What We Don’t Talk About / Regina Coyula

My husband has dengue fever. Or chikunguya, what the difference is can only be known after a long-awaited test. We needed to find our family doctor because he kept going from house to house inquiring of people with fever or other suspicious symptoms. The doctor, after a physical examination and posing a series of questions, filled out a paper and referred him to Fajardo Hospital.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to wait in line for this.”

At 11:30  Alcides went to the hospital with one of our daughters who arrived at just the right time. I stayed at home cooking, so they could eat lunch after returning from the hospital.

At four in the afternoon, my brother arrived and took me to Fajardo. At that hour the shift doctor still had not seen the urgent test results. Alcides had to wait for a long time because the line that he “didn’t have to wait in” was much bigger than the line for people who arrived for other reasons. Finally, it was his turn. A young Guinean doctor with enviable patience attended each case, filled out a stack of papers and still had the Hippocratic spirit to be friendly.

I signed a paper to take responsibility for Alcides. What worries the doctors (at the hospital as well as at the neighborhood clinic) is that his platelets are very low and his leucocytes very high, but I’d rather go to the clinic every day to have the follow-up analysis than to leave him in the hospital. I don’t like anything about the Emergency Room, disorganized and lacking in hygiene, and I have no reason to suppose that the rest of the hospital would be any different.

In the waiting room the patients never stop complaining. Why if you come with a referral directly from your clinic do you have to repeat the same procedures with the doctor on duty instead of going directly to the lab? No one knows what the “guidelines” say. Later, there were only two doctors and they were overwhelmed. Those missing must be on overseas missions like Barrio Adentro or Mas Medicos; to the claim of our being a “Medical Powerhouse” should be added: … “for export.”

Having a case of dengue fever in the house isn’t news. The list of patients in the four surrounding blocks fills two pages in a school notebook. “We haven’t found the source,” my family doctor tells me with concern. I comment, “They shouldn’t focus so much on individual homes, rather they should clean up the neglected lot on the corner, and if they haven’t found the source, there they’re going to find all those who haven’t appeared yet.

As the situation is worsening (I would speak of an epidemic, but the health authorities seem not to have received “the orientation”) the priority is the source. Yesterday they came and fumigated and asked about home sources (if you have vases, plants in water, drinking bowls for pets, water deposits in the house, and I already know the list by heart and can recite it). Later the supervisor showed up to ask about the program to check for sources in homes; later the supervisor’s boss came by to ask about the program to check for sources in homes.

And at the lush wilderness on the corner? No one asks about the sources there.

28 July 2014

Woe is Me, Who Was a Poet / Regina Coyula

Woe is Me, Who Was a Poet…

…or thought I was, which is worse. In keeping with this, I would have become a “fine poet of felt verses,” as literary criticism says when it has nothing better to say. Common sense and love of writing have left me here, where I feel so comfortable. I found a very yellowed piece of lined paper bearing this text typed by an Underwood, following an interminable train ride from Santa Clara to Havana taken along with a group of youths who were returning from a rock festival. Speaking of Frank Abel, does anyone know what has become of him?

HEAVY METAL

To Frank Abel Dopico 

The rock-and-rollers love the nocturnality of trains

then

the rockers run away from home

they beg for money at the station

and they go to another province

to imagine what it’s like to travel.

In the parks

the rockers are blue

they make love and urinate in the solitude of sidewalks

all pleasure they find in the cross-eyed hands of Jimmy Page.

They have a calling to be cops, the rockers

they raise the decibels

exorcism by percussion

it’s the train and it’s Led Zeppelin

there is a monastic silence in the rockers

they tear their hair and they huddle to weep in the corner of the car.

They don’t think of the following day

they clasp their hands and kiss the crucifix.

The sweet rockers

rehearse with amphetamines and other complications

to imagine how it is

to travel.

(June 19, 1990)

Translated by: Alicia Barraqué Ellison

14 July 2014

Go Around / Regina Coyula

It’s an ordinary apartment in a quiet Havana neighborhood. You have to knock and go inside to find out if owner knows about the recommendation you have been given. There are no introductions. A girl leads you straight to a room in the apartment that is not a room but rather a little store, well-organized and well-stocked, given what it is.

“How much is this wallet?”

“Um, I don’t know if they told you but I don’t sell, I rent,” she says.

Huh?

“Yeah, I have a license to rent party clothes. What you have to do is leave a deposit for the full value of the article. If you don’t return it after ten days, I deduct it from my inventory.”

“Ten days, right?”

I leave with my wallet and a smile. “If you can’t go over, go around.”

9 July 2014

Postcard from a Journey (3) / Regina Coyula

Nuevitas is my third and last stop on this whirlwind of a trip. The Santiago/Nuevitas journey takes eight hours, two of them in the 16-kilometer stretch between Manatí and Camalote. My trip is the next to last before this itinerary is suspended, pending the repair of the roadway. A passenger who appears to be a regular suggests making the round through Guáimaro, but the driver informs him that around there the roadway is worse. The news spreads through the bus, almost all the passengers know each other and the crew, complaints are heard, but there is nothing to be done.

It is a monotonous journey, a plain copped with trees — and notice I say trees — of the marabou weed variety. I see cows, the only ones during the whole trip; a slender herd, beige spots against the green pasture.

I’m startled by the ghost of the Free Algeria sugar mill in old Manatí. Some rickety structures and two chimneys testify to it. I grew up hearing the phrase “without sugar there is no country,” it was something so understood that to bump up against the ruins of the industry that gave us the title of “the sugar bowl of the world,” inevitably causes me to think of who bears the responsibility for a disaster of such proportions.

Nuevitas, seaport… I don’t manage to distinguish the port, the nitrogenized fertilizer factory releases a yellow smoke and there is threat of a rainstorm. The cloud cover is refreshing, there are no trees; Nuevitas is an industrial city, irregular but monotonous. The “mini train” is the substitute for the bus, an open wagon thrown over a tractor, horse-drawn carriage and bicycle-taxis.

An unexpected event turns out to be amusing. My visit coincides with the police citation given to the lawyers of the Cuban Law Association. A man wearing a cap and dark glasses take photos of us, to which I return the gesture, which disconcerts him, causes him to cross the street quickly and disappear from sight.

It’s almost 4 pm and I’m dying for breakfast. The only restaurant in the city is Nuevimar, where we are the only diners besieged by a legion of flies. The water in the glass looks cloudy and tastes bad. The service is slow, I’m hungry but also apprehensive. I make up for all this in a privately-run bakery that features a varied selection. I’ve had no coffee, and the deprivation is giving me a headache.

The lawyers are very sorry for the unexpected police intrusion; I’m exhausted, sleep-deprived, having traveled more than 19 hours in less than three days; and the trip to Havana is still ahead and due to my lack of experience I’m going to be cold in the Chinese-made Yutong bus. So, I prefer to sleep a little in the bus and train station until the 7pm departure of the bus.

From the window I manage to see a bit of the coast, I don’t see a port nor ships. Nuevitas reminds me a little of Cojímar, but without the charm of Cojímar.

I arrive in Havana at 5 in the morning. A boatman asks me for 7 CUC to take me, then reduces the fee when I threaten to find another taxi. At 5:30 I’m already at home, sleeping.

Click here to view the slideshow

Translated by: Alicia Barraqué Ellison

2 July 2014

Postcard From a Journey (2) / Regina Coyula

Five hours of traveling to Santiago de Cuba. It’s still early but it’s already hot. I love Santiago. I realize that it is a city with its own personality and pulse. Music plays loudly, the women seem to wear a smaller size than they need, no one is in a hurry, everyone knows each other, or so it seems, by the familiarity of the way they treat each other which I don’t escape.

I wonder if at any moment this city isn’t going to go up or down, I don’t see even a single street that isn’t on an incline. I talk with everyone, in Santiago it’s the easiest thing in the world; people complain about prices, or the shortages that are seen everywhere, but it doesn’t reach the level of criticism I see in Havana, although clearly, my view is superficial.

This hot Habanera looks for any pretext to get into an airconditioned place. Lunch at El Baluarte, a restaurant that trades in national currency. The portions are small, but my last impression of the State food service in Havana is horrendous, this doesn’t seem as bad to me. I continue to go up and down the streets, commenting to my host that Santiago is a city that lives with its back to the sea, and he says I’m right, but takes me to a place known as Velazquez’s Balcony, with a spectacular view of the bay.

One peculiarity of the alternative transport in Santiago is the motorbikes. They have no license to carry passengers, but everyone uses them and they take you where you want to go. I talk with my driver who brought his bike from the former GDR where he was qualified to work in the Celia Sanchez textile factory. When they closed the business, he appealed for his bike and said they’d have to kill him to take it from him.

I asked him about the number of houses I saw under construction. Almost all are victims of hurricane Sandy,he told me, and I didn’t comment, but it’s clear that in the urgency to build technical standards have been overlooked and those thin boards portend future problems.

I remember my cousin Mayito Coyula with his observation that when you’re going to be operated on you always want the best surgeon and yet building houses is left in the hands of the equivalent of the orderlies.

Dinner is at a “paladar” (privately run restaurant) on Enramada Street; the prices are like those in Havana and the customers are all foreigners except my table. The best food and the best service of the whole trip. I go to Santiago without being able to eat a mango sponge cake.

1 July 2014

Postcard From a Journey (1) / Regina Coyula

Like Silvio, I think the people are screwed; unlike him, however, it didn’t take me so much time to realize it, but traveling outside Havana let me see it first hand.

The domestic terminal at Jose Marti Airport is the original airport building. After checking your luggage you have to go up an escalator.  “It’s almost always broken,” a regular traveler told me. Upstairs you  get in another line to pass through a little door in groups of five. Behind this is the x-ray control and then you enter a large area of souvenir shops, closed at five in the morning, with a snack bar at the end where there’s nobody, all of which leads to a large waiting room.

Neither the poster of Santa Lucia beach looking like paradise, nor the other two that you sit against, managed to overcome my claustrophobic impression of that room without even one window. Continue reading

The Deluded / Regina Coyula

There are those who walk without watching who walks behind, if they seem mysterious speaking on the phone it is for the purpose of mortifying a little the listening elves, they take for granted that some neighbor(s) take(s) note of their movements and visits, but it does not interest them. They live with the decision to behave as free beings without allowing the government’s barriers, within which all that is not expressly authorized is prohibited, to constrain them in the least.

Others prefer a stealthy attitude, they communicate with signals, they have designed an alternative vocabulary and they live under the conspiracy theory in the category of major players.  They sleep with one eye open, they see ulterior motives in everything.

Not many of the first group are free, nor are many of those controlled by paranoia watched.

Translated by mlk.

18 June 2014

A Chronicle Owed / Regina Coyula

To Carlos and my traveling companions

When someone asks me what I thought of Lima, I amswer that I was not in Lima but in Miraflores, an area of the city located along the seacoast where the green spaces are impeccable, and the traffic-filled streets are clean and crowded with the Toyotas and Kias. Even the dogs and cats are looked after by the local government. There are tall buildings, enormous stores and restaurants. That’s Miraflores, a district of Lima where anyone would enjoying living, even in spite of high walls and electrical fences.

I was invited by the Institute for Freedom to participate in a seminar on digital journalism and communication technology. These were luxurious conferences, attended by people highly-qualified in their fields. I went to learn and I learned a lot. I also had the opportunity to meet some wonderful people. It felt strange to be treated so cordially in the markets, restaurants, stores and when asking for directions on the street. Continue reading

Women in Battle Dress / Juan Antonio Madrazo Luna

The drag queens warm up Havana with the steam of their bodies. Prostitution has been their lifesaver.

HAVANA, Cuba – Lolita, Alejandra, Samantha, Paloma, and África María are drag queens who stamp their feet on every Havana street corner during the night, while the city sleeps. Some with warrior faces and others as shy princesses patrol the streets and avenues of a broken Havana.

Lady Gaga is not the icon for them anymore. She has been replaced by Conchita Wurst, the “bearded Austrian” who won the Eurovision Festival. They don’t believe in political surgery or the “factory of genders” that the National Center of Sexual Education (CENESEX) proposes, after converting Adela, a transsexual from Caibarién, into the first delegate of Popular Power.

In the stories of these drag queens we find dysfunctional homes, school drop- outs, sexual violation by a relative, and above all, humiliation and rejection since childhood for being different.

As they consider themselves to be in the wrong body, they have transformed it with accessories, paper-mache tits, hormones, or surgery. The will to live has allowed some of them to work in hospitals, as hairdressers, or by singing in small clubs. For others, prostitution has been their lifesaver. Continue reading

Brief Inventory of Personal Fears / Regina Coyula

As with almost everyone, as a girl darkness was a problem. I loved playing hide and seek, crouching in the bushes, but when evening came, the shadows became something dangerous, boogeymen coming to take me away, and I would run to the safety of adults and the light.

Another of my major fears at that time was that I would get sick on vacation, With chronic throat problems, tonsillitis threatened to rob me of the beach; and I had reasons to fear the colds all around me or a certain burning when I swallowed, or too strong a fan overnight.

Those fears gave way to others, trivial or important, but no less for this: the fear of failing an exam, losing a boyfriend, getting fat, of not sounding too combative in an era of ideological definitions given my petty bourgeois ballast.

Ultimately, the beach lost its charms for me years ago, because of the sun that pursues us everywhere on this little Caribbean island; I now had boyfriends and all it would take was for me to look at something to get fat. Coming from the bourgeoisie haunted me like a ghost in my youth, I couldn’t compete with those who maintained the discourse of the barricade, but they lived in the old houses and according to the manner of the overthrown bourgeoisie.

I continued to be a scaredy-cat, just my fears changes. I had a panic attack they day they did a caesarean to get my son out. I remember dressing in white and walking with a gladiolus in my hand to honor Orlando Zapata Tamayo on the anniversary of this death, and when a car stopped to ask directions I almost had a heart attack. Last December 10 (Human Rights Day) was another good occasion to be afraid.

Very recently, happy on returning from a seminar on citizen journalism and social networks in Lima, Peru, I was taken to the “little room” by customs officials. My luggage wasn’t overweight, there was nothing illegal, but they did a detailed search of my luggage, and retained for “customs inspection” SCAN0000, a laptop with charger and mouse, a camcorder with two tripods and four memory cards, two external drives, all new in their original box, in addition to my camera, my tablet, a USB drive and my phone, the latter not even having a charger; articles that on leaving Cuba didn’t need to be declared for personal use.

The other suspicious articles were four books written by my husband, which also left with me, a book about social networks I was given, and the folder with the conference agenda and my handwritten notes.

I spoke to you of far. All these valuable articles often upsetting the balance of saving money, how not to feel a punch in the gut to see them disappear into a sack, no matter how much you’ve got all the right paperwork. At that time it came to mind the cases of theft in customs. But that wasn’t the greatest fear.

With my hands crossed over my knees so as not to show my nervousness, I saw how a piece of my privacy was handled with impunity. The little I said was to make clear the arbitrariness of which I was the object. I didn’t waste energy, because those officials face other officials; the political police who ordered the measure.

Then a strange fear is provoked, because I gave no thought to abandoning my openly critical stance towards the government. The fear that set my adrenaline flowing, confirmed for me the nefariousness of a regime which, far from serving its citizens, is allowed to ride roughshod over them, over their sovereignty.

It’s time to recover this sovereignty.

4 June 2014

Prosperous and Sustainable (2) / Regina Coyula

My troubles did not end with the molars. Thinking myself clever, a month ago I bought a combined ceiling fan and light fixture at the Plaza Carlos III shopping mall. From an initial price of 120.00 CUCs, it had been reduced to 35 because it was missing its shade. I did not think twice because the phallic bulbs they have been selling since the “energy revolution” will not fit inside any shade anyway. But to paraphrase a popular saying, when something seems too good to be true, it probably is. I should have thought twice and walked away.

The electrician installing the new appliance pointed out that the screws used to attach the blades were not original. There was also evidence it had been repainted, indicating that the fan had been installed and for some reason uninstalled. He recommended that I return it. Continue reading

Prosperous and Sustainable (1) / Regina Coyula

My adolescence coincided with the era in which almost all Cuba’s dentists left the country. When I finally saw one, the most expeditious course of treatment was to remove two of my molars that in other circumstances would have been saved. But those battle-hardened dentists could not be bothered with such details as a teenager’s smile, no matter how cheerful it may have been. So as soon as I could, I had a permanent bridge made. My little bridge allowed me laugh without embarrassment until two years ago when old age began to move things around. Every time the bridge came loose, I — more stubborn than it — put it back in place. But by the end of last year it finally gave out.

In the judgement of the prosthetist a new permanent bridge was required because neither removable bridges nor dental implants were suitable in my case due to the shallowness of the occlusion. These bridges are metal but the clinic did not make them, which meant I would have to go to the School of Dentistry. Continue reading