Habana!

Havana, Cuba, '08

My teacher invited me to a fiesta de los santos, a festival of the saints. I had no idea what to expect, but assumed it was some public affair. I met up with Eddie at the Rumba school. The school is literally a "hole in the wall." Upon entering, you find yourself in a maze of tiny abodes, each not much bigger than most American kitchens. Over your head clothing dries in the breeze and dark wrinkled faces peer out from each doorway. Eddie and few other musicians greet me warmly, with rough, smoky voices. They are all well built, wearing beaten up clothing. We collect the Cajon's, (wooden boxes played as percussion instruments in the Santoria rituals), and walk down the street through the crowds of tourists and locals. Children, dogs, chickens, prostitutes and policeman all add to the morning crowd. Music pours out of restaurant doors, and beggars sit in the sunshine trying to get the attention of any and all passers-by. This is Havana Vieja, "Old Havana", and it feels so alive.

I ask Eddie if the fiesta is public or private. He say's private, which makes me a little nervous. These Santoria (Cuba's majority religion) ceremonies are not usually something a stranger gets invited to, and when we get to the residence, I feel even more uncomfortable. It is a tiny apartment. The lady of the house, an enormous black woman, huffs and puffs as she shouts out orders to her husband and son, who are clearing the living room to make space for the musicians to play. A live white dove is hanging by it's feet above the doorway, awaiting sacrifice. The red velvet couch barely makes it out into the hallway, and neighbors offer advice, cigars, and rum in equal quantities. Waiting in the corner, I feel I stand out like a sore thumb. There is an air of excitement as we finally congregate in the tiny room, then things get started.

A distinguished looking old man comes in. He is skinny as a rail, dressed in a khaki suit and white shoes. He hands the lady of the house a small bottle of rose colored water, which she liberally splashes on her head and arms. The bottle is passed around and when it's my turn I follow suit. As candles are lit I am handed a cigar and some rum in a paper cup. I try to light the cigar with one of the candles, but one of the musicians rushes over and stops me. "These candles are sacred", he says, as he offers a lighter. Crap. I am already screwing things up. Maybe I will end up being sacrificed along with the dove....

As the musicians begin to play, more rum is passed around. Everyone spits out the first gulp onto the floor, an offering to the Orishas, the gods. Suddenly the old man starts to sing. "Aalaweliweli weliwaaaa." Everyone answers in perfect African harmony "Aaa-Aaa-Aaa." At first people are reserved, moving from side to side in time with the drumming. The song reaches a climax, and stops suddenly. No one applauds, and more Rum is passed around. The next song starts, this time more intense. The drummers start to improvise, their hands a blur. I have never seen drumming like this. Each musician is soloing, with wild, counter time rolls. It seems like chaos, but all fits together somehow. My insecurity begins to fade as we all start to dance. A woman begins to shake and writhe, doubled over and wracked with tremors. People around her gently support her, making sure she does not fall.

The party goes on for hours, and eventually it all ends. We bid a warm fare well to the household, then stumble out into the street, cigars, rum, and drums in hand.
I feel very at peace (and pretty drunk).
In retrospect, I love Cuba!
Vassili