Cuba, a land stalled in the 1950’s
and struggling to catch up to the world. A country of potential and decay.
Vibrant but beaten down. A world so close to the United States but so far away.
The imposing, Spanish fort greeted
our ship as we sailed into the harbor of Havana. Years earlier, Alan and I
walked the grounds of the fort and learned of its history. On my latest trip,
Alan was no longer with me and our tour didn’t include the fort.
Nostalgia for the simpler times of the 50’s took
seasoned travelers to a long prohibited destination for Americans. The majority
wanted to see it before the uniqueness disappeared. No other passengers I talked with had ever
visited the island. Because our church received a special license, we had
permission to travel there. I had gone once and Alan twice. I wondered what
changes I would see. Instead of a mission trip, my latest one was labeled as a
person to person one.
Shiny, vintage cars told only a bit
of the story of Cuba. The Revolution of 1959 threw out an oppressive dictator
and wealthy, foreign landowners. Cuban
business owners and professionals left when homes and businesses were seized by
the government. Many who opposed Castro escaped. Life on the beautiful island
changed.
Crumbling buildings and broken
streets stood beside renovated, ornate structures. More renovations are being
done since my first trip. Running water and electricity have improved but still
were not always reliable.
Engineers, teachers, and doctors,
who receive low government wages, worked as tour guides and drivers to make
enough money to support their families. One guide told me that the government
now allows them to keep tips to add to the small pay for each job. In that way,
they have a better quality of life.
At a fort near Santiago, two young
men labored with machetes to cut grass. One looked at me with pleading eyes. I
couldn’t understand his words but knew he was asking for money. I shook my
head. Begging had not been a part of our first trip. I had just been accosted
in the city so didn’t want to give him anything.
As he stared at me, I saw
desperation. Sweat dripped down his face. I heard, “Agua.” That word I knew. A
military guard walked up and spoke to the man.
Immediately, I left to find a vendor
at a small store. With two bottles of chilled water, I hurried back to the fort
before my deadline for lunch. The weary men continued to swipe at the grass in
the stifling heat. I prayed that the guard would not reappear.
I handed the bottles up to the men.
They thanked me and drank the refreshing water. Because of the intense heat, I
constantly drank water to keep from becoming dehydrated, but I saw no evidence
of any drinks for them.
That was a true people to people
encounter. A white American woman and black Cuban man connected without words.
Our eyes and bottles of water brought us together.
Would they have passed out in the
crushing heat? Were they at the fort every day? Was it their job or a punishment?
I received no answers but thanked God for allowing me to help them.
The language barrier stopped me from
asking questions, but the water, given in the name of Jesus, helped them know
compassion.
