Jenny Jozwiak: An essay with Lakati Sapo

All images courtesy of the artist.

Sometimes you make travel plans in the strangest of places. I remember the moment when I finally decided it was time to visit to Cuba. Oddly enough, it came when I had a woman's feet in my lap and I was examining her corns. This may not make much sense to you right now, but let me rewind just a little bit so I can explain.

I grew up in Guatemala. My family was wealthy, landed, old and venerable—so distinguished that even the skeletons in our closets were reputable and chaste. Sure, a childhood nurtured on the privileged cusp of an aristocracy had its perks, but it also had its glaring inconveniences—for instance, it came packaged with the virulent hatred of an armed guerilla insurgency. Kids like me were easy targets for these Marxist rebels, who were trained and led by Cubans; they kidnapped us from our beds, our schoolbuses, or our places of worship, so that our ransom could help finance their cause. While American kids lay awake at night worrying about a campfire-story “bogeyman”, my sleepless nights were consumed by visions of Cubans.

The American government and its banana lobby—yes, I said banana lobby—didn't care for Cuban-inspired rebels interfering with our export crops, so they solved the problem by installing a passel of shifty-eyed, mustachioed, genocidal maniacs in epaulettes in the seat of power. Their job, which they did very well, was to cleanse Guatemala of… well, just about everybody.

It took 36 years; 300,000 dead or missing civilians; the fall of the Communist Block; an economic crisis in Cuba and Bill Clinton's attention, for everyone to get together and finally sign a peace agreement—everyone surrendered to the fact that you can shoot a person, but you can't shoot an ideology. My country embarked on a tenuous democracy and we Guatemalans, polarized as we were, began to find ways to co-exist with our enemies as neighbors. That's around the time I met the woman with the corns.

I was in my thirties, and volunteering as a translator for an American surgical mission in a remote jungle area savaged by the war. We set up tents where people lined up for days to get what medical attention they could. It was a muggy, dusty, mosquito-infested place. The crowd was a jostling sea of desperation, with everyone crying out and pointing at their tumors, their prolapsed uteruses, their rashes, and their pitifully malnourished children. Milling about the triage tent were many of my former enemies—ex-guerilla fighters who looked inexplicably human and irritatingly worthy of compassion.

Over the next few weeks, I took their pulse, de-wormed and de-loused their children, comforted their sick wives and mothers and, in the process, underwent a profound shift of conscience. I realized that there is no such thing as a “bogeyman”. A “bogeyman” is a phantom burned into your mind—designed to obscure the real person behind it. The really frightening thing about “bogeymen,” is not one of them is that different from yourself.

The woman with the corns looked like any other—she was jolly, heavy set, and had an awesome, infectious smile. She was wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt and when I asked about it, she chuckled: “I love Disney!” She plopped down on the seat in front of me, kicked off her flip-flops, and landed her foot on my lap so I could take a better look at her corns. We bantered a little, and I unearthed the fact that she was unemployed. “What do you normally do?” I inquired. “Oh, I worked with the military during the war,” she remarked offhandedly, “Special Intelligence Operations—Interrogations Department.” For an imperceptible moment, something dark and menacing flitted across her face and then vanished. I froze in my seat, with her foot in my hands. Corn-woman's job was to torture people. She was my “Bogeyman's” “Bogeyman.”

Deep in thought, I massaged a salve onto her corns. I wondered what it was like to lie helpless or dying at those callused feet, and was overcome with the bitter irony of taking sides in any war. If she was my ally, then what did I have to be proud of? It was time, I figured, to visit Cuba and see what my adversaries were all about.

I had the good fortune of seeing Cuba in the company of a visual artist—my good friend, Jenny Jozwiak. She’s an award-winning travel and culture photographer from Brooklyn, whose sensitive portraits of people and places have garnered wide acclaim. She's also a disarmingly charming travel companion, who has an almost preternatural ability to endear herself to people and bring them to open up their souls for her lens. We spent close to a month in Cuba, returning home with deep tans, an adopted street dog, newfound wisdom and friends, and great anecdotes—what more could you want from an impromptu expedition?

Cubans, it turns out, are people you want to hug and kiss. Every single one of them, I think. No one is more vibrant and good-humored than the Cubans—just being around them is energizing and fun. What Cuban doesn't have a twinkle in their eye and a ready joke on their lips? Every one I met was a reservoir of sweet hospitality and generous helpings of espresso. Every one had an hour to spend in languid and idle conversation with me—talking politics or the game of dominos, mostly. Every one had a carefree love of sun and surf; a warm, rhythmic turn of the hip; a jovial camaraderie.

The confluence of races in Cuba makes the people beautiful, and they cultivate a langorous, effortless sensuality. They infuse all interaction with an undercurrent of flirtation and sex—if you have any pulse at all, you'll find it hard to resist that special Cuban pheromone.

Cuba, it turns out, will also break your heart. Havana is a place of longing nostalgia, recalling the swanker age of sugar barons. Its broad, Banyan-lined avenues are flanked by grand, decrepit villas and buzzing with refurbished antique Studebakers, BelAir's and Fairlanes. All that former glory, fading and crumbling under the tropical sun, makes Havana feel haunted, seedy, debauched and intoxicating. The Cubans who live in the city are helplessly caught in an artificial state of suspended animation, as if trapped in one of those souvenir snow domes. Their controlled eco-system provides them with free state-of-the art education, healthcare and cultural offerings, but precious little else. True, there's no unemployment, but with an average salary of about twelve bucks a month, you can't even afford a six-pack of domestic beer. No matter—Cubans are excellent black-market entrepreneurs. They've become adept at wheeling, dealing, lying, cheating, stealing, charming,
hustling, greasing and helping each other out to make ends meet. Still, most of them live below the poverty line— it's an educated, dignified sort of dirt poor, but it's still dirt poor. Only in Cuba can you meet an astrophysicist or a physician who dreams of being a bellboy because tourists tip in dollars.

Cuba's soul will linger with you long after you're gone. Years down the road, you'll still find yourself with a yen for Cuba—still wishing you could share a “mojito” with the people you met only briefly, but who left their imprint in your heart.

Where I come from, womanhood comes dovetailed with self-deprecation and deference—I grew up learning how to make myself small, be fragile and delicate, speak softly and take up as little space as possible. But in Cuba, I met a decidedly different brand of Hispanic femininity.

Not to make a blanket statement, but if I had to find a word to describe the women I met in Cuba, it wouldn't be “demure.” On the contrary, they were altogether fiery. Maybe it's something in the water. Or maybe it's something in the Communism. I don't know but, regardless of age, they were confident, independent and outspoken, and generally sparkled with an inner energy akin to mischief. It's true—Cuban women really are all that. Go and see for yourself. Meanwhile, I'd like to share a few loose anecdotes about the singular senoras and senoritas whom Jenny and I encountered in our wanderings about the island. They are wonderful, and maybe you'll feel like you've met them too.

It was one of those strange, hot summer days that unexpectedly surprise you with a brief and mystifying tropical rainstorm. Jenny and I were wandering around the suburb of Vedado when, suddenly, fat raindrops began splattering down from a still-sunny sky. Everyone on the street ran to the nearest building for cover—something I discovered is an opportunity for Cubans to get to know each other. We were nearest a yellow-pillared mansion, so we gingerly bounded up the steps to its porch for shelter. It turned out to be the neighborhood's Communist headquarters.

This little schoolgirl was scampering among the pillars. She and her mother were at the headquarters to sign up for a Socialist youth event where children could get free food rations, books and school supplies. The little girl was shy, but accepted some candy from us. Her mother, smiling widely, said: “I don't have anything to give you, but here is a big hug,” and she proceeded to give us a wonderful one.

We met a charming, bright-eyed old man couldn't wait to tell us a blue joke about Kennedy, Nixon and Bush arriving in hell. After that, he told us another joke about Donald Trump, arriving in hell. He had been in Guatemala during the seventies, he told me—on “a mission.” Caught with me in this improbable rainstorm was my “bogeyman,” who turned out to be a delightful, grandfatherly man, with a quick wit and a full belly laugh. When the rain ended and we all went our separate ways, I shook his hand and thanked him for the funny jokes. Then I put another little piece of my past behind me.

There are three times in a Hispanic woman's life when she is trussed, corsetted and overwhelmed with satin, tulle and faux pearls: her First Communion, her formal entrance into womanhood (when she turns fifteen), and her wedding. Rich or modest in means, a family usually goes to great expense in order to celebrate these three special events in her life. The central obsession of these occasions is the confection of a spectacular gown, designed to highlight the beauty and purity of the young lady in question.

Havana's regal pre-revolution Hotel Nacional is an imposing italianate palace perched on an seashore bluff. On its grounds, we found no less than five “quinceaneras“ (girls who are turning fifteen), posing for photographers in their gowns. They flounced about the gardens—holding a pose as if picking a rose, or looking out to sea from a balcony, or gazing at one of their dainty feet.

Ironically, no Cuban is allowed inside the hotel, because of a crackdown on the sex trade—but they are allowed to accompany guests in the pool. On one end of the pool, a middle-aged, doughy, cow-eyed German man entertained a half-dozen sleek, insouciant, teen male hustlers, who displayed themselves sinuously on the diving board, frolicked in the water, drank daquiris and giggled coyly at his expense. On the other end of the pool, another graying European man bobbed in the water with two uncomfortable-looking pre-teen little girls in his arms. He stroked and kissed them with pedophiliac intensity, while their female care-taker looked on from a lounge chair. The woman wore a lot of gold jewelry and was wrapped in a towel emblazoned with the American flag. When Jenny and I left, I yelled: “Pervert!” at him, but there wasn't much more I could do.

She was lovely, standing there madonna-like in in a beam of sunshine, cooing softly and absorbed with nursing her child. It was the perfect shot and Jenny quietly edged closer to her, hoping to catch her unaware. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a grease-stained, scruffy hooligan in overalls jumped into the scene, flapping a dirty rag and yelling: “Hey, you! Foreign girl! Take a picture of me!”

Well, that was the end of that. The baby started to cry, the pigeons started to flap, the dogs started to bark—and our new friend stood there, arms akimbo, grinning his toothless grin: “What?” he laughed, “Don't you think I’m handsome?”

We were aiming for one of Chinatown's notoriously cheap and tasty restaurants, and stopped this striking-looking older woman to ask her for directions. Embarking on a lively conversation, we discovered that she had once been a successful ballet dancer in Russia, but had decided to live in Cuba. “Look!” she exclaimed, making wide, encompassing arcs with both arms at Havana. “Look at the blue sky! the palm trees! the fresh breezes! the ocean! Who wouldn't want to live in this splendid place?” Then her bubbly enthusiasm turned sober: “Listen,” she said conspiratorially, taking hold of my arm. “I have something to tell you, only because I like you.” I leaned closer to her, thinking she was about to share some troubling political secret with me, as Cubans often did. “The most important thing I've learned in life,” she whispered solemnly, “is to take care of your teeth. You must floss.”

“He was such a good man,” she whispered wistfully. “He was gentle, honorable, intelligent. I'm so lonely without him. So lonely.” Her voice trailed off and she took off her thick glasses to wipe her eyes. “This is all I have left of him, this picture. Imagine. Just a picture. We were married for fifty-seven years, and now half of me is gone. Over there,” she said, pointing to a green hill.

My experience in Guatemala and Cuba left me with a simple understanding: There is no such thing as “us” and “them.” Hatred and suspicion is more fragile and perishable than anyone suspects, and it can be overcome with familiarity. And the most evil and dangerous enemy in any war is always the caricature of the “Bogeyman” in your own head.

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