Like stepping onto a roller coaster, only in the dark!
The day arrived and I flew to Nassau. I moved through the airport, found the Cubana Airlines desk, bought my ticket, and with a slip of paper that served as my visa, I waited. I was already feeling like I was going back in time. Boarding the Tupolev, an old Russian aircraft, was an adventure in itself as it was stairs waiting to climb to board. Walking across the tarmac, I saw the wheels—bald, the metal tread exposed. The engines roared to life, and soon white smoke drifted from the floor. I learned it was just the air conditioning. On future flights, I learned which passengers were first timers as a look of panic appeared on their faces as that smoke appeared.
Arriving in Cuba was like a shot of pure adrenaline. I made it. I checked into the Hotel Inglaterra, then stepped out into the streets. I crossed Parque Central on my way to Calle Obispo—the street where my parents had met long ago. It was here I first met a “guide.”
“Where you from, amigo?” he asked. My Spanish was poor, but with my dictionary in hand, I explained that I needed a car and guide for the next day, to take me to my Abuela’s sister’s house. He had a prior commitment, but he introduced me to Raul. Raul would be the one who would make things happen.
I then walked for hours, wandered the streets all night, barely noticing the time. The next morning, Raul was waiting. He’d arranged for an old Russian Lada to take us to Zusa’s house. I was still riding the high of being in Cuba, eager for what the day would bring.
We arrived, and we approached a small cottage. I knocked. The door opened just a crack.
“Buenos dias. Puedo ayudarle?” a woman asked.
I introduced myself, with Raul's help. When I mentioned that I was the son of Elena and Consuelo’s grandson, the door swung open. There was joy in Zusa’s daughter’s face, a happiness at the sight of an unexpected visitor. Inside was Zusa, silver-haired, glasses thick as the bottom of a Coke bottle, 89 years old. I thought this would be a short visit—a quick delivery, a few words, a picture taken for my Abuela and then I’d be gone. But they insisted and Raul explained - we should stay for lunch. Refusing would be disrespectful.
This was when the photographer in me started to emerge.
Zusa’s daughter slipped away and returned minutes later with food—borrowed, I assumed, from a neighbor—and began preparing lunch in a kitchen no bigger than a broom closet. A rice cooker, battered and old, was the only hint of anything modern. A burner connected to a tube leading to an improvised bottle hanging on the wall, I learned later that it was filled with flammable liquid. A black-and-white TV— Russian. The furniture was all worn, old, barely holding together.
The excitement I had felt, the thrill of being in Cuba, began to fade. It was replaced with something else, something more unsettling. I wasn’t raised with the stories of Cuba from before. Never heard of my grandparents’ exile or how they had to leave. I searched through every photo book I could find before this trip. They all looked the same—bright colors, smiling faces, a place that seemed like paradise. I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but I wasn’t focused on the reality before this experience. Three hours passed, and when we left, the world outside felt different. No longer was I seeing with the proverbial rose-colored glasses. I had been naive, blind to the reality around me. I wasn’t here just to deliver a package, to reconnect with distant family. There was more to this place than I had imagined. It was on that ride back to the hotel that I knew. I would capture what I would experience.
I knew I wouldn’t turn a blind eye to what was coming. It felt like stepping onto a roller coaster in the dark, not knowing where it would go, not knowing what lay ahead. But I would face it, whatever came, and take it as it was meant to be. I trusted Raul, instinctively, and asked him to show me the Cuba of the Cubans. He agreed.
