Cuban Art & Living

We are in Immigration and Customs in the airport of Camaguey, Cuba, a provincial town founded in the early 16th century in the center of the forbidden island 750 kilometers from Havana.  It is the year, 2002.

The airport smells like early summer dust and old furniture, and echos a din of creaking conveyor belts, the chatter of arriving passengers, and the plunk of baggage contents emptied onto wooden tables.  Serious Customs agents, working for the most efficient department in the Cuban government, inspect the baggage entering their country.  There are no smiles, no jokes, no clue that you are innocent until proven guilty.  

Each passenger on our Miami flight is scrutinized.  Most of them are Cuban Americans visiting relatives; some are selling Arkansas chicken, Washington apples and Midwest rice to the government; a few are humanitarian workers building churches and delivering donated hospital supplies; and two of us are here to buy art for exportation to the United States.

The uniforms of the Customs agents are dark olive green; smart, crisp and well-fitting with a metallic name badge on each right lapel.  The female agents’ short, tight skirts reveal sheer black textured stockings and high heels.  A waft of the popular perfume named for the Cuban national flower, Mariposa, mingles with the stale air.  They walk tall with confidence, these agents in egalitarian skin hues of black, dark brown, caramel, mocha, ivory, pink and every shade in between.

With our tennis shoes and large ready smiles, my friend and colleague, Dawn and I, are dead-ringers for the gringas that we are.  We move toward the officious immigrations officer. 

“What is your work in the United States? “ the agent, Magali Rodriguez asks in stilted English, her eyes riveted on my face, waiting for a tell-tale sign of an untruth.  “I’m a television consultant”.  

The US requires that we travel to Cuba, not as tourists, but under the category of “Informational Materials.”  However, our Cuban visa requires that we travel only as tourists. We have to remember which country we are talking to.  But, too late, now. I’m in a third category and may be a troublemaker.  My cheeks feel beet red, and a necklace of sweat pops out around my neck.  Where did this feeling of guilt come from? 

I should have said “I’m a tourist, but we’re here to buy art” - but she was on to me.

“How did you get permission from your government to come here?”  Magali is very aware that, due to the 50-year economic embargo, the U.S. does not allow U.S. citizens to arrive in Cuba as tourists. 

“We are tourists, but we are also here to buy art.”  I hold her gaze while reaching inside my bag, and present the license for her inspection.

“Where will you stay?” 

“An artist friend is picking us up and taking us to a casa particular.”  Americans are required to stay in a hotel, and are not permitted to stay at a local’s house; but in my anxiety, I forgot.

She slaps her notepad down on the table in disgust and with a gruff  “Un momento,” stomps away, leaving us there to dread.

As she turns away, I see the black knot of bunned hair, the rod-straight line of her stocking seams, and the overly tight skirt that hugs her swaggering bottom.  The term, “tight ass” pops into mind, but, then, after a half day in Miami airport high security, and now the other half day in Camaguey airport, we are irritable. Sweat leaks down my dress and puddles at the beltline. 

Dawn hands me the Lonely Planet guidebook and I scurry for the name of a Camaguey hotel, any hotel I could rattle off.

Oh God, here she comes!  And she’s got her boss with her.  I close the guidebook.   

Boss Miguel Santana takes over.  “And who is this artist?” 

“Lorenzo Torres.  He’s waiting outside.”  That was all I could say.  Lorenzo was waiting outside in a crowd with an interpreter, and a car and driver, all arranged by Jose, our facilitator/translator from Havana. It is illegal for a local to be in a car with foreigners.  Fortunately, Lorenzo is a favorite beloved son of Camaguey, a well known artist who has painted many murals for government buildings.  Perhaps because of him, the government will forgive us our trespasses.

Miguel leaves abruptly, and a moment later, we hear a page for Lorenzo Torres from a loud speaker in the parking lot.   Locals are not allowed in the airport, and we assume he is being brought in for questioning. I imagine Dawn and I and this yet-faceless artist being shipped off to the infamous prison on the Isla de Juventud. For what, I am not sure.  

Now Magali, without a word, abandons her post and disappears through a side door.  We are left alone an undetermined amount of time to contemplate our crimes.

A half hour or more passes.  Dawn and I watch the airport empty out, then glance at each other, shrug our shoulders, pick up our luggage and walk out of the airport.  We introduce ourselves to the three waiting men, jump into the car and drive off.

Later that night, at dinner with Lorenzo and the interpreter, Lorenzo leans over and whispers in my ear the only words he speaks in flawless English, “I am not a Communist.” 

This is Cuba.  Things change, but nothing is different.  It is what it is, but it is not.  You can break the law, and sometimes, the law looks the other way.