Empire State Building. It was built shorty after the hotel. Janet has always wanted to go up to the top but there's been a huge crowd, with maybe even a two or three hour wait. I can't stand that. It would give me a big anxiety attack. This time since it was very, very cold and windy we walked in and went straight up.

It was a crisp sunny day. Peer over the rail at the top and you will see it is quite a long way down. There's a forest of sky scrappers on every side. The river. The boroughs. All stretching out to the horizon for as far as one can see. Yup. This is New York all right. It should be renamed Skyscraper National Park. I think so.

Empire State Building view of Manhattan

Next we took a cab over the Williamsburg bridge to the first music store on my list; Rough Trade NYC. It just opened here recently. I've been to both London England locations. Rough Trade usually has a pretty esoteric collection. I found a whack of reggae and dub cds I've been looking for. Shopping in New York was not exactly cheap, even discounting the drop in the Canadian dollar compared to the last visit in Summer 2011. It's too bad that the Rough Trade Cafe wasn't open. However, they have free in store internet so Janet surfed the net while I did my music thing.

We caught another a cab to Deadly Dragon Sound. It's in Chinatown back on Manhattan island. The shop is really just a hole in the wall, with lots of vintage 45's, mostly reggae, soul and funk. The owner was friendly and helpful in between busily working on the computer listing his inventory onto the store website. It might do well to visit the store online. Otherwise there's just dusty boxes of records stacked everywhere, and a couple of racks of music books to see. I bought a very hard to find used copy of "Dub: Soundscapes + Shattered Songs in Jamaican Reggae" by Michael E Veal [like in the sandwich!], an Associate Professor of Ethnomusicology at Yale. Nice score!

From the Empire State Building looking towards the 9/11 site

It was dark by now as we cabbed over to the World Trade Centre 9/11 Memorial Site. The new brightly lit Freedom Tower loomed far overhead in the dark, quite the site to behold. It's open for business during working hours, but sightseers won't be allowed in until next June or July. I ate a huge pretzel I bought from a street vendor. Munched on it while I yapped with a conspiracy theorist who had his placards spread out on the ground, was eager to explain all. Quite intriguing. Pleasant. Logically consistent whether one believes his theory or not. I left with some of his pamphlets to look over later. Tossed the pretzel in a garbage can. Way too much salt!

We took another cab back to the Roosevelt hotel, then walked over to Grand Central Station looking for the Record Mart, the next music store on my list. Regretfully, it was inside the subway station, so one needs to pay to go in. If I lived in NYC I'd probably drop by from time to time as I was travelling about on the subway. It's fairly small, but stacked with used dvd's, cds and records all along, up and down the crowded walls. Quite busy. Kind of grimy. I'd suspect that's no fault of the shop owner. Let's just say the store had a subway sort of ambiance about it. It mostly stocked Latin music, salsa, and some reggae. 

Janet and I had planned to go out and do some fine dining. However, we usually just ate on the run. There are lots of good pubs and neighbourhood diners close to the hotel. Our regular haunt blasted rock music way too loud. I do enjoy my rock, so that was okay, all things considered. Janet was just too tuckered out to say much I'd guess. Knows my idiosyncrasies only too well. There was football on the big t.v. screens. The food was strictly pub fare with a touch of greasy spoon but good and hearty. We both liked the club sandwiches, steak burgers and fish n' chips. 

Officer! Please arrest the mad man in that car .... that one too!

That night the heat was cranked up high in our hotel room. There was little we could do about it. I sweat it out on top of the sheets. Quite ironic. There wasn't much time for sleep anyway because Saturday morning we were up and at it early again. Janet wanted to go to Macy's. It's billed as the world's biggest department store. 

This is Black Friday Week, as it's now called. There's supposed to be all sorts of bargoons at Macy's though we didn't see many. Everything was pretty much just expensive but there are all sorts of discounts if you sign up for a Macy's card. They wanted photo i.d and to ask all sorts of personal questions. We don't walk around the streets of New York with our passports. No way. However, I had my Ontario driver's licence. It took a long time to verify. Then they wanted to know how much I earn at work. By now I was getting pretty p.o'd and wrote down "0" which did not go over well even though It's true. I'm retired. I don't work anymore. I was definitely getting into a snit.

We only qualified for a 10% discount as Canucks, not 20% like a registered visitor with a Macy's card and so on. I left Janet to do the shopping while I went down the street to chill out at Starbucks. Surfed the internet over another wake up coffee or two. To make a long story short, Janet found a very nice pair of Rayban sunglasses for the beach. Okay price, but nothing to dance in the street about. Suffice to say neither of us was overly impressed with Macey's. 

Mid afternoon we went back to the hotel to rest up a bit. Grab dinner at the pub again. Then we headed to Times Square for the evening. It's extremely glitzy and commercial. The lights very overpowering. No doubt there's a certain hypnotic "wow" factor to it all. The very heart of the modern day American Babylon.

Times Square was jam packed with folks walking up and down the strip, just hanging out, even in the bitter cold. Most of the trashy souvenir stores are gone. It's now jam packed tight with big box stores, open to all hours in the city that never sleeps. The hustlers were trying to sell show tickets. Who knows if they are real? Other then that they were posing in goofy costumes to try to get our attention. And of course if you should want to take a picture you pay. Very overdone by a factor of at least 10. Rather dull and irritating.
Time for a new act!

There was a lot of construction. For reasons unknown they are digging up the centre of both the street and square, packing everyone very tightly onto the crowded sidewalks. Meanwhile the cars where trying to drive through and getting absolutely nowhere. Backed up for god knows how long. Honking like crazy. Lots of hotheads and street rage. It all seemed totally pointless if not fascinating. They weren't going to be going anywhere anytime soon. The end result is total gridlock. It reminded me of downtown Toronto. Or vice versa. Very much so.

Time Square

Our highlight Sunday was a visit by cab to the 9/11 site again. We tried to use the subway maps, token machines, Iphone apps etc. etc. etc. Found it too overwhelming. We've used the New York subway during the summer and it was okay. But not when we are all bundled up in the freezing cold. No. No way. It's not for us. 

The World Trade Centre 9/11 Memorial site is quite peaceful and pleasant. I am quite fond of it. Many of the surrounding buildings have been torn down and rebuilt in a late post modern style, I'd think. Lots of reflective glass and different shaped buildings. The nearly finished Freedom Tower resembles a sheet of mirrored glass stretching up, pointing to the sky. I saw a fairly low flying jet arc overhead, leaving behind a ghostly smoke plume silhouetted against the tower in it's wake. It's odd when things like that just happen eh? It took on a whole other significance that made me wince. Anyway, the new tower is a few stories short of the old Twin Towers, but the rooftop antennae cone makes it taller. It's now the tallest building in New York. 

I really like how the Twin Tower foundations remain as just 2 gaping holes, surrounded by sidewalks and open green space. There are waterfalls pouring down all four sides. The outer edges have the names of the dead stretching the whole length of the walls. One just mentioned a mother's name and "her unborn child". Thinking about it still chokes me up.The names are carved deep into the metal ledges and people stick little flowers in them. I saw a small Canadian flag flapping over one in the stiff breeze. 

Janet wanted to go shopping at Century 21. Like a souped up Macey's it is pricey and vastly overrated. She didn't buy much. There is a record bar downstairs. It's called J+R Express. The old J+R was a really excellent block long discount electronic, camera, dvd and music store, not far away. A sales clerk told me Century 21 bought them out and this is all that remains. Too bad. Like in most of the music stores, the record albums are now quite decidedly pushing the CD's aside and taking over. I bought a stack of classic rock titles. Not exactly cheap nor unique, but there are lots all in one place. I think I do better in Toronto to be quite frank. Especially down in the new record ghetto down by Queen St West, Bathurst and Spadina. Still I did okay.

On our way back to the Roosevelt we asked the taxi driver if he knew anybody who had died on 9/11. He said he'd had a contract to drive business folk back and forth from the Twin Towers. Lots of them, every day for many years. Then he never saw any of them again. Wow. 

Janet wanted to take pictures of an architecturally unique skyscraper, the former 1904 Breslin Hotel which is being incorporating into the design of a building in Toronto. She wanted to see what it looks like with people using it and so on. I walked around inside a bit too then went across the street to a retail/ wholesaler at the corner of Broadway and West 29th who specializes in E-vapourizers and other groovy related medical paraphernalia to cool the nerves or whatever ails you. Nice stuff. The prices are about the same in Toronto although there was more variety than in most stores. 

Roosevelt Hotel Lobby

We relaxed in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel just enjoying the splendour for a bit. Watching folk come and go. Then we took a cab back early to LaGuardia, just in case it was busy, so as to try avoid the rush. We were quite pooped from our whirlwind adventure and ready to go home. There weren't any crowds in Terminal D. We sat and used the free internet.

I was surprised at how relatively good the airport food was at the take out counters. Seriously, I don't expect much if anything at an airport when it comes to food. I had a nice fried chicken dinner; a meaty leg with two sides; potatoes and corn. Nothing fancy but well prepared and quite cheap. Our airplane arrived on time, but was then late getting out onto the runway where we got stuck in a long queue of jets. I watched as they took off, one after another outside my window. Saw the lights of New York stretched out as far as I could see as we took off up into the night sky. 

The flight between New York and Toronto is only an hour or so. I slept. We were still home in time for Walking Dead, quite tuckered out but happy with our trip. I'm always quite glad to be back home in our old familiar setting and routine. Now I can relax, space out, just listen to my new records and read my dub book for the next few days. Our trip was lots and lots of fun, though we don't plan to return during winter again. Still, I'd definitely give our New York City adventure a big two thumbs up!

There's no place like home!

PS: I didn't include any addresses. If interested you can easily Google them. Everyone's got a website these days it seems. 

RELATED BLOGS:

Some thoughts @ Remembering 9/11

A review of our 2011 NYC trip @ Canuck's Guide