Cuba Chronicles: My Trip In Photos

My two weeks in Cuba were an exercise in catch and release. I caught glimpses of architectural and cultural beauty beyond compare. And I released myself to the experience completely.

Here are some of my highlights - in photos.

Cuba Chronicles: Relearning Patience with Dial-Up Internet

So I’ve never been a particularly patient person. I know that I like the fast life precisely because it is exactly that: fast. No tedious hours of waiting and waiting and oh so boring waiting. So. Imagine with me the agony I feel even as I type this blog post, and wait patiently for the characters to appear on the screen long after I have typed them. Imagine what I feel when I cannot make a WhatsApp call and stay on the phone all night with my beloved because - well - that's just not how it's done here. 

To be honest, the Internet in Cuba is not bad. It's just slower than what I'm used to. And they say you never know what you've got till it's gone - even temporarily.

I have taken deep breaths, messaged my people to let them know I will be more out of than in touch with them for the next two weeks, and come to terms with the fact that old-world charm is not always all that charming.

Funny thing is, I knew that I would not have Internet for most of my time here. I just hadn't stopped to truly appreciate the full implications of that thought. I somehow still expected to be able to WhatsApp and Insta and tweet and blog to my heart's content. I hadn't formed a concrete concept of what 'no Internet' or very little Internet would look and feel like.

There's so much to learn from this revelation. I realise I'm probably as spoilt as any other millenial. And even though I have prided myself on not being attached to all my worldly trappings, apparently I still have more than a passing love affair with some. Cuba is proving that - and showing me some heretofore obscured aspects of myself.

I almost got miserable at the prospect of no readily accessible Internet yesterday. I wanted to share moments from my day with others and couldn't. I wanted to do a blog and post immediately, but couldn't. Eventually, I put down the phone and opened my ears and eyes to the beautiful wonders of this foreign land. 

Cuba is aesthetically amazing. Its rich architectural history has been painstakingly preserved. It's reputation for revolution and rebellion is heralded in every story tourists are fed. They are a simple people, and yet they are a proud people. They have an identity forged through separation from the rest of the Americanised world that has also manifested in a sense of national pride. I like that. I'm enjoying hearing about that. And seeing the relics of times I have only read about.

And I can't help thinking, thank goodness there is no phone or Internet to distract me from absorbing and fully engaging all this marvelous country has to offer. There is a calm that can come with disconnection. Funny. I'm just learning something the Cubans already know.

Cuba Chronicles: COPA and the Jamaican Prayer Warrior

She was sitting on the opposite side of the aisle two rows up from me. I could see her, not because I got an aisle seat, or because of the bright yellow sweater she was wearing, but because of the furtive rocking back and forth that went on pretty much the entire flight.

And I do mean the entire flight. From the minute she stowed away her carry-on and sat down, this woman began to rock and mutter under her breath. At first I couldn’t catch what she was saying, but as the intensity increased, and the volume along with it, I realised that she was praying. She must have been praying. That is the only logical explanation for phrases like “rout the enemy”, “put the devil’s plans to flight”, “grant us safe passage, oh God”.

When she was finished, I whispered ‘amen’ too. Couldn’t hurt. My parents raised me to reverence and fear God and the godly, in all their various manifestations.

But it wasn’t over. The flight took off, and everyone settled down, and I got into the novel I had brought along. Then the muttering started again. My Jamaican prayer warrior had decided to have her own little prayer and worship session right there on the plane in her seat. The rocking resumed, and for much of the flight to Panama, she was a mass of bobbing jherri curls and upraised hands.

Her eyes were tightly shut the entire time. I know her eyes were shut because one of her legs was in the passage, and when the air hostess was trying to pass her with the serving tray, the man sitting beside her had to tap her on the shoulder and point out that she needed to move the obstructing foot so the air hostess could pass.

She obliged, closed her eyes, and the rocking and head-bobbing and chants resumed: “Jeeeeee-suuuuuus! Jeeeee-suuuuus!” She was whispering. But I could hear.

When the plane touched down and we were taxi-ing to our final stop, my prayer warrior lifted her hands (fully, up to this point they had been at half-mast) and said, “Thank you, Puppa Jesus! Mighty deliverer! Yuh do it again!” And clapped. Then looked to her neighbour and pumped a fist, as if to say, ‘Yes, our team won!’

It made me smile. Because Jamaican quirks are what they are no matter where on the planet we are. While we were exiting the plane, I watched the jherri curls and yellow shirt disappear into the crowd of disembarking passengers. Who is to say that beyond the bright yellow of her blouse, that prayer warrior hadn’t, in the way she knew how, just added a little light to all our lives?

I miss #Mexico ...

Hello, Jamaica. Hasta luego, Mexico!

It's been two weeks since I've been back, and I'll tell you what: the magic hasn't worn off yet. I think of Mexico and smile. It's a happy smile, but it's a secret smile. It's a secret smile full of special things only people who went to my Mexico, and met my Mexico people, and did Mexico things with my Mexico people would understand. It's an inside joke only the ones who shared this experience with me would know. You had to be there to get that it was fun, and different, and special, and definitely worth smiling about.

It's an accomplished smile, too. It's a 'yes! I did it!' smile. It's a smile that reminds me of the friends I made, the people I met, the experiences I had, the ways I changed ... . It feels good to be home, but it feels good precisely because I was away. Going away makes coming home better in some ways; worse in others; different in every way. I can't wait to go away again! :)

Ah, Mexico. Mexico made 'foreign' feel like home. My experiences there make me feel 'foreign' now, at home! I'm still regaining my bearings. I still feel a little jetlagged - but in soul, not in body.

I have internal jetlag. Physically, I'm fine. But in my mind? In my emotions? In the depths of me? I'm still travelling. It's weird. But it's true. I don't even know if this is the kind of thing I want to be blogging about yet, because I'm still figuring out exactly what it means and how I feel about it. But maybe this writing exercise will help.

I've always heard people say that travel does things to you: widens your horizons, broadens your perspective, facilitates self-knowledge, self-reliance, strength, etc., etc. Know what? It's true. Travel does all of the above. And it's awesome.

But somebody should have warned me that once you've been to the mountaintop, anything less will forever seem ... pedestrian. Once you've lived even a little of your dream in a truly fullsome way, that taste - that way of being - becomes addictive. Nothing else compares. Nothing else matters. So, forget the cold, the food woes, the bumpy bus-rides. My mind has graced them with amnesia. Now, all I remember is being at the airport, boarding the plane, going ... being gone. Being there. Meeting that person. Living in that place. Trying that new dish ... the feeling of being in a foreign place ... that feeling of living in the beauty of the moment ... and completely loving it.

It's ALL I remember. That feeling. That way of being. And I'm grateful, and hopeful, a little sad, a lot lost, but mostly ... grateful. Hasta luego, Mexico. I'll see you again. Hopefully soon.

'Bus'-ing the truth

Yep, that's a Mexican bus!

Jamaica has some large, yellow buses that are used for public transportation. These vehicles always sound like they're either hawking, coughing, sneezing or spitting. The journey can sometimes be an exercise in religious conversion: you start off expecting a peaceful ride to your destination, but by halfway, you get a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach that leaves you with an urgent need to get right with your Maker ... just in case.

Mexican buses are like the smaller cousins to that. Riding in one of them is like taking a roller coaster. Especially when there's a sharp stop. You jolt forwards and then rapidly backwards. You could get whiplash (a neck sprain). Don't get me wrong, sometimes the ride is quiet, sedate, peaceful. But there have been days when I was forced to remember that turbulence doesn't happen only in the skies.

I remember for one busride home, two toddlers got on with their parents. They all sat on the back seat. For the entire journey, their squeals of delight echoed through the bus as they laughed and shrieked every time the bus made a stop or a jolt. It was great fun for them, and I couldn't help smiling as I reflected on the innocence of children, and how something that was an inconvenience to most adults was wildly amusing to them. When they finally got off the bus, giggling and shouting in Spanish to their parents, the bus felt sadly quiet somehow. Even the jolts didn't seem as pronounced without the little squeals to punctuate every occurrence.

In moments like those, I realise the universality of humanity. That is something that could have easily happened in Jamaica, or, I imagine, the United States, or Australia, or China. That could have happened anywhere in the world because kids are kids, no matter where they're from. They're precious, innocent, amusing, affectionate and honest – before we teach them otherwise.

And, by extension, people are just people. No matter where you go in the world, you will meet comedians, jokers, tricksters, lovers, worriers, warriors, discriminators ... they're everywhere. And that's why I think I'm not too caught up in how I'm received when I go to new places. I understand that people are people the world over. And even if I'm meeting one particular sort in one place, I know other sorts exist there.

Since I've been here, I've met many wonderful people. I've met people who like my sense of style; I've met people who are crazy about Jamaica (I'm just starting to understand how truly significant that is); I've met people who are just generally nice to everyone, so it really doesn't matter to them where I'm from. And I've met people who are not any of those things – not crazy about Jamaica. Not crazy about black people. Not crazy about me. Maybe just crazy :).

The point is, the longer I'm here, the more similarities I see between my culture and here. And the more I appreciate that this is a universal truth: we are all more alike than we are different.

Book Review: Ifeona Fulani's 'Ten Days In Jamaica'

Published in The Sunday Gleaner, January 25, 2015

Book Title: Ten Days In Jamaica
Book Author: Ifeona Fulani
Book Publisher: Peepal Tree Press Ltd

"All Precious wanted was a boy to go to the beach with on Saturdays.
All Yvonne wanted was a man to trim her overgrown yard.
All Corinne wanted was to host the perfect luncheon.
All Arjun asked was that the woman he loved would spend of the rest of her life with him.
But do any of them get what they wish for?"

Desire - fervid, firm and fierce - beats like a pulse through Ifeona Fulani's short story collection, Ten Days In Jamaica.

In eight vivid tales, Fulani weaves a colourful tapestry of raw human emotion, pulling readers into the distinct worlds of her protagonists as they grapple with a life that one character's granny calls "a vale of tears".

The dilemmas are quotidian, relatable: a cancer survivor returns to her Jamaican homeland, a teenage girl struggles to win the admiration of her first major crush, a standoffish tourist finds herself relishing attention from a rent-a-dread, a US immigrant finds comfort in a random conversation with a complete stranger. But the telling is so poignant, the tales so eloquently contextualised, that each story resonates depth and uniqueness.

Using deceptively simple English, Fulani fuses the worlds of immigrant and native, raising questions of love, hope, belonging and otherness in the post-colonial world.

She provides no answers, instead allowing her characters' lives to voice the concerns and often under-represented demographic. She gives insight into this world of hubris and catharsis, venting pain, and celebrating breakthroughs.

Readers will appreciate the staccato rhythm of swift dialogue juxtaposed with idyllic scenarios and often turbulent relationships. Time somehow seems to saunter through the text, even as characters race to find their individual resolutions.

"Go and make peace with your life," a spiritual reader tells one troubled woman in the book, and it would seem that all Fulani's characters share in this quest for inner tranquillity. But then, readers will agree, this quest for peace and security is a fundamental human desire.

Osmosis launch photos

Osmosis (link here) has positioned itself to be the
Caribbean's premier online arts portal.

I think it's an awesome idea!

Here are pictures from the launch,
which took place at Decor VIII,
(7 Hillcrest Avenue, Kingston, Jamaica), recently

Osmosis conceptualiser, Amitabh Sharma (second left) is surrounded by a
bevvy of beauties from left Heather Smith, Karen Carter and Wendy Jumpp.

Phillip Supersad plays the flute and accompanying drummers join in the beat.

Julian Robinson, minister of state in the Ministry of Science, Technology,
Energy and Mining, speaks at the launch event.