'Semester at Sea:' Nate Hamme's Log Begins In Fidel Castro's Cuba

The clip-clop of horse’s feet on cobblestone streets was the first thing I remember hearing. We had arrived in Havana that morning, slowly treading water in the harbor. The oldest fort in the Americas graced the cape’s entrance. At dawn, the coastline was hazy—filled with the smokestacks and crane riggings of budding industry. The statue of Columbus stood atop the range of hills to our left. So this was Cuba.

Walking through immigration, I could not help but feel privileged: I was standing on an island few Americans had ever seen and most would likely never see. The things we had been told about Cuba lent a hint of mystery to the island. What would the people be like? Is it as austere and browbeaten as they would have you imagine? They could prepare you for the sight of 1950’s automobiles lining the streets, but no one could hope to define for you the culture of this enigmatic entity, this rogue state.

When I first stepped into the sunny streets of Havana I was surprised, astonished perhaps. Obviously they had known we were coming. The throngs of American students filing off a cruise boat were something they too would rarely see. And so there they were, staring at us, smiling. Behind the first row of motorcycle taxis was the cobblestone square, filled with horse drawn carriages queued up and waiting. Even from dockside you could hear them. Of course, given the choice, the hopeless romantic in me found something salient and beautiful about riding around Havana by carriage.

So, for the price of a McDonalds “Happy Meal”, we were given a tour of Havana Vieja—the “old city”. The Plaza de las Armas. The Union de Jovenes Comunistas. La Floridita, where Hemmingway sat with Castro himself. Days later, we too would sit with Castro, listening to him deliberate on the history of the world and the future of the “Revolution”. While he proposed to format the exchange as Q&A, our assembly was only able to get off two questions in the four and a half hours we heard him speak.

Few made it out of Havana to the eastern end of the island. Guantanamo Bay, at the southeast tip, has been in and out of the news since its creation in1898. The United States has paid $4000 for annual use of the base since 1934, though Castro refuses to cash these rent checks on principal. Many people, not just Castro and Cubans question the legitimacy of this facility—one which has allowed US forces to hold suspected terrorists, refugees, and even children prisoner without due process.

The majority of us stayed in Havana, content to soak up the culture and the sun, expunging long held prejudices and deep-seated stereotypes about this bastion of Communism in the Western Hemisphere. The houses and apartments of the old city, irrevocable manifestations of the Spanish Baroque, are largely weathered and dilapidated. Citizens are poor, paid an average of $40 a month, whether trained as a doctor, teacher, or soldier. The state provides free education, so almost all of these impoverished people are literate. As a consequence, Cuba exports many of its educated “elite” to other countries where they can live more lavishly. Those who stay find they are paid more as taxi drivers and waiters, catering to foreigners who give them US dollars. Our carriage driver, sitting shotgun, earned a masters degree and spoke fantastic English. He spoke of his wife who, on several occasions, had made use of the country’s free healthcare system. No wonder, then, that Cubans have the longest lifespan of any people in Latin America.

And we sat in the backseat, faces aglow with the ardent compassion of a country we’d been taught to fear, wondering what could possibly come next. Mesmerized by the clopping of shoeless hooves, Cuba’s future lay resting in the fortitude of its people.