By Achy Obejas
Tribune staff reporter

Editors note: Achy Obejas is the author of three books, most recently the novel, "Days of Awe." A Tribune staff reporter and native of Cuba, Obejas is writing an account -- in both English and Spanish -- of her most recent visit to Cuba.
 

Day 1

Havana is deserted.

It’s all I can think about since I got here. I walk in the plaza in front of the Cathedral and my footsteps rattle and echo.

There are, of course, still Cubans engaged in nearly every imaginable endeavor along the city’s seawall, jammed hump-backed public buses, open-air markets and
dozens of kiosks selling the revolution bit by bit without a hint of irony: here a Che Guevara t-shirt, there a plastic sheathed news photo of a young and vigorous Fidel
Castro, here a ceramic figure of a bulbous-chested mulatta.

What’s missing from the scene are the tourists.

“Finally,” says Tania, my girlfriend, a Havana resident, “Cuba for Cubans.”

Except that Cuba can’t survive with just Cubans.

With the world still reeling from September 11, the global economic slowdown is hitting Cuba especially hard. Some hotels have closed for lack of business.
Construction all over Havana is dead still.

In Cuba, I live in the capital’s historic district, equidistant between the Cathedral and the newly renovated Museum of Fine Arts. In other words, prime turf for
foreigners and hustlers. It’s usually packed with humanity. But not this time.

Now there are scores of empty tables at the cafe in Cathedral plaza, and bored and worried valets at the Seville Hotel, just off the museum. For the first time in my
experience, the only language heard on my street is Spanish, the open-mouthed, no consonant Cuban variety.

Cuba for Cubans.

Day 2

Whenever I used to come to Cuba, I would bring most of my toiletries with me. Friends of mine brought things too, sometimes even canned meats and powdered
milk. But in recent years that practice began to diminish when we found that, with dollars, we could usually find most anything, and usually at fairly reasonable prices.

Shopping here, though, isn’t like in Chicago. For starters, there are peso stores and dollar stores. The peso stores are really the bodega -- the place where you pick
up foods allotted on your state-issued ration card -- and the agro -- the state-subsidized veggie market. Prices are rock bottom and the veggies are organic and
tasty.

Then there are the dollar stores, or “shoppins.” These cater to anyone with dollars. Some are very slick, like the six-level Carlos III mall in Central Havana, where
you can even get gym equipment. Some are like the nearby Harris Bros. (named after the pre-revolution U.S. store that used to be there), with its basic deli,
hardware and furniture departments.

Recently, a new “shoppin” opened up around the corner, and I trotted over to buy some local butter, which is outrageously priced at $1.50 USD a stick. When I
asked for a receipt, the clerk balked.

“That’s because they pocket the money, it’s a bookkeeping trick,” explained a friend.

Looking at my overpriced little stick of Cuban butter, my friend warned me to stay away from domestic goods.

“The clerks take the real items home, dilute them, and resell them in recycled containers,” she explained. “That’s another way they make their money.”

The sad part is that they do it mostly to Cuban products, because expectations are already so low.

“Next time,” says my friend, “buy the Australian butter.”

Day 3

The Pope’s visit to Cuba in 1998 gave Catholicism a boost and made it seem as if this had always been a Christian nation.

But even when Cubans have professed Catholicism, practice has always been a bit dubious. During the Inquisition, Cubans were so lackadaisical that Spanish
authorities moved the tribunal to the Dominican Republic. Another time, the Archdiocese got so disgusted, it excommunicated the entire city of Havana.

The truth is that most Cubans practice a cocktail of beliefs: a little Judeo-Christian piety, a lot of African animism.

In Cuba, December offers a number of religious celebrations. One of the most popular -- and least touristic -- is the Feast of St. Lazarus, better known as the
Afro-Cuban god, Babalú-Ayé.

Officially, his day is December 17 but the observation lasts all month. The government sets up extra buses on the two-hour route from Havana to just outside the
town of Santiago de Las Vegas. From there devotees flock to El Rincón and the old St. Lazarus Hospital, the island’s former leper colony, and past the new AIDS
hospices.

Those making promises to Babalú-Ayé crawl on their backs or knees all the way to the shrine. They wear sackcloth, the color purple, and usually carry or push an
image of the god as an old man with several open wounds, on crutches, and surrounded by dogs.

The day we go to El Rincón, there’s a tarot reader on the church grounds, next to all the disabled people looking for miracles and asking for donations. He tells us
our path is filled with challenges, but also with good things and happiness. We consider his warnings and leave feeling extraordinarily privileged and a little ashamed of
our luck.

Day 4

Most tourists, I think, expect Cubans to drive classic Ford Fairlanes or ‘56 Chevys. And indeed, those gems can be found here -- but usually hidden away, waiting
for the embargo to be lifted and a buyer to step up.

The U.S. made cars that take to the roads are jalopies, nothing American about them except the shells, which hide auto parts from former socialist allies -- as well as
hangers, rope, and gadgets purely of Cuban invention.

In Havana, American clunkers cruise right alongside shiny new Daewoos, Toyotas, Daihatsus and Subarus. There’s a Fiat dealership. Mercedes Benz provides for
Fidel Castro’s convoy, upscale cabs and ordinary hearses.

Of course -- but for the hearses -- the average Cuban doesn’t get many opportunities to ride these. Day to day transportation is provided by humped-back buses the
Cubans call “camellos” (camels) or Chinese-made bikes with English names, such as Flying Pigeon. There are also the ubiquitous “bici-taxis,” bike-powered
rickshaws.

Finally, there are taxis. But getting one is not as simple as standing on the corner and flagging it down. For starters, there are many different kinds of taxis, from the
Mercedes -- stationed outside the 5 star hotels for tourists only -- down to illegal gypsy cabs whose drivers creep up and whisper their services, then dash quickly
away.

My favorites are the 10 pesos taxis (50 US cents), which are on fixed routes. These are usually beat-up Russian Ladas or American cars from the 40s. Hardly a
word is spoken during these interactions.

“Prado,” I say when I need to get home, and the driver either shakes hear head and pulls away or shrugs for me to climb in. Along the way we might pick up as many
as 8 other Cubans, all equally monosyllabic

At the end of the ride, I hand over my Cuban money and we both nod at each other in gratitude.

Day 5

There are times when Cuba is wonderful, when being here is as natural as breathing. For me, that often happens when I stroll up to the Plaza de Armas, a charming
little park in front of what used to be the office of the island’s colonial governors.

There are two things I love about this place. The first are the book sellers -- scores of them, with their wooden shelves and their yellowed treasures. Everything sold
here is used, often ancient: An 1864 edition of "Don Quixote," a first edition paperback of Ernest Hemingway’s "The Old Man and the Sea," a Soviet military manual
with its cryptic Russian letters, and Fidel Castro’s own "History Will Absolve Me" in as many languages as can be imagined.

The other thing I love is the music. Because Plaza de Armas is surrounded by little cafes, there’s a constant soundtrack provided by small combos that take turns
playing. And because the cafes are aimed at tourists, the music is of the Buena Vista variety: gentle and nostalgic.

Most Cubans today don’t listen to this; it would be like tuning into Benny Goodman in Chicago. They prefer contemporary dance bands like Los Van Van, pop
groups like Moneda Dura, or international artists such as Marc Anthony or Oasis.

When Cubans my age get sentimental, they listen to Silvio Rodríguez, Pablo Milanés and Sara González -- revolutionary troubadours whose songs are still played
throughout Latin America.

But growing up in the U.S., I missed all that. (I was listening to Lou Reed, Patti Smith and David Bowie instead.) So, for me, Cuban music of the heart means
swaying guajiras, elegant sones -- music long before my time, the music of longing; it also means "The Peanut Vendor" and "Guantanamera," the kind of songs people
all over the world recognize as Cuban.

In Havana on a mild and cloudy day, strolling through stacks of poetry by José Lezama Lima and Dulce María Loynaz, what makes me feel at home is,
paradoxically, the music of exile.

Day 6

In recent years there’s been a resurgence of interest in the island’s Jewish community. Month after month, there are Jewish delegations visiting Cuba from New York,
Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles and a myriad other American cities.

That there should be a link between the U.S. and Cuban Jewish communities isn’t surprising: The first official Jewish organization here, the United Hebrew
Congregation, was created in 1906 by a group of Americans.

But the first permanent synagogue is the one that really reflects the island’s Jewish roots: Chevet Ahim, founded in 1914, was established by Orthodox Turkish Jews.
Currently closed, it’s being renovated as a museum under a long, rather byzantine plan by a French Jewish architectural concern.

The very first Jews in Cuba came with Columbus fleeing the Spanish Inquisition.

"Still today, most Cuban Jews are Sephardic," explains Jose Levy Tur, head of Havana’s Centro Hebreo Sefaradi, the only Sephardic congregation of three temples
in Havana. "About 60 percent of the total population, and about 90 percent of the Jews outside Havana are Sephardic."

But more than 90 percent of the foreign Jewish delegations are from the U.S., and ethnically Ashkenazi.

"So what gets played up is Cuban Ashkenazi history, because that’s what they want to hear about," says Levy with a shrug.

At the Centro, they try to gently explain to the delegations what the situation really is by presenting lectures and cultural programs. Some of the visitors come well
prepared, others with hardly a clue.

"It’s hard for me to believe -- with the Internet and so many different sources of information -- that people could be surprised that there are Jews in Cuba, or what
we’re like, but it happens," he says.

Still, Levy considers the delegations, which began in the early 90s, as a positive trend.

"For starters, we’re recognized," he says. "There’s exchange, which is important. They’re also a big help with kosher products, money for different projects, and
donations to the community pharmacy, which is critical."

Day 7

At the beginning of each year, Cuba’s santeros and babalawos -- the high priests of the Afro-Cuban religion of santería -- get together and read the Letter of the
Year, a message from the gods designed to give believers something of a heads up.

Casa Yoruba’s Antonio Orestes Castaneda Marquez says his group’s membership includes more than 500 of Cuba’s most important santeros and babalawos, but
it’s a historically unruly community so every complaint has to be taken seriously.

Like the one about the cafeteria. Most santeros and babalawos live in poverty; it’s almost a rule. Yet the cafeteria at Casa Yoruba is charging in dollars, not Cuban
pesos. Hardly anyone can afford it except foreigners.

"We don’t have permission to change pesos into dollars, and we’re forced to buy supplies in dollars," explains a frustrated Castaneda. "Plus, we pay a lot of taxes to
be in business, to be part of Old Havana."

The pressure -- even in their own headquarters -- to deal in dollars is causing some shamans to consider altering the rules of their faith.

"I know it’s true -- a lot of people are adapting ceremonies for foreigners who pay in dollars," says Castaneda with a pained look. "But we’re against that, just like
we’re against filming the ceremonies or participating in any way in all the fetishism foreigners have with our animal sacrifices and that sort of thing. Commercialization
isn’t good for us."

Yet Castaneda recognizes the problem of trying to please foreigners isn’t just about making money.

"We come from a culture of slaves, so sometimes we bend," he says. "We don’t always realize we’re a free people now, and we can say no."

Finally, after more than an hour of practical explanations and apologies to those gathered, Castaneda finally gets down to Letter of the Year and the gods' message:
Not surprisingly, 2002 is going to be a difficult year.

Day 8

It’s about 1 a.m. and Pedro, the Tribune’s Havana bureau chauffeur, and I have been driving for hours on the backroads of Oriente, Cuba’s mountainous and
desperately poor eastern provinces.

Then we spy the Hotel Guardalavaca through the darkness, the only resort for miles, and we sigh, relieved that we’ll get a decent night’s rest and, hopefully, a hot
shower.

At the desk, the clerk looks at us warily. “You’re ... Cubans?” she asks cautiously.

Cuban hotels -- except for the occasional flophouse in the provinces -- do not allow Cubans to lodge, even if they have the money to pay for a room.

We produce our documents and my U.S. passport works its instant magic. The clerk pushes a sign-up form at me.

“But he can’t stay here,” she says chagrined, returning Pedro’s I.D. passbook, work permits and driver’s license to him.

“Look, it’s the middle of the night and the middle of nowhere,” I plead. “He’s our official driver -- I’m here working and I couldn’t do my work without him.”

“But he’s Cuban,” she says, and Pedro -- who’s a proud man -- reddens when he hears her words. “Look, if it were up to me ..." And with that she goes to get the
manager.

He turns out to be a nervous young bureaucrat who, initially, apologizes. “I’m just trying to make a living,” he says.

But I insist. “Don’t you think it’s a bit ironic -- if not pathetic -- that I, who left, can stay here, and Pedro, who stayed and who’s a revolutionary, can’t?”

The manager looks over our documents again. He goes outside and examines our SUV. Finally, he instructs the clerk to rent Pedro a room.

But as he returns Pedro’s documents to him, he notices his I.D. passbook is falling apart. “You should be ashamed,” he says to Pedro. “Your passbook is how
foreigners see us. What image are you projecting?”

“My passbook?” Pedro finally explodes.

“And what image are you projecting by denying lodging to Cubans?” I ask.

“Look, in your country, I don’t question your laws -- don’t come here to question mine,” he shoots back.

“What kind of law is that anyway?” Pedro asks, exasperated.

“That’s it,” says the manager, ripping the sign up form from Pedro’s hands. “I was going to take a chance with you two but for what? Please leave!”

We’re incredulous, as are the two Spanish tourists standing behind us. The manager stomps off. As we leave, the security guard shakes his head, averting his eyes in
shame.

Day 9

I’ve always dreamed of returning to Cuba with my father. For me, he has always been the link back to the island. Unfortunately, my father's politics keep him from
returning. Since escaping in 1963, he has maintained his promise not to go back until Fidel Castro is gone.

So there was a little bittersweetness when the opportunity arose on this most recent trip to Cuba to visit Oriente, the eastern provinces where he grew up. This is a
vast wonderland, mostly rural, often mountainous but also known for its pristine, unspoiled coasts.

Oriente is more than lush geography, though. It’s the place where all of the island’s revolutions have begun. It’s where the son, the island’s signature rhythm, was
born. It’s where both Fidel and Fulgencio Batista come from.

Before going, I dropped my father a quick note, asking if there was anything he wanted me to see in particular, anyone he wanted me to visit. He responded with a
list curiously void of family, but filled with markers like Gibara’s city hall, where my grandfather had held court as mayor, and the cemetery in Banes, where he’s
buried.

Traveling through Oriente, I quickly grew used to both its blazing beauty and its numbing poverty. So I was somewhat unprepared for Banes, where I went searching
for my grandfather’s tomb.

The town is almost storybook in character: The houses are painted pastel colors, the streets evenly paved and clean. There was an air of gentle prosperity all about.
Everything seemed so serene -- I couldn’t picture my father here at all, not with his intensity and his dreaminess.

After spending an hour of unsuccessful grave-hopping at the Banes cemetery -- unlike Havana’s, well-preserved and not all disturbed -- I had to get going back to
the city. As the car took the winding curves out of Banes, the land split open before us in a glorious view of the tropics at dawn. It was a little bit like peaking at
heaven.

And then, suddenly, my father’s intensity, his dreaminess, made sense after all.

Day 10

There is a deathwatch in Cuba.

Out on the streets, the phenomenon is referred to obliquely. "Después" -- later. "When the changes come ... " some will say. Others are more blunt, if perhaps a bit
naive: "When capitalism finally gets here ... " Among intellectuals, some dare to talk about a time that’s post-Revolution. Others joke: "When the Americans come ..."

Officially, Fidel Castro will be succeeded by his younger brother, Raul, the head of the armed forces, though some think the future rests with Felipe Perez Roque,
Fidel’s hand-picked foreign minister, who was practically raised by his side. Others say the real successor is Carlos Lage, the medical doctor who’s credited with
much of the economic strategy that saved Cuba after the collapse of the Soviet bloc.

But these are all the topics of conversation that flit on the surface of everybody’s real concern: Fidel’s death.

Because the curious thing here is that, even those who oppose him allow that, if nothing else, Fidel provides a strange stability. There’s no post-Fidel plan here, at
least not one that’s been made public, and there’s plenty of concern that the country will be plunged into chaos after he goes.

To think that Cubans will simply rejoice is both simplistic and wrong. Fidel has been here more than 40 years, for most Cubans, their entire lives. He looms huge, not
just as a political figure but as a vehicle of self definition. We are for or opposed or all mixed up about him.

A friend in Havana tells me that it’s us in exile who think about Fidel, that here, on the island, everybody’s beyond that already. And while it’s true that talk about
Fidel -- open, public talk, especially of his mortality -- is absolutely unheard of here, Fidel is as present as the horizon of blue water.

Fidel’s most famous speech is titled "History Will Absolve Me." But that, of course, depends entirely on who writes the story of my poor and proud and beautiful
country.