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: 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?

'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.