Food Journey

My new friend Augustine meets me right on time, not a second late and I take note of how nice that feels to not sit waiting forever for someone to not even show up.  He tells me that he wants me to see how he gets his food, and shows me his ration book explaining to me that they mark it every week when he goes to pick up his food.  We walk out of the tourist area of Havana Vieja into what I am now calling “Havana Verdad,”  which is the vast maze of slums that showcase barely standing buildings, staircases reinforced by rotting wood and metal scraps, and piles of dog shit that inspire you to keep your eyes down watching your step all the time. 

We approach a small line of people standing waiting for their meat rations, all holding dirty plastic bags that will transport the meat home for them.  There are bars on the windows like a jail, and a man stands behind the counter smoking a cigar and drinking a tiny jar of black coffee.  Agostine hands him his ration book and he checks off the date, and scribbles in it then hands it back. 

I am touched by the friendliness and spirit of everyone in line.  Everyone is laughing and making jokes.  Agostine is gregarious and seems to bring a playful spirit to the scene.  I watch as another man who cuts the meat cuts off a few chunks of meat for my friend and puts it in his bag.  This is his ham for the week.   It looks more like a big fat weird hotdog than actual ham.  It’s some kind of processed food product I’d be afraid to eat after it’s been sitting out for who knows how long, unrefrigerated and touched by who knows how many hands and dirty, unsanitized knives. 

My beautiful smiling friend takes his rations with a big smile, pats his friends on the back and we re-enter the street.  I wish I had filmed the whole thing.  I wonder how I’m possibly going to get over my camera shyness and get to the job of getting good footage.  Maybe my project will be less video and more writing.  I just feel invasive and rude pointing a camera at people’s personal lives.  It’s a block for me and I’m frustrated by myself for it.

I know I’m missing so many incredible moments in my fear of being rude or intrusive.  When I see tourists pointing cameras into people’s windows and lives, I find myself irritated by it and so it’s hard for me to be that person.  I have so much respect for these people and I wouldn’t want someone coming to my community and pointing a camera at me when I’m standing in line at the store.  I’d probably bitch slap ‘em.  I think about pulling out some pesos and just paying people to make myself feel better about it.  I know if I did no one would bat an eye, they’d take the pesos and be grateful maybe even, but I don’t do it.  I will just have to live with my regret  for the passed opportunity. 

We walk thru more of the slums of Havana Verdad and he tells me, “This market I’m taking you to, don’t ever come down here at night.  This is a dangerous place at night, people come here for cocaine, you know cocaine?”  I reach for my bag for a moment feeling some anxiety and wondering for a moment if I’m being taken into a trap.  Then I laugh recognizing my mother’s fear trying to surface in me. 

My mother, sweet little lady that she is, lives in fear of just about anything and everything no matter how unlikely it might be, or even impossible.  When I was in school, she would tell me to lock the car doors when we were driving 50 mph down the highway because someone might just jump into the car and grab me.  I would always argue that humans can’t run that fast and it would make her so mad when I’d live on the edge and defy her and keep my door unlocked just to show that I wasn’t afraid.  I suddenly realize today is her birthday and while I know I can't call her, I send her my love in a moment of blessing.

I relax my grip on my bag.  I know that this man is genuinely a good person and I let out a facetious “Oh my god! Where are you taking me?! I’m so scared!”  at the excitement of being in a dangerous part of the city.  

He taps me on the shoulder and laughs with me and puts his arm around me.  I am enjoying this new friend, and feeling so grateful for shared time with someone who will actually be present with me and offer me the comfort and friendship I need in this place right now. 

The market is bustling and offers all the food I am looking for at good Cuban peso prices. I buy a big papaya, pineapple, greens, tomatoes, avocados and bananas then a few bags of peanuts for us to munch on on the way back to my casa.  I spent the equivalent of $4 and have enough food for the week.  Agostine refuses to let me carry anything and still manages to have a free hand to slap me on the back when he’s laughing.