HAVANA, August 12 (NY Transfer)-- A few months ago, on my block in New York, there was parked an old 1957 Chevrolet. The '57 Chevy is unmistakable because of its unique tail fins; it is probably the most representative and recognizable car of its era, along with, perhaps, the ill-fated Edsel. I went over to the car, checked out the fins, peeked inside, looked at the grill. A few other passersby did the same; many more turned their heads and slowed their pace to take a quick look at something they didn't see too often.

One of the things that surely must impress most visitors to Havana during their first few days here is the staggering number of old, still-operating cars. Some of them are remarkably well-preserved; others are jalopies, held together with bobby pins and masking tape and good old Cuban ingenuity. These cars are all over Havana. The streets are filled with Dodges, Chevys, Oldsmobiles built between the mid-1940s and 1959. Though rarer, sometimes a car that goes back to the 1930s shows up, and one time I saw a Model A or Model T Ford from the 1920s, in surprisingly good condition, proudly rolling down the street. I saw cars I had forgotten existed: Ramblers, Nashes, English Fords, Packards, De Sotos, Rovers.

Some of these cars are used as individuals' basic transport, and might have been in their families since before the Revolution. Others are second cars, held as keepsakes from another era, and trotted out for a leisurely Sunday afternoon joyride around Havana. Many of them function as taxis but unlike the late-model taxis that go anywhere, these must follow a fixed route and rides are shared with other people. Technically, they are for Cubans only and the drivers are not supposed to pick up foreigners, but many do so anyway -- the prospect of making an American dollar or two is too tantalizing to pass up.

Sometimes you wonder if you'll get to your destination in some of these relics, or if you'll wind up walking the rest of the way. The gears grind, the mufflers don't muffle, and the acceleration is often so slow that a left turn into oncoming traffic makes your heart pound. Still, no matter what condition they're in, these grand old cars feel solid -- the seats are firm, they maneuver like tanks, and seem invincible. I never had to walk the rest of the way.

These old automobiles are national treasures, rolling museums. Hollywood film studios want to buy up as many as possible, and individual car buffs and collectors covet them. But they will, in all likelihood, stay in Cuba until they finally, gently die.

One of the more amusingly ironic sights is to come across a '49 Olds or '53 Dodge in which a high-tech sound system is installed. These often have a decal plastered on the rear window that says, "Pioneer -- The Art of Entertainment." I suspect that this bit of whimsy is not lost on the owners.

Because of the US blockade of Cuba, there are only a few late-model American cars seen in Havana. Once in a while you come across an SUV like a Blazer or Jeep Cherokee, but mostly you'll see Fiats, Toyotas, Hyundais, Puegots, Daewoos, and the ubiquitous Russian-made Lada in both its pre- and post-Soviet versions. There are a few Mercedes Benzes that turn up from time to time, and once I saw a spanking new yellow Jaguar. However, I did not see one Rolls Royce, new or old, in socialist Cuba.

The belief in the United States is that Cuba, in common with the other Latin American countries, is predominantly Roman Catholic, but this is not true. Although Catholicism is a major religion, and Catholic churches are found throughout the island, the main religions, especially in the countryside, are Santeria and other African-based spiritual systems. Before the Revolution, Catholicism was the religion of the ruling class and the well-to-do, and the church hierarchy was profoundly reactionary. Unlike Central and South America, a peoples' or liberation theology never developed within the Cuban church, and there is no historical record of there having ever been any bishops who sided with the workers and peasants, and scant few priests as well.

Santeria is the religion of people of African descent, but it is embraced by many non-Africans. It incorporates a number of Christian themes, beliefs and motifs but its heart and soul is African. It was the spiritual system that gave sustenance and solace to people held as slaves, and it continues today as a deeply felt social and religious force that gives strong cohesion to Afro-Cuban society. Unlike Roman Catholicism, Santeria and the other African-derived religions never had an antagonistic relationship with the revolutionary state.

One afternoon we were visiting our friend Miguel. Miguel is the head of the local Committee for the Defense of the Revolution; hence, he knows everybody in the neighborhood. Sitting out on his patio, we heard singing and drumming in the background, and assumed there was a party coinciding with the July 26 festivities that gave everyone a long holiday weekend. (July 26 is Cuba's major holiday, the National Day of the Rebellion, commemorating the day in 1953 when Fidel Castro and a small group of revolutionaries attacked the Moncada garrison. This date marks the beginning of the Cuban Revolution.) But it was not a party, it was a Santeria ceremony. Miguel said that we might be able to attend if the person hosting it gave permission, and he went over to the house to see if it would be all right for us to drop in. After a few minutes he returned and told us that the host would very much like us to come.

The ground rules were that we simply sit and watch, not speak to people unless spoken to first, and otherwise take all our cues from Miguel. Tradition and protocol dictate that an offering be brought, and this is to be placed at the altar. The service was held in the host's small apartment, and there were about 15 people, plus 3 drummers, taking part. Our offering consisted of a bottle of rum, a cigar, and 5 US dollars.

At the entranceway to the apartment was a small plastic basin of water, into which sweet flower petals had been placed. We were instructed to dip our hands into the flowered water and then take a bit of it and drip it onto our arms, head and neck. After finishing our ablutions we were escorted inside to the makeshift altar, where we placed the offerings, and then each of us was given a jigger of rum with fragrant herbs added.

In the middle of the room was a woman, the priestess, perhaps in her sixties, wearing an African-style white dress that is typical of those worn by many of the practitioners. She moved about the room, speaking to various people, partly in Spanish, partly in an African language, and partly -- though none of us are sure -- in tongues. This priestess appeared to be simultaneously in a trance, but also totally aware and in control of things and herself. Puffing on a fat cigar, she blew the smoke around the room while also sipping water from the hollowed shell of a gourd held by another woman who stood nearby. Occasionally she spat some of the water toward other people or onto the floor.

At a certain point, the priestess noticed the three of us and broke her trance to ask nobody in particular, "Who are these painted people? Why are they here?" The host of the ceremony responded that we had been invited and had brought offerings. She then began chanting again, blew the cigar smoke toward us and, taking sips of water from the gourd, spit on each of us. This, someone explained, was a blessing and it meant that we were to be welcomed to the circle. Somehow, being spit on did not feel dirty.

During the ceremony, at random intervals, various people came, usually one at a time, into the circle with the priestess and danced with abandon. The priestess stood nearby, chanting or talking to them, and spitting water in their direction. Walking into such a scene, a casual onlooker might think that people were running amok in an orgiastic frenzy, yet the entire ceremony was actually very orderly. People on the periphery of the circle made sure that the dancers did not fall, or bump into people, the wall, or objects and hurt themselves or others. Another person periodically mopped the floor where water or beverages had spilled to make sure that nobody slipped. After each dancer had finished, people fanned and wiped down with cool, damp cloths those who seemed to have overheated. Still others simply milled about and watched, or stepped outside to chat with friends.

During most of the ceremony we simply sat and observed, and occasionally people came over to make us feel welcome and comfortable, and perhaps to explain what was going on. As we watched, the priestess motioned to us to get up and come into the circle, where we danced as she spoke to us and gave us more blessings.

As a complete outsider, I watched this whole thing with a mixture of anthropological curiosity and fascination, and extreme self-consciousness, yet when I was brought into the circle and started to concentrate on the drum rhythms my unease quickly evaporated. The drummers sang in an African language, and also chanted, in Spanish, "Who are you? What was your name in the Congo?"

I have little idea what the ceremony was about, barely an inkling. I think these people's ancestors were present, in some way. I think many of the people were tuned in to their own personal deity, or to something outside the mundane. I will never know what it was, but I left the apartment later that afternoon drenched in sweat and energized, taking away a small sliver of insight into a sensibility I have not known.

Havana is populated with stray dogs. During the Special Period people could not afford to feed them, and with much regret turned them out onto the streets, hoping that they could fend for themselves and survive. Fend they did, and as a result, these dogs bred and multiplied. For the most part, they scavenge for food, and decidedly are not in the best shape. They are not vicious, and cohabit easily with people, but at a distance.

Yoruba tradition holds that the dog is a sacred animal and is not to be mistreated, and this ancient tradition has been passed down and absorbed into modern Cuban social customs. It is a natural, normal given that dogs shall not be maltreated, and I have never seen a dog abused in Cuba.

A Cuban friend told me, "If a car driver accidentally runs over or hits a dog, the driver will feel very bad about it, as if a pedestrian had been hit."

Cuban cigars are legendary; they are a symbol of exquisite luxury and refinement, and are sought after by aficionados who literally have money to burn. In New York, one Cohiba goes for $40 or $50 on the underground market. I suspect that many of these Cohibas are counterfeit, and quite a few are not even made in Cuba. I also suspect that most people who smoke Cohibas -- whether genuine or fake -- do so to gain some imagined social status and to show off, and have no idea whether they are smoking the real article or a fourth-rate knockoff.

There is a famous photograph of Che Guevara puffing on a fat stogie, and many more of a younger Fidel doing the same. Fidel quit cold turkey several years ago, citing health reasons, and he suggested that other Cubans follow suit. I have not smoked a cigar in Cuba, and, believe it or not, I saw very few other people smoking any. Most of the cigars are for export or for the tourist trade. (A case of 25 Cohibas goes for US$40 at the factory, and $80 at stores in Havana.) Cubans prefer cigarettes, and Popular is the most popular brand, going for 50 US cents. Monterrey and Vegas are a couple of other leading Cuban brands, small and unfiltered, like the French Gitanes, only stronger. Some Cubans with a little extra money smoke Marlboros, which cost $1.20 a pack.

Cuban rum is not to be missed; Havana Club is the most famous brand, and the best. The light Havana Club, used in mixed drinks and aged for a year, sells for about $3, and the dark seven-year-old stuff, meant to be drunk straight, is only $8 in neighborhood stores. A fifteen-year-old Havana Club, as fine as an aged Grande Champagne Cognac and intended only for reverent sipping, sells for about $80 in local stores and $85 at the duty-free store at the airport.

There are two major brands of Cuban beer, Cristal, and the darker Buccanero. Both are good. Cubita is the best brand of coffee, made from Arabica beans grown in the mountains of Oriente province. It is an exceptional coffee, and the taste is easily recognizable. At US$6 for half a kilogram, it's too expensive for most Cubans, who drink the cheaper robusta. Unless you are in a high-priced hotel, you cannot find a cup of café Americano in Cuba. Cubans drink their coffee espresso-style in demitasse cups, strong and very sweet.

Havana is a beautiful city, run down and decrepit in some places, restored in others (Old Havana has been almost fully restored) and, in neighborhoods like Miramar, positively elegant. It is a cultured city, as sophisticated as New York, Mexico City, Paris or Rome, and there are theaters, concert halls, clubs, galleries and museums everywhere. Being too busy with meetings and socializing, I've been to only one museum on this trip, the Museum of the Revolution, which honestly and intelligently chronicles Cuban history up to the present moment. Plan on spending a good chunk of time here, and don´t simply breeze through the exhibits.

Not to be missed is the monument to José Martí, at the Plaza of the Revolution. This is a beautiful structure that contains an exhibit about Martí on the ground floor; at the top -- it is the highest building in Havana -- is an observatory offering a panorama of the entire city. Mean-looking turkey vultures roost on the ledges.

José Martí, and not Fidel Castro (this might surprise many people), is the main national hero of Cuba. Martí led the struggle for Cuban independence at the turn of the century; he was a scholar, writer, orator, theoretician, teacher and freedom fighter. Cuban-style Marxism is derived heavily from Martí. His image is everywhere, and there are statues and monuments all over Havana dedicated to him. One of my favorites sits outside of the US Interests Section building on the Malecon; it is a large, well-crafted statue of Martí pointing a defiant finger at the building.

The airport in Havana, the main gateway to Cuba, is named José Martí International Airport.

Che Guevara, who was Argentinian by birth, is also a national hero, and there are monuments to him, but fewer than to Martí. In contrast, Fidel's portrait is not everywhere. There are a few wall writings containing excerpts from his speeches or writings, and occasionally unofficial graffiti with short slogans like "Viva Fidel!" are seen scrawled on buildings.

Fidel Castro is, of course, a national hero, and he is genuinely loved and honored by the Cuban people. Much of his time is spent visiting towns and communities throughout Cuba, and he is one of the more accessible heads of state.

Cuban television is a mixed bag. There are two state-run channels that broadcast both the good and the bad. There is a heavy focus on adult education, offering college-level courses-by-TV on every conceivable subject. The news broadcasts are intelligently presented, without sensationalism, though limited, focusing mostly on Cuba, and on the United States as it concerns Cuba. International news coverage treats the major stories, generally picked up from CNN newsfeeds. One of the most popular programs is the nightly mesa redonda (roundtable), which presents discussions on numerous current events. Selected programs from the Discovery channel are shown, and there are a few Cuban-produced telenovelas (soap operas) that follow the same format as soap operas everywhere but are far less melodramatic than the Mexican ones. I've enjoyed some of the music and variety programs (a documentary about the legendary Trio Matamoros was exceptional) but I could have done without the Mutant Ninja Turtles, which I caught one evening. The broadcast day ends with a movie, everything from old Hollywood films to recent films from the US, Latin America and Europe, and they run the gamut from action to art films.

My favorite radio station is called Radio Clock, a 24-hour news station that gives the time every minute. In the background, beneath the announcer's voice, you can hear the seconds ticking away. For me, Radio Clock is a soothing link to New York, where I have enjoyed waking up for years to 1010 WINS (to the great annoyance of my tolerant compañera).

The Cuban medical system is one of the world's best, and the United Nations World Health Organization has said that it is a model for the developing world. Medical care is completely free, and the Cuban Constitution mandates that there be one doctor for every 122 people. (In reality, there is one doctor for every 140 people.)

But the Cuban healthcare system extends beyond the island, and Cuban doctors and medical teams are found in Central and South America and in Africa, where they provide both essential treatment in places where it had not previously existed, as well as critical support and intervention in emergency situations, such as medical relief following Hurricane Mitch, which devastated large areas of Central America,

Cuba also has a foreign medical student program. This four-year program is completely free, and food, housing and a stipend are provided to all students. There are some young people from the United States who are currently in training. The only stipulation made by the Cuban government is that the students -- once they receive their medical degrees -- return to their home countries and practice medicine in impoverished areas for a certain length of time.

A unique ongoing project is a treatment and rehabilitation community just outside of Havana for the victims, especially children, of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant disaster. This self-contained "town" provides medical care, but also offers therapy and numerous programs to assist the victims in their overall recovery, and to help them to ultimately be reintegrated into the larger society. Not surprisingly, many of the victims and their families have opted to stay in Cuba, rather than return to the Ukraine, where they have faced ridicule and discrimination. Some have become Cuban citizens.

Every year, July 26th is celebrated in one of the 14 provinces; this year, the celebration was in Havana, which was lucky for us, but it also had a larger, and more urgent, political importance. At the moment, five Cubans are being held in the US prison system, convicted of conspiring to commit espionage and liable to be sentenced to extremely long terms. They are all being held in solitary confinement. The charges are a fabrication. They were not spying on the United States; rather, they were gathering information about the various right-wing Miami anti-Castro groups, which is in no way a violation of US law. In fact, much of the information they gathered was turned over to the FBI by the Cuban government, since some of these organizations have violated US and international law, or have substantive plans to do so.

The activities of these groups are of great concern to Cuba. In the last 40 years, there have been over 400 documented serious assassination attempts against Fidel Castro, and probably many more that have either been less fully documented, or not as "serious."ª Groups like the Cuban-American National Foundation and Brothers to the Rescue have a long history of violent activity against Cuba, including within the island itself. Orlando Bosch, for example, one of right-wing Miami's "heroes," has publically bragged about his involvement in the 1976 bombing of a Cubana Airlines plane, in which civilians -- including Cuba's entire national fencing team -- were killed. The US government has never investigated Bosch's role in this. Bosch was an advisor to Pinochet, and was also active with the Nicaraguan Contras; in the United States too, he has a history of violent activities.

George W. Bush owes his seizure of state power, in good measure, to this Miami mafia. For him and the right-wing Miami community it's payback time, and he is moving US policy toward a much tougher and aggressive stance against Cuba. Against this background, Cuba is naturally very concerned, so it was politically significant that this year's July 26 celebration was held here in Havana, where the largest number of people could attend.

The celebration began in the morning, as people assembled along the Malecon to parade past the US Interests Section. (The Malecon is Havana's waterfront drive; the view of this drive, looking west from Morro Castle, is one of the more famed images, seen in countless movies about Havana.) What was most conspicuous about the march, and, indeed, is a conspicuous aspect of Cuban society in general, is the amount and degree of unity and solidarity shown by the Cuban people. The emonstration was not some false display of robotic unity, staged to appease the island's leaders or to earn brownie points with the local CDR; it was a very real show of more than a million people working together with a common purpose. Cubans are adamant: the direction and future of the island is to be determined by Cuba and its people, and not by the United States or anyone else. The revolutionary euphoria, the sense of commonality, the spirit of collectivity were at a level and fervor I have not seen since our movements in the 1960s, when we knew we could move mountains. I sometimes think that radicals in the US have forgotten our power to shape history. The Cuban people have not, and this is precisely the beauty of this revolutionary moment.

The apartment where we are staying is right on the Malecon, overlooking Morro Castle and the entrance to Havana harbor. The hustle and bustle began before 6 a.m., and stopped momentarily only when the national anthem -- the Bayamo Song -- was played. This was followed a few minutes later by the playing of The Internationale. Cuba is one of the few places where this anthem of the working class is still played publicly and regularly, and Cubans know the words to all the verses, not just the first.

From our apartment, about five kilometers from the US Interests Section, our walk that took us past the old Hotel Nacional, the elegant and luxurious hangout of yore for Hollywood stars, international robber barons, high-finance tycoons, and US mafiosi, who turned pre-Revolution Havana into one gigantic brothel and gambling casino. That Havana had become a playground for the fabulously rich and famous, that its residents had become mere maids and butlers placed here as bits of local color to delight, amuse and serve the glamorous hordes, that the country was offered for sale to the highest bidder (or the highest briber) by its own President -- these were some of the material factors that propelled a small group of revolutionaries to take to the hills of Oriente and fight to reclaim the country, to take it back from the Yanquis who owned and dominated it ever since Spain lost its last major imperial domain in the Americas more than half a century before.

The Hotel Nacional has been restored to its former grandeur, but now, instead of being a symbol of decadence and imperialism it has become one of the symbols of Cuba's rebirth, its recovery from the cruel hardships endured by the Cuban people during the Special Period. Walk a bit further down the block, to the US Interests Section, the monolith that is today both the ideological symbol and the practical reality behind Cuba's challenge to neoliberal hegemony, and of the island's assertion of its right to develop on its own terms. Here is a fortress-like structure; a detachment of US Marines dwells inside and their purpose is to guard the advanced espionage equipment housed within. On the roof, rotating in all directions, are high-powered surveillance cameras, strong and sensitive enough to identify a specific face, even in a crowd of one million people. It is here that the march commemorating the July 26 attack on Moncada ends. This end-point is symbolic. It is a statement to the world that affirms Cuba's defiance, for over 40 years, of the power of the United States. It is a statement to the world of the unity of the Cuban people.

Patria o muerte!

We talk to people on the march. They are all animated. They are all proud. They all have a sense of belonging. They all understand that they are makers of history. They know that this is their struggle, and they know that the struggles of other people in other places are also their own. Cuba is a nation committed to internationalism, and the Cuban people on the march are pleased and grateful to see people from other countries marching in solidarity.

No speeches this time. Fidel was at the head of the march, but did not speak today. Instead, there was music and poetry. It was a parade of festivity and defiance, of national pride and self-assertion.

For me, personally and politically, being there was a small act of festive defiance: Festive, because I felt proud to be part of this movement, and elated to be with one million other people who see eye to eye on the necessity for a more just and equitable world. Defiant because my government says I am not allowed to be here. When the march finished, after we had explored a few of the streets at that end of the Malecon and then rested a bit in one of the few spots of precious shade to be found in Havana, we headed back home by a route that took us past the front entrance of the US Interests Section. After shooting a few pictures of it, I faced the cameras on the roof and thumbed my nose. My own small, symbolic act. I am here. I am in Cuba. You cannot stop me.

La luche sigue!

Havana, Cuba
August, 2001

Bill Koehnlein is a member of the National Writers Union (UAW Local 1981).
Copyright (c) 2001 by Bill Koehnlein and NY Transfer News.
May be freely reproduced for non-commercial purposes.
Designer: Aram Azeem, NY Transfer