Joy and Juxtaposition - An Experience in Cuba
By: Katie Huey, TWP Tour participant, Cuba Company Retreat 2020
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Stroll through the colonial streets of Havana
I haven’t had many opportunities to travel theglobe. I was taught as a child that the world is big and the tiny space we takeup makes a difference. We are small in the grand scheme of things, and stillhave power to influence others positively as we walk through the world.
I’ve explored parts of Europe and frequented Caribbean beaches, but rarely have I had the chance to step into foreign places with a local lens. When leadership at Trebuchet Group announced we were partnering with TWP Tours to go to a new place I was thrilled. And anxious.
The caring TWP Tours staff planned a beautiful itinerary and took care to make sure our needs would be met. In my traveler survey, I asked for coffee in the mornings. Other than that, I was ready to go with the flow.
I was promised strong coffee in tiny cups andknew I would be in good hands.
We were met at the airport and the smoke fromburning trash in fields nearby made my eyes water as I stepped down off of thetiny airplane. We went through customs and I was asked if I had recentlytraveled to Asia - the coronavirus epidemic was just weeks away from reachingthe tiny island just 90 miles off the US coast. I couldn’t understand thecustom agent’s accent and was flustered enough to mutter out a no after sherepeated her question three times.
Entering new places can be disorienting.
We settled into our apartment, took sips froma fresh bottle of Havana Club rum, and went to dinner at a charming restaurantperched in a tiny building at the top of a steep flight of stairs. All theflights of stairs are unbelievably steep. Sitting at the large table in themiddle of the room, I ordered in my broken high-school level Spanish. We lookedout the windows laced with twinkle lights into the dark night below.
Throughout the week, our small group wasintroduced to local artists creating magical pieces out of limited resources.Paper and paint are hard to find and still, behind worn doors, kind creatorsinvited us to step into their makeshift studios split with their livingquarters. They shook our hands and asked for input on their work.
We met organic farmers who are teaching Cubanpeople to prepare and enjoy vegetables. We met entrepreneurs teaching youngpeople business skills and drank cocktails made fresh by the students ofbartending school.
We smoked cigars freshly rolled and watchedperformers wearing tall red stilettos play music to tourists from all over theglobe in the birthplace of the daiquiri. We swam in the warm, turquoise oceanand drank a cold Cuban beer right out of the can with sand on our toes. Wewalked where Ernest Hemingway lived and I jumped up and down when I saw thetypewriter he used to make his masterpieces. We drank cane sugar juice on aporch of strangers.
In our walking and our wandering, I continuedto be delighted.
I ate creamy coconuts out of frozen huskyshells, and sipped strong coffee out of white cups. I also had to choose againwhen my first choice items were out of stock. Chicken was hard to come by.Bottled water scarce in the touristy town three hours from Havana. Beer fromthe State brewery flatter than the craft brews I was used to from home.
Each day I kept saying, “I’m struck by thejuxtaposition here.” My teammates teased me as I repeated myself. The contrastbetween old and new, between broken down buildings and the vibrant peopleliving inside them, the difference between the fancy European hotels on oneside of the street and the tenant apartment falling apart on the oppositecorner. That life can exist and thrive in such places of discord amazed me.
As an American, I’ve been taught a story of a complex and tense history with Cuba. Our narratives tell us we are the heroes and the country is the threat to our livelihood. Stepping out of the textbooks and into the streets where these kind people live challenged my notions of what history tells us to be true. I witnessed the very real consequences of the choices our political leaders continue to make. I realized how connected I can be, if I choose, to the stories of those living so closely to American soil. Of course, they want health, hope, and happiness for their families too.
On the plane ride home, I realized I had anextra wad of Cuban toilet paper tucked in my backpack. I had carried theone-ply sheets with me on our outings because public facilities were lackingwhat we’d consider to be the basics. Soap was rare too and I was thankful mycoworker had a small bottle of hand sanitizer with her.
I didn’t realize the symbolic power thosesquares of bathroom paper and tiny squirts of alcohol would come to mean in theweeks after we came home. I’m thinking now of the Cuban people and theirresilience. They seem to bend, not break, when times get tough. These peopleare no strangers to struggle and still connect and create beauty despite theodds.
I’m thankful for the chance to experience lifein a new place, drink rum on rooftops, and witness artistic expression andenthusiasm for connection and extensions of hospitality in a place of suchcontrast. We’re more connected than we think.