Visiting Ishmael

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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.

Day Loving

Havana is such a proud beautiful city.  It breathes of an incredibly rich history filled with gambling, whores and empassioned dreams that have been left to rot in the shadows of Castro’s reign.  It is a world of it’s own, both ancient and contemporary filled with so many striking contradictions.  Street vendors, bent over and crooked, cackle across the city pushing carts of vegetables or pastries while teenages with 10 facial piercings and hip tight clothes saunter by with cell phones stuck to their ears. 

Beautifully restored colonial buildings hover over ghetto like barely standing hovels of homes where little old wrinkled Cuban women wear rags and men smoking cigars sit for hours in the doorways watching the city roll by.   I can’t help but wonder what their lives have been.  Still they manage to offer a smile when I walk by and say good day to me as I take a morning stroll to welcome the city into my heart today. 

I sit by the water and watch the city wake up then stroll casually back to my casa as if I know where I’m going in this maze of a city.  I don’t and I let the process of being lost become a practice in faith.   Somehow I find my way back after wandering for a half hour enjoying the process of being lost here with so many smiling faces and such a fascinating expression of life happening everywhere around me.

I return from this lovely morning stroll along the Malacon and there is a knock at the door of my casa.  I am surprised to see Manuel standing there and even more surprised at how excited I am to see him.  He scoops me up and we spend part of the day driving around to drop off packages for his mother and exchange money.  His cousin and another friend are with us and the car is a buzzing bundle of fiery conversation in lightning fast Spanish that leaves my head spinning.   

He often puts his hand on my thigh tenderly as he drives and I wonder if his cousin knows we are lover.   I can feel our desire growing all day.  I feel free, alive and like a rock star cruising thru the burbs of Cuba.  I find myself thinking about being alone with him and in the middle of a conversation with his brother in law, he stops and asks me, “What are you thinking about?”  he asks me in English, now our secret language with a car full of non-english speakers.

“Tu Sabes.” I say in spanish, without looking at him at all.   “Wow!” he says, and we both smile in the knowingness of our secret desire as he squeezes my thigh in his strong hand. 

A few hours later, our anticipation peaked by hours of gentle touches, knowing smiles and pure magnetism, he sends his brother in law to lunch and takes me back to my room.  Somehow the intensity of Habana has intensified everything between us.  This city reeks of sexual desire, lust and passion.  There is a primal animalistic pulse that seems to chant, “Fuck me, fuck me,” from every corner and every pair of wanting eyes; the sexual energy is intoxicatingly strong in this city. The men here seem to be ready to devour anything in their path and the women seem receptive to being devoured with their skin tight skin revealing clothes and parted lips.   

Our passion is so intense and so beautifully met together.  He rips at my clothes, pulling them off before we even reach the bed.  Without hesitation, he is inside me still standing up, pulling my hair gently and sending me into total surrendered pleasure.  His chocolate lips and black hands look so beautiful on my skin and his body feels so good inside of mine I almost think I’m dreaming.   After months of secret scheming together, we made it to Cuba. Yet even here, our time together is short and not enough. 

I know I am falling in love and I am scared, but I have no choice other than to surrender.  The loving with this man just continues to get more beautiful, more profound, deeper and sweeter.  I can tell his feelings are deepening too and that he cares for me, and maybe that he’s a little scared too.  He’s taken good care of me here and the tenderness and sensitivity that he’s been showing have been opening my heart along with my body. 

I also know this is a love affair that has no chance of lasting once he leaves Cuba, but I don't care. For now, we are here and I'm enjoying every minute of it.  I know that when he leaves me today  I will not see him again for a few days, and that we won’t have a lot of time here to share in reality.  My heart sinks, but I practice non-attachment and gratitude for this moment now. I know his priority here, as at home, is taking care of his family and doing the right thing.

He rolls over and takes me in his arms for just a few moments before making love to me again.  He always comes for seconds and I am always happy to oblige.  We get up and get dressed to return for his brother in law.  I am off to Cojimar soon to visit old friends there and Manuel has to take his mother back to the Campo three hours from Habana.

At least for another day, I am successful at not asking him when he will leave his wife.

Entering Habana

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Soft light comes thru the slits of the heavy wooden folding blinds and kisses my forehead with dawn.  I hear a rooster crow and a child cry in the distance and I feel a surge of delicate bliss pulse through me remembering where I am.  I love the morning sounds of a village awakening.   I love the way his body feels next to me and the rhythm of his breath.  Even his morning breath is sweet.  His black body looks divine laying naked next to me and my desire for him stirs gently as I curl in deeper to him. 

The cacophony of roosters, barking dogs, laughing and crying children all serenaded by the rhythmical incantations of street vendors selling food and chatting with their clients is a musical soundscape that comforts me in a way that I can’t quite explain but that is profoundly soothing.  I lay motionless listening to the orchestra of life unfolding with a huge smile inside. Even though I would have loved to sleep longer, I absolutely love waking up this way.

As the house began to stir and the family started it’s day, I found myself a little anxious to get to the city and get settled in to my own space. Mostly I know it’s because I am concerned that his family might ask me questions I didn’t know how to answer.  He is my lover, much more than a friend.   I’m not sure what he has told them or how it is perceived here in Cuba for a man to have an affair, although I have a feeling it’s pretty normal and not much of a big deal.  I can’t imagine that they would be so nieve to think that we shared a bed without being lovers.  I walk into the kitchen and his mother is showing his sister pictures of the baby and something in my heart sinks a little bit. 

But what can I do?  We’ve been lovers for almost three months now.  I am the one he seeks comfort in from the stress of his unhappy marriage.  I am the one he’s with in Cuba, not his wife.  I don’t know how it’s perceived that we shared a bed, but I am very happy when his mother comes in and gives me a warm welcome and a kiss on the cheek in the morning after he arises.  I feel like at least she has found a way to accept me for now, whether she knows or not, and for that I am grateful.

The brother of another Cuban friend of mine who lives in Miami shows up to take me to see some casas in Habana.  Alexander is dressed head to toe in white with a big thick gold chain, a  big gold tooth and some of the biggest lips I’ve ever seen.  I can’t help but think he’d be the perfect model for a cartoon character with lips like those and I have a hard time not staring at them when he talks.   I’m pretty sure that he speaks at least 1000 words a minute although it all sounds like one big word to me.  Still I get the gist enough to understand that the ex wife of a friend of his has a room he thinks would be suitable enough for me at a decent price and that he’d like to show it to me.

Something about his energy and the way he talks and moves makes me feel uncomfortable, on edge and protective.  I can’t quite figure out what it is, but I don’t feel safe with him so I am grateful when Manuel offers to drive me to Habana to be sure I am safe and settled before he leaves to visit the rest of his family in another province. I also notice that he’s a little jealous of Alexander and I enjoy watching him be protective of me and the way he puts his hand on my knee in the car to claim me as his novia. 

Driving into Habana I feel a mixture of emotions.  Moments of “what the fuck am I doing here” are followed by feelings of total excitement, opportunity and bliss.  As soon as we get into the city, Manuel turns up the volume and I feel like I’m in a Cuban hip hop video.  I’m starring as the bad ass crazy white bitch sitting next to a super hot black Cuban guy rolling thru the slums of Habana.  The comic relief comes from Alexander’s cartoon character’s lips flapping in the back seat giving us directions as the melodramatic visual play of Habana begins to imprint itself on my mind.

The city is an insane maze that unfolds thru the car window in a flurry of faces, smells, and sounds.   The men look thru me fearlessly with an intense animalistic sexual hunger that both scares me and excites me at the same time.  The women don’t meet my gaze.   Undeniably, Habana stinks.  It smells of piss, shit and diesel fuel.  We cruise slowly like gangsters into the heart of the city on skinny cobblestone streets packed with bike taxi’s, food vendors and pedestrians with the music blasting.

It’s a city of total contrast everywhere I look.   It’s one of the most incredibly beautiful cities I’ve ever seen on one corner and the most wretched decaying pile of rubble and shit on the next.   I’ve been here once before so some things and places are familiar, but the part of town we are driving through right now is deep in the heart of non-touristy Habana and the energy and vibe is dark, intense and poverty ridden. 

I am every emotion possible in addition to being exhausted and mentally stretched by trying to speak and understand Spanish at warp speed.  I find myself slapping my hand against the side of the car in rhythm to the music to keep myself grounded.  I feel the edges of doubt creeping in about everything I’m here to do.  Can I really survive in a city this big?  How can I possibly penetrate a city this big to find anything or offer anything?  It feels intimidating, scary, and like the buildings could just collapse on me at any time. 

I remember reading stories about buildings collapsing here in the city from old age and I ask Manuel and Alexander about it.  The answer I get isn’t so reassuring.  “ Oh yes it happens, one just collapsed close to hear last week, but don’t worry, the house I’m taking to you is two blocks away and totally safe.”  I find myself wondering how two blocks in this neighborhood could make any difference whatsoever. 

We turn another corner and I start to feel an increasing anxiety as Manuel translates Alexander’s words for me while we pull up to the house.  “He says here you shouldn’t walk alone. If you want to go out at night, call him and he will walk with you.  Don’t walk with your camera or computer anywhere here, it’s not safe.”   I’ve already decided I won’t be staying here and we haven’t even entered the house. 

After an hour or so of driving me to look at different places in Havana, I end up choosing the one I had made my original reservation at and making a good deal with the owners of the casa, Orlando and Darlene for 10 days.   I am grateful to Manuel for helping me land here and giving me some time to explore my options and a little bit sad when he leaves to get back to his family after lunch together.  “Be careful here.  I care about you and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” he says before he leaves and I am touched by his sincerity.

My new home for now is a small room in Havana Vieja.  It is very safe, very clean and incredibly quiet for being in the heart of a city of 2 million people.  I realize that these old buildings create an effective sound barrier and actually afford people here some peace in the midst of chaos. 

My first night in the city and I am completely exhausted at 8 PM.  I don’t feel ready to take on anything else.   I am alone at last in my room, and all I want to do really is go to sleep and rest.   My wild side wants to go out and wander Habana, to dance all night and rock it, but my wise side reminds me that I have 3 weeks ahead of me and that rest and some quiet time are what’s needed.  It’s hard to resist the sounds of drums bouncing off the walls into my window, but I dig out my ear plugs and in minutes I am fast asleep.

The Return

The tires of the plane hit the ground and the plane erupts into a joyous yip.  Already the expressive spirit of this island is singing through me.  We have arrived in Cuba.  I feel a sense of coming home.  It feels warm and welcoming and tinged with the elusively intriguing sense of despair that I know is also deep in the heart of Cuba and it’s people.

My Cuban lover, Manuel, sits next to me.  He touches my hand lightly and smiles.  I want to devour him right now and pray that somehow tonight we can be together.  It’s been more than a week now since we’ve been able to enjoy each other and have time together.  We've been sort of secretly planning this trip together for over a month and I am excited for the moment when I can pull him deep inside me to incite his incantations of passion and pleasure.  I’ve been trying to tell myself I won’t sleep with him again, and that it's best for us to just be friends, but the draw is so strong, we both know it’s inevitable.

Looking out the window, there is a soft haze spreading across the tarmac and the airport looks bleak and uninviting; almost intimidating, but I know what lies beyond is a world of rhythm and magic.  For that I am excited.  It's been almost two years since I've been here.  My heart has been aching since I left and to land here right now, with this beautiful God creature of a man next to me and months spent learning to dance salsa feels divinely perfect!  I know that this trip will only intensify my love of this culture, it's music and it's magic and I know too that when I leave the aching in my heart will return both for this man and his country.

I also know that getting through customs will be a game of hoop jumping and tolerance, of trying to smile even as the contents of my bag are spread out and ripped through by customs officers. I know that I will lie when they ask me if I have brought gifts for Cuban friends and say "No, it's all my personal stuff," even as they look at the large men's shirts and shoes that clearly won't fit my feet.   I remember well enough watching and experiencing this last time, and I am already trying to find the right things to say to make it easier for myself and hoping I don’t stumble too much in the process.

A few hour later, after trying to re-stuff my once carefully well over packed bag with my things, I find myself in a taxi heading to Manuel’s sister’s home for dinner.  The adventure has begun. I made it through the first obstacle.  I am happy and content and smiling inside.  This is totally not what I had planned but I’m following my lover’s lead and grateful to not be left alone yet.

My somewhat limited Spanish hasn’t kicked in yet and I’m relatively clueless as to what’s actually going on, where we are going and what I’m actually getting myself into, but I know that I’m safe and that the most important part of this journey is trusting the flow and being open to it’s mysteries.
I get in the car and do my best to try to remember how to roll r’s and understand Spanish and to try not to be mad at Manuel for putting me in this car with his family rather than taking me with him in the rental car.  I know he is trying to hide the fact that we are lovers from his family and since this was not a part of our plan, I just go along with it to keep things moving along.  I am not sure what’s normal in this kind of a situation and if he wants me to go with his family and not with him, then OK.

I watch the scenery go by and feel the present moment arriving for me to continue to welcome while reminding myself to let go of expectations and be open in each moment.  I love the nostalgia and charm of the old cars, horse drawn carts, cowboys with big phat cigars hanging from their lips, and even the unique stench of Habana lingering like thick stinky pudding in the air.    An hour or so later we roll over huge potholes into a typical Cuban cement home neighborhood.

Manuel’s family all greeted me with hugs and kisses and welcome me in as part of the family, even though clearly I am a stranger to them.  I was pretty sure none of them even knew I was coming or had any idea why some white woman who couldn’t speak or understand much Spanish was in their midst, yet I felt totally welcomed and at home with them nonetheless.

My favorite person was the grandmother.  She sat on the front porch and smiled at me with a cigar in her wrinkly toothless mouth and held my hand with a grip that was nearly bonecrushing.  A strong woman even at 87.  She spoke in a garbled Spanish and I didn’t understand even one syllable much less a word of it, but somehow we had some interesting conversations in spite of it and laughed a lot together.

They fed me well, and within a few hours, any discomfort or unease I might initially have felt dissolved as the rum was passed and the music came on.  I found myself feeling grateful that I’d spent so much time learning to dance salsa in the past few months in Colorado.  Manuel watched me dance and I was able to catch a few of his comments to his uncles and cousins, "Ella suave si?  Baile bien."  I liked the way he watched me dance and encouraged me to dance with his family.  We danced for hours in the tiny living room of their modest home and the joy in my heart grew.

More family members came throughout the night and I was entertained by being passed from one man to the next for the evening, all of them wanting to see how the white woman danced.   The women sat and watched my feet, talking amongst themselves in lightning fast spanish and gave appreciative smiles and nods of acknowledgement.  They occasionally got up and joined the dancing and when I got tired the men danced with each other which was really amusing and beautiful to witness.

My heart was so blasted open in this first night.  I felt such love, such family and such appreciation for this opportunity to be here and remember that there is a way of living that invites the heart to play and be touched, and that even as a stranger, I can be welcomed and invited as family and to the joy of the dance of life! 

The Cuban people know this way as their way. It’s normal here to celebrate with dancing and music in the home with family.  Through the music and dance, hearts are opened, friendships are made and joy is shared.  It was  a perfect first night.

I find myself feeling a sense of belonging and family that I rarely have felt in my own family.  I can't help but make the mental note that I've never shared a dance with anyone in my "family," and feel a little bit sad that this is something I will never have as my own, but that I can only borrow and experience in this way with other people who are not my "blood" relatives.

I am sitting outside on the porch alone trying not to cry feeling the gravity of this realization and the tenderness in my heart that comes from this bliss, and a little rum,  and Yankel, Manuel's most beautiful young cousin comes down to chat with me.  "Como estas?  Esta bien?" He says to me, and I try in my pathetic spanish to share with him what I'm feeling.  "In just one night with your family, I feel closer and more kinship than I ever have in my own blood family in 41 years.  It's sad to me, and I am also so happy to know that it is possible somewhere in the world, thank you."   He puts his arm around me and reminds me in words and gesture that family isn’t just about blood, but about how we can be together and what connects our hearts.

When it got late and I got tired, I went to lay down to rest in the guest room where my bags had been placed.  Manuel came in and said, “You want to sleep here?”

“I’m so tired baby, can I stay here?  Is it OK? I feel uncomfortable going to your uncle’s house.”

“You can stay here, but you know if you stay here, I’m going to come in and make a lot of noise and make love to you tonight.”

“Please, hurry back then,” was all I could say before I pretended to pass out.

I was tired and dozed in and out, in anticipation of his return for hours.    Finally I began to realize that perhaps he wasn’t coming back.  I wished I had gone with him to take his uncle home.  Maybe he was sleeping somewhere else as to not make me uncomfortable in his sister’s home, or maybe he was in another room, but I began to think for sure that he wasn’t coming back tonight.  I fell into a deep sleep.

Morning was just starting to break when I felt him come to bed.  I reached out my arms and pulled him into me, half asleep but so happy to feel his strong body in my arms again at last.  Instantly he was inside me and my body had no resistance.

As always, we made love twice, coming together both times in bliss. We were both so happy to feel each other again. I laid with my body wrapped around him feeling so content to feel him here in his homeland and to hear the sound of his heart, beating in my ear, and the gentle rhythm of his breath.  I realized I could even learn to like snoring if it was his.