Visiting Ishmael

-->

We pull up in front of my good friend Ishmael’s house and he comes rolling out with a huge smile on his face when he sees me and takes me in his arms!  My gentle giant.  The father and brother I never had by blood live in this tender sweet giant of a man.  We are both so happy to see each other again and tears are coming from our eyes as we embrace and look at each other in love!   

Jesusicto, my drum and Santeria teacher from my last trip, is on the roof of the house next door and hollers down to me with a huge smile on his face.

I look back at the car and introduce my friends to each other. I can tell Manuel is a little jealous.  “He’s a good man,” I think.  I  know he needs to be on his way.   When we were leaving Habana, he at first said he didn’t have time to take me from Havana to Cojimar, but when he watched me try to get on the overcrowded bus, his big heart came calling and I heard him beep the horn and he waved me back to the car, “Get in, I’ll take you.”  I smiled the whole way.

I am sad when he leaves and wish that he could stay by my side every minute and truly share this journey with me, but I know he is here on his own journey and needs to tend to his family.  I kiss him gently and say goodbye, “Be careful. You OK to get home from here? I care about you, I don’t anything bad to happen to you here,” he says and I am touched by his concern.   “I’m fine, I’m with friends. See you soon,” and I turn to put my attention on reconnecting with Ishmael.

Ishmael tells me that Sunday he’s having a party at his house, a ceremony to celebrate the birthday of his being reborn into Santos.  His 8^th birthday.  The bliss and contentment between us is so sweet and pure as it always was, and so easy.  His house is a disaster.  I don’t remember it ever looking so bad when I was here before. 

We walk to the market and I buy some food for us, knowing he probably hasn’t had fresh vegetables in some time.  Being with him again is pure comfort and a reminder of true friendship and we walk the blocks to his house laughing and chatting and catching up on 2 years of not seeing each other.

I make him a big salad with fried green tomatoes and do my best to work in a kitchen and space that is so deeply in need of cleaning that it’s hard for me to be present and prepare food there.  It reeks of animal shit, piss and just poor care.  I put my mind to the task of making a healthy meal for us in an unsanitary environment and pray that I don’t get sick.  

His whole house has gotten worse.  It’s falling apart.  I hear water running and I ask him about it.  He shows me that his fixture on his shower has broken and tells me it costs 50 CUC to fix.  Obviously, he doesn’t have 50 CUC.  I know that I will help him with that.  I have to.  It’s my offering back for all that he has given me.

A few hours together, and it’s almost sunset.  He gets me a ride back to the city for 5 CUC which is a pretty decent deal from what I remember paying before up to 20 CUC, but a far cry from being a fair price knowing that the Cuban price would be one tenth of that.  I walk home along the Malacon reflecting on the incredible contradictions and concerns that this culture exists in.

I wonder if anything I thought I came here to do will actually happen on this trip.  Somehow, it feels like the direction has shifted, but I’m not sure yet where it will land.