My intentions that day were to go to the black sand beach,
because it was nearby and cheap, and because it was the first day of what I was
determined to make into a week-long vacation.
The tourists go to the white sand beach, Daniel explains to me, as we
walk side by side. The white sand beach
is beautiful and secluded, and he lives near it. He is on the way home, so it’s no problem to
take me there. He smiles, and the many wrinkles
around his small blue eyes betray his baby face. He’s inches shorter than me, with a bag full
of souvenir woodwork that he is desperately hoping to sell to me once he gains
my trust.
As we cross the black sand beach, disappear into a lightly
forested area, and board a shared canoe across the river, I wonder what Daniel hopes
for in exchange for this friendly guide-service that was neither requested nor
discussed. One peso goes to the
make-shift tourist stand constructed in the middle of a small village, three
more pesos if you want to swim in the cave.
We walk up the dirt road, past a small village school, the strong Caribbean
sun beating down on our shoulders. How
much further? Daniel’s trying to sell me
the cave experience. I didn’t bring much
money today. I thought I was just going
to the nearby black sand beach to relax.
I was robbed in Havana. They
stole my cameras. Oh no, that’s
terrible. I don’t have much on me
because I don’t want to be robbed again.
No problem, we’re almost there.
You’ll like this beach. It’s
tranquila. No problems. Don’t worry.
The trail disappears into a beach side forest then opens up
again to reveal the white sand beach and blue-green ocean beyond, with waves breaking
over jagged rocks into a private cove. There’s only one other person making use of
the tiny paradise today. A young man
sits on a blanket in his swimsuit, looking out over the water. Daniel tells me not to worry about this
guy. He’s a friend. He won’t bother you. I know him.
He’s a good guy. He won’t bother
you. Go take a swim. Later when you’re relaxing on the beach, I’ll
show you my woodwork. Don’t worry.
I don’t trust anyone in Cuba. The past five weeks have knocked me down and
washed over me, and I’ve emerged gasping for air, my nostrils full of salt,
eyes blurred and squinting into the oppressive heat of an angry sun that’s
bronzed me. My lily-white skin didn’t
even burn; it just turned brown in submission to the heat, over night, before I
even knew it had happened. I’m angry
that I was robbed in a salsa school where I trusted people. I’m angry about the constant cat-calling the
moment I step outside. I’m angry about
the aggressive and patronizing way that men treat women. I’m angry that I can’t enjoy myself, but that
the social environment necessitates that I have a man to protect me. I’m angry that friendship is for sale, and
that economics taint the sincerity of every interaction that I have. I’m angry that I didn’t fall in love with Cuba,
as I had fully expected to, but that instead of love, I feel disheartened,
disappointed, and betrayed.
I strip down to my hot pink bikini and hesitantly wade into
the warm water to see what enjoyment might be had. I look out over the ocean to the expansive
view of Baracoa’s coast, the strangely-shaped mountains, one like a top-hat,
the other like a woman generously endowed.
I look back to the beach where Daniel chats with the young man on the
blanket. He was right. This place is beautiful. It’s much better than being alone on the
black sand beach, where god knows who would try to befriend me in god knows
what way. I’ll spend nine dollars on
some woodwork from Daniel. Furthermore, I
fully expect his friend to bother me, and I’m curious to know his strategies as
he makes his way down the beach.
Reserved, self-possessed, determined, the young man wades
confidently into the water with his snorkeling gear. He’s cute enough to make me smile but not so
much to intimidate me, so I ask him if there are any dangerous currents
here. No, todo tranquilo. I notice his rich deep voice and accommodating
manner as he explains the nature of the ocean in this cove then dives into the
water and swims out to sea. I watch him
snorkel while the waves wash over me.
When he returns, we talk some more, and he offers me his snorkeling
gear. He says there’s a school of shrimp
next to the rocks over there, and not to worry, that he’ll come with me and
show them to me. We swim together out to
sea.
After Daniel closes his sale, he heads home, and Yuni and I
spend the day together on the white sand beach.
Daniel was right, Yuni doesn’t bother me. Instead, he waits patiently for me to engage
him, and when I do, he responds fully, with interest. I thoroughly enjoy our conversations and appreciate
his patience, respect, and intellect.
When I’m ready to go home, he accompanies me home and pays for our canoe
taxi. We make plans to meet that night for
music and dancing.
I was introduced to jineterismo in Havana when a friend
named Michel asked me to pay his entry into a salsa club. I had already paid Michel for a salsa class
and paid for our shared taxi to the club.
His assumption that I would also pay his club entry insulted me, and I
refused to do it. We had a tiff in the
street in old Havana, and I left him there and went home. When I saw Michel again on a different night in
a different salsa club, he called out to me, I love you so much! Then, I knew what he was selling, and I knew
I wasn’t buying it.
After a few weeks, I realized how normal it was for foreign
women to pay the way for their Cuban men.
I heard a story about a beautiful Swiss woman who suspected that her Cuban
boyfriend stole her camera. In the end she
chose to believe that he didn’t steal it, and stayed with him, paying for his
lifestyle. An Ethiopian man living in
Havana told me this story as we watched her dance, swinging her long blonde
hair from side to side over her tight curvy jean shorts. Her Cuban boyfriend was there, too. He’s a baseball player, a gorgeous man, who
sat and watched, because he doesn’t dance.
I wondered if she was actually convinced that he didn’t steal the
camera, or if she simply agreed to the exchange. I suspect it was the latter. The more time I spend in Cuba, the less my
moralistic, middle-class, capitalist viewpoint on exchange serves me.
I meet Yuni at Casa de la Trova at ten p.m., and already
there’s a crowd assembled at the windows, watching the white foreign girls dance
salsa with the black Cuban boys. It’s a
tiny music venue, with room for three or four couples to dance, a live local
band, and a zany host with a wide nose and long stringy hair who insists on
meeting everyone and cracking jokes at everyone’s expense. I realize that I know the girls. They’re the Dutch girls I met on the bus from
Trinidad to Holguin, and they’re overjoyed to see me. They introduce me to their Cuban guys, and
invite me to sit with them. I order a
beer for myself and Yuni. We drink,
dance, chat, laugh, dance, listen, drink, laugh, and at the end of the night,
the Dutch girls want to go to the dance club on the hill that my host dad
warned me about. He said that the guys
who go there are no good, which I mention to Yuni, but he says that in a group
and with him, I’ll be fine, so we all go and walk the stairs to the sketchy
nightclub on the hill, where Yuni starts drinking rum with his friends. Nikkie gives me a refresco with rum, and I
sit down during a reggaeton. An
aggressive Cuban man approaches me and asks me to dance. I tell him I don’t want to, but he insists,
and says that we should dance to enjoy the moment. I tell him to get lost, which he does. Yuni remembers that I prefer salsa or
bachata, and asks me to dance accordingly.
The club closes early, and we all make our way back down the
stairs to the bottom of the hill where the ring leader of the Cuban boyfriends,
Rosalie’s man, has assembled the other two men.
We have something for you, he announces to the Dutch girls, not for you,
he says to me. We’ll just watch, I say,
pulling Yuni to my side. What? What’s happening?? The Dutch girls wait in suspense as their
Cuban guys line up in front of them. The
ringleader announces in a loud voice: We
want you to stay another night in Baracoa!
The three Cuban guys get down on one knee and beg as the Dutch girls smile
and giggle. But no, how can we come to
Cuba and not know Santiago? We go to
Santiago tomorrow. How can we not know
Santiago? As the Cuban men stand up
again, the Dutch girls get down on one knee and beg in return: Come with us to Santiago! The three or four bicycle taxi drivers
surrounding us are engrossed in the drama; one even films the exchange from his
camera phone. After a short
deliberation, a friend of the boyfriends announces to the group: Listen, you know that these guys don’t have
any money. If you want them to come with
you to Santiago, then you have to pay their way. There it is.
The ask. The reality. Sweet Rosalie gets upset, don’t talk to us
like we are stupid! We already said that
we have paid the taxi. Why did they have
to mess it all up, she says to me as I’m leaving, and I wonder if they’ll stay
or go…or if they’ll pay the way for their Baracoan men to accompany them to
Santiago.
Yuni walks me home, and I fully expect him to kiss me
goodnight, which he does, passionately, much more aggressively than I expect,
which leads to a conversation about the nature of our relationship over the
next week, which I had been determined to make into a vacation. He’s persuasive. I’m reluctant. He’s charming. I’m skeptical. He’s respectful. I’m moved.
He’s negotiable. I’m negotiable. He’s happy.
I’m happy. We decide to go to the
river tomorrow.
We spend the next week together. We go to the beach and the river during the
day and to the music venues at night. What
strikes me about Yuni is that he’s constant. He shows up half an hour early, he takes my
hand in his, he answers every inquiry thoughtfully, he remembers
everything. I observe the economic
exchange: he pays for our
transportation in Cuban pesos; I pay for our drinks in convertible pesos. He never asks me for money, but assumes that
I’ll spend a few dollars a day on beer or rum.
I watch the social and cultural exchange: we speak Spanish 99.7% of the time; he
introduces me to the most beautiful natural places to visit for free and tells
me the local stories; he takes me to the best night spots and introduces me to
his friends; he entertains me and pleases me; I entertain and please him.
I don’t realize that I’ve fallen for Yuni until it’s too
late. Our last day together we spend on
the river, just as we had spent our first.
I meet him in the main square, and we walk hand in hand out of town,
about forty minutes to the best place to take the bicycle taxi to the
river. We walk another hour or so along
the river, crossing it two or three times, passing women cleaning clothes,
rural homes with children playing in the dirt road, chickens, pigs, horses,
gardens, small fields, boys jumping from embankments into the river below, to his
favorite natural swimming hole, pristine, surrounded by mountains. The river is crystal clear, warm,
slow-moving, perfect. Yuni catches a shrimp
for me, then a small fish, which he drops into my lap as I giggle. Towards
the end of daylight, the water turns cool, and I think it may be time to
go. Listo? I ask, thinking that he’s ready, too, but he
turns, wide-eyed, surprised. Yeah, sure,
of course, let’s go. On our way back to
town, a friend calls to him from where she’s sitting on the front porch. He stops to light her cigarette. You’re leaving the river early? The sun is gone, he mumbles in reply as he
returns to me and takes my hand in his. He
puts me in the shared horse-drawn carriage as he chats with another friend,
then sits across from me and takes both my hands in his, holding them in his
for the hour or so ride back into town. I
didn’t realize it then, but now I wish I could go back and spend two more hours
with Yuni on the river that day.
Cubans are skilled opportunists. Especially in Havana or Santiago, if you
smile, expect someone to ask you for money.
If you’re enjoying yourself, expect someone to try and sell you
something. If you’re happy, expect someone
to charge you a peso. There are always those
who are ready to turn your emotional capital into economic capital immediately…or
later, depending on the strategy.
Half an hour before my taxi leaves for the airport, I’m
sitting next to Yuni on a bench in an ocean-front park, with my head on his
shoulder and tears in my eyes. I lift my
head, and there’s a man standing in front of us with a large bag. He drops the bag to the ground in front of us
and starts pulling out the cheap handmade jewelry that he sells to tourists as
he launches into his sales-pitch. Look
at what I have. Just look. You don’t have to buy. He will buy something for you. Don’t worry.
I have bracelets. A
necklace. A belt. Handmade.
Beautiful. He’ll get you
something. Normally, I would just tell
this random salesman that I’m not interested, but when I turn to laugh at the
situation with Yuni, he doesn’t say a word, and allows the salesman to continue
his pitch, so I remain quiet, as well, and watch the exchange.
Man, I don’t have any
money. I don’t have anything. The negotiation begins. I sell this stuff, too. Who makes it?
Yeah, I work with her. The most
simple. The salesman picks up a bracelet
with black beads. No, not that one. But she likes black. She’s wearing black. It matches her dress. No.
Something simple. I don’t have
any money. She likes black. He picks up the black bracelet again. No!
Yuni picks up a bracelet with red flowers and black beads and puts it on
my wrist. I’ll pay you later. Man, that’s one peso. But I don’t have any money. Man, you know. I can get you that same bracelet later. But that’s one peso. You help me out; I help you out. Man. You
know.
The salesman packs up his bag, one bracelet short and one
peso poorer and stands tall in front of me, taking me in. She’s beautiful. It’s beautiful, I say, pointing at the
bracelet. No, you’re beautiful, he says,
pointing at me. I smile and hide behind
Yuni. You know he really cares about
you, he says as he walks away.
The bracelet with the red flowers and the black beads that
Yuni gave me fifteen days ago sits on my bedside table. Yuni writes me every other day to tell me how
much he misses me and how much he cares about me and to remind me to never
forget him and to remind me to take just three minutes to write him because he
waits for my message and he’s always thinking of me and to always think of him
because even though we spent only a little time together, it feels like he’s
known me for a long time and to dream of a time when I’ll be by his side again,
as he does, as it is his desire to make me the happiest woman alive because,
with me by his side, he will certainly be the happiest man.
