Socialist Bastion Part I: Tashkent With Palm Trees?

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Arriving to Cuba was sort of like homecoming. Old Soviet style apartment buildings, street signs, and cars! Oh my god, Lada, Moskvich, Volga, Niva, and my favorite, Zaporojec. These are ancient Russian car brands. They invariably carried us through our childhood, smelling like styrofoam and gasoline, making us nauseous, causing us to cringe at the thought of a road trip. They are reliable. Even a model from the late 80s or early 90s will serve you faithfully. Although, once in awhile requiring you to prop open the hood in the middle of a busy street to tinker, as if reminding you what it looks like, from the inside—teaching you its moody disposition. Often you'll be found running along your car, perhaps in your flip-flops, holding tight to the wheel, maneuvering through the open door. Until finally you and the bystanders think the time is ripe for you to jump back into the driver's seat and ram the shift-stick into second and see if it sticks. When it does, everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Everyone is on your side here. Some even cheer or give you the thumbs up. The Russian car is like a jealous woman—it’s in everyone's interest to keep the bitch contained.

I didn't have a place to stay in Havana, although by law I was required to prior to entering the country. The reason for this, besides my superior planning skills, is that the decision to go to this communist outpost was more or less made on a whim, some would call it drunken stupor. Although harboring the desire to visit the country for some time I thought it unlikely and extravagant detour of my trip. Sitting in an office of a fair trade organization 5 hours west of Mexico City I marveled at the wheels of destiny. This was the first week of the internship. I've escaped the cycle less than a month ago and here, again, I was staring at the prospect of working late nights, including the weekends, for an indefinite amount of time. To make matters worse I wasn’t even getting paid. I called in sick the first two days of work already, Monday and Tuesday. This was Friday. I walked outside at lunchtime to get a cocktail of octopus, shrimp, squid and many other sea creatures, soaked in tomato sauce. Washed it down with a beer. Walked up to the office, gathered up my belongings and headed straight for the travel agent whose office I've been surreptitiously spying for about a week now. Ah, Uruapan, I don't mean to seem ungrateful it's just...it had to be done. I'm only human. You'll understand some day. It's not like we didn't have our moments.

There was that day when I jumped a local mini-bus with some old, indigenous women carrying papaya and pineapples and headed to the heart of your main attraction, Parque Nacional de Uruapan. The place truly left me in awe with its myriad of fountains, creeks, waterfalls, and the biggest butterflies I've ever seen. So much so that I wrote this just outside its gates:

I sat at a restaurant at the intersection of three streets with an open view of the happenings thinking how funny humans appear. We go around looking dominant but really we are pathetic in a tender kind of way. Sort of like chickens, quaking around the yard, peaking at this or that. We do manage to avoid panic in the face of this thing we call life. At least that we got a handle on. We don't run around screaming "what the fuck, that's crazy" at everything we see. But still, we are decidedly incompetent. Sitting here I am conscious of the fact that that won't change. Yet I am fine with it. Fine? I say it as if I have any say in it. Our oldest tool—reason—is that of the Stone Age. Laughable. Much can be done with it. This cannot be denied, but its like athlete's fight against gravity. Which brings us to the question of time. The last two weeks have felt like a lifetime. Each day lasts longer than a year. The dog on the street recoils in fear even though I just offered it food. What if I wanted to kick it? I know you understand.

It's getting cloudy here now. Uruapan has weather unlike any other. Even on the bus descending the valley I marveled at how the right-side window threatened rain while the left remained unapologetically sunny. Six days here and I observed this six times at the same exact time of the late afternoon. In my bedroom I'd watch the mountains and brace for a downpour yet coming to the front door I'd perk at the sound of screaming children on a sunny day. In Uruapan one half of you is always in the clouds.

Yes, you made me feel small. But I liked you for it. How about the time that I went to a neighborhood bar that was absolutely empty, just the way I like it. I got to talking with the bartender and his friend. When time came to close down they invited me to a club owned by a friend. I hesitated. But you, Uruapan, made me feel it was all right. The front page of the newspaper told gruesome stories of mass mafia-style murders. Dismembered bodies of twelve men, scattered on the main street, with a note reading like some Robin Hood shit. La Familia does not hurt the innocent, only those deserving punishment. My new companions confirmed this: "if you don't fuck with the mafia, you'll be alright." The statement stood in stark opposition to that of my housemate: "Uruapan is statistically the most dangerous place in Mexico." Yet I went. The bartender later told me not to worry. "I'm not worried" I replied. "Yeah, I know," he said confidently, "We have that vibe about us."

Entering the club we were all greeted like old friends by the bouncer. The place was huge, the size of a small supermarket. There were probably around 30 people there, but it felt empty. Just the way I like it. It had a well thought out floor plan with several bars, a dance floor, and a VIP lounge with a balcony onto the street. Gauzy curtains covered the periphery of the walls. There was a courtyard with an empty bean-shaped pool. Cacti with subtle spotlights on them made the place feel halloween-eery, yet wondrously cozy. Some hippie was standing in the middle of the dance floor swinging a big piece of rope in concentric circles over his head. He was later introduced to me as the owner of the club. He greeted me and with a friendly dig of his trousers pulled out an unnecessarily large hash pipe. "Welcome to my club." He asked me what I wanted. “Something spiky”, I replied and we stood around discussing some local variety of a strong alcoholic concoction for a few minutes. The drink never came. I think he forgot. My bartender friend had an extensive evaluation of the situation: "He likes acid."

I met too many characters that night which made me wish I recorded the interactions for a good story. The bartender explained that this is a quasi-culture of former and current punks, readers of Castaneda, music lovers, and intellectuals. I met some Italian-looking guy, insanely overdressed, who told me about the goodness of the people of Michoacan that made him move from his hometown of Acapulco. We talked about women. Another older gentlemen kept offering me his cup of beer. I instinctively refused at least fifty times that night. Talking to some girl I got an uncanny feeling that I should either offer her money or stop talking. So, I stopped talking. Everyone made me understand how easy it was to acquire weed, psychotropics, or cocaine. Uruapan, you made me feel unthreatened about any of this. I could breathe in your air with impunity. Everything was fair game. But we both knew that this could not last. Walking out of the office, away from my short-lived internship I headed straight to the travel agent. I couldn't bare the thought of once again working too late, juggling office politics. Mere hour and a half later I had my tickets for Cuba, as well as the overnight bus back to Mexico City. Departure time: in two days.

Cuban laws require you to have a government sanctioned living quarters at the time of your arrival. Else, you can always opt for the prohibitively priced hotels in the center. I wrote down the address of one Casa Particular in the Old Havana district. When the taxi driver dropped me off at its front door I asked him to stick around for a moment, without paying him. I felt a bit unsettled by my surroundings.

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