Santiago pictures

self explanatory

one of the posters at the poster artist's house

metal body parts left at the cathedral of caridad del cobre, by people who are praying for healing of those partsjosé martí mausoleum

 

photos of weekend trip to Matanzas

view of la habana from casablanca

view of la habana from casablanca

the inside of the whack 50+ year old train, looks even whacker in real life i promise

the train kept on stopping so people could climb onto the roof

finally got to matanzas

a bridge into matanzas

how cubans dress

my friend's back. walking to the hitch-hiking spot, we are both tired.

Matanzas

This past weekend I took my first independent trip (the trip to Viñales was part of our orientation week schedule) away from La Habana. Saturday morning (Halloween), at about 7am, a friend and I left the house with two backpacks, two rolls of bread, 15 peanut bars, and a Lonely Planet CUBA guidebook. The only thing we knew about our trip was our destination: Matanzas.

We took a guagua to a pier in Habana Vieja, and by great fortune (or my friend’s good sense of direction/mad map reading skills) found without trouble the ferry to Casablanca, the part of Havana right across the bay from Habana Vieja, where we were planning to catch the 8:30 “Hershey Train” to Matanzas. When we got to the train station, the lady informed us with a laugh and wave of the hand that the 8:30 train hadn’t been running for years, and that the next train out was due to leave at 12:30pm. We felt a little cranky about this, because we had gotten up early and missed our free breakfast at the residence, but decided to wait it out and hang out in Casablanca, which, luckily, seemed rather quaint and un-Havana like, and also contained a giant Christ statue.

We started to look for coffee, because we were sleepy. Casablanca, being un-Havana-like, however, was not llenita de cafeterias, however, we walked past some people’s houses and saw a woman at the door/window of one and asked her if she had coffee. She gave us two expresso-sized shots, and waved us away when we offered to pay. We walked around, looking at the cute little place—it was somewhat rural feeling, because of the almost complete lack of commercial stuffs, the atmosphere of the people and houses made me think of grandma’s village in the mountains—and trying to find more coffee. I don’t remember how, but we ran into this old man, who semi-adopted us and took us around the town, first to a woman who he thought was his daughter (she was a family friend, he was slightly demented—“silly old man,” she said, grabbing onto his shoulders, “he thinks I’m his daughter—“she looks at me, “but I’m not!”), who gave us two delicious cups of coffee, and then to meet his “mujer.” This was nice, even though, being an old man, he walked at an extremely slow pace, because we got to see part of the town which we probably would not have thought to see ourselves, and also because the little visita we had in the woman who was not his daughter’s house was pleasant and interesting. There was a girl there from the neighboring province who was in Havana to see a doctor, and also in love with the old man’s grandson, but unfortunately he did not love her back. At one point, the grandson came in too, with a dog, and then there were 6 of us and a dog in her tiny and colorful living room, filling up all the space: a Chinese girl (me), my blue-eyed friend, this woman in her nightgown, the young woman who loved the grandson, the grandson, the grandfather, and a dog—and it was all very funny because there was a bright tacky picture of fruit on the wall, and everyone was gossiping about each other in front of each other.

“That’s the one,” the girl said to me loudly, gesturing towards the grandson and looking at him, “I love him but he doesn’t want me.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“He’s scared,” the woman who wasn’t the daughter said, waving her arms around. The grandson looked a little embarrassed and then said some things and left.

Anyways, after we said goodbye to the old man, we went to find Jesus, the giant white statue of Christ hovering over the little hill neighborhood. We got to the top and there was a beautiful view of Havana, which made it look like a sprawling metropolis, which it does not feel like from the inside. Then we went to the Che museum, which was boring and useless, got some pizzas, played on a communist playground, and then went to catch our train. The train. The train was about three cars long, looked like it was over 50 years old (which it was), and had the most uncomfortable seats in the world. It went very very slow and rocky, and kept on stopping to pick up people and because was broken and needed to be fixed. It only cost 1.40 pesos, however, which amounts to about 7 cents. The train ride took about 4 hours, so with the 4 hours we had to wait to get on it, it took us about 8 hours to get to Matanzas.

Matanzas itself was pretty boring. It was cleaner and neater than Habana, and less commercial as well. All in all, it felt like a Miami suburb, although I’ve never really been in a Miami suburb.

Here is what we did:

Walked around the city.

Tried to find food. I ate a lot of hot dogs and pizza and peanut bars. My friend ate less than me, even though he was a man, and I felt like a fatty.

Saw las Cuevas de Bellamar, which was kind of tourist trappy. But caves are pretty cool, and we got a bucket of chocolate ice cream and climbed this crazy tree and sat in it and ate the ice cream, and all the kids on the ground thought we were pretty cool, so I guess it was okay.

Went swimming in a dirty dirty beach. Got a big bruise because my friend threw a fallen palm branch at my leg (accidentally of course). We tied our things to the palm branch so that people wouldn’t steal them while we were swimming.

Tried to hitch hike back to Havana. However, Matanzas is very un-Cuba-y, which was further proven by the impossibility of hitch hiking from Matanzas. At both the hitch-hiking stops, there were at least 20 people standing around, waving money in the air, but no one stopped. One man we talked to had been waiting since 3 in the afternoon, and it was 6. We got tired and decided to pull a touristy rich American move and took a taxi to the bus station, where we got a maquina back to La Habana for $15, which seems cheap but was about 300 times as much as the train ride. The ride took less than two hours, so I guess it was 4 times shorter, and a little more comfortable. Therefore, with all factors included it was probably only about 50 times more expensive than the train ride, which I guess is worth it if you’re tired and lazy and have money in your pocket. Amazing what a little bit of money can do in this country.

Conclusion: a nice trip, enjoy the photos.

Homesick

I am sick again, boo. How I managed to get a cough in this suffocating heat is beyond me; I guess I just have mad abilities.

Anyways, this whole being sick thing has made me miss some things about America. A few days ago, an economist came to talk to us as part of a seminar series, and kept on telling us about how Cuba’s economic problems are not about money, but supply of goods and productivity. I am realizing this more and more with every passing day. Even though I have the money to splurge on goods that I might want (for example, vegetables, fruits, food that isn’t greasy, cough syrup, ginger, honey, tea), these things are either non-existent in the country, or a hassle to find. Last time I went out looking for a specific thing (face towel), it took me about a week to find it. Of course, I wasn’t searching every second of that week, but with the scorching sun and crowded public transport, working up the energy to go out and look is a hurdle in and of itself.

So maybe I could find some mini green peppers or white tomatoes at the agro 5 blocks away, but in my slightly grumpy sick state, I can’t get the ganas to walk over there and look. Furthermore, going to that agro is extra stressful because it is the worst place for catcalling—every time I go there are yells of “China” from all directions, vendors and buyers both, so that I must maneuver the stands ciega, sorda, muda like the Shakira song, which makes me feel both uncomfortable and bitchy. No, the task of leaving the house into the suffocating, whistle-filled streets is a daunting one indeed.

This is what I would like to do: drive to the grocery store, buy some tea, ginger, and a salad, or chicken noodle soup, some robitussin, crawl into bed with a blanket and two or three pillows, and watch Friends on Youtube. I’d like to do this without walking through groups of men who stop their conversations to stare and say things in Japanese to me, without soaking my Tshirt through with sweat, and without worrying about putting SPF 60 sunscreen on the back of my neck.

Anyways, this post has turned into a major bitch-session, which makes everything sound worse than it really is. I still love Cuba, and am very happy to be here. I’m just a little annoyed that I’m sick, and a little bitter that mango season is over, because mangoes were an important source of happiness.

Flojera

For the past few weeks, I have been plagued with an intense flojera for writing in this blog, and I feel a little (but not too) guilty about it, because I have done some pretty cool things like gone sandboarding and to Machu Picchu, learned to dance festejo and seen pretty nighttime fountains (note change of header photo) and not written about them, which means that I probably forgot a lot of the little interesting things I thought or did at the time. Anyways, it doesn’t matter too much, I guess, because I have been rather busy getting over swine flu (informally diagnosed by myself, for more information see previous posts) and struggling with conflicting emotions of a foreigner in a foreign land. Furthermore, my host mom managed to borrow a guitar for me, which means that much of my free time goes into sitting on my bed trying to learn bar chords and create an acoustic version of Umbrella, rather than sitting on my bed and writing unnecessary comments about my menstrual cycle on this blog.

Anyways, the news now is that sadly, and happily, I only have a little over a week left in this wonderful country, which has been unceasingly filled with surprises. I guess I am a little homesick, because when I woke up this morning and saw the glowing Limeñan sun desperately trying to shine through a thick gray blanket of smog and clouds (like it has done nearly every day for the past month), I could not help but lie for half an hour awake in my warm alpaca blankets and think about sunny Ann Arbor and meals that are not fried and have no potatoes in them. I have also officially crossed some type of threshold, as the past weekend in Cusco I bought most of my souvenir/presents for friends and family, an activity which I had been saving for the end of my trip.

Even as I daydream about going home however, I’m really sad to leave this country, especially when I go to work. It feels like I’ve been here for a long time, because things are familiar and I am no longer eager and uncomfortable all the time, but it also feels like I have just gotten here, as the days I have left with the kids in each place slowly shrinks from 2 to 1 to none. I’m so happy that I’ve gotten this opportunity to meet all these beautiful children, who are just overflowing with love to give, but my heart aches a little every time I think about how after one week, I will most likely never see them again. And it aches even more, with guilt and some regret, when I think about how in a few months, they will most likely have retreated into the realm of the almost forgotten as I salsa dance the nights away in Cuba, because I’m unfortunately very good at almost forgetting people. And who would ever want to almost forget these beautiful, brave, happy faces?

Paro

Today was supposed to be a strike. I expected protests. Blocked-off streets. Rock throwing. Perhaps I would be pushed and shoved, perhaps my purse would be forcibly taken from me. I even mentally prepared a speech for the taxista about how he shouldn’t overcharge me because I volunteer at a hospital and had promised a sick girl there that I would be there today in spite of the strike. A real PARO.

Unfortunately, the strike has been a little underwhelming.I got to work on time, without too much hassle. This morning when the taxista gave the price, I was so shocked by how reasonable it was (10 soles, about $3.50 for a 30 minute trip) that I didn’t even bargain. I’m sure I could’ve gotten it for 8, but I got to listen to Michael Jackson on the way there, so I guess its alright.

Of course, the morning was not completely anticlimactic and without event. One of the big streets was blocked off by metal barriers so that only one car could enter at a time, and there were lots of soldiers with real live guns standing around and looking scary. We also waited 15 minutes for our micro but it never came, so we resorted to a taxi. However, by the time we came back from work, the soldiers were gone, the micros had reappeared, and everything seemed perfectly normal.

On another note, tonight I will buy two sets of earrings at the Parque Kennedy night market. One of them will be peacock feather. Sorry SS (my friend who has peacock feather earrings)–they are everywhere here and I just can’t stop myself.

PS – Just was reminded of something that happened today that was rather funny. We were having lunch with our host family and we started talking about my Chinese name all of a sudden, which is Jin Ge, which apparently sounds like the word CHINGAR in Spanish, which in Colombia means TO FUCK. And my host dad, this 60-ish man with liver spots and a potbelly, who is also extremely intelligent (I know this because he is a doctor and has lots of books in his house on everything from philosophy to great literature to human body stuff), all of a sudden says “Do you know the origin of the word FUCK?” in his accented English. So apparently its from medieval times when marriages had to be approved by the king, and it is an acronym for FORNICATION UNDER CONSENT of KING. I nearly choked on my empanada. Look at the new things we learn every day.

Crank

Apparently tampons are a luxury item in Perú. They are sold in packs of 8, and cost about $5 each pack, which is ridiculous because periods last 5-7 days. I know this because I’m surfing the crimson tide once again in this lovely country, for the second time in 2 weeks, which, in case you don’t know about this kind of stuff, is not fun. If I had known this, I would have asked for more grant money for this trip.

Anyways, for this reason, I have a bit of crank, and also a bit of hormones. These two may be related.

Also, tomorrow and the day after there will be a PARO (or strike) in Lima, because the bus drivers of Lima do not want to follow the new safe-driving laws. This means that most likely, buses will not run and taxis will overcharge, and I will have to get up earlier tomorrow morning to make sure I find a way to get to work. If I am lucky, I will subir a micro and we stopped halfway to work by angry protesters and forced to bajar. But most likely, I will pay 5 times more than usual to take an overpriced taxi.

One more thing. Martes are the heaviest days, because I work in San Juan de Dios, and there is no music on martes, and no vista of the weekend. Heaviness+crankiness=not great combination.

Compartamientos

Today was the first time I have felt bad for being late in a long time since I came to Perú. This is, of course, because I had a little Harvard gathering today, lectures from two Harvard professors who happen to be in the city–one about modern Peruvian politics, and one about Incan quipus. It was little cocktail thingy at the Museo Banco Nacional with every single Harvard affiliate in Lima, and it felt very strange, because people were wearing suits and stuff, and I even felt like I had to turn off my celular. (Charo our somewhat crass but hilarious housing coordinator, of course, sitting behind me, picked up her phone and started whispering into it in the middle of a lecture.) I guess the thing that threw me off about tonight was that in these past three weeks, Perú has been a place where I can reflect on Harvard and life at Harvard by considering it as a far-off bubble, a little microcosm. Instead of being the overwhelming present, Harvard has been sorted in my head into one of many compartments, almost as distant and closed as the compartments of “high school,” “parents,” and “China.” Furthermore, Peru has been a country of noodle-like walls–flexible, affectionate, and passionate compared to the rigid uncooked-pasta walls of any place in America, but especially of that fast-paced, high-achieving place called Harvard.

One thing, however, which someone said tonight about Lima to the new arrivals from the USA, really stuck with me. They described the city as “organized chaos,” and said that it was a city that takes a while to learn to love. How perfect the description. And while I thought about how perfectly those words fit, it suddenly hit me how much I had learned love the city in these few weeks, though the “chaos” part was a little exasperating at first, and how much care I’ve developed for the people I’ve met here. Awww…que lindo.

Ice Princess, Cuy, and other gross/cool things

Late entry on Arequipa, which was one week ago.

Speaking of dying in the Andes, in Arequipa I saw the 500 year old frozen Incan ice maiden, “Juanita” (after her discoverer, Johan) at a museum. It was very cool but also a little creepy, and I could not take photos because they took all of our cameras, so I have no proof, but here is a picture of some cactuses on the building where Juanita is housed.

I was going to start this post with a list of things that I did in Arequipa that I had never done before, but I’ve decided against it, or at least the “start” part, since most of the things I did in Arequipa I had never done before. For example, this was the first time I had seen a frozen mummy of a 12-14 year-old Incan girl sacrificed to the mountain gods >500 years ago.

Our first night out of the bus, we stayed in Chivay, the main launchpad pueblo for the cañones de Colca, where there are natural hot springs. I, of course, not having done my research properly and not having understood fully the meaning of “hot springs,” did not bring my swim suit. However, all was well(ish) because there were suits for rent, and I got one of those. It didn’t really fit me, and I think I might have gotten an infection from it, but oh well. Also, I got a massage for about 4 bucks, which was really nice, except that the masouse’s children (luckily female) were staring from outside the window, and at one point, I was wearing very little clothing. Perhaps they didn’t want to miss this rare opportunity to see a half-naked chinita?

The next night we stayed in Arequipa, in a hostel called Home Sweet Home. It was my first time in a hostel, because I usually travel with my parents. Anyhow, I stayed in a room with 4 guys and a French girl, which was alright except that the blankets were really thin and I was very cold, and also the guy in the bunk above me kept on tossing and turning, causing the not-so-sturdy bed to rock and squeak.

Last but certainly not least, I decided to show how cool and adventurous I was by ordering cuy at the restaurant we went to the next day. This is cuy:

It is guinea pig, an Arequipeño staple of protein.

Needless to say, I was not as cool as I thought I was, and spent the first few minutes freaking out about the little fried head, whiskers and teeth and everything still there. Of course, this was the lunch right after I had seen Juanita the 500 year old frozen ice mummy, so my appetite was doubly whetted. To make things better/worse, an American tourist ran over screaming to our table and started snapping pictures of me and my lunch.

me eating little tony, 1st grade class pet

Anyways, I don’t like wasting food or money, so I ate the thing. It was a little too fatty for my taste (little Tony should have spent a little more time on his exercise wheel) and a little more pungent than the alpaca steak I had tried the night before,  but not awful. Later, I talked to Marta my supervisor at Hospital de Niños, who is from Arequipa, about it, and she said that it is a very practical dish for arequipeños because the little rodents eat anything and everything, and reproduce like crazy, so are very easy to raise.

The only thing left for me to try now is avestruz, or ostrich, which I heard is wonderful.

What are men compared to rocks and mountains?

Colca Canyons, Cruz del Condor, entire Colca Valley–breathtakingly beautiful. Yes, there were a lot of tourists, and there were a lot of vendors–locals in traditional garb selling alpaca sweaters and the like, but there were more pretty mountains than there were tourists or buses or alpaca-pashminas.

The night before we had visited las Caleras, natural hot springs where most of the towns-folk bathe (because they don’t have hot water in their homes) and I rented a swimsuit to wear, which was sketchy but kind of necessary. At 6am, we left David’s Hostal with a Arequipeñan couple in a combi, stopped by the market to buy some bread and hot chocolate for breakfast, and set off for the canyons.

After watching the condors fly around the Cruz del Condor, we walked along the edge of the canyons on a path for about half an hour (longer because I kept on wandering away to take pictures), and I really wanted to hike the whole thing, climb down to the bottom, but even with the little bit of walking we were doing I was having a hard time breathing, because of the altitude.

The day before, when I was on that wretched bus from Arequipa to Chivay, I kept on wondering why in the world anyone would decide to build an empire (the Incas, for example) on such difficult terrain as the Andes Mountains–incredibly high, hard to reach, and also very dry for a good portion of the year. Now, I understand a little better. It didn’t matter that I was feeling a little sick, that I couldn’t really breathe, that it had taken me a total of about 22 hours of bus to get there–it sounds cheesy but I felt like I could have stayed there forever, just to keep on looking at the pretty mountains. At every turn of the road, I wanted to take a thousand pictures. I think that I would like to die in a place like this, because I would not be as scared. Moral of the story: the Peruvian countryside is very very beautiful.