Tiempo

language is such an interesting thing. in spanish, tiempo is both time and weather.
what does that say to You about spanish thought?

honestly

to see the world around me, i look inside myself.
to see myself, i look at the world around me.

i think i'm pretty honest about what i see.

Road Story

Chapter 3 – El Examen

Terrence took the floor speaking in his halting Spanish. The fans threatened to blow the papers off the desk with every oscillating pass. The professors listened as intently as they could in the heat. She used a hand-held fan, pastel flowers painted on it. He sat slouched in his chair, long legs splayed under the desk. His white hair contrasted against his dark Caribbean skin.

Meanwhile I sat at the corner of the horseshoe shaped desk all us students shared. Obviously my attention wandered, I took in the details around the room and put my pen to paper.

Some one else was talking now. There was more halting Spanish y more bad English accents. What was more of a trial, struggling with my own Spanish or suffering everyone else’s struggle?

The rest of the class passed uneventfully. Each person in the class took a turn to speak, as we were all obliged to, whether we had something analytical, critical, original to contribute or we just said something mundane and unenlightened because we had to. Clearly, this time I belonged to the later group.

Somehow, still we slipped through the cracks of the system. When I went to find my marks, not only did I pass, but my marks were some of the highest that I’d ever had.

What was to account for this? Could it be the novelty of examining students from another country?

el viento de Dios

La prueba esta en el viento, y la baila con Dios.
La cocina en la casa sea casa del corazón.
Cocinar las emociones justo perfecto recibir las noticies del mundo.
Un mundo mayor es posible.
Mujeres son el bonito de la vida.
Están amado por uno y todo.
Dirán que diga el mundo

Esperar

it is funny that in Spanish Esperar means both, to wait and to hope.

it is telling that both these things are so dangerous.

Don't tell Mom.

Sí como no, Ella estuvo correcto
siempre Los Padres están correcto

this morning i was wearing pants
a fleece pullover in Habana

Diga La Habana que no estoy loco
tengo locuro como el calor

the cold never drove anyone insane
it clears out madness

like a fox in the henhouse.

Road Story

Chapter 2 – Highway Robbery

L Street wasn’t any busier than normal. Nor could the sun be any higher in the sky, though it could have been a little hotter. And perhaps that was the inspiration for Pedro’s plan. He stood in the shade of the tree on the corner of L and San Lazaro, watching the university stairs.

Those were the eighty-eight grand steps that lead up to Habana’s haven of academia. Eighty-eight steps that he hadn’t been invited to climb. Pedro wasn’t the most apt pupil, but he was willing to work hard, and in truth he might have had the potential. That was to many years ago, almost a decade now. His life had been hard in through those days. The “special period” hadn’t treated him so well. Food shortages were rampant, and he had less than most because of his black skin. He snarled at the thought of equality in Cuba, there was still discrimination left over from the slave era. Pedro had turned to cheap peso rum to deal with the anger and confusion of the hard times. His brain probably couldn’t reason that far, but the rum had done some substantial damage.

All he knew now was that the world seemed to be moving faster and faster. Pedro had to work harder and harder to keep up. Which he did without asking to many questions.

Still that didn’t mean he was all fine and content with things. Just this month, his family had finished their ration of rice, but hadn’t had the money to buy more on the farmers market. There was no more work that he could get or do that would afford him some more money. What was he supposed to do?

It was with this question that he had set out in the morning. He had walked straight up Neptuno, before he knew it he was at the stairs of the university. It occurred to him, in a rare moment of inspiration, that if it was anywhere, an idea might come to him here; Cuba’s place of ideas. However, watching people for the past hour, grumbling about his state of affairs hadn’t afforded him any ideas.

When a couple of middle aged tourists came around the corner and stepped up on the stairs, he thought they would do the necessary climb up to the Alma Mater statue and the pictures there. But when they lingered near the bottom, he suddenly had a flash of inspiration. He knew people who would buy that camera. From where he was it looked like a nice one too. Pedro knew he would have to act fast, while they still dawdled around the bottom of the stairs.

He sprang into action, and strode swiftly toward the couple. The man was standing with his back to the stairs and the woman had her back to Pedro. He tried not to look at them overtly, and tried to walk like he was only in a hurry and not anxious. He was acutely aware of how odd he must look; Cubans don’t generally walk fast. A few steps away from the man, he bolted into a sprint, reached out and grabbed the camera and tore it away to shrieks of surprise and protest.

The adrenaline hit him like a brick wall, and he could only watch himself running down Neptuno. Not a thought went through Pedro’s head. His arms and legs pumped. He tightened his grip on the camera.

He could hear the man somewhere behind him yelling “¡¡Policia, Policia!!” But he didn’t connect the yell to any sort of consequence.

Pedro must have run ten blocks, when he realized that he couldn’t hear the yelling anymore. He darted onto a smaller side street, and then slowed to a walk. He waited until he had caught his breath, and steadied his nerves before he did anything else. With a huge smile on his face, euphoric from the adrenaline, he went to see about selling the camera.

Emboldened by his unexpected venture and unprecedented success, Pedro was walking about his barrio like a king. Head held high, a strut in his stride. With more money than he could ever have hoped to save in five years. The combined saving of his mother’s and father’s family didn’t even come close to the sum he had stashed in a plastic bag in the tank of his toilet.

Pedro knew that his family wouldn’t have to worry for a long time, years maybe, maybe this nest egg would even take care of his kids. The thought of having a legacy made his feel a little heady, a little dizzy. He giggled to himself in the middle of the street. And indulged in the fantasy for a while. Buying a stereo, and a bigger television, or a car. Weekend trips out to the beach. He could buy a bottle Havana Club, reserve or special aged, no more peso rum for Pedro and his girl. He could take her out shoe shopping, and she could buy a new dress. The grandeur grew and grew until Pedro had bought one of the old colonial buildings, perhaps the Union of Cuban Artists building, and was being waited on by maids and servants. He realized in a sobering moment, that he actually didn’t have enough money for any of that. Not even the stereo, which would easily be trice the amount he had.

It was at this time that Pedro came back to his senses. He had wandered back to the university at the end of Neptuno. He stayed in the shade of the trees in the plaza across the street from the bottom of the stairs. People were bustling around, young students everywhere. Classes must have just been getting out. A thin white girl walked past him down Neptuno, completely oblivious to him. He noticed that she had a book bag and a small purse. Before he knew it, Pedro had reached out and snatched the purse and broken into a full on run back down Neptuno.

This time he ran and ran. He ran to the Capitolio, the seat of old Batista the last president. He was in Old Havana now, at the other end of Neptuno.

Pedro had snatched the wrong bag. He got seven convertible dollars and the memory card for a digital camera. True enough the seven dollars wasn’t anything to sneeze at, but it seemed like pennies to the worth of the camera. At first he had thought he could sell the card to the same man who bought the camera. His hopes were quickly dashed. The man had no more money, because he had just spent it all on the camera. So now Pedro was stuck with the useless memory card for a time. It would sell eventually, he just hoped sooner than later.

Pedro didn’t know that the other bag held a laptop computer. And that would have sold for a very hefty sum.

Pedro was sulking about the streets. He had just bought bread and was returning home in a funk over yesterday failure. It occurred to him that he hadn’t even thought about his last endeavor. There was no stake out, no plan, and no preparation. Something popped into his head just then, an old folk idiom: third times the charm. Well this time he would be ready. And not just ready, but lucky too! Maybe this time he could get something that would be really worth something.

He positioned himself on the corner of San Lazaro and Infanta, two fairly busy streets. He waited and watched. Finally he pegged another tourist who was about to go into the tienda, and was giving their backpack to the bag check counter, which happened to be located on the street, quite convenient for Pedro’s purposes.

He thought himself especially clever for waiting until his mark came back out of

the tienda. With a couple of grocery bags in his hands the man was rather clumsily in extricating his token from his pocket. This was when Pedro went into action. He just as the Tourist was about to reach out and take his bag from the vender’s hand, Pedro shoulder checked him out of the way and grabbed. He was almost jerked to a halt; the deceivingly small backpack was extremely heavy. Still he ran on. Pedro made it to the corner, but the bag was slowing him down significantly. This time the tourist wasn’t the only person to protest. Many people began yelling “¡¡thief!!” and “¡¡police!!” The problem was this time there were police. He rounded the corner back onto Infanta, and there were three police, they had been chatting and watching the girls walk by. When they heard the shouting they began looking around a little confused. But upon seeing Pedro and the backpack, they pieced it together pretty quickly. The three pulled out their nightsticks and gave chase. Pedro immediately backpedaled; he threw the bag toward the police as an obstacle and then turned in the opposite direction running back down San Lazaro. The old familiar adrenaline was pumping through his veins now, but it was soured with the fear of authority. Now the consequences hit him. Even though he didn’t know what all the consequences were about to be, that wasn’t the only thing that hit him.

The young fit police officers had caught up to Pedro in a block and a half. One took an awkward swing at Pedro’s leg, it connected with the side of his knee, and it buckled. He stumbled and sprawled. The road rash on his cheek and shoulder were registered but he wasn’t feeling any of the pain, nor from his knee. But he felt the next thing. The three police descended on the prone Pedro with a ferocity and seditiousness that spoke of terrible boredom, no remaining concept of a service to the public. In each strike, the young police they only felt ‘at last something is happening’. Pedro only felt the sting of regret.

He didn’t know how long the beating went of for, but he was vaguely aware of it ending and being dragged away. He was going to jail, and he didn’t know for long.

His wife didn’t even know about the money that was hidden in the toilet.

Road Story

Chapter 1 – El Campismo

Just like the Maritimes. It only rains on the weekends. Here in Havana it would only rain on Friday afternoon. As it was while we where trying to set up another camping trip. The weekend previous we had given up on camping quickly, in favour of sitting in our room to eat freshly made guacamole, and drink our rum. That had been at 1:00 in the afternoon.

This time the shower lasted only twenty minutes. It would have been pitiful had we let that minuscule amount of precipitation daunt us. So instead we waited for Hana’s Cuban counterpart. When we had waited almost an hour, we decided to just go. He could catch up hitchhiking.

So, seven of us get in a six seat van that is supposed to hold eight people. When Terry opts to sit on the floor, the driver puts an extra seat, a small wooden stool, out on the curb.

We boot down the road, breakneck speed. The driver is weaving in and out of traffic. This driver brought new meaning to the term aggressive driving. Pedestrians didn’t stand a chance. I saw this man cross three lanes of traffic at a red light. I saw this man squeeze the van through spaces I wouldn’t take a smart car.

After stopping for directions only twice, we make it to the campismo. Which consists of a horde of Young Cuban University students and a spread of two story constructs. These “buildings” had four rooms, each with two bunk beds. An ante with a sink in a counter and a bathroom opposite.

I’m talking absolute barebones. Absolute roughage. Absolute vodka. Which became one of the debates central to the weekend: was vodka made from potatoe skins? And did Prince Edward Island have a formal local brand? The other questions revolved around how long we would have to wait in line for the comidor, the communal food vendor, whether we should wait to start drinking, and what could be done if we ran out of alcohol?

First things first, as we had gotten a few funny looks while getting out of the van, we decided to make a little introduction. Looking back on this, it felt like a first day in prison. We had to stand our ground, not show any fear or we wouldn’t get any respect. So we went for a tour. We walked the length of the campismo, parading ourselves for the none to sublte Cuban stare to discern out presence. That’s right, we were saying, we’re not here for a long time, just a good time, and You had better show it to us.

Turns out the wait for food was longer than the wait to start drinking. Rodrigo was the stalwart gluton, holding out for food two hours. Terry, Hana and I eventually went down to keep him company. Which was when I finally realized that Terry and I had drank most of a Forty of rum.

Triumphant, we returned with the spoils our of effort, which would later spoil my stomach. Picadillo, a delicate dish to make right under the best circumstances, was served completely rancid to our drunk and hungry selves. We quickly continued to drink. Until our liquid courage compelled us to discover the discoteca.

This would be our first big foray amongst the camping Cubans. We climbed the stairs with an eager dread. We’d been through the humiliation of being dancing Canadians in Cuba, the land of Salsa. We were steeled against what ridicule might come.

And so we danced. But, one by one, as either our stamina or interest waned, the Canadians began tapping out. The Cubans wouldn’t have this; if we were at the discoteca we were going to be dancing. With a Cuban in hand, we each got a serious lesson in the romantic salsa, and the not so romantic reggae-ton. As was want to happen, jealousy was sown amongst the Cubans, and resentment. As some of the Canadians rejected a partner or two for to forward advances, the Cubans began to pout. One rotten apple ruins the barrel. They quickly descended from the discoteca, leaving a few of us unsatisfied.

We dispersed just as suddenly, in a drunken confusion. I found myself wandering up and down the country road trying to avoid the shit and potholes, I believe I was going to retrieve my sandals, but I can’t entirely recollect. Only moments later I found my companions skinny-dipping in the ocean, under a full moon.

And now as I write this the next full moon is hanging in the night sky over Habana.

use the enemy's products

there is Guantanamo Navel base.
there is a viewer that was made in Alabama.