Ever seen a...

...35 lb African Pompano? Here's one I caught the day after Thanksgiving. It took this long for my buddy Tommy to get me the pictures.

Best fish I ever ate. Took me half an hour to bring it in.

Another Comparison?

I've received a few emails on this story about Castro being Hitlerized for the front page of Granma International. Smoke on the Water hits the nail on the head. As does Burton Terrace.

Thanks to Steve and Scott for the heads up.

Prison Comparison

There's a good post up at Setting the World to Rights about Castro's criticizing of the US for the Guantanamo prisoners which is definitely a must read. Drop by and add your two cents.

Imagine Castro calling out the US for the prisoners in Guantanamo when his entire island is just one big jail cell.

Hat Tip Jerome du Bois.

Light Blogging

Sorry about the light bloggage lately, I don't return to work until the 5th and have been busy with the honey-do list which seems to be exponentially growing. Today I have to build shelves...

Please take a stroll through the BlogCuba entries for some delicious reading.

I will also be putting together another BlogCuba day in January so if anyone is interested in submitting entries, drop me a note. Remember, the entry can be about anything having to do with Cuba.

A Pig, the Congressman and a Flan

If you want to know how the Noche Buena festivities went, Steve has a first hand account. I would try to relate the story, but too much pork seems to hinder my ability to write. Suffice it to say that we all got Kendrick Meek 2004 calendars.

I can say, however, that Steve's coconut flan is the best I've ever tasted. Ladies, the man is a catch.

Felices Pascuas Part 2

I will be enjoying my little one's first Christmas Eve and Christmas, so I won't be around either.
Merry Christmas to all of you. May you have a healthy and happy holiday!

Felices Pascuas!!!!

This is probably my last entry until Friday, as I will be lechoniando all day tomorrow and will be away from the keyboard all day. Christmas day will be spent visiting family and doing the Santa Claus thing.

I've invited Steve of Little Tiny Lies fame over for our Noche Buena party because he's promised to bring his new piano and a coconut flan. This should prove quite interesting as we have never met in person. Blog fodder for weeks to come ....

Oh, and, Steve, dont worry about the lynching rope, we cover it in pig fat so as not to leave any neck marks.....

I hope everyone has a great holidays and superb new year!

Take a minute...

...to write some of our men and women serving in the war against terror that may need to hear a few kind words of gratitude or a simple season's greetings. Some of our service men and women don't have much family back home and could really use a short hello to let them know someone is thinking about them and praying for thier well being.

Via A Little More to the Right.

Puro Arte Cubano

There's been a big demand for Cuban art over the past few years. Collectors, museums, exhibitors have imported, sometimes clandestinely, works from Cuban artists from the island. Some of the works I've seen, especially those smuggled into the country, are quite stirring. Other works, those brought to the US through *cultural exhanges*, are good in their own right, but I believe they lack something.

These pieces approved by Castro's regime to be lent to museums and exhibits abroad lack purity. I say this because art should be the conveyance of the artist's free expression. That is, whatever type of work it happens to be, it cannot and should not be censored.

I had this same conversation with Jerome du Bois, one of the writers for The Tears of Things blog. He had asked my opinion on the Havana Biennial Art Show and, while I was not trying to convince him of anything, my conversation with him gave him a different set of spectacles to view Cuban Art through.

In this post by Jerome, he touches upon the very same subject. And while there is some truth to the artist's work depicted in his article, the true reality of Cuba is in the supression of her people's ideas.

Noche Buena

We Cubans celebrate Noche Buena, "Good Night," on Christmas Eve. I believe most hispanic cultures have some kind of a Noche Buena celebration or another. We usually have the whole family get together: grandparents, moms and dads, aunt and uncles, grandkids, dozens of cousins, friends...you name it. It's a pretty big party.

My favorite part of Noche Buena is the cooking and the food. See, everyone that comes bring their own particular specialty. Some tias bring las ensaladas - chicken salads, macaroni salads, egg salads. Some bring the yuca and mojito. My mom usually make the frijoles negros - black beans, her specialty. There is also nothing in the world that tastes better than my great aunts homemade flan. And me? Well, I'm usually in charge of the heart of the meal. El lechon.

Yes, I am the Lechonero™, the pig roaster.

This job was handed down to me some years back by the family men of the previous generation. Abuelo, my uncles, my dad, they all had a little bit to say in the way I should cook the lechon. It is, by far, the most complex part of the Noche Buena meal, and thus, why it the elder men pass it down to the next generation the first chance they get.

Here's how the lechon cooking goes:

First is the trip to the matadero, the slaughterhouse, where you actually have to pick the live pig you want for your Noche Buena. The size of the pig is determined by the amount of people attending, typically 2 lbs of pork per person. I prefer to go with 3 lbs per person as pan-con-lechon sandwiches the next day are delicious. Once you pick the pig you want, the matadero people take him inside their facility, kill it and clean it for you. They remove all the organs and such and hand those to you in a bag in case you want to make chitlins or something. The pig must be picked up on the 23rd as it will need to soak in mojito over night.

Second comes the making of the mojito. The mojito is the seasoning for the pig. Here in Miami you can buy mojito buy the gallon, but I prefer to make my own for Noche Buena. I usually dont make measurements when making it, I play it by nose, but here are the primary ingredients:
- Naranja Agria - sour orange, lots of it as this is the base.
- Limon - Limes. Just a few to add some tart.
- Vino seco - cooking wine, in good quantity. Some people prefer white vinegar.
- Ajo - garlic, lots and lots of garlic, crushed and diced.
- Cebollas - Onions, any kind but I prefer yellow onions for the lechon. Diced.
- Comino - Cumin. A must have spice when cooking Cuban food.
- Oregano - To give it a little more spice and some color.
- Cilantro - Fresh cilantro, crushed, always adds a little flair to it.
- Sal y Pimienta - Salt and pepper.
With all of these need to make at least one gallon of mojito. It's always good to make it before going to the matadero as it can be refrigerated while you are getting the pig.

Next is el adobando. Where I take the mojito and basically spread it, push it, inject it, squeeze it, rub it all over the pig. It's very important to get lots of the mojito inside the pig, thus, a few pokes with the knife and a good kitchen injector is needed. The more mojito inside the pig, the better.

Once the pig has been adobado, it must be kept covered, on ice, over night.

Now, here is where the actual cooking comes in. There are a bunch of ways to cook a lechon. Some folks dig a pit, throw in charcoal, put the pig in on a grill and cover the pit with ojas de platano, banana leaves. Other folks use a skewer and roast it that way. Some build a concrete block pit and cook it that way. This year, I'm using a Caja China. It's basically a plywood construction box lined with zinc plating on the inside. The one I am using is more of a Super Caja China as my dad and I made it 4 years ago and used massive amounts of material. It's almost too heavy to lift.

The beauty of the Caja China is that the heat goes on top of the pig and not below it. The charcoal is placed on a large metal pan over the box and it generates the heat downward into the box. It takes a bit longer, usually about eight hours, depending on the size the pig.

This is where the absolute best part of Noche Buena is for me. While it is a lot of work to keep charcoaling for eight hours - lighting fresh coal, stirring the old ones, removing the ashes, making sure the heat displaces evenly, ensuring the pig isnt cooking too fast or too slow, turning the pig over at the precise moment - it is the most rewarding. While all this work is going on music is playing, aunts and uncles are dancing, nieces and nephews and cousins are hanging out together, everyone is clamoring to see the pig, little kids are running around, drinks are being served, all sorts of munchies abound. Old folks are sitting with young folks and stories of Cuba are being relayed and retold time and again. Es la tradicion.You see, on Noche Buena I have my whole family with me, and that's really what it's all about.

UPDATE: If you happen to get to this page via a Google search and would like more info on the Caja China, go to the main blog page and perform a search for Caja China Plans. I have posted plans to my caja China.

I Cant Believe...

..I missed this post over at Sgt Hook's HQ. It's just a little something to think about when we get a little bent out of shape during the holidays.

Thanx Sgt.

A Monday Cubanism

Today's Cubanism is a Cuban Mom's favorite. I'm sure every single one of them has this particular one in their childrearing vocabulary of sayings:

Cubanism:

Salirse del plato.

Translation:

Leaving the plate. Or spilling out of the plate.

Usage:

Tired of Val's antics at the mall, his mom told him not to salirse del plato, or else.

CONSUMED

If you read anything or any link in this blog, READ THIS.

Via Scott and Cubanet.

Reporters WITH Borders

Scott of Burton Terrace just sent me this link to a Reporters Without Borders article on their correspondent Ricardo González Alfonso who has been imprisoned since March for "actions against the independence and unity of the state."

I like to do my part when I get stories like this and try to pass them on, hoping that someone else will pick up on them and pass them along also. But I get frustrated.

You see, we can write articles and essays on the reality of Cuba, pass them along, publish them out in the net and other media outlets and they wont do a damn bit of good. The Ricardo Alfonso's of Cuba will remain in prison, oppressed and in fear because Castro and his minions DONT GIVE A SHIT.

They don't care about world opinion, they dont care about public opinion, they dont care what the press writes about them abroad. They don't care about their own people, much less care about what some reporter in some organization is saying. The only things the Castro regime cares about are remaining in power and their monumental zeal and adoration for their outdated and uncompromising, undignified, undemocratic, unitelligent ideals that history has proven, time and again, to be nothing but foolish.

Fidel Bashes the EU

In this "report" from Granma International, Fidel is quoted bashing the European Union for being "the accomplices of the United States in its aggression toward Cuba,"

I could go on and on quoting Fidel's rhetoric, but I would eat up my bandwidth. So read the piece for yourselves and see what a great neighbor we have.

After bashing the EU - the EU - I wonder who Fidel is going to turn to next?

For my Castro Loving Trolls

For all the Castro loving trolls that have seen fit to come to my site and spew his revolutionary leftist crap. For those that have commented on the wonders of his helathcare and 100% literacy rate and Castro's stand against the big bad neighbor to the North, this is for you. It's just a little something for you to read and ponder and learn. Mind you, this list only represents confirmed deaths and does not take into account all those taken in the middle of the night never to be seen again or all of the lives lost trying to cross the Gulf Stream to reach the shores of freedom.

When you have read every single name on that list and thought about every single one of those lives taken, then you are free to come back here as perhaps maybe you'll have a little better understanding of what the hell you think you are talking about.

40 years of oppression and mass murder instituted and carried out by none other than Fidel Castro.

So THAT'S why we do that...

In case you were wondering about all those Christmas traditions...

Three Cheers for Los Cubanos

I love this article from Cubanet:

SANTA CLARA, December 16 - Cubans sometimes find very imaginative ways to circumvent their government's restrictions on freedom of expression.

The news of Saddam's capture in Baghdad had been spreading through the city
since morning, although the official National TV broadcast did not carry it until the afternoon, and then buried it behind a segment on the Iraqi resistance. The news itself was given vaguely, as a "report of the presumed capture of Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein" and then an editorial comment saying the news could be speculation on the part of the American command for electoral purposes.

(emphasis mine)

You Say Potato I say Notato

How can a country with a rich soil and excellent weather be so agriculturally deficient?

When the people in charge of the agriculture don't know what the hell they're doing.

HAVANA, December 16 (Cubanet) - Instead of the six pounds of potatoes a month Havana residents are entitled to buy under the government's rationing system, they were only able to buy five and four pounds in October and November, respectively.

Potatoes are just about the only remaining agricultural product Cubans buy through the ration book at controlled prices; everything else they are likely to buy in free markets at much higher prices.

Counter-Che Propaganda

Inspired by the playwrite in this post, Steve and I collaborated to start the anti-Che propaganda with the following T-shirt:

Click the image to buy.

Cuba Cuba Everywhere

Scott's got the scoop on Cuba related posts and articles over at Burton Terrace. There's quite a bit of cyber Cuba stuff on the net this week. Check it out.

75

Christmas trees, and other holiday ornamentation were not allowed in Cuba until the Pope's visit in 1998. Fidel must have thought it appropriate to allow his people to celebrate the holidays being that the Pope was visiting the island. There were some Cubans that had never heard of the tradition, much less actually seen a decorated Christmas tree.

This Christmas season is a little different to some on the island. Not only will there be decorated trees in some homes, but they wont be topped by a star or any other religious ornamentation. Some homes will have their trees topped with a number "75" representing the 75 political prisoners sentenced in April.

A small gesture, yes. But in Cuba even the smallest gesture of anti-revolutionary ideas is a crime.

Let's hope every tree in every home in Cuba dons that number 75.

HAVANA, December 15 - Many dissidents and government opponents here are topping their Christmas trees with the number 75, in remembrance of the 75 political prisoners sentenced by the government in April this year, said Yolanda Huerga, wife of imprisoned poet and journalist Manuel Vázquez Portal.

The idea of topping the trees with the number was the initiative of some of the wives and mothers of the prisoners themselves, and spread by word of mouth through the island.

(www.cubanet.org)

Babalu Aye

Today, December 17th, is Babalu Aye day in the Afro-Cuban religion. Babalu Aye is the Orisha name for St. Lazarus, who is commonly referred to as the father of the world.

BabaluAye is the Orisha who governs epidemics and heals infectious diseases.
Though originally associated with smallpox, many of today's worshippers
appeal to BabaluAye for healing from HIV/AIDs. His colors are brown, black, and purple. His number is 17. His symbols are two dogs and crutches. He is portrayed dressed in burlap. He is offered white wine, popcorn, sesame seed candy, and a variety of grains, beans, and seeds.

When I first decided to start this blog, I wanted to name it something that was definitely Cuban, yet also known and appealing to a more universal audience. I went through a slew of names from Cubablog to ElianIsn'tHere and everything in between. I had been corresponding with Dean (he is my blogfather) on the blog's start-up and one day he mentioned Desi Arnaz and the Lucy show. Everyone knows the I love Lucy show, everyone knows Ricky Ricardo, and everyone knows he's a bandleader, plays the congas and everyone remembers him singing Babaluuuu.

Thus, this blog became Babalu Blog on that day.

That song that everyone remembers Ricky Ricardo singing is actually a tribute to Babalu Aye, San Lazaro.

So today, dia de San Lazaro, I will light a candle, wear something purple and ask el viejo for peace, health and prosperity. Por si las moscas...

Here we goooooo.....

They are starting to come out like bugs outta the woodwork: the congressional democratic conspiracy theorists.

The money quote:

Rep. Jim McDermott, D-Wash., told a Seattle radio station Monday the U.S. military could have found Saddam "a long time ago if they wanted." Asked if he thought the weekend capture was timed to help Bush, McDermott chuckled and said: "Yeah. Oh, yeah." (emphasis mine)

UPDATE: Sgt. Hook is on this as well, and alot more eloquently.

Miami's Mini-Mouseketeer

Here it is, ladies and gentlemen, the blog you have all been waiting for…
The recount of Brandon’s first trip to Disney World!!

We left our home at about 8 AM on the morning of December 5th. My dear little angel slept almost all the way up from Miami to Kissimmee. We stopped about halfway there, at the Lake Worth/Port St. Lucie rest stop, where we had Burger King for brunch. We arrived in Lake Buena Vista at 12:30 in the afternoon. It was a nice, cool day, perfect for walking around Epcot.
Brandon’s first ride (ever!) was Spaceship Earth, which he was very curious about, looking at everything around him. Next we went into Innoventions, and between the East and the West sides, we ran into Mickey and Goofy. Brandon’s first Mickey sighting…how exciting!! At first, he was a bit reserved about what he was seeing, but he took to them almost immediately, touching their faces
instead of looking at the camera. Next, mommy and daddy baby-swapped so they could ride Mission: Space. That was a thrill, and a bit dizzying. I won’t spill any details for those of you who wish to enjoy this new ride. Let’s just say Disney outdid themselves again!

After lunch at the Electric Umbrella, we proceeded into the World Showcase. It began getting dark at this point, around 5:30, but we had fun nonetheless. We ran into Aladdin
in Morocco, who mentioned to us that his movie is being re-released in January, and we can’t wait for the DVD about 8 months after that. We found a very nice Christmas scene in the USA pavilion, where mommy and baby took a lovely picture.
It started getting quite cold for little Brandon, so after dinner at La Cantina de San Angel in the Mexico pavilion, we left to our hotel.
Magic Kingdom, our favorite!! We arrived in the park to find that filming for the televised Very Merry Christmas Parade, which airs on Christmas morning, was under way. After breakfast at the Main Street Bakery, we headed to Fantasyland, where Brandon rode “Snow White’s Scary Adventures” for the very first time…and he wasn’t scared! Next we went on The Many Adventures of Winnie The Pooh, which he slept through. Daddy rode Space Mountain, we went to visit Mickey in ToonTown, and rode The Haunted Mansion before going to the Crystal Palace for lunch with Pooh, Tigger, Piglet
and Eeyore. Mommy was brought a cupcake to celebrate her birthday, and Brandon took a bite
out of it!
After lunch, and a few pictures on Main Street, we saw the Very Merry Christmas Parade. Then mommy, being the daredevil that she is in 50-degree weather, rode Splash Mountain. Man, that was COLD!! After “It’s a Small World”, we met Chip & Dale
and Pluto
, and we called it a day.
Our last park was MGM, since it’s a shorter park, and we wanted to get home relatively early. After breakfast at the Starring Rolls Bakery, we met Lilo and Stitch, and rode The Great Movie Ride, which the little man slept through. Pinocchio and Geppetto
greeted us in front of Mann’s Chinese Theater after the ride. We saw the Playhouse Disney show, featuring all of Brandon’s favorite characters-Rolie Polie Olie, Stanley, Bear in the Big Blue House, and the Book of Pooh characters. Then mommy and daddy took turns riding The Tower of Terror and the Rock ‘N Roller Coaster. We lunched at the Sunset Ranch Market, and left MGM at 6 PM. Brandon and I slept the whole ride home, and by 9:30 we were back in our little casita.
What a wonderful weekend. We are so glad we decided to take this trip. He surely won’t remember this first (of hopefully many) trip to Disney World, but he truly enjoyed the sights and sounds of this wonderful place.

Blog Lite

Im on deadline at the office as we will be closing the week between Christmas and New Year's. So blogging will be light for the next few days. Check out the fine bloggers on my blogroll or the excellent BlogCuba posts from Friday.

A Saddam News Break...

While Saddam was being captured and all hell was breaking loose in the world, Babalu, the dog not the blog, was doing this:

I guess a whole day of digging holes and generally wreaking havoc with the landscaping tuckers one out.

Big Ass Truth

My fellow Miamian Steve is talking some big ole truths at Little Tiny Lies. It's a post that simply cant be missed.

Gracias Steve.

And since we are exploring truths here, take a look at this post about the internet and Cuba over at Burton Terrace. I touched upon this in my post Informaticos.

And the love of Che lives on...

This story by Lydia Martin in today's Miami Herald about Rum & Coke, a play by Cuban-American playwright Carmen Palaez, confirms Scott's assertions that the left has a love affair with Che Guevara and Fidel.

Rum & Coke is a one woman play with an anti-Castro message, which is why it isn't running in New York. It was too right wing and the playwright, bless her, refused to change it.

Fidel won't be found in a hole..

..just like the hole they found Saddam in. No. But he will be found in a hole, one he's been digging for over 40 years.

Castro wields a large shovel that digs deeper with each political prisoner, with each brutal murder, with each irresponsible condemnation. Every time he openly purports the purity of his revolution, that shovel digs down just a little more, each shovelful thrown back over his shoulder, spilling over his people, over his neighbors, then washing away with the ebbing tide.

This hole grows so deep, so wide, that there is no way he can ever crawl out of it. His minions have tried to drop him a life line, a rope here and there, but he can't be pulled out. He refuses to drop the dogmatic shovel, so he just keeps digging. He doesn't realize the treasure he seeks isn't below, but above him, out over the sides of the hole he can no longer see out of.

With each firm stab of that spade into the hole, it's sides crumble in just a little more. The infrastructure of his country, the culture of his people, their history, all eroding down the sides of this hole onto Castro's feet, where they go unnoticed.

It's more like a crater now, a vast deteriorating void in the Earth with one unrelenting failure of a man in the middle.

Castro's hole is Cuba and she's crumbling down all around him. Yet Fidel keeps digging, digging until the day the cave-in comes. Leaving him ultimately buried, unforgivingly deep and nothing but forgotten.

"I'm Saddam Hussein..."

He said. "I'm the president of Iraq and I'm willing to negotiate."

"President Bush sends his regards," U.S. troops that found him replied.

Gottdamn I love our military.

This is the Real Cuba

The following is a letter written by Manuel Vázquez Portal, poet and journalist serving an 18-year sentence in one of Castro's prisons, to his wife:

Aguadores Prison, October 1, 2003
Sra. Yolanda Huerga Cedeño

I love you,
Me (emphasis mine)

This is the true face of Castro's revolution. Opress, indoctrinate and imprison.

(via Cubanet)

More on Saddam's Capture...

Blogdom is abuzz with the news of Hussein's capture. In this post, Dean Esmay asks for everyone's take on it.

My opinion and feeling on it can be found at Axis of Weasels in animated gif format.

UPDATE: I have been remiss, but Dean hasn't. Gracias gracias gracias!!!

The day will come....

...when the people of Cuba will be free of 40 years of repression and celebrate like the the Iraqis can now do. I can't imagine exactly what that particular feeling of jubilation would be like. Seeing Cuba free of the dictator is a dream for me, like the great unkown.

I celebrate with the free Iraqi people today, and pray that my party is coming soon.

Viva Iraq Libre!!!

SADDAM CAPTURED!!!!!

God bless our men and women of the armed forces!!!!! Saddam is captured in a cave like the dirt dweller that he is.

I LOVE GEORGE W. BUSH!

One less dictator in the world is always a great thing.

Fidel, ay Fidelito! Your days are numbered!!!!!!!

UPDATE: Of course, any victory for the US and the Coalition is a defeat for Fidel and his regime. As of 9:30 a.m. Sunday, Granma International, Fidel's party rag, opts out of covering Saddams capture and headlines a US Wrestling Team loss.

UPDATE: It was the BlogCuba project that did it! Too many positive anti-dictator vibes!!!!

BlogCuba is Still Here

Let's stay with the BlogCuba theme and check out this hilarious entry from Ian of Inoperable Terran.

And this other great post I just got the heads up on from Andrew Ian Dodge

BlogCuba Epilogue

If this is your first time at Babalu Blog, you're probably here for the BlogCuba Day project and probably coming via Instapundit or possibly VodkaPundit and I want to thank you for dropping in. So make yourselves at home, sit back and enjoy the excellent reading found in the BlogCuba entries. Do drop by the BlogCuba bloggers' sites as they are all great writers, superb bloggers and good friends.

Mojitos and Romeo y Julieta's will be passed out shortly....

BlogCuba

Today is BlogCuba Day here at Babalu Blog where you will find some of the blogosphere's best taking on anything and everything Cuban. All of the entries are excellent, so sit back, have a cafecito, light up your favorite Cuban cigar and let the swaying palms and ocean breezes sing.

So far we have:

*An excellent anti-Castro poster- the first of its kind - by Howard Morseburg of yeoldecodger.
*A pin-striped suited and fedora'd Dean Esmay preparing some concrete galoshes for the pro-Castro left.
*Will from Mire, mi socio cubano, showing us how alike we really are.
*Interrobang!'s Dave Tepper remembering some scared Cuban neighbors.
*Kevin Aylward from Wizbang! making sense on the travel embargo.
*The Sgt Hook's short fiction on the Cuban's war against the Spanish.
*Right Thinking's Lee kicking some pro-Castro behind.
*El Che gets exposed by Scott of Burton Terrace.
*Our delightful southern gal Kelley of Suburban Blight has a beautifully written story of her Spanish teacher.
*If the writing weren't so darn good, this entry by zombyboy of resurrectionsong could have been written by me. Zomby, you sure you ain't Cuban?
*Cuban Boliche ala Little Tiny Lies. Yummm....
*A surpirse post by Jose Piedra, who just sent me an email titled "Wishful Thinking."
*Finally we have Sheila O'Malleys wonderful interpretation of poetic works by Cuban masters.
*Jay of One Fine Jay comments on Castro as a caricature.

BlogCuba - Sheila O'Malley

Sheila...ayyyy...Sheila...I saved Sheila O'Malley's of Redheaded Ramblings for the last entry in todays BlogCuba because, well, because she made me cry. Sheila took on the daunting task of writing about Cuban poetry. A difficult task as the words lose some effect in the translation. Suffice it to say she did an incredible job and, as I told her, I felt she was seeing the world through my eyes when I read her post. Brilliant. Simply brilliant.

My poems are light green
And flaming red.

When Val came to me for his Blog Cuba project, I was very excited but also a bit daunted. What I know about Cuba is relatively superficial, and almost wholly political. But Val was interested, it seemed to me, in having others discover the heritage of his country, and get to know Cuba in a more personal way, from whatever angle they chose.

I chose the angle of poetry.

A quick note before I begin: I hesitate to make any sweeping generalizations about Cuba, based on the couple of poets I have read thus far. It seems a bit presumptuous. However, there do seem to be recurring themes in these poems, themes which may not be specific to only Cuba, but themes nonetheless.

What do I mean by this?

An analogy: I have a lot of friends from Iran. People whose families fled Iran in the late 1970s. People who have never been able to go back to their country, people who are waiting with bated breath for the "next" revolution, so that they can go home. These friends of mine have a passion for Iran that I can only call poetic. This is not poetry in the abstract, this is poetry in REALITY. This is poetry as opposition. Their connection to the actual land, the actual area of the country of Iran – is intense. Poetic. Iranians love their poets, they revere their poets, and I think that one of the reasons this is so is that poets, in particular, express the truth in ways that can transport you. It comes from the five senses. It is not theoretical, it does not express ideas – it is poetry about grass, and flowers, and sunshine, and the sound of a stream. Iranians' memories of their lost country, their yearning for that cultural continuity, is in the words of their poets.

This seems to be the case of Cuban poets as well.

I read (in translation, of course) poems by Jose Carlos Becerra, Jose Marti, Nicolas Guillen, and others.

They each have very distinct voices – (as much as I can tell through reading translations) – but I found there to be similar themes running through all of them:

-Reverence for childhood
-Love of land, and dirt, and nature
-Lyrical language – which is an interesting contrast, at times, with the down-and-dirty imagery
-Overwhelming nostalgia

If I look at the history of Cuba, all of these themes make the utmost sense. There is such a thing as cultural memory, I believe. These poets do not write like the Irish poets, with whom I most familiar. Although there are similarities there, as well.

Here's an example of what I mean. This is a great example, because it is a poem about poetry. It is almost a mission statement, from Jose Marti, perhaps the most famous and revered Cuban poet of all.

This is Jose Marti's "No. 5 from Simple Verses":

If you see a hill of foam
It is my poetry that you see:
My poetry is a mountain
And is also a feather fan.

My poems are like a dagger
Sprouting flowers from the hilt:
My poetry is like a fountain
Sprinkling streams of coral water.

My poems are light green
And flaming red;
My poetry is a wounded deer
Looking for the forest's sanctuary.

My poems please the brave:
My poems, short and sincere,
Have the force of steel
Which forges swords.

Marti uses the language of ACTION, not just feeling. This poem expresses the belief that poems can DO, poems can serve some higher purpose. Poems do not just express subjective emotions. Poems can be "swords".

To me, the most illuminative image in "Simple Verses" is this one:

My poems are light green
And flaming red.

If I had to break those two lines down, and try to analyze them, I would say: Jose Marti is blending the lyrical and the active. Light green brings up images of spring, of grass, of gentle rain. Flaming red. First of all: "flaming" indicates action of some kind. Red that is in motion. Blood, wounds.

These themes came up again and again in the Cuban poets I read.

Here is Jose Carlos Becerra, in his poem "The Rules of the Game", talking about "the word".

Under the light of a moon that resembles the nakedness of ancient words,
Listen to the rhythm, this rolling of the waters,
Night is moving its dark wheels, these words are its meaning,
And I let myself be carried by what I want to say: what I ignore
And this is how the word ponders its silence.

Oh casual night of the word,
Oh fate where the word returns to its silence and silence to the first word
The first snails, the first starfish appear once again in language,
And creatures of for place their breath in new mirrors.

There is an undying belief in the transformative and energizing power of "the word". Becerra goes on to say: "He who utters the first word shall drop the first glass". There is power in words. Words can DO. Words do not just express. Words are dangerous. Words can bring about change, revolution, violence, war.

I do not know Becerra's background, but I do know that in totalitarian or fascistic societies, there is nothing more dangerous, more feared, than "the word".

One poet could topple the entire house of cards.

No wonder why they are so feared. And so revered by those in exile.

Nicolas Guillen, an Afro-Cuban poet born in 1902, in his very moving poem "Tell Me", talks to the people who have fled Cuba. This poem brings a lump to my throat.

Again, what I notice in this poem, is how he keeps coming back to sensory details: the palm trees, the blue sky, the green … This is not propaganda. This is poem as an agent of memory, of communication.

You, who went out of Cuba,
Tell me,
Where will you find green after green,
Blue after blue,
Palm after palm under the sky?
Tell me.

You, who have forgotten your language,
Tell me,
And chew in all your tongue,
The guel and the yu,
How can you live in silence?
Tell me.

You, who left behind the land,
Tell me,
Where your father lies
Beneath a cross,
Where will you leave your bones?
Tell me.

Oh, poor wretch, answer,
Tell me,
Where will you find green after green,
Blue after blue,
Palm after palm under the sky?
Tell me.

I came across one short poem called "Memorandum" by Miguel Barnet that, to my uneducated mind, seems to say it all about Cuba. What do I mean by that? The poem expresses the absolute connection between language and history, language and love – how, in a society such as Cuba, everything is political. Everything. (Again, I may be over-reaching here – I am not sure.)

But here is the poem:

"Memorandum" by Miguel Barnet
I write a love poem
And in an instant
It becomes political

I write a political poem
And in an instant
It becomes a love poem

Then I realize
That it's not the poem
I really love
But History
And You.

I have to admit that "Memorandum", of all the poems I read, blew me away.

Over and over, in all these poems, like a mantra, come images of the land, of the sea. These people love their land in the same way that they love their families.

In Miguel Barnet's "Cuban Suite", he paints a half-realistic/half-lyrical picture, solely out of sensory details:

"a thunder of whistling leaves
fills my life …
swollen from iodine and voluptuousness
a black man with a gold tooth fans himself…
the women of the city move their salt-spray covered hips
sadness is the simple frustration
of lost glances and crimson lips…
Now that the syllables of my heart
Are awake in my house
I spread my voice to all the cardinal points
With a marimba and a drum
I proclaim my love for this land."

This escapes sentimentality because it is so grounded in sensory reality. I mean: "salt-spray covered hips". That is just gorgeous. And the black man "swollen from iodine and voluptuousness." Barnet is fierce about his country, obviously – the last line of the poem tells us this. But he exhibits a mastery of the first rule of good writing: SHOW. Don’t TELL. He shows us Cuba, in all of his images. He tells his that he "is the tropics". He can afford to TELL us his "love for this land" in the last line, because he has done such a beautiful job of SHOWING us his land prior to that.

I will close this short essay without making any conclusions – because, again, I don't think it's my place. All I can say is I am very grateful to have found all of these poets, and to have gotten to know a bit of their work.

I will close with a short poem from Jose Marti, the Godfather of Cuban poets. There is a deceptive simplicity in the language – and yet – and yet … the second verse startles with what it expresses.

It has the complexity, the pained complexity, of "Turn the other cheek".

The more I read "I Cultivate a White Rose" by Jose Marti, the more I see in it, and the more mysterious it becomes.

I Cultivate a White Rose
I cultivate a white rose
In July as in January
For the sincere friend
Who gives me his hand frankly.

And for the cruel person who tears out
The heart with which I live,
I cultivate neither nettles nor thorns:
I cultivate a white rose.

BlogCuba - Steve H.

Just when you though BlogCuba was all about politics and the embargo and Fidel and El Che, Steve H., fellow Miamian..ooops.. I mean Coral Gables-ian...of Little Tiny Lies blesses us with his version of Boliche, a Cuban culinary deliciousness. Order your pressure cookers now.....

INGREDIENTS

1 boliche

3 chorizos
3-4 big peeled potatoes suitable for boiling – red potatoes or Yukon Golds work
2-3 huge onions 1 red bell pepper
4 tbsp. minced garlic
¾ cup bitter orange marinade (look in the "Hispanic food" section
¾ cup dry red win3
1 ½ cups beef broth
1 ½ tsp. cumin
1 ½ tsp. oregano
salt and pepper to taste

Take a skinny knife or skewers and poke holes all over the meat to let the juice and seasonings in. Poke holes in the skins of the chorizos. Cut a channel through the center of the roast and stuff the chorizos in. Brown the meat, if you want.

Salt the meat heavily. Add spices, pepper, and garlic. Allow meat to sit so the salt works in.

Put meat, onions, and liquid ingredients in pressure cooker. Cook at 15-16 lbs. pressure for 60 minutes. Cool and open. Add sliced potatoes and sliced red peppers. Cook at 15-16 lbs. pressure for 8 minutes. Remove from stove and allow to cool before opening.

I followed up by slicing the meat and letting it sit in the sauce for a few hours.

BlogCuba - Zombyboy

The most excellent zombyboy of resurrectionsong gives us this most excellent entry for BlogCuba. Look out Fidel, look out Dixie Chicks, zomby's here and he ain't partial to your tune:

Turning Our Eyes to Cuba

For most Americans, Cuba is an afterthought.

Unless it's in reference to Ricky Ricardo, Cuban cigars, presidential elections, or an occasionally interesting refugee story, Cuba is our unnoticed neighbor. After these decades of our embargo, and after the collapse of communism through most of the developed world, Cuba remainsstubbornly under the heel of a dictator still committed to faith in afailed political philosophy. Our policies have yet to bring about thepolitical changes that we might have hoped for, but the continuation ofsocialist policies have utterly failed Cuba's citizens. While America
prospers, Cuba slowly fails.

Our embargo has always been a porous one. For those Americans intent on visiting Cuba, a quick stop in Mexico and a short flight will bring them to a country that welcomes their money. Customs agents will even be kind enough to not stamp passports to maintain the polite illusion of the travel ban. Since other nations refuse to recognize the embargo, Cuban trade, as such exists, still flows through other Central and South American nations.

So, for Americans, Cuba is a merely what we learn from former-President Carter's visit or from a fawning Hollywood star who proclaims Castro to be the kindest or most intelligent or most empathic leader.

For those Cubans who yearn for freedom, though, there is only the seemingly unending struggle for what Americans hold dear. It's common to the point of being a cliché to hear how Americans don't even realize the value of the freedoms that we have-common, but simply true.

While the Dixie Chicks act the part of martyrs, and decry how they've been silenced and pilloried by everyone from country music fans to the current presidential administration, they still sell hundreds of thousands of albums and sell out stadiums and concert halls around the world. All the time, they still speak their mind, still grace the covers of magazines, still release comments to the press about their amazing disagreements with the administration, and still enjoy unlimited movement and freedom through their own nation. For a group so terribly put upon, their lives sound remarkably good.

Ask a Cuban dissident, still living in the land of their birth, how they feel about the poorly treated Dixie Chicks, and I'd imagine the response would not be one of sympathy but of indignant confusion. Where dissidents-poets, writers, musicians, and anyone else who disagrees with the official government policies-are labeled US insurgents and jailed as political prisoners, the freedom to publicly speak in dissent is unknown.

In fact, the official Cuban party line seems to be that there are no dissidents in Cuba. Apparently, the entire nation is utterly happy with the policies that have been forced on them and the weak economy that has enslaved all but those at the very top of the political food chain. Of course, this line of thought isn't supported by independent, third party verification.

In Tracey Eaton's July 4, 2003 article in The Dallas Morning News, the real situation is described a little differently.

Cuban officials reject claims that there are prisoners of conscience on
the island. They say dissidents are actually U.S.-paid "mercenaries" who
are trying to help Washington topple the socialist government.

"The evidence in itself is not indicative of any obvious criminal activity
and cannot justify the authorities' repressive reaction," the group said
in a 91-page report in June.

While Hollywood liberals and certain national-level politicians like to describe the wonders of Cuba-focusing on how the people are all taken care of by the socialist health care system and education system, for example-those Cubans who are being oppressed are left mostly ignored by mass media outlets. While an amazing amount of time has been spent talking about the American-held prisoners at Guantanamo, very little ink has been spared the political prisoners being held at places like Cuba's "Happy Camp."

A Cuban political prisoner can expect to be held in a tiny room with no running water. There is likely little or no health care. There is barely food enough for subsistence-described in the same article as being "soy meal, roasted corn meal and sugar water, and a white paste made from wheat flour and "other, unrecognizable substances."

And while America continues to treat Cuba as if it were the international equivalent of that slightly embarrassing, quirky uncle who espouses weird political theories at all the family dinners, the façade of a harmless little socialist paradise is beginning to crumble. Theresa Bond's essay in the September 2003Ocotober 2003 essay in Foreign Affairs, shows that even those traditional areas of Castro's traditional PR strength are showing signs of weakening.

Cuba's disastrous economic situation has grown so dire, in fact, that
merely acquiring enough food to eat has become a full-time preoccupation.
The creeping dollarization of consumer goods has made survival on a salary
paid in local currency mathematically impossible; American dollars were
made legal in 1993 and today are simply indispensable. As for the regime's
traditional counterargument -- that health and education are still free
and excellent -- it no longer carries much weight. Hospitals are decrepit,
basic medicines are unavailable (except in foreigners-only pharmacies),
schools indoctrinate instead of teaching, and, as Cubans say, "One is not
always either sick or learning." In Havana, using public transportation is
a time-consuming ordeal, public phones work sporadically, and water and
power fail on a daily basis. Outside the capital, the situation is even
worse. Of course tourists, whisked around the country in air-conditioned
buses on mojitosalsa-cigar holidays, remain immune from (and oblivious to)
the privations.

As Americans, it is time to recognize that Cuba is slowly arriving to a point where it will likely be unable to sustain itself. This is not the time to lift an embargo-it's a time to continue to find ways to tighten the embargo and to look for ways to educate and reach out to Cuban citizens. Castro will not survive forever-and, more importantly, neither will the political systems that his revolution put in place.

When those systems fail, we need to be prepared to reach out and help our neighbors who have long been kept from the benefits of liberty. In our war on terror, President Bush has made a strong statement: this is a war not on Islam but on terror and those militant Muslims who have perverted the teachings of Islam. In our continued political dialogue with Cubans, it is just as important to stress that our argument is not with Cubans, but with a political system that shackles the potential of the nation. We need to show them, just as much, that the United States will be their friend and ally when their political fortunes change.

Now is the time for Americans to turn their attention to Cuba. Someday-hopefully soon-those Cubans who have remained hopeful and strong in the face of Castro's policies will be rewarded. What's important is that we stop treating Cuba as innocuous and slightly humorous, and recognize the nature of the political system. What we as Americans do until then will help define how that day takes to arrive and how our neighbors feel about us when it does.

BlogCuba - Kelley Blight

Kelley of Suburban Blight fame has graced BlogCuba with a wonderful piece of storytelling - in classic Kelley style - about someone from Cuba who touched her life. As I read this I was there with her and at the end, I was certain that Kelley truly understood the nature of that woman's pain:

Gisela

In the fall of 1981, I entered the sixth grade. A bookish child by nature, I was exorbitantly thrilled when I learned that this year, we’d be embarking on two new classes: Literature, and the study of a Foreign Language. Literature sounded so grown-up and aloof; I was disappointed to learn that it was still “Reading” dressed up with a fancy name. As for the Foreign Language (always capitalized like that), our small elementary school was lucky enough to have retained a teacher of sterling repute, who would come into our classroom three times a week to give us basic lessons in Spanish. Our teacher’s name was Sen-yora Gar-seeeah.

To a child growing up in Georgia, the very word “Spanish” was tinged with mystery; my vision of “Spanish” included rare spices and beautiful, dark-skinned men with flashing eyes. I was excited that I was to be given a glimpse into the outer world, the world in which people spoke another language. I hardly knew that learning Spanish – the extra class – was supposed to be a chore.

The day of our first Spanish lesson arrived, and with it came Sra. Garcia. The lady herself was probably only about five-foot-four, but to me she was statuesque. Sra. Garcia was an ugly woman with an excellent figure and she always dressed to maximize the positive. She had sharp crimson lips, and her black eyes were rimmed with kohl in a Persian style. It was obvious to me, even as a child, that a Personality had entered the room. As she began our lesson, she pulled down the big world map, golden bangles flashing, to explain to us exactly where she was from, and where Spanish was spoken.

She smacked her pointer on Spain, letting the tip float across the Atlantic Ocean and to the New World as she explained the genesis of the tongue. She dabbled lightly on South and Central America, explaining that Spanish was spoken in all of these countries, save Brazil, which she stabbed three times for emphasis. Finally she lifted the tip of her pointer and let it rest lightly in the Caribbean. “…and I, I come from Cuba.”

The class stared at the island on the map. At this point I knew nothing about Cuba, save that it had something to do with President Kennedy, who had been shot in Dallas. I remembered Mom and Dad laughing that Kennedy always said “Cuber” instead of “Cuba”. The significance of Sra. Garcia’s presence in my north Georgia classroom failed to register with me.

What did not fail to register was the voice of my maestra, Sra. Garcia. Rippling like a grosgrain ribbon, her Spanish was beautifully accented, pronounced slowly so that children like myself might catch each word as it dropped from her lips. I can remember each vocabulary word she wrote on the board that day. Manzana, libro, taza, perro.

With each successive Spanish lesson, a whole world of expression was opening to me. I furiously memorized vocabulary words, trying them out in private, rolling my r’s out to a ridiculous end, relishing each “ennnnyea” when a tilde was found. I imitated Sra. Garcia’s accent in secret; I thought she had the most beautiful voice in the world.

My natural love for the sound of the language made me a good student, and Sra. Garcia noticed. I think I may have been the only kid in that set of classes who gave a rat’s ass what the Spanish was supposed to sound like, who was ham enough to be unselfconscious about using an accent that was different than my own. Thrilled that someone was receptive to her teaching, Sra. Garcia approached my teacher about giving me extra lessons in her office, daily instead of just three times a week.

I would race to my special lessons with her, because she always had something new to talk about or do. Unbeknownst to me, I had made a valuable ally; when Sra. Garcia liked you, she liked you and you got to do all kinds of cool stuff. My whole class had an International Day party, and Sra. Garcia taught me how to make flawless ensalata guacamole; I use the recipe that she gave me to this day. For my birthday, in class Sra. Garcia taught us how to make a piñata, letting me make one of my own in private lessons. For Christmas, she and I made delicate little sugar candies, tinted red and green with McCormick’s Food Coloring. She took me to the school kitched and taught me to fry maduros, told me about the famous coffee that Cubans drink. We couldn’t make it in Roswell, she said, best to not even try. The water was all wrong; maybe someday I could have some in Miami. All the while, Sra. Garcia fed my vocabulary, and unwittingly fed a lifelong interest in her culture.

Occasionally, she’d tell me about her life. She was often justifiably frustrated with our podunk-holler environs; at the time there were very few Spanish-speaking people in our particular stretch of the back-woods, and pronunciation of the most rudimentary Spanish was regularly mangled. I remember one lesson in which she’d just been to the bank and had come back fuming. “Ten years I’ve had an account at that bank. Ten years!”, she fumed. “Still they cannot pronounce my name. Mrs. GARR-SHA, how can we help you? Mrs. GARR-SHA, do you need a pen?”

Sra. Garcia spoke with pride about her son, who was then in medical school at Emory. When she explained to me that her son had lived in the United States for almost two years before she was able to escape from Cuba, I was astounded. I understood mother-love from my own mama. I found it hard to believe that anything could make a mother send her child away. I had no idea.

“You mean you just put him on a plane, and hoped for the best? Weren’t you scared?”

“We were terrified, niña. But Castro is a bad, man, a very bad man. They were killing people, people…that were close to my family. I could not let my only son grow up in such a place. We didn’t know if there would be another plane, another boat, another way to give him a chance.”

I hated Fidel Castro for scaring my favorite teacher, and prayed nightly for him to die. I didn’t understand how someone like that could just waltz in and ruin your life. Sra. Garcia was patient; she explained to me that the Communists had simply taken over in the night, driving out the legal government which, she told me, was rotten and ready to fall anyway. She told me about the economic divisions in pre-revolutionary Cuba, how Castro made the poor man feel that he would be better off under communism. Her words frightened me a little. Knowing that people could come and just take away your house, everything you owned, drive you out…that you could be singled out for being a smart guy, an intellectual. Up until then, I’d never understood that this was what had happened to her, to her island, to her family and her home.

For me, Sra. Garcia wove a verbal tapestry of Cuban history, of pirates and traders and slaves and rough men. She spoke lovingly of the Cuba she had known as a girl, and of her life Before Castro. She talked of orchestras and ball-gowns and diplomats dancing under the swaying palms. Her family had been a wealthy one; Sra. Garcia was educated far beyond the requirements for a Spanish teacher. She spoke not only Spanish and English, but Italian and Portuguese as well. Later, I was to learn that her husband, a medical doctor, had been killed for resisting the regime. Even still, Sra. Garcia spoke about the Cuba she knew with relish, with desire. She sighed for the parties at which her whole family was present in one room, in her family’s traditional home in Havana. She lauded the Cuban countryside as the most beautiful place on earth. “And the women, chica,” she’d roll her eyes and cackle. “Cuban women are the most beautiful women on earth! Women in my country are famous for their charms!” She’d play me a record of Celia Cruz, and try to teach my rhythm-less Caucasian feet a little salsa.

Sra. Garcia grew to be much more than a teacher to me, she was my friend. I spent two school years under her tutelage. I loved that Sra. Garcia whole-heartedly; to this day I retain her accent when I speak Spanish. I kept in touch with her until I graduated from high school, and when I moved away I forgot her, with the thoughtlessness of youth. Now that I am grown, I often think of her. I wonder where she is now, if she is even still alive, how her son is doing. She really was the best teacher I ever had.

She always wanted to go home. She never got to. And I still hate Fidel Castro for scaring my favorite teacher.

BlogCuba - J. Scott Barnard

Fellow Florida blogger J. Scott Barnard of Burton Terrace is another one of my daily multi-stops. Here for BlogCuba he shows us just who El Che - lefty poster boy ala capitalism - really was:

Or so says the website, Che-lives. The website proprietor's sense of irony goes beyond the title. While promoting the legacy of the slain guerilla leader, there's a buck to be made.

Note: Che-Lives has to finance it's own web server and without this commercial section, Che-Lives can't stay online.

You can support the revolution by buying t-shirts, key chains, berets, even a brushed metal red star "zippo styled" lighter. And who wouldn't want that Che Guevara shot glass to while away their evenings playing quarters in the dorm room under their very own Che poster. Hasta la victoria siempre indeed!

You've seen them, I'm sure. All over campuses across the globe, the young flock to the i