Cuba, from Havana to Trinidad

Cuba lingers in my mind. At once vibrant, violent, joyful, hustling, sophisticated, effusive, and oppressive. Four years after my time there, I still consider how locals responded to me both as a woman in an intensely patriarchal culture, and as an American in an economy desperate to innovate yet controlled by a suspicious government.

In Trinidad, the residential streets are dotted with women just outside their front door (with a caged bird hung beside), perched on a wooden stool, with playing children nearby. The men stand in groups, chewing cigars, bellies exposed, chatting and watching. Unlike in Havana, locals don’t offer conversation, as they are monitored by omnipresent armed police, but are gracious and warm when I say hello.

The drive from Havana to Trinidad is anywhere from six to ten hours. All billboards extol socialist or patriotic propaganda rather than advertisements. If you get off track, you must pull up next to a local to ask for help. Long stretches of road are covered in crushed crustaceans, as land crabs migrate from the forest to the sea to release their eggs. Gas shortages are frequent and indefinite. It’s so intensely beautiful.