Story-A-Day #146: Vox Populi

VOX POPULI

He looked out the small steamy window at the receding coast of Cuba. He had always imagined it would be a beautiful country full of rich histories and forgotten lore. To an extent, it was, but there was a sadness to the country that permeated the very soil upon which it had been built.

In Havana, the majestic architecture had crumbled under the weight of neglect. The random pockets of splendour and beauty were peppered throughout, and accessible primarily to the legion of tourists and lucky few who had been assigned work there. More often than not, buildings had been left to crumble and decay under the balanced equality of the communist regime.

No government was truly just, but the true shame of Cuba was how far things had fallen under the guise of freedom for the people that came with dictatorship. Too often, gleaming stone facades revealed gutted interiors that reflected the better times through a grimy layer of neglect.

In Varadero, it had been no better.

The long coach ride from the airport wound through countless communities that swayed wearily under the weight of oppression. Tenement blocks, or social housing, lined the highway. It was not uncommon to see a particular block whose upper floors were open to the elements, or whose walls were constructed from scavenged materials.

The resorts were fine, mostly built in a colonial style that represented the ideals of the major international companies who operated them. There was a stagnant sameness throughout the peninsula. Fat tourists in the golf shirts and sarongs obliviously passing the citizens who had welcomed them to their country with the hope that opportunity would follow.

Cuba was not all bad though. Like the tourist areas in many tropical countries, it was a country defined by its people. The Cubans were more reserved than say the Mexicans in Cancun, and their steely eyed determination and quick smiles commanded respect. They knew life could be, and should be, better, but they accepted their places in society and did what they could to make the most of each opportunity. A sail on a catamaran, a box of cigars, a drink at the bar – all were presented with a smile and a knowing nod.

It was hard not to respect that outlook. It was hard not to hear the strength in the words left unsaid by people who had stories untold to tell.

Story-A-Day #64: No Tan Diferentes

NO TAN DIFERENTES

A light rain fell over Havana. It was typical for the time of year and brought a much needed respite to the day’s work. They were a small crew, only four men really, but they were hard workers. They didn’t really have a choice – the money in construction was good, and a failure to perform meant a demotion to a less prosperous position. Such was the system.

They were on the third flood of the building, right in the historic heart of the Cuban capital, and that was where the building now ended. There had been a fourth floor at one point, but it had been blown off during the fighting. Their job was to rebuild, part of the slow gentrification process afforded by the tourist trade.

It was difficult work cutting through the old steel girders and rebar and smoothing off the rough, pitted edges of concrete to facilitate the addition that would follow. He wiped an arm across his brow and smiled at Miguel who had just announced a quick siesta.

Whistling a slow salsa, Juan walked to the front of the building with the rest of the crew and leaned on what was left of the windowsill, surveying the street below. Tourists wandered two and fro, mingling with the citizens of Havana. A large coach passed by and Juan wondered about the people within it. Where had they come from? What were their impressions? How much better were their lives back home than the one Juan and his family had here? He smiled and waved.

The coach lumbered through the ancient streets of old Havana, crawling along so the guide could point out key locations and landmarks. John relished the cool breeze fluttering up from the air conditioning vent next to him.

Havana was a great city, but a tragic one as well. They had been driving around for the better part of the morning and it had soon become to John that the majesty of this city had faded. It was a city of history, but unlike the European capitals he had visited, the glory of Havana had long since faded. He could still see the potential underneath the grime and corrosion, and it only reinforced how far Cuba had fallen.

He wondered how much of it was a result of the political system. People were assigned jobs in this country, essentially the path their lives would take was dictated to them by the people in control. John wondered who told the people in control that that would be their role, and lot in life.

The bus slowly rolled past an old bombed out building and John craned his neck upward to look at the crew of workers who stood in the open air of the gutted third floor. He wondered where the workers had come from and whether they lived nearby? What were their impressions of all the damn tourists and their money? How different were their lives, families and quality of life compared to the one John enjoyed back home?

One of the workers smiled and waved and John waved back. People were the same everywhere, working hard and trying to make enough to put clothes on their back and food on the table. A knowing look passed between John and the worker above.

They were not that different.