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.