“La Mujer Vieja” in Spanish means “old women” and this was by far the strangest dance that happened to me. I first noticed her on my way into the restaurant and another pseudo-Cuban pork lunch. I did not realize then that she was an angel. She actually looked just like another wizened old Cuban crone with wrinkles who swayed to the rhythms of the congas and guitar.
We had driven about an hour from Havana to what dad called a Potemkin village. This was a term that went back to Stalinist Russia. This was the Cuban version of what a village in a socialist utopia should look like. Think Shangri La with a Latino beat and Cuban music blaring.
Ethereal and otherworldly — full of tourists like us brought there by modern Chinese buses. The community was beautiful situated on terraced hills with buildings that were white and shone in the bright sunshine and sparkled against the blue sky with those puffy white clouds. This bucolic town nestled in the tropically foliaged hills, looking clean, neat and pristine. Four-story apartment buildings, topped with ceramic tile, dotted the hillsides, sitting upon terraces that were separated by ravines and streams. My god, they even had a zip line course. Now that really felt out of place.
The dogs were fat and sleek as were the horses that grazed on the hillside. This was distinct from the scruffy pooches that lurk the streets of Havana and the gaunt horses that pull the urban taxis and carts. I passed the elementary school full of laughing and playing children. What was that blond-haired, blue-eyed kid doing in the middle of recess surrounded by the black-haired, dark-skinned Cuban kids?
“Russian father,” the guide said and smiled benignly.
So the old woman, soon to be angel, was off to the side swaying to the rhythm of the music. There is always music at meals in Cuba. These musicians were whipped up and grooving. A skinny young black man was the headliner and wailing on the timbales. He had impressive technique on the cow bell. She was enjoying herself in her white top and beige pants — she looked 80. Lots of vibrant oldsters in Cuba and why not. Cuba has one of the best health systems in the world.
At that moment I did not pay her much mind. I was much more interested in Maria, who owned the coffee store downstairs, ran the restaurant with the government as a partnership — interesting concept. She was also 80, smaller and had stage 4 cancer. She was our hostess, greeting us weakly from her open living room as we passed.
On the terrace overlooking the ravines, we ate lunch. I actually eat much better Cuban food in Chicago and Fort Myers. There was never any tostones, plantains or rice and beans. Sacrilegious and perhaps fodder for an international incident. More on that later.
After the bland lunch came time for wandering. I am not much for sitting, especially with this group of 70- and 80-year-olds. As they prepared themselves for dessert and Cuban coffee, I excused myself and headed for the staircase in the back on the right as I followed the cement stairs down and down. I found pigs and chickens. The apartments were terraced on the hillside. The buildings were the roof and the animals were kept in what was an open faced basement. The animals lived under the apartments in pens. This was something the turistas were not seeing or smelling — or hearing for that matter. Smelly animals living in squalor.
I wandered away from the basement barnyard and down to the horse and goats. On the lake I saw flamingos just standing, preening and feeding. I thought flamingos only came in plastic. It was all very peaceful and sublime.
It happened on my way back to the stairway that would take me back to coffee and, if I was lucky, flan. I took a shortcut by cutting across the grass to the cement stairway. The grass was a vibrant green and the ground solid yet suddenly I found myself up to my shins in this black muck and sewage. It was really awful, smelling of feces and then some. It was black and slimy, completely yucky.
I found myself suddenly enmeshed in this Utopian Village’s septic system. It was a fairly crappy system apparently — no pun intended — even though from the outside it looked normal. Would I get a disease? Would my feet fall off? Help. What do I do? I panicked, and took another set of stairs up marking it with putrid, muddy, smelly footprints. I found myself in the parking lot by myself with the first floor apartments on my right.
I needed a hose. There is not a spigot anywhere in Cuba, let alone a hose. Then I saw her. Our eyes met and she assessed me and the situation in a calm manner. The dilemma was obvious: an older tourist whose legs were covered in feces who shortly needed to get back on his tourist bus to return to Havana. This was the woman who had been swaying to the music. She motioned me over. It was no big deal. We did not talk. There was calm, peace and serenity in the air. She motioned me to sit on the kitchen chair on the porch and left, returning with a steel bowl full of warm water. She took my sandals off and proceeded to clean my feet. It was surreal and very matter of fact. No big deal. First the feet were rubbed down and cleaned. Sitting on a stool, she washed my feet with her aged hands in a poised and gracious manner. This was like a gift that she gave from time to time. It was a really good job. My feet were refreshed and felt great.
I felt appreciative and for whatever reason had been delivered to a better place. Certainly my problem had been transformed. She clearly was appreciative of me and my existence and that was the mystery of the experience for me and what was unfathomable. In American culture, in Oak Park, this cleansing by an old woman would just not be happening. This was jarring to me.
I spoiled the space intended by reaching for my wallet to give her some money. She would have none of it and just waved the wallet aside. I said goodbye stunned and numbed. With few words this woman had washed my feet and then sent me, the bald gringo, on my way. I approached the bus, legs cleaned, and ready to board. On the return, I felt peaceful and serene. Like I had been touched and graced by an angel. This is the first time I have shared this experience with anyone. Another inexplicable strange dance in Cuba.
Bruce Hodes, coach, author and speaker is CEO of CMI, Strategic Planning For Today’s Challenging Business Environment (www.cmiteamwork.com). He traveled to Cuba this past February.
