Let’s introduce Jamaica with some classic Jamaican humor:

The Jamaican Tief

A Guyanese and a Jamaican walk into a store, the Guyanese tief a chocolate bar and when they left the store he said, “You see that? I tief three chocolate bars. Nobody can ever tief like me.”

And the Jamaican said, “Mek wi go back to the store. Me ago show yuh a who a the real tief.” They went in and the Jamaican said to the cashier, “Yuh want to see a magic trick?”

The cashier said, “Sure.”

“Hand me a chocolate bar.” The Jamaican ate it. “Hand me another one.” He ate that one. “Hand me one more.” He ate the third chocolate bar.

“But, sir,” said the cashier, “where’s the magic?”

The Jamaican man pointed to his Guyanese friend. “Check him pockets and yuh find all three a dem.”

We asked the usual, “What are five characteristics of the average Jamaican?” Almost everyone said the same thing. “Jamaicans are all different. None of them are the same.” It was really a struggle to get Jamaicans to lump everybody into the same categories. When pressed, the best we could get was, “Jamaicans love to laugh. Jamaicans love to eat. Jamaicans love to drink. (Rum? This always brought a guilty little laugh.) And, Jamaicans love music.

I might add, Jamaicans are averse to reducing all people of any culture into a stereotype. And, good for them.

That little opening joke however is illustrative of a characteristic we encountered many times in Port Antonio, Jamaica: Jamaicans are extremely clever and good natured. They do indeed love to laugh and most of the time it is at their own expense with deep amusement that they are telling tales out of school. Unlike some other foreign cultures, Jamaicans on the whole are very quick to pick up on a joke and they will extend it forever. A shared joke becomes a strong bond.

Food? We were bellying up to the bar at a jerk chicken center with a couple of Red Stripes before we even got to our hotel. We had to walk through a purple haze to get inside. (I haven’t seen a cloud like that since 1969!) There was a serious game of dominoes going on just outside and it was lightning fast and everybody was having a GRAND time. We had 3 orders of jerk chicken, a couple more of jerk pork, and Pablo wanted more…(More! More! Give me more!) As it was closing in on Midnight and I feared for his intestinal track I dragged him away. (It wasn’t easy.)

We avoided the big tourist traps around Montego Bay and Kingston where the Sandals Resort and that ilk have set up camp but there’s a price to pay for being that kind of tourism snob, and that price is paid in both time and money. Port Antonio is on the northeast coast in Portland Parish. The road to Portland Parish from Kingston is long, (2.5 hours) arduous, (full of potholes and narrow in many places) and Jamaicans drive on the wrong side of the road. (Thank you Great Britain for another perfectly good country ruined.) The official language is the Queen’s English which everyone speaks to tourists, but amongst themselves Jamaicans speak a patois that is both charming and nearly indecipherable. Lots of fun to try though.  Because of the wrong side of the road thing we hired drivers to take us everywhere and the hotel (Pablo’s BFF, Anthony Bourdain also stayed here) provided instant drivers at our beck and call and not too much $$$$.

It was made abundantly clear to us by everyone on the way to Jamaica, in Jamaica and from Jamaica that if you want to score a little ganja, just say the word. We investigated the possibilities so that we could report back to our Desto3 followers but all inquiries were of a purely anthropological (not commercial) nature. (I swear.) Consensus is that though ganja is still technically illegal in Jamaica, it is nevertheless everywhere and easily acquired by anyone. More than one Jamaican asked us about the rumor that the quality of California weed is outstanding. Word travels quickly among the enlightened. We could have purchased something called “Marenga” whatever that is but I think we are too old to try to find out. Let us know if you know. Also available, (although a little more on the down low was the availability of some serious obeah. (Black magic.) We passed on that, too, but it was tempting to think we might be able to “put a hex on you”. Not “you” you, but, you know. “You” as in whomever.

It’s a unique country.  Granted independence in the early sixties and dominated by a minority ruling class of extremely wealthy individuals of mixed race, it is nevertheless, on the whole a very poor country. All the wealth is at the top. Like every other tropical paradise, tourism is a HUGE piece of the economic puzzle that is the Caribbean. They are known for Blue Mountain coffee. (Coffee is an important export – coming soon to a Starbucks near you. No joke.) Some sources report Jamaica to be #1 in the world in homicides. Everyone in Portland Parish will tell you (brag) that there’s NO violence there. All the murderers, gangsters and criminals live in Kingston. (Another reason to avoid that place.) We felt extremely safe in Port Antonio and though there’s plenty of security around, for the most part it is disguised as “grounds keepers”. (At least where we stayed.) Off campus, the drivers were all big, buff dudes who seemed to know everyone and also seemed a bit intimidating even as they distributed hearty high fives everywhere we went.

I could wax poetic about the lush, tropical beauty of the place and the incomparable grandeur of the seascapes, but why don’t you just look at Pablo’s pics, mon?

Haiti

Here’s a puzzle: Why was there a bidet in our hotel bathroom in Havana and NO bidet in our hotel in Cap Haitian? Hmmmm? Didn’t the French, (who colonized Haiti), invent that particularly endearing plumbing device? (In my opinion the best thing to venture forth from France to the New World  – besides, obviously, French wine, French Cheese and young French musicians, also French Fries, French Toast, French bread – oh hell, I’ll admit it, I love EVERYTHING French. But, I especially love the bidet. (Yes, I know, this says something unflattering about my psycho-sexual development. So be it.) I can’t for the life of me figure out why it didn’t catch on here in the western hemisphere, (except, obviously – and big, big surprise – in Cuba. Who would have expected THE PARTY to be big fans of the clean butt?) So, please feel free to enlighten me if you have any insights into this conundrum.

Although I do not at all consider this an insignificant cross-cultural observation, I’ll move on to others.

I can’t speak to Port au Prince because we didn’t go, but I gave Cap Haitian 3 days of my life and that’s all that place is going to get. I’m ambivalent at best about Haiti and even though they say there’s a new Minister of Tourism who is busting her butt, (her dirty butt unless the Minister of Tourism digs have a bidet), trying to lure the Europeans and the Americans and all manner of others to do a little vaykay there, I’m not really feeling it. Yet. I’ll admit I signed on to visiting Haiti with prejudice. From the get go, except as a place of extraordinary exoticism, Haiti has a bad rep. Maybe deserved. Maybe not. But, statistics can be impressive and stats like, 90% of Haitian children have intestinal parasites….for me, that’s just no. The most common site, (and these were in highly impressive numbers; public education is mandatory) were the school children walking to school in absolutely immaculate uniforms with ostentatious matching hair bows. Meanwhile, the literacy rate in Haiti remains scandalously low at around 50-53%. But, damn, the kids LOOK good walking to school. Now, maybe this is just ignorance on my part, but wouldn’t it be smarter to put some effort into actually teaching kids to read and write or maybe just eradicating intestinal parasites instead of outfitting them in natty uniforms? Or, is that just my ignorant western cultural prejudice operating? I’m willing to be educated myself. When I asked our guide what happens to the kids when they finish school he said frankly, “There isn’t anything for an educated person to do in Haiti, so they just revert to being uneducated.” Say what????? I got bummed and I stayed bummed until we left. And, leaving was a whole other adventure.

Dominican Republic

Haiti shares the island of Hispaniola with the country of the Dominican Republic (remember, don’t confuse this country with Dominica!). We were forewarned about the border crossing and even told it would be smarter to fly there. (If we cared about our health and safety at all.) Always up for a challenge and a little international adventure, your intrepid Desto3 team took the overland bus. The only buses in Haiti I knew of were the “tap-taps”, usually independently owned (and decorated and let me say this about that – Oh wow! Oh big wow!) –  the tap-taps are probably where everybody contracts intestinal parasites. I expected goats and chickens to be in even numbers with the human passengers. The day before we left we happened to encounter an American ex-pat who’d been living in Haiti for 12 years and he gave us an earful. First off he told frighteningly believable tales of border crossings involving upwards of 8-hour delays while the passengers took sequential collections to pay off the border guards until “enough” was proffered. How much EXACTLY would be enough? So, imagine my surprise, nay delight, when arriving at the spectacularly primitive bus depot we were met by a large, modern, air-conditioned transport? And, wonder of wonders…the bulk of our fellow passengers (at least 2 dozen) were bona fide soldiers in the Chilean army serving in the UN special detail in Haiti en-route to R&R in the DR? So, guess who got no shit, NO shit, not the teeniest bit of shit, at the Haiti/Dominican Republic border? That’s right. (I <3 Chile!)

But, in addition to trying to scare the crap out of us about daring to cross the border via bus, that American dude also told us other equally terrifying horror stories about the D.R. in general. “The people are miserable, they hate Americans, they’ll rob you blind, rifle through your luggage, generally do what they can to make your life miserable for your time in their country. You will be relentlessly hassled. ” Okay. Let me just say…what the hell…?????

Not one word of that was true. We had a great, GREAT time in the D.R. Every encounter with every single person was wonderful.  We weren’t hassled, we weren’t robbed, we weren’t mistreated or frightened in any way. The beach vendors in the D.R. are licensed and strictly regulated. If they get a complaint (for instance they don’t take a simple “no” for an answer and move along immediately) they can lose their sales license. They are very courteous and friendly. Not pushy. And, hey, people? These folks are just trying to make a living, same as everybody.

We got a driver and guide, just because we didn’t know what to expect and why take chances? But, LOTS and lots of Americans drive rental cars over there. Lots and lots of Americans own second homes in the D.R. It’s a hot spot. And, for that it’s got a little bit of a Hawaii vibe. It is highly developed. It is the antithesis of Haiti and maybe that is why there’s so much enmity between these two neighbors who share a tiny little island. I didn’t detect any major resentments toward us about the tourist take-over. The islanders I talked to had a realistic grasp on the economics of tourism. In terms of “friendliness” it’s the same everywhere I’ve been in the world, including Haiti. People pretty much don’t engage until you smile first and say hello. Then, BIG SMILE and usually a very pleasant exchange.

Yesterday, on the beautiful little Caribbean island of Dominica, Pablo and I hired a driver and a guide to tour the island. He was a lovely man who described himself as “mixed race”, half Kalinago Islander (on his mom’s side) and half Black African (on his Dad’s side). Most of the island’s 71 thousand inhabitants are “mixed” with only a few thousand “pure-blooded Kalinago” tribesman left. His van and his driving (on the wrong, i.e. left, side of the road), were impeccable if a bit speedy on the windy mountain two lane, but brand spanking new highway that transverses the island from our lodging on Pagua Bay (outstanding!) to the capital town of Roseau. Our guide’s knowledge of the island, its history and botany, and also his current political insights were vast and freely given. He had one tiny, bothersome quirk, and that was that he punctuated every single piece of information with the moderately condescending interrogative, “Do you understand?” I’m sure the fact that the question was delivered with a strongly accented English (while not a Spanish accent) had everything to do with the fact that I woke up at 2:45 a.m. (en punto – I checked the clock) dreaming of being back in Spanish I under the instruction of one, Mrs. Palermo. (Cue her incessant “¿Comprende usted?”) To be fair here, Mrs. P’s incessant need to interrogate thusly might have been singularly annoying to me because I so rarely did “comprende” anything. Not in her class. Not in Miss White’s Algebra III/Trig class, and certainly not in Ms. Garamondi’s Chem. (Honestly, it’s a wonder I graduated high school at all!)

The unconscious is mysterious and unfathomable, (my discipline was Psychology – I know, I know, not a “real” science), so it’s little wonder as I’ve been bumming around the Caribbean for several weeks where fluency in Spanish would have made things much easier (in Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic and yes, in Florida, too). Those locations and spending a day with our lovely, (if slightly supercilious), guide to Dominica, my own unconscious produced a dream (a truly alarming one) featuring my old High School Spanish teacher. I woke in a sweat and not only because it was 90 degrees Fahrenheit in the middle of the night.

If only Mrs. P had told me in Spanish I class, fifty years ago, how much fun it would be to carry on fluent conversations with people who live in other countries, or maybe if she could have known how very, very badly I would one day need desperately to locate a reasonably hygienic “baño” in the middle of a Cap Haitian, Haiti street, I might have been persuaded to study harder (or at all) and I would have known that in Haiti the people speak Creole first, then French, and significantly very few of them speak a word of Spanish. But, that’s travel for you. It provides endless opportunities for nostalgic regrets. I have a few. Perhaps more than my share. Nevertheless, I hold no grudge, except possibly that “D” Mrs. P gave me sophomore year that put the kibosh on my cheerleading career and got me kicked off the squad.

Note: on Dominica the language preferences are thus: Creole favored, universal command of English – the official language, enough French to get by, – Creole is pretty much “French-ish”, and almost zero knowledge or use of Spanish.

More useful info for those headed to the Caribbean: Let’s begin with Dominica wherefrom I write to you this very day and then move backward to the Dominican Republic and Haiti.

Dominica is commonly referred to as “the nature Island” and for very good reason. The place is tiny but verdant and much of it is arboreal rain forest. It is mountainous, too, so waterfalls are ubiquitous. The beaches are mostly black sand and much of the coastline is rocky with waters too dangerous to swim in because of extreme currents and undertow. The lack of swimming/sunning beaches is maybe what has saved Dominica to date from utter destruction by the tourist hordes. (Dominica is geologically on the younger side and volcanic, so hot springs, including the eponymously named, “Boiling Lake”, abound and are accessible for swimming and soaking. Some, not all! Some are too damn hot. The popular ones have been developed and you will have to pay a usage fee.) There are miles and miles of interior hiking trails and it is increasingly popular for hikers to purchase passes to trek (backpack) the 9 or 10 days in and out of the national park system.

The history of Dominica has been shaped to a large degree by its geography and weather. They say that Christopher Columbus (not a Spaniard you know but a Spanish lackey) discovered Dominica on a Sunday and hence, gave it the name “Dominica” (for Domingo the Spanish name for Sunday). CC was unable to land though because of (what proved to be typical) foul weather so he sailed on and sent a crew back only later to see what there was to plunder. There is actually talk on the island currently about changing the name back to the original, Kalinago name, “Waitukubuli” which means, something like, “she’s a long tall Sally in a Green Dress”. (I made that up; it’s close though.) The move in this direction is primarily fueled by the fact that many of the islanders don’t like (I mean they REALLY don’t like) that a lot of people confuse Dominica with the Dominican Republic. Trust me, these two places could not be more different in almost every single way. It’s like confusing NEW York with NEW Mexico.

Meanwhile, in terms of the history of the place, Spain hung in on the island just long enough to leave a very slight culinary influence and zero Spanish language. (The only Spanish we heard was a couple of airline pilots in the hotel restaurant.) Following Spain’s exodus, just as they did in the other nearby Carib islands, the Brits and the Frenchies fought over control long enough to install African slaves and to also completely alienate the local indigenous population. The aural history of the Kalinago people trace their settlements back to 200 B.C. and the village (US$10 for a 45 minute tour – worth every penny) has a really interesting recreation of an early native settlement. (Kind of the Williamsburg of Dominica complete with a rather nice Rue du Crappola.) Our guide through the village chuckled at the notion that Columbus “discovered” Dominica.

In the end, Dominica lacks the large, commodious safe harbors and the resources for ship repair that made the others in the Caribbean so precious to the colonizers so it just wasn’t a valuable enough (i.e. consistently accessible) sea port.

What’s left of the French language is a form of Creole that seems quite unique to Dominica. (My own knowledge of the Creole language is limited exclusively to the names of comestible food items that, when ingested outside of New Orleans, usually results in regret, deep, deep regret, either relatively immediately or, within a few hours. You know what I mean.) Still, I have to say it is testament to their good tastes that the people of Dominica, Black, Pureblood native Kalinago and mixed race alike, all chose to emulate the French, and to a lesser degree the Spanish, and not the British in their cooking. The British left them the English language when they departed. And, a parliamentary form of government. And, possibly, a sense of order unseen on other islands. Dominica is extremely tidy and the land and area around the homes, however modest, are often manicured and cultivated with enviable botanical delights. Honestly, this sounds crazy, but it’s not unlike how the Dutch wash their stone steps every day and have tulips all over the frigging place.

Sorry about the almost “F” word. (I have been making some attempt to keep the Destos “g” rated.) I don’t know why, but try as I may, I just can’t get those Spanish verbs conjugated the way I wish I could yet I speak smut fluently.  (I must say, such fluency came in handy yesterday when some oily dude in Roseau tried to shake us down for US$5 to take a picture of a bicycle against a wall.)

Next Desto, Haiti and the D.R.

My room-mate in Cuba occasionally snores. It’s the same room-mate I have in Oak Park, but when he’s traveling and he has to be up for an early departure he worries that he won’t sleep soundly so he takes a “sleep aid”. (Ambien.) Some of you, especially those of you similarly afflicted with departure anxieties and who are also in possession of a prescription for it might know and even have personal experience with this particular drug. If not, be aware: Ambien, after a few nights, is known to transform a normally civil, circumspect human being into an unrecognizable and vituperative evil golem. Ingestion of Ambien suspends all normal, desirable inhibitions… in some patients. (This warning isn’t provided by the manufacturers.)

Example: two nights running, in the middle of the night, in my otherwise comfortable and pleasingly quiet habitacion, at the Melia Cohiba Hotel in Havana, Mr. Golem decided it was a great idea to bust out into a rather loud, obscene version of an old Elton John song that was stuck on replay in his altered consciousness. “WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET A _____ _____? WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO? WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO-OO-OO?…” (Use your imagination to fill in the blank.  It isn’t the first thing you’d think of from the ordinarily supremely cultured source if you know him. My dear departed Mum would call it “filth”.) Here’s the thing with people who take Ambien for a number of nights running. You can’t wake them up and, more importantly, you can’t shut them up.

Lest you think this intro is in any way irrelevant to a Desto postcard from Cuba, let me enlighten you. In Cuba, (at least in the Melia Cohiba Hotel), the construction standards seemed to reflect (exactly) the kind of inattention to any degree of sound-proofing that you’ve seen represented in every film you’ve ever seen about “Communist” countries. (I guess in addition to the obvious cost considerations, the total audio transparency between walls made it much, much easier for “the party” to keep tabs on “the people”.) You can hear the folks in the next room breathing, especially if they are breathing hard, which, I’ll admit, can sometimes provide for some entertaining episodes.  So anyway, in this instance, I was not at all alone for my room-mate’s impromptu, 3 a.m. song spree. Our comrades in room 1221 were likewise serenaded. Thank god we were at the end of the hall so we only had neighbors on one side. The porosity of the adjoining wall also allowed me to hear the riotous laughter from the two lovely divorcee ladies from New York, (also on our tour). The first night they laughed. Night #2 wasn’t quite as amusing. Let’s just say that breakfast was a bit awkward. And, none of us was able to represent the U.S.A. as the usual chipper, well-rested American senior citizens we might have otherwise, sans the Elton John cover concert. Except for my room-mate who slept through his entire show. He was fresh as a daisy both mornings with complete amnesia.

So, basically there are two ways to go to Cuba as an American citizen. Legally and illegally. You are free to book a flight from another country, (usually the scofflaws go in from Mexico or Canada), and thus you avoid the unpleasant red tape that prohibits the U.S. citizens from re-entry when they want to come home. I know many folks who have done this. The only downside is you don’t get your passport stamped in Cuba because you aren’t “really there” at all. You are in Canada or Mexico. Wink, wink. However, as the U.S. teeters on the brink of lifting the embargo on Cuba, there exists a burgeoning tourist industry involved in what is commonly known as “people to people ministries” and by applying for and being granted a “license” to travel inside Cuba, ($$$$$$) you can go in with a tour group as an American and you get a stamp and you are a “legal” tourist. A multi page information packet informs you of the decorum you must display while there and also the restrictions. For instance you are forbidden to purchase anything in Cuba and transport it back to the states. Penalties are high if you try and get caught. Exceptions are made for “educational” materials. Cuban cigars are not educational  but CDs are. Books are too, but not books published prior to the revolution. You will be relieved of those if you try to smuggle them in. And, possibly shot on sight for trying. (Just kidding, but we were warned that this is considered a very serious crime, so utilize the Un-Nike injunction…Just Don’t Do It.

Such tours are conducted to expose American tourists to the new, modern Cuba. Cuba under Raul. Fidel has relinquished party power to his brother because he is currently under the weather, although he still writes (uh huh) a column in the only news publication, Granna International, that you can get. In fact, Fidel “wrote” a cogent if critical piece for page 3 of the 8 page current issue of Granna entitled “That Which Can Never Be Forgotten” citing a recent article in the New York Times liberally. (Who knew that Fidel subscribes to the NYT?) You are right to assume that when Fidel says “never”, he means never. It’s as if 1957 was just yesterday.

On these types of tours there is very little opportunity for independent exploration. You are bound to your guides, one American and one Cuban and I must say that they are truly spectacular. Informed and candid and helpful. And really, really, unbelievably patient. I believe every person on the bus except one was in possession of an AARP card if you get my drift. Can you imagine a more “challenging” occupation than corralling 23 AARP members in a somewhat hostile foreign desto? I cannot. I give the guides very high marks for grace under the enormous pressure of keeping us all together with a ratio of 1 to 11.5. (Good job, Jeff and Ya!) I say “somewhat hostile” because, although our experience was entirely free from bad vibes, one Cuban did refer to us as “lovely enemies”.

In the evenings you are allowed to venture off to dine independently if you choose, even though the cost of your evening meal is included in the price of the tour and you sacrifice that money to the tour company. (We thought it worth the small sacrifice since how often do you get to Havana?) You can also contract one of the many “classic antique” American cars that Cuba is known for as a taxi to your restaurant. We did so twice. Once in a 1935 sedan of unknown make and model and once in a 1957 Chevy.

Where previously, after the Revolution of 1959, all business ventures were owned by the state and all business policy was really Communist Party policy, Cuba has recently begun to allow small business ventures of a capitalistic nature. Naturally the first of these are restaurants and the taxis necessary to get the burgeoning tourist hordes to those restaurants. Mostly the small eateries are Paladors, private homes that put up a few tables and serve the tourist trade and the more well heeled Cubans. (The growing entrepreneurial class.) We were told by our new Cuban friends that the uniform salaries of the professions are so low that the taxi drivers and the waiters in the restaurants are often times doctors or engineers moonlighting to advance their standard of living. I don’t know if there’s a Yelp! Cuba yet, but I’m positive that if there is, the Paladors are killing the state owned restaurants on Yelp! The food, the atmosphere, the service in the Paladors was world class. The state owned restaurants? Think hospital cafeteria or maybe the “cafes” in the U.S. national parks and you have a glimmer of the comparison. Fidel will blame the embargo. Everything inferior or bad that occurs in Cuba is a direct result of the embargo. Your kid fails Algebra? Your mother in law doesn’t like you? You are losing your hair, or your mind? The embargo is to blame. The young people make fun of this kind of scapegoating and it is a kind of humor that separates the Cuban generations. Another feature that appeared vastly different between the millennials and their grandparents is the fading of paranoia. The twenty somethings are openly candid, even mildly critical of the government, but people say forty and up still look over their shoulder before they tell you that, yes, there is crime in Cuba.

Perhaps it is a result of growing up with bitter and disillusioned grandparents who once had great hopes for the party and the people, but now see crony capitalism return to Cuba, especially Havana, with a vengeance. Who can say for sure?

We had some interesting sociological questions and indeed the tour arranged for a lovely social psychologist to provide us with a captivating lecture one day. Here’s just some of what I learned in my three point five days in Cuba:

Though a communist country, many Cubans are somewhat religious and they are now free to practice their religion. Many Cubans, not only the descendants of slaves, (those “Black Cubans” whose families have not intermarried with the Spanish enough to be noticeable), but also light skinned folks, “whites” and “mulattoes”,  practice the ancient African religion known as Santeria. We were treated to a brief description and history of Santeria inside a “gallery” of wildly colorful murals, by a famous Cuban artist who may or may not have been “crazy”. (Not my term, his assistant admitted that the line between genius and nutso is not always easy to determine for certain. Think of Gaudi. Think of Gauguin.) The demo of the various “gods” involved in Santeria was a theatrical melding of a Roman Catholic high mass, a Chippendales/Hooters stage show, a 1960s men’s movement drumming ceremony with a little snake handling Baptist preacher action in the middle of it all. Everything that makes religion great. And, oh, the mandatory “collection” was taken at the end. (Great Big surprise there. Nope.) The devotees of Santaria go through some kind of secret procedure where-after they then dress all in white and wear white turbans on their heads for a solid year. No mention of what kind of underwear, magic or otherwise, was forthcoming and, I didn’t ask.(I know, you’re shocked.) You could see the devotees of Santeria everywhere in Havana. We also were taken into a Cathedral where a few people appeared to be saying prayers and more than a couple candles had been lit, so the intrepid Catholics have worn the Communist party down some although in no way was there a large visible clerical presence, but you don’t know what will happen. Since Fidel eased up on Catholicism in 1992 and especially since the Pope’s visit in 1998, tons of Catholics have come out of the closet. Our guide told us that there are a few thousand Cuban Jews in the country, a couple of synagogues, a smattering of Muslims, at least one Mosque, and plenty of people who consider themselves “Christian” but don’t attend church on the reg.

Public education in Cuba is free and attendance is compulsory until about age 14 or grade 9. The universities are free and ostensibly available to everyone, but the admittance exams are highly competitive and, as in the US, those kids who are lucky enough to come from backgrounds that will be supportive of education are generally  “advantaged” even though things are supposed to be “equal for all”.

On other social fronts Cuba is not unlike the U.S. Homophobia is prevalent even though it is legal for people to engage in “non-commercial” homosexual acts. Gay people cannot legally marry and gay men especially are targeted for harassment.

Health care is free and universal. It is illegal to practice “medicine” as a business enterprise in Cuba. Nobody wants to be a doctor in Cuba anymore because the salaries of the professions are so low and societal prestige will always be more an outgrowth of relative economic wealth as opposed to simple human virtue. (Am I repeating myself? Forgive me, but Fidel should have seen that one coming.)

Abortions are legal and very common. The most popular forms of birth control are the IUD and condoms. The average Cuban woman only bears 1.3 offspring currently meaning that the Cuban population is both declining and getting older.

One young Cuban woman told us that in general young Cubans are apolitical. (Maybe even hopeless.) They see the party as a fact of life. Che wasn’t even a Cuban. In some ways he means little more to them than a really nice guy whose image sells t-shirts to the tourists.

Given that history has proven that revolutions are always produced by the young, the passionate and the disaffected, it’s highly unlikely that Cuba will experience another one any time soon