by Amy Berg
“It’s the same thing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ma’am, please return to your seat. We will be landing soon.”
“Does that mean you’ll fly better?”
“Get back to your seat.”
I start to turn away but… “Sooooo is that a yes or a no?”
“Get back to your seat or I will have you arrested when we land.”
Rude.
When the steamy heat of Havana hits me in the face I feel like I’m finally home. I take a deep breath in… maybe this is the place that I’m supposed to be, maybe that plane ride was worth it. I feel great, so great… until the native Cuban girls point and whisper “Americana” as I step out of the airport. I guess my disguise of clean, newish clothes didn’t fool anyone. I pass a man standing outside a run down port-a-potty selling toilet paper for 25 cents a square. And of course, the policia carrying a large and very loaded gun doesn’t speak any English. When I tell Mr. Policia I’m looking for my group, Viva America, he points to a tattered billboard of President Bush in a gas mask, “Terrorist” written on it in large red letters. Suddenly I feel like a foreigner in a land that’s my own.
Before I left on the humanitarian trip I was given a little rundown on Cuba: everyone here makes what is equal to eight American dollars a month. That’s right, the Starbucks latte and scone you’re currently enjoying is worth more than a doctor’s monthly salary. But Cuba believes that its inhabitants are just fine. They don’t need any humanitarian assistance. Tell that to the man selling toilet paper.
A man comes up behind me and softly says, “Yennifer?” I nod and he smiles. He’s round and short and points to his shirt, which reads only Viva. Through makeshift Spanglish and laughter I guess that he’s the guide for our group. His name is Tato and he’s sweet, but nervous, as the policia watches on carefully. Cuba is very much not America. Freedom not included.
Tato will be driving me and a few other volunteers around the city for the duration of the trip, but right now it’s just him and me. I offer to take the wheel, trying to immerse myself completely in my new old hometown. “It’s not safe for me to drive yourself,” he tells me. “Is it safe for you to drive me?” He doesn’t answer.
We arrive at my hotel, Ambos Mundos, which I’m thrilled about, as it’s known as Hemingway’s hotel. Hemingway loved loved loved Cuba and in this particular hotel he wrote the first few chapters of For Whom the Bell Tolls. I try to invite my guide into my hotel for dinner but he politely declines. I offer to pay, of course, but he says no. I push the subject and he gets very nervous. He has to go. I think people here are really weird. Until I get inside the hotel.
It’s run-down but still beautiful in the way ruins always are. The crumpled buildings tell stories of life, love, and loss. I meet up with another young hippie-ish girl in her twenties, Vanessa, who’s here to volunteer for the same organization. She tells me quietly that she’s brought a suitcase full of clothes, Tylenol, and an old laptop to donate along the way. She’s done this trip before. And while I’m in Cuba to broaden and better understand myself, she actually came here to help. AKA, I’m the worst. I ask her about the guide and tell her how resistant he was to come in.
She smiles, “You have no idea, do you?”
I shake my head.
“Remember the days when “Colored People” had their own establishments with backdoor entrances? Well, the Cuban government thinks that certain restaurants and hotels are only to serve government and tourists.”
“Why didn’t he just tell me? How can that even be legal?”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of communism.”
And that was only the beginning.
The next day we awoke early and got ready to go on our first mission to an orphanage. I thought that I would be able to truly relate to these kids. I was abused as a kid (oh, hey, Xanax) so I knew what it felt like to be alone and hurt. But I wasn’t prepared for anything I would experience. I expected a sprinkling of lonely kids, used toys, bunk beds…
What I found were children living in the sewer.
The actual sewer. Underground and filled with rats and drugs and human excrement. I dropped down into the dark, damp, shitty-smelling sewer and my flip flops landed in what I’ll call “mush” for those of you with soft stomachs. The smell was so overwhelming that I wished myself back to the plane. But alas, I was here. For worse or for worser.
Our flashlights bounced up and down the murky circular hallway as we called out, “Hello? Hola?” both hoping and not hoping we would find someone. We searched the halls for anyone, really. It didn’t have to be a kid. Sometimes women would flee from abusive husbands, men would hide from the government, but more often than not, it was the children who made the sewer their safe place. It seemed like hours before we came upon exactly what we were sadly looking for.
A little boy.
Maybe nine? I couldn’t tell from where I was standing, but he was skinny and dirty and scared. He shivered when he saw us, then bolted. Like fast. Nine-year-old boy fast. Everything started happening in slow motion. The others in the group ran past me but I stood stock still. My heart thumped faster and faster, my palms dripped with sweat, and I was dizzy. So dizzy. I knew was having a panic attack. A big one. In this moment of action, all I could think about was myself. Why wasn’t I running toward the helpless child? Why was I just standing here? Why couldn’t I make my feet move?
I reached in my back pocket to pull out my emergency Xanax. Shaking, I folded back the tissue that covered the drug I so needed. I went to pluck it up, but my trembling hands weren’t up to the task and I fell through my hands onto the sewer floor. “No. No-no-no-no-no!” I went to scoop it up but the tiny tablet had been dissolved by the water and muck. I was left alone with my fear. My pulse raced. Silence. Spinning. And then black. All I saw was black.
I woke up dazed, the world a blurry mess. Tato’s kind face steadied before me. “Had a little too much to drink, eh?” Ah, that Cuban sense of humor. It’s funny how hard times bring out the need for hard laughs.
I look to my left and see the young boy showered, but still scared.
“We pulled you two kids back here. One was heavier than the other but I’m not making any accusations.” Tato winked.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I mustered in my own broken Spanish. “I swear I’m so much better on Xanax. My life is a mess.” I drop my head in my hands.
Vanessa kicks my shin and nods toward to the small shivering child next to me. Right. This one wasn’t about me. I reach out to touch the small boy, but he backs away sharply and covers himself, blocking what’s left of his body from an expected blow. The woman who runs the orphanage, Gloria, knows this all too well and offers the boy a tattered blanket. He doesn’t dare move. She says that it’s been a big day for him. We should go. We all did great work today. A life was spared.
I wanted to do so much more.
The next day we went to Pinar del Rio to feed the elderly. A solid enough mission, and thankfully this time I didn’t pass out, but I kept thinking about the young boy I failed. I had to go back to see him. So, when we were done, I packed up half my dinner and asked Tato to take me back to the orphanage.
“Should I bring a fainting bed this time?”
“Better safe than sorry,” I smiled. Maybe I was getting the hang of their tragic comedy. I pocketed my Xanax before we left. I wasn’t feeling that funny.
When we got to the orphanage I smiled and hugged a few of the other kids. The little boy, now known as Juan, sat in a corner quietly playing.
“Hey, Juan.” This time he looked up at me. “I brought you some of my dinner. Do you want to go to the kitchen to eat it?” No response. Gloria said that he hadn’t eaten all day. Every time they tried to offer him food, he’d put it on the plate of another child, not wanting them to go hungry. Even at that young age it seems that he knew there is never enough to go around. And this kid who had absolutely nothing wanted to give away everything.
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br /> In my broken but already way improved Spanish, I re-approached the tiny hero. “Juan, this food is for you. I saved it because I liked it so much and wanted to share it with only you. I’m going to put it in the kitchen. You can eat it whenever you want, okay?” Juan didn’t respond but stared at me, right in the eyes, before returning to his toys. I looked to Gloria and she nodded. I really wanted to hug him, but I refrained. I know all too well what it feels like to be scared.
The next night I wrapped up half of my dinner again and dropped it off for Juan. He didn’t take the food from me directly, but Gloria told me that he must’ve gone to the kitchen in the middle of the night and eaten because the box was gone. I felt like I’d won the lottery.
The rest of the week went quickly. Each day we set off to help in another way. We drove through the mountains to Valadero Beach, where you could walk in the clear water for miles and it wouldn’t pass your knee. There we delivered vitamins and Tylenol. On another day we dropped off a used laptop to a college student. We also gave a struggling family a microloan so that they could start a bicycle taxi business. Not to make it about me, but to make it about be, I found that I was so wrapped up in doing good that I didn’t have time for an anxiety attack. Maybe it was because I didn’t have time to let my mind worry, but I think it was more that I just didn’t let it worry about me.
Every night I’d had the same ritual, taking half my dinner to my new friend, Juan. He’d stare up at me with those giant brown eyes and not say a word. He wasn’t ready for a full conversation. And I was okay with that. I knew pushing him wouldn’t help, and I just wanted to let him know I was there.
On my last night, I stayed a bit longer.
“I want you to know that I have to go back home tomorrow, but if you’re up to it, I’d like to remain friends. Would you like that?”
The usual response, nothing but solemn dark eyes stared back at me.
“You don’t have to decide now. But I did bring you some final dinner. Drum roll…” There was no drum roll, only raised eyebrows. Oh, my American humor. “Okay, no drum roll, but this you will love. I consider it a delicacy. I present to you…” I unveiled a big square box. “Pizza!” I waited for applause… it didn’t come. I added, “I heard they made the best pizza in Chinatown, so I got the biggest one I could find specifically for this occasion.” He looked at me quizzically. “It’s all for you.” Again, I desperately wanted to hug Juan, but instead I smiled softly into those big brown eyes, and turned to leave. I had almost gotten to the door when I heard the very specific creak of a pizza box. It’s always been one of my favorite sounds in the world, but today, it sounded like angels singing. When I looked back I saw Juan’s tiny frame had been completely enveloped by the box. Childhood at its greatest. I stood there, heart and eyes overflowing. I had gotten this kid to eat pizza!
I sat back down with Juan, his eyes as big and round as the massive pizza pie in front of him. I watched as he picked up piece after piece, savoring each bite. When he was finally done, he took the box to the other room where the rest of the children sprawled about and dropped it off for them. My work here was done.
I got up to leave once again, but as this time I felt a tiny tap on my leg. It was Juan.
“Gracias, amiga.” (Thanks, friend) he said before he hugged me. HE hugged ME!
I imploded with love. If this is what it was like to do good, it’s no wonder Mother Teresa hung around for so long. I hugged him back so hard I thought I’d shatter his bones. I held on until he was ready to pull away, wanting him to get all the hug he needed. After a few minutes, he let go. I wanted to leave him with some words of wisdom, but all I had was myself, so I did the best I could. I bent down and looked him in the eyes. This time, my Spanish was perfect.
“I want you to know that you are not just special, but spectacular. I don’t have to tell you that life isn’t easy, you already know that better than anyone, but you need to know that you have a choice. Everyday. You can choose to be scared of how big life can be, to take it sitting down, trembling in fear. Or, you can choose to run towards this big scary life, with everything you have, so fast that fear cannot catch you.” I paused. “It will be scary, and at times you won’t believe you can get through it, but in the end, on the other side there is something spectacular. For me, it was you. For you, it was pizza.”
Juan smiled, “I like pizza.”
“And I like you.” I returned his smile and reached in for one more hug.
I left my address and phone number for Juan to get in touch with me should he want to. He promised that he would.
Early the next morning I was on the way to the airport. It had been only a week in Cuba, but that week had given me a lifetime of change. I said goodbye to my new friends and waited in the ramshackle, air-condition-less airport for my tiny plane to arrive. I thumbed around in my pocket and found my Xanax. I should have breathed a tiny sigh of relief, but what I felt instead was a twinge of good ol’ Catholic guilt. Was I really going to take these meds after I had given that whole speech to Juan about fear? I mean, no one would know except me, so who cares, right?
Except… would know. And somehow on this trip that little thing called integrity snuck itself into my psyche and wouldn’t leave. If Juan could suffer through all he had and been okay, I could figure out a way to survive life and the fear it brings without medication.
So, I found the nearest bathroom, locked myself inside a stall, and had a funeral for my Xanax.
“Thanks for all the good times. Well, I guess they weren’t really good times. It’s actually been pretty terrible… you know racing to the hospital thinking I’m having a heart attack, the overwhelming feeling that at any given second I’m gonna die, the blackouts… this has sucked. And thus, it’s time for me to say goodbye, old frenemy.”
And with that, I flushed my Xanax down the toilet.
I boarded the plane feeling really confident. I can do normal people things! All of the normal people things! Driving, walking, and even flying! Look at me go in the airplane! Wheeee! Just like a real grown up!
Until the pilot announced over the loudspeaker, “Ladies and gentlemen, please buckle your seatbelts, we’re about to go through bit of moderately severe turbulence.”
There were many things I had a problem with in that speech. One, there were a total of 10 people on this plane. The pilot did not need to use a loudspeaker. He really could have just yelled over his shoulder. Second,, moderately severe? It’s either moderate or severe. Make a decision, dude. And third, turbulence. Or rather, TURBULENCE?!?!?!?!
I was not prepared for this outcome when I flushed the tiny pills of wonder down the porcelain cup of doom. What was I going to do? I would certainly not survive this plane ride. For sure, 107 percent, I was going to die. The plane started rattling back and forth harder and harder. My soul jumped out of my body every time we hit a bump. My lungs felt like they were squeezed by a panini press, my palms sticky and wet, and my heart was beating so fast that it didn’t feel like it was beating at all, more like one continual thump or hum that buzzed in my chest. Blackness clouded me, I was ready to give into the dark. But then, I heard a child’s cry.
It came from the seat right behind me, where there was a small boy, about eight or nine years old, tears streaming down his face while he screamed in Spanish.
“I don’t want to die!”
I knew exactly where he was coming from. Others on the plane were starting to get scared, too. The pilot was focused on the task at hand and therefore unable to assuage our fears as he was doing his job. In contrast with my first flight to Cuba, which was just a few bumps, this one was actually in danger. As we shook and dropped and I swear we even spun upside down, I saw people throw up in brown paper bags, luggage fall from the overhead and worst of all, this poor child’s screams. He was all alone, no adult on the plane with him, and terrified. My pulse continued to hum, and I was no less scared, but I had to make a choice. I couldn’t get off this plane, but I could make it better
.
“Help! Please God!” The little boy shrieked as we dipped again. I turned around in my seat.
“What’s your name?” I yelled into his screams.
“¿Como?” His tearstained face and wild eyes broke my heart.
“Your name?” I said in Spanish. “What’s your name?”
“Hans.”
That took me by surprise. “Really? Hans? That’s not a Cuban name.” The plane shifted hard to the right and both Hans and I hit the side panel. The rest of the plane gasped. Right now was not the time to discuss his parents’ unique choice of names.
I turned and faced Hans again. He was sobbing. “Hans?” He didn’t look up, he was starting to hyperventilate. I put my hand on his knee. “Hans? Have you ever been on a plane before?”
Hans managed to shake his head, “No.”
“Where are your parents?”
“America.”
It took me a second. Why was this kid alone on a plane while his parents live it up in the States?
“Mama won the lotto. Now I go,” he managed between sobs.
This doesn’t mean what you think it means. To Cubans, winning the visa lotto is like a get out of jail free card. It’s a chance to go to the US with not only the proper paperwork, but it's done for free. Freedom for free… sorta. Often this freedom means that the one lotto-wining parent will travel to the US, without their children, to try and make a better future for them. They can petition for their children to come with them, but it often takes years.
“When was the last time you saw your Mom?”
“I don’t remember, I was only two.”
It had been at least five years since he had seen his mother. If my heart was broken before, it was shredded now. But I didn’t have time to feel sad. The plane continued to shake, and Hans was terrified.
“But I will never see her again. We are going to die!”
The plane rattled again as if to answer, yes.
“Okay Hans. We are not going to die.”
