Cuban Entries, May 12-20, 2001

Translation

Most of us do not speak Spanish. True, a couple are fluent and a few more can string together paragraphs, but the rest of us settle for gamely pronouncing buenos dias, and call it a day. Working with a translator to present a conference paper raises an interesting question. What is my relation to this amiable, competent, middle-aged woman who holds the power of translation? Is she my tool, obliging dummy, empty receptacle for my voice? And if I'm tempted to think of her in this way, how can I right the political wrong of doing so? Would it be better for me to sit while she stands, or should I stand while she sits? Both sit? Every time one of us carelessly says "America," she calmly changes it to "los Estados Unidos."

Dollars

We are told not to bring plastic or traveler's checks, so our pockets are crammed with dollars. Cabs to Old Havana cost $5, dinner is about $15, and there's no need to change our money. We go by taxi to a street blocked by music and dancers, where every building is covered by festive murals. Weaving our way through the crowd, walls rising up on either side like bright flags, we are overcome by the friendliness of Habaneros. A woman from whom I have just bought a necklace beckons me to follow. She points out a Santería shrine before leading me through a narrow doorway. It's the muralist's gallery, and one of our group is already there, looking through a pile of paintings. Would I like to see some? Would I like to dance? Would I like a mojito, rum and mint in a paper cup? Men approach anxious for conversation, offering cigars, marijuana, Habaneras. Can we change some pesos? Can we deliver these letters to the U.S.? As if I were getting beer for underage kids, I buy a pricey box of baby formula for a gentleman with alcoholic breath, who waits outside the store. By the time we get back to the Hotel Presidente, we are exhausted by our privilege and considerably more guarded. How do you balance between wanting to share your wealth and not wanting to be ripped off? In our group, we answer this question differently, and by the end of the week, there is palpable tension between those perceived as undertipping and those perceived as overtipping.

Three of us are waiting in line at Coppelia park, famous for its ice cream, and find ourselves chatting with two cosmopolitan Cubans. One man speaks perfect English, the other perfect French, and both seem glad for the chance to converse across national boundaries. Later we admit being braced for the hustle, but it never came—just surprisingly open talk over surprisingly undistinguished ice cream. Where did you learn French? From a Canadian friend. What do you think of the Revolution? Its ideals are good, of course, but day-to-day is difficult. No chance to travel, they explain sadly. But you get food coupons, subsidized housing, free healthcare, public education? Oui, c'est vrai. And how much do you earn in your job at the store? $20 a month.

Sex

My Havana Handbook promises sex in the city. "Promiscuity is rampant," it leers, and even revolutionary women "routinely shorten and take in their uniforms to show their legs, outline their backsides." On the cover is a tawny exotic dancer with a bold gaze. "The mulatta is particularly revered among Cuban males for her perceived sexuality," the guide continues. Some of us notice that the mulatta is particularly revered by foreign tourists as well. We see lopsided couples in restaurants, beautiful beige girls with beefy European men. I am especially shocked to see schoolgirls, literal schoolgirls with backpacks and uniforms, leaning into the cars of single men. Later, I read in a book by a Cuban exile about the new class of sex workers or jineteras that sprang up...