Excerpts from the trip journal #2
8 Dec, 2004. Plaza de la Revolucion. Bayamo, Granma Province, Cuba.
...sitting in the plaza all afternoon writing and eating peso ice cream, I had time to reflect and consider, and nearly as important, to write it down. I thought about how no one in Cuba paid on a mortgage, either the family owned the dwelling and had for generations, or the state did and provided practically free housing. With the shelter situation taken care of, and utilities thrown in as part of the deal, and as we already know school and medical care state subsidized, there are very few substantial costs left to the masses. So it is that people can afford to earn their living selling pan con biztec for 4 pesos each on a street corner. There is much to think about with regards to the potential fusion of certain traditionally socalist elements with the mobility and reward for innovation and effeciancy that capitolism inspires. Because for all the idealism in the world, the housing situation in Cuba is substandard and unequal, and trying to live soley on a ration book leaves the body chronically malnourished. But the feverent adherance to a soley capitol based economy has given way to something nearly as subversive in this country, that dedication to consumption that pulls more and more families into debt and the future of our society into question. Long bus rides across the island interspersed with the piercing viasage of Che Guevera lent themselves to long thoughts about the nature of governments and economies.
After reaching the summit of Pico Turquino, the highest point in Cuba high amongst the mountains of the Sierra Maestra (birthplace and stronghold of revolutionary fighters in the 50's), my guide and I began the long descent down and back into the valley below. My guides shoe had been giving him trouble for awile on the descent, so upon reaching the lower slopes of the mountains and the hut of one of those who still live a subsistence lifestyle within the boundaries of the national park, he stopped out march to call on this friend and borrow a machete and hammer with which to fix his shoe. I was invited in and took a seat on the chair across from that which my guide took. The resident of the place stood, visiting with the guide and handing him the tools he needed. The hut was sparce, to say the least. The two wobbly chairs constituted the only furniture; a straw mattress upon a cot in a corner was the bed for husband and wife. A barrel cut lengthwise and mounted on a frame held the open flames of the cooking fire, and a book hung on the wall next to a couple of mugs and a few plates, the only decoration to speak of. The floor was rough poured concrete, seemnly without benifit of trowel or mason and the walls a sort of localy rough hewn lumber. The roof was palm thatch, woven over a skeleton of thin branches. No windows looked out and no door covered the entrance, where baby chickens walked in and out of the house with indifferance. In the yard a few pigs, chickens and the odd goat foraged and lounged in the shade. We stayed for only a few minuted, my guide fixing his shoe and chatting amicably with the host and I, sitting still, listening as best I could to the rapid cuban dialect of spanish and trying to soak up what for me was a subtle yet profound cultural experiance without giving away too much my degree of awe with all that I had seen this day, not because I was embarrassed by my own sense of discovery, but because I subconsiously feared the recognition of such might hinder the natural flow of events and circumstances I was now witnessing.
...sitting in the plaza all afternoon writing and eating peso ice cream, I had time to reflect and consider, and nearly as important, to write it down. I thought about how no one in Cuba paid on a mortgage, either the family owned the dwelling and had for generations, or the state did and provided practically free housing. With the shelter situation taken care of, and utilities thrown in as part of the deal, and as we already know school and medical care state subsidized, there are very few substantial costs left to the masses. So it is that people can afford to earn their living selling pan con biztec for 4 pesos each on a street corner. There is much to think about with regards to the potential fusion of certain traditionally socalist elements with the mobility and reward for innovation and effeciancy that capitolism inspires. Because for all the idealism in the world, the housing situation in Cuba is substandard and unequal, and trying to live soley on a ration book leaves the body chronically malnourished. But the feverent adherance to a soley capitol based economy has given way to something nearly as subversive in this country, that dedication to consumption that pulls more and more families into debt and the future of our society into question. Long bus rides across the island interspersed with the piercing viasage of Che Guevera lent themselves to long thoughts about the nature of governments and economies.
After reaching the summit of Pico Turquino, the highest point in Cuba high amongst the mountains of the Sierra Maestra (birthplace and stronghold of revolutionary fighters in the 50's), my guide and I began the long descent down and back into the valley below. My guides shoe had been giving him trouble for awile on the descent, so upon reaching the lower slopes of the mountains and the hut of one of those who still live a subsistence lifestyle within the boundaries of the national park, he stopped out march to call on this friend and borrow a machete and hammer with which to fix his shoe. I was invited in and took a seat on the chair across from that which my guide took. The resident of the place stood, visiting with the guide and handing him the tools he needed. The hut was sparce, to say the least. The two wobbly chairs constituted the only furniture; a straw mattress upon a cot in a corner was the bed for husband and wife. A barrel cut lengthwise and mounted on a frame held the open flames of the cooking fire, and a book hung on the wall next to a couple of mugs and a few plates, the only decoration to speak of. The floor was rough poured concrete, seemnly without benifit of trowel or mason and the walls a sort of localy rough hewn lumber. The roof was palm thatch, woven over a skeleton of thin branches. No windows looked out and no door covered the entrance, where baby chickens walked in and out of the house with indifferance. In the yard a few pigs, chickens and the odd goat foraged and lounged in the shade. We stayed for only a few minuted, my guide fixing his shoe and chatting amicably with the host and I, sitting still, listening as best I could to the rapid cuban dialect of spanish and trying to soak up what for me was a subtle yet profound cultural experiance without giving away too much my degree of awe with all that I had seen this day, not because I was embarrassed by my own sense of discovery, but because I subconsiously feared the recognition of such might hinder the natural flow of events and circumstances I was now witnessing.
posted by Jared | 8:31 PM
1 Comments:
I can't be sure what book it was, I vaguely suspect a bible, but the interesting part was that it was hanging on the wall, both covers held back and open and all the pages frizzed out and bent back so it looked like a fan of sorts. Hard to describe. But certainly not meant for reading.
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