communication regeneration

Communication is an outlet, an outlet to get ideas across for informational purposes, self reflection purposes, and artistic purposes, and when verbal communication is limited, when language is a barrier, something is lost. I am lost, and I turn to writing. I write emails and blogs… and causally keep a personal journal. However, Cubans do not have access to the internet. Access is only available for those who work with computers as professionals. Even college professors have limited access to the internet. The National Botanical Garden, right outside of Havana, acts as a biological research center as well as a destination for school children, and the researchers at the center have not one computer that is connected to the internet. Home phones are rare, so communication is restricted to calls during the working day if the people have positions using office phones. Cubans are not personally connected. I imagine to a certain extent they share a feeling of isolation. They must. After the romantic ideas of easy fluency in the Spanish language wore off, my inability to communicate with people has been a source of great frustration the past few weeks. Every single interaction with another living human being is a struggle, and for that reason some days are a simple string of frustrating miscommunications and insatiable desires to love on the people around me, to simply talk to them. It is isolating.

Some things transcend language barriers. For example, my room has a door that leads to a three story shaft open to the roof of the building. My bathroom has a window opening to this shaft, as do all the rooms stacked on top of mine. During the high traffic bathroom hours of the day, usually the mornings and evenings, a sound can be heard coming from the shaft, a distinct and otherwise grotesque sound, the sound of a man hawking up a loogie. For a length of time, no shorter than two weeks, I could count on this man to need to spit a couple times a day. This is understood in all languages.

Good food. The sounds made when a person enjoys good food is pleasing to the cook, no matter the language that comes from the person’s mouth when it is not full of food. We ate at an amazing paladar this week. A paladar is a privately owned restaurant that people manage inside their homes. Often times the assistant chef, home owner, and restaurant owner also acts as the waiter; it’s a real cultural experience. We have frequented a classy paladar, one with dozens of menu options, traditional music playing softly in the background, and art papering the walls. We have also enjoyed a paladar overlooking the coast, never mind the average food because the view is fabulous. However, the paladar we enjoyed on Monday was unexpectedly wonderful, humbly wonderful. Pushed back from the sidewalk, the restaurant was designated by an old neon sign with a painted backboard for the daylight hours and tubes to illuminate the nighttime hours when the power is actually working, and it demanded that we walk through an ally of sorts to enter the dining room. A clothes line acted as an arrow to the small door, and we could not help but notice the open faced washing machine bubbling and swirling a load of clothes. Having hand washed our clothes for the past five weeks, our eyes lit up. Inside, the unguarded fans with the aid of the low ceilings pushed a symphony of wonderful smells around the room. Our little jelly cups held some water remaining from their last washing, so the waitress took one and dumped its contents in the corner of the room, problem solved. Traditional Cuban food was served family style while multiple regulars greeted the hostess/waitress and took their regular seats. When the waitress asked about the food, my “mmmMMMMmmmmmm” pleased her and was better understood than the “muy bien,” I afterwards articulated in my not-so-Cuban accent.

After an exhausting three hour Spanish class Tuesday morning, I sought the refuge of my bed and the collected essays of George Orwell. I happened to be reading a very relevant essay of his, “Politics and the English Language”. George spoke to my soul… and more rationally to my frequent frustration with political and sociological writings, their poor translations, and indirectly to my frustrations with foreign language. Orwell writes that in recent decades language stylistically has grown away from concrete meanings and has deteriorated into vague meanings and slovenliness. People often use fanciful and foreign language, even made-up and meaningless words, to hide their true ideas. Subjects are no longer discussed, but instead talked around. Use of deteriorating language lends the speaker to use words dishonestly. Political terms are tossed around carelessly without attention to their true meaning. Orwell writes specifically about democracy and its contemporary usage. Democracy no longer has an objective meaning but instead “private definitions.” Orwell names multiple other terms thrown around without objective meaning, words like, socialism, totalitarianism, equality, justice, and freedom, words relevant to the US/Cuban conflict that dominates the struggling economy of Cuba and acts as a small mosquito bite on the back of US politicians. Socialism is thought to be enemy to democracy when in truth the two concepts describe different systems, the economic and political respectively. Language is creating conflict.

Clear definitions of political terms agreed upon by all parties demand that speakers expose their true thematic intentions with correct use of language; however, people are reluctant to give up the power of vague speech. “Political language… is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidarity to pure wind.” Orwell suggests we need to return to the original images of what it is we intend to communicate and use language fitting the images, not empty phrases that dictate the meaning (or meaninglessness) of international conversation. Citizens of the United States speak endlessly on their hatred for the government established under Fidel Castro’s watch and governance, but often the language is meaningless and hides misunderstanding and untruths. Lack of clear language leaves people and entire nations in isolation drowning in pools of vague meanings and losing childlike games of charades, fumbling, frustrated that what they want to communicate is not getting across. Orwell states it best, “If one gets rid of these habits one can think more clearly, and to think clearly is a necessary first step towards political regeneration.”

Barriers in communication are entirely frustrating. However, unlike international political unrest, my Spanish is improving everyday.

closer to fine

I am purposefully wandering right now… wandering through the Havana streets in search of a place to eat lunch, wandering along the coast trying to understand the force of the sea, wandering in and out of good books looking for entertainment. I suppose you could say as well that I wandered to Cuba, purposefully of course. Wandering with direction and confidence, or confidence in a seemingly intentional direction, is important and often termed education…

I met my maker the other day… in the form of a 5’4’’ steel Cuban aerobics instructor. After a thirty minute intense dance session, one in which all the women around me were working it and I was fumbling around trying to get the steps, often turning, jumping, and leaping in the wrong direction, the steel form of a woman described four stations through which we were to “rotando.” The demonstration of the stations went as follows, a squatting, bottle full of sand lifting station, a leg lift station, the third, and a favorite, was the military style push up station… the last was to do step ups onto the stage, a 2 foot rise… Needless to say her workout tore me up. Never have I watched quarter size drops of sweat fall from my elbows. I was yelled at on three separate occasions in Spanish… to spread my legs out further on the squats… to keep my supporting leg straight on the leg lifts… and to put my butt down on the push ups. We snuck out before we were to “rotando” to the push up station a second time with the intention of getting to history class on time. Cuban aerobics, not for the faint of heart… three CUCs a month, not a bad deal, though after attending my first class I decided the gym can afford to cut people a deal because many don’t return after the first class… However, we returned this week with more confidence and a greater insight as to the extent to which the saying ‘white girls can’t dance’ is actually true.

Alison and I adventured to a local, open air market on Saturday, to change 10 CUCs into 240 pesos nacional, to purchase enough mango and guava to feed a flock of ducks, and to purchase a few flowers for our professor’s wife. Vendors were packed into this pavilion, rows and rows, selling the biggest mangos known to man. They are so large in fact that I hardly recognized the green, pink, and yellow freckled fruit. Mangos, some would say, the size of your face. Bananas are served fried on a dinner plate, so sugary sweet, that we could not help but buy a couple from the first offering vendor. The guavas are little stink bombs. Their smell is wonderful, but penetrating. Walking home with the flowers in hand, I experienced a sense of peace I have not yet experienced here. The five sunflowers, yet to open, were heavy in hand making their presence known. A smaller prepared bouquet nestled the sunflowers, complete with a daisy and other little blossoms of beautifully warm colors. I walked with purpose and confidence in the beauty of the flowers and the importance of their safe arrival in the residence. They found a home in an adapted water bottle vase.

In the states we often play a game called ‘good decision, bad decision.’ Now, as you can imagine, this game is only thought to be played when the group is on the verge of a very bad decision, and no matter the truth of the situation, most always the outcome is ‘good decision.’ It’s like a little input/output math machine… with one possible output, though I see the playing of the game as the mark of a very good adventure. This is to say that Alison and I had a grand adventure. Along the coast of Havana, running a stretch of about 3 or 4 miles, the famous and very popular street Malecon has found a home. The Malecon, the vehicular transportation functional part of the road, is separated from the sea by a wide sidewalk and a wall large enough on which to walk, or lounge, or sit and watch the waves crashing in 15 feet below. Coral lines the wall, and makes a natural diving board into clear patches of sea below. That is if you can climb down to the coral… Down huge old coral boulders, industrial waste from the days of maritime use, jagged and unkind to the knees, we climbed. When asked about swimming off the Malecon, our professor said that only 14 year old boys swim in the polluted, semi-dangerous waters… and just as he said those 14 year old boys were indeed swimming side by side with us, directing us where to jump from the coral to patches of reef free water. Trekking back to the residence, soaking wet, all the passer-byers knew exactly what we had done, and language barriers aside, we got Cuban street cred.

There is truth to be found in the search for balance…

“closer to fine”… the indigo girls

I trying to tell you something about my life

baby, give me insight between black and white

the best thing you’ve ever done for me

is to help me take my life less seriously

cause its only life after all

well darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable

and lightness has a call that’s hard to hear

and I wrap my fear around me like a blanket

I sailed my ship on safety till I sank it

I’m crawling onto shore

I went to the doctor

I went to the mountains

I look to the children

and I drank from the fountains

there’s more than one answer to these questions pointing you in a crooked line

the less I seek my source for something definitive

the closer I am to fine

peace.

hospitalidad

What is hospitality but the invitation of another to speak, excitement to listen, fervor to communicate. Our group was offered a beautiful offering of hospitality last night, the most beautiful I have come to know, the most perfect and pure form of hospitality, from a Cuban university professor of philosophy and history, Juan and his companion Evita. Our group met the couple at their apartment in East Havana, a community of housing that is a small drive from central Havana, through a tunnel under the Havana Bay. The streets were sprinkled with people walking to their various destinations on that Sunday morning. Children rode bikes, while their parents screamed “coche, coche,” not unlike the conscientious parents of the United States. Charles almost hit a bike rider cruising with the innocent freedom of a child around the streets. I have come to believe that we are too quick to assume that the bike wanderers should submit to the will of the cars moving quickly in business minded fashion. The tight freedomless motion of vehicle transportation should revolve around the whims of imaginative explorers of the streets. I am certain of it.

Juan and Evita invited us up to wait for the car they hired to take them to the beach, las playas de Habana, the essential meeting of the turquoise Caribbean Sea and the land. At their insisting we enjoyed a small cup of Cuban coffee similar to espresso with a bit of rum, in Cuban tradition. The cups used are reminiscent of a child’s tea set, but the flavor of the treat is meant for a sea of coffee drinkers. Es muy rico! Juan extended his invitation for us to consider his home, our home, and expressed the hurt and disappointment he would experience if we did not take this invitation to heart. Mi casa es su casa. It is not just a catchy whimsical phrase often hung above American doors, it is a tradition. After five hours under the Cuban sun at the beach, and swimming in the beautiful waves on the coastline, we returned to our home.

Dinner was served in courses…drinks and guava fruit while we waited, and then the main courses together over conversation. Moros y chritianos (black beans and rice cooked together), fried plantains, pork and potatoes cooked in a savory sauce, avocado, and green beans were served beautifully. In the American tradition we moved the table to the center of the room so that many chairs, seven exactly could fit around the small café table at the same time. Juan responded with surprised protest at first, as the Cuban tradition is that the guests eat first followed by the hosts; however, we reminded him that as he said this was our house as well, and “our house” became the humorous theme of the night. We could do as we pleased because, after all, this was our house. Juan told us of his work on his masters in Russia, written in the language of Russian, his time teaching in Algeria as an exchange teaching program for two years, and his travels in Europe. Although he has been invited several times to speak on international panels, because the panels have been in the United States, he has been uninvited by the United States.

Alison asked the question of the night. If the Cuban people look unfavorably on the government of the United States, which is unwilling to open up dialogue with the Cuban people even when invited, which has taken a steady position against the Cuban government for the only reason of Fidel’s length of governing, which has no interest in the human rights of its own citizens, let alone the rights of people of other nations, what then is the feeling of the Cuban people about the people of the United States? Juan answered with what he called a hard answer given in a soft voice…

The Americans have no democracy. The United States has the worst representation of democracy in the world. The poor have no representation. What is developed about a country that can boast the most use of drugs, the most drug trafficking, the greatest sales of arms, the most wars initiated, absolutely no preparation or response to the destruction of hurricane Katrina, and children killing their peers in classrooms. The problem, he said, is not the people, but the system. We are deceived into thinking that these problems are universal… they are not. Cuba had 1,600 doctors prepared to fly to the US after the passing of Katrina. They had millions of dollars of drugs and supplies and tents at the ready. One thousand and six hundred doctors were sitting in a room, ready to board planes, in route to the US, waiting outside. Bush said no. Don’t send your help here. The doctors were sent home. Where money and dissatisfaction rule, there is not a system built to encourage the growth of people, but the growth of technology, of money making, of exploitation. Material things, he said, do not make one more human. Providing all people their right to education and health care makes people more human.

I have begun to delve into the delicate balance and study of what exactly the human potential is, what exactly is the good end or purpose of humans. In a capitalist system people are encouraged to develop in one discipline becoming the master of that subject. In this way it is thought that all will prosper if all are concentrated on the mastery of one thing. However, the holistic education of a person is ignored. Values and principles held in common are not emphasized. If asked could a person identify the common values of the American people, the values held up that all would agree upon? If you say liberty, I would say what then is the right of a criminal, and your answer will not be self determination or rehabilitation. If you say education, I would say that all children in the US are not promised financially the education they deserve and desire. If you say pursuit of happiness, I would say what is the happiness in the dissatisfaction of the endless pursuit of money? What EXACTLY is it that we are defending when speaking of the US? Our right to imperialism? Individualism, though important in some philosophies in development, comes with a price. Some values are universal. Human rights are not to be negotiated, and should not be stripped to the bare bones for the benefit of those with their needs met. I will leave you burdened with this questions that are burning inside of me…What are basic human rights? Is the US meeting these rights for all people? Should these rights be back burnered for the monetary advancement of a few? What are we voting for? As a human, not as a capitalist American or a tax payer, do you feel represented?

hospitalidad

What is hospitality but the invitation of another to speak, excitement to listen, fervor to communicate. Our group was offered a beautiful offering of hospitality last night, the most beautiful I have come to know, the most perfect and pure form of hospitality, from a Cuban university professor of philosophy and history, Juan and his companion Evita. Our group met the couple at their apartment in East Havana, a community of housing that is a small drive from central Havana, through a tunnel under the Havana Bay. The streets were sprinkled with people walking to their various destinations on that Sunday morning. Children rode bikes, while their parents screamed “coche, coche,” not unlike the conscientious parents of the United States. Charles almost hit a bike rider cruising with the innocent freedom of a child around the streets. I have come to believe that we are too quick to assume that the bike wanderers should submit to the will of the cars moving quickly in business minded fashion. The tight freedomless motion of vehicle transportation should revolve around the whims of imaginative explorers of the streets. I am certain of it.

Juan and Evita invited us up to wait for the car they hired to take them to the beach, las playas de Habana, the essential meeting of the turquoise Caribbean Sea and the land. At their insisting we enjoyed a small cup of Cuban coffee similar to espresso with a bit of rum, in Cuban tradition. The cups used are reminiscent of a child’s tea set, but the flavor of the treat is meant for a sea of coffee drinkers. Es muy rico! Juan extended his invitation for us to consider his home, our home, and expressed the hurt and disappointment he would experience if we did not take this invitation to heart. Mi casa es su casa. It is not just a catchy whimsical phrase often hung above American doors, it is a tradition. After five hours under the Cuban sun at the beach, and swimming in the beautiful waves on the coastline, we returned to our home.

Dinner was served in courses…drinks and guava fruit while we waited, and then the main courses together over conversation. Moros y chritianos (black beans and rice cooked together), fried plantains, pork and potatoes cooked in a savory sauce, avocado, and green beans were served beautifully. In the American tradition we moved the table to the center of the room so that many chairs, seven exactly could fit around the small café table at the same time. Juan responded with surprised protest at first, as the Cuban tradition is that the guests eat first followed by the hosts; however, we reminded him that as he said this was our house as well, and “our house” became the humorous theme of the night. We could do as we pleased because, after all, this was our house. Juan told us of his work on his masters in Russia, written in the language of Russian, his time teaching in Algeria as an exchange teaching program for two years, and his travels in Europe. Although he has been invited several times to speak on international panels, because the panels have been in the United States, he has been uninvited by the United States.

Alison asked the question of the night. If the Cuban people look unfavorably on the government of the United States, which is unwilling to open up dialogue with the Cuban people even when invited, which has taken a steady position against the Cuban government for the only reason of Fidel’s length of governing, which has no interest in the human rights of its own citizens, let alone the rights of people of other nations, what then is the feeling of the Cuban people about the people of the United States? Juan answered with what he called a hard answer given in a soft voice…

The Americans have no democracy. The United States has the worst representation of democracy in the world. The poor have no representation. What is developed about a country that can boast the most use of drugs, the most drug trafficking, the greatest sales of arms, the most wars initiated, absolutely no preparation or response to the destruction of hurricane Katrina, and children killing their peers in classrooms. The problem, he said, is not the people, but the system. We are deceived into thinking that these problems are universal… they are not. Cuba had 1,600 doctors prepared to fly to the US after the passing of Katrina. They had millions of dollars of drugs and supplies and tents at the ready. One thousand and six hundred doctors were sitting in a room, ready to board planes, in route to the US, waiting outside. Bush said no. Don’t send your help here. The doctors were sent home. Where money and dissatisfaction rule, there is not a system built to encourage the growth of people, but the growth of technology, of money making, of exploitation. Material things, he said, do not make one more human. Providing all people their right to education and health care makes people more human.

I have begun to delve into the delicate balance and study of what exactly the human potential is, what exactly is the good end or purpose of humans. In a capitalist system people are encouraged to develop in one discipline becoming the master of that subject. In this way it is thought that all will prosper if all are concentrated on the mastery of one thing. However, the holistic education of a person is ignored. Values and principles held in common are not emphasized. If asked could a person identify the common values of the American people, the values held up that all would agree upon? If you say liberty, I would say what then is the right of a criminal, and your answer will not be self determination or rehabilitation. If you say education, I would say that all children in the US are not promised financially the education they deserve and desire. If you say pursuit of happiness, I would say what is the happiness in the dissatisfaction of the endless pursuit of money? What EXACTLY is it that we are defending when speaking of the US? Our right to imperialism? Individualism, though important in some philosophies in development, comes with a price. Some values are universal. Human rights are not to be negotiated, and should not be stripped to the bare bones for the benefit of those with their needs met. I will leave you burdened with this questions that are burning inside of me…What are basic human rights? Is the US meeting these rights for all people? Should these rights be back burnered for the monetary advancement of a few? What are we voting for? As a human, not as a capitalist American or a tax payer, do you feel represented?

no. one

Hopefully... I can set this up to be a means of communication between me, the Cuban me, and friends with access to the world wide web. I navigate through all of this profiling, posting, confirming, and processing, and I feel uneasy about electronic communications of private thought. However, I am giving it a try. Who knows? I might even fall in love.