The Island of Broken Dreams

I can’t seem to recall if people clapped or not when we landed in Havana airport. The guidebook described how visitors arriving in Havana by planes tend to spontaneously burst into cheery hoorays and heavy clapping for the simple fact of having arrived safely, in one piece. Many Cuban planes are as old as if not older than the revolution whose engines murmur grumpy sounds of being overworked. Nonetheless, millions of visitors come to Cuba every year and by the standards of the comfortably developed world, they and I are practically risking our lives for a glimpse of this secretive island.

Being so used to the stone face and suspicious eyes of US border patrol, I am always pleasantly surprised by the warmth of agents in other countries. My agent was clearly of Mestizo descend with mostly Afro-Carribean heritage. He had bright smiles and darkish brown skin. He saw me and spoke Mandarin. He told me he had studied it in University. Clearly intrigued, I nonetheless walked off hurriedly when the processing was done. You never know what few minutes of delay could lead to in border crossing. The atmosphere is always so intimidating and claustrophobic; one could not have any longing but that of getting out of there as quickly as you can catch your breath.

Here I am in the promise land of the Left. Castro’s revolution and its subsequent (or concurrent, depending on how sticky you are with words, policies of isolation) may have aroused many mixed feelings, heated discussions and even caused broken friendships, its accomplishment in garnering intense interests and debate is more than remarkable. Cuba used to be and could have been just another island brothel of Western decadence filled with pale fleshes lining up the beach coastline and underage spring breakers drinking their youth to oblivion (Think Baja). Instead, it has successfully established a more meaningful identity of its own – a socialist experiment fused by immense defiance and almost painful pride. Cubans may be poor, but they are educated. They may have restrictions but they are relaxed about life because all the basic necessities are taken care of. I arrived with all these preconceptions and I wanted to try to listen.


The notorious Malecon was filled with teenagers not doing anything at all. They followed foreigners and charm them for pocket money. I successfully avoided them for the most part because I am not White. But one teenager whom I kept running into with another American traveler of Indian descend found his way to latch onto me when I looked a little lost searching for the Havana Chinatown. He said he would help me find it. I thought I could practice my Spanish along the way. He got me to buying him soda and cigarettes and at some point, asked to look at my scarf and then wrapped it around himself and took off. I walked up and down the usual spots to find him in vain.

When I sat by the harbor, thinking about what life could have been for me if I was born on this island, my fellow travelers came around with their Cuban friends and gave me their insights. Life is hard but not unbearable, at least not for most, or some? Amongst them was a tall, slender and gorgeous Afro-Cuban man who struck up a conversation with me. He was a dancer and performed to tourist at a state owned cultural center. He was not happy. He graduated from university but did not like the job that was assigned to him. He refused to work and was sent to prison for two years. He spoke in a hushed but intense voice. As a sympathetic observer, I didn’t know what to say. But he quickly switched to a less controversial topic, Cuban man. He started by asking if I had dated Caribbean and proceeded to state that Cuban men are very good at sex. He used the usual parlance to convince me why I should have sex with him. I laughed it off and left with my friend.

(To Be Continued)