I miss my blogger friends...Im gonna come back and finish that writing about my Gtmo Bay expirience..I owe you that one CB, a ti tambien Yoyi. Im gonna go and check out your pages too.
I've been playing this "other" game, World of Warcraft...Im totally addicted now :-P
But im gonna make some time to take this place to where it was. Hey Toco...Hi to you too.
Greenquack, Bu..love you guys :)
Monday, April 30, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Historias de viejos cubanos.
Vivi siempre fascinada por las leyendas que contaban los viejos de mi familia. Fascinada y agradecida. Aqui algunas...
Una vez un viejo campesino iba a caballo por el monte cuando oyo el llanto de un bebe. Al verlo solo por aquellos lugares, el hombre decidio llevarlo a su casa. En el camino el bebe le ordeno al viejo que lo llevara de vuelta a donde estaba. El hombre no hizo caso y al rato, el peso del bebe eran tanto que tuvo que parar su viaje. Pues la piernas del bebe se habian estirado de forma descomunal. El viejo decidio virar y las piernas del bebe se recojian a medida que el campesino hacia su viaje de regreso al lugar donde el bebe queria que lo llevaran de vuelta.
Una muchacha que caminaba sola a la orilla de la carretera, paro a un rastrero y le pidio que la llevara a su casa. Cuando llegaron a su destino, la muchacha agradecio al hombre y brindo su casa por si algun dia pasaba por alli y necesitaba algo. Al poco tiempo el hombre paso por casa de la mujer y decidio hacer una parada. Al llegar toco la puerta y le respondio una anciana. El rastrero le conto como habia conocido a la joven y pregunto si podia verla, a lo que la senora respondio que era imposible, dado que la muchacha habia muerto hacia muchisimo annos.
Una senora desesperada por tener hijos acudio a un santero para una consulta. El santero hizo un trabajo con La Ceiba y esta prometio que la mujer tendria una hija, pero acambio le pedia un sacrificio de cualquier animal todos los annos al pie de su sombra. La mujer tuvo la hija prometida pero un anno con el trajin de una feria que se acercaba se le olvido su sacrificio. Al ir rumbo a la feria paso por el lado de la ceiba y esta abrio su tronco y se trago a la hija.
Pongo mas cuando me acuerde....
Una vez un viejo campesino iba a caballo por el monte cuando oyo el llanto de un bebe. Al verlo solo por aquellos lugares, el hombre decidio llevarlo a su casa. En el camino el bebe le ordeno al viejo que lo llevara de vuelta a donde estaba. El hombre no hizo caso y al rato, el peso del bebe eran tanto que tuvo que parar su viaje. Pues la piernas del bebe se habian estirado de forma descomunal. El viejo decidio virar y las piernas del bebe se recojian a medida que el campesino hacia su viaje de regreso al lugar donde el bebe queria que lo llevaran de vuelta.
Una muchacha que caminaba sola a la orilla de la carretera, paro a un rastrero y le pidio que la llevara a su casa. Cuando llegaron a su destino, la muchacha agradecio al hombre y brindo su casa por si algun dia pasaba por alli y necesitaba algo. Al poco tiempo el hombre paso por casa de la mujer y decidio hacer una parada. Al llegar toco la puerta y le respondio una anciana. El rastrero le conto como habia conocido a la joven y pregunto si podia verla, a lo que la senora respondio que era imposible, dado que la muchacha habia muerto hacia muchisimo annos.
Una senora desesperada por tener hijos acudio a un santero para una consulta. El santero hizo un trabajo con La Ceiba y esta prometio que la mujer tendria una hija, pero acambio le pedia un sacrificio de cualquier animal todos los annos al pie de su sombra. La mujer tuvo la hija prometida pero un anno con el trajin de una feria que se acercaba se le olvido su sacrificio. Al ir rumbo a la feria paso por el lado de la ceiba y esta abrio su tronco y se trago a la hija.
Pongo mas cuando me acuerde....
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Chaos
My love life is a chaos. I don't allow myself to love, less to be loved. I just notice it might have had something to do with childhood. I found out too that i might be manipulative. That, i kinda knew already, just didnt know why. I dont do it on purpose but yes, I am. In love, like in most aspects of life, I need to have fully control of things. I havent found complaints about it, untill now and it has created a really bad relationship, when it was starting; Now is over. For good.
A cyber friend told me recently that love was not complicated, we humans were. He was so right.
A cyber friend told me recently that love was not complicated, we humans were. He was so right.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Jineteras.
On Thursday an individual visit this blog from France. He was redirected from a search engine; The words in the search engines were "Jineteras Carta Blanca". Dont know why he ended up here, but he did and im taking the opportunity to post some interesting articles for this person on how jineteras really operate in Cuba.
La Jinetera by Barbara Torresi
February is the coldest month of the year in Havana, with strong gales that ruffle the ocean and hurl its foamy tentacles across the low seawall.
On the other side of the waterfront, barely shielded from the sea’s silvery sprinkle by the sparse evening traffic, a tall, bespectacled man with an empty glass of mojito clutched between bony fingers is listening intently to a young girl, concentration digging a deep canyon across his forehead.
In the face of his best efforts to learn Spanish and a two year relationship, if long distance and hiccupy, Tommaso still finds Lisy’s thick Cuban accent a hindrance for communication. He frowns, he furrows, he shakes his head in frustration, but Lisy’s hectic dating schedule, which revolves around boyfriends from all over the world, gives her no time to take French classes. Of course, she has learnt to blurt out the odd ‘merci’ to please her lover, but then she can skilfully thank people in half of the EEU languages. And Russian too, given that affluent visitors from the pearl of the former socialist block have become the most generous customers of the city’s fast growing industry of pleasure.
The Cuban word to describe women like Lisy is jinetera, generously translated by some guide books as ‘mistress’, when in fact the term encompasses the whole spectrum of commercial sex workers, from vendors of one-off specialist performances to salaried fiancées. Rarely do women hover only on one side of the continuum, and roles change according to client, contingent need, and, of course, personal inclination.
In spite of her tender age (she has just turned twenty) Lisy plays skilfully most parts in the book, even if her dream role, the only one she acts out sincerely, is the wife-to-be of a handsome, young entrepreneur speeding around Havana’s pot-holed calles in a 200 dollar a day rental Mercedes.
Alas, her current suitor doesn’t quite cut it as a dashing heartbreaker: with thinning grey hair and heavy bags under eyes framed by designer spectacles, the history teacher from Toulouse looks at most like a stylish uncle. He belongs to the category of occasional boyfriends, someone whose main attraction lies within the folds of his wallet. Sometimes Lisy even feels a bit sorry for Tommaso and his seemingly genuine, and on the whole unrequited, affection for her. On other occasions pity is replaced by contempt, and expensive shopping sprees are the only activity she deems him fit for.
While, by and large, most jineteras would never dream of throwing icy water on Tommaso’s timid suggestions of orange flowers, Lisy’s ambitious plans for the future exclude categorically a husband approaching the sixth decade of life. And as a beautiful child-woman with honey coloured skin, a mouth like a rosebud and pitch black, almond shaped eyes, she knows her bargaining chips are high. Her family needs are also soaring, and while waiting for Mr Right to rescue her from an uncertain life in the crumbling city, she rarely passes an opportunity to make a few bucks. Lisy is the eldest of four siblings and the family’s prime breadwinner. Her mother works as a nurse for 275 pesos (barely twelve dollars) a month and her stepfather is, in her words, as useful ‘as a sole-less shoe’. At age seventeen she was grassed up by a neighbour who had seen her smooching with a blond yuma (foreigner) in one of Havana’s most exclusive bars.
The blessing of the family followed suit. All considered, they thought, she may as well find a man who can help with household expenses rather than a good for nothing who sits on his doorstep drinking cheap rum all day.
The Gutierrez family’s financial worries keep cropping up in the conversation between the unlikely couple sipping cocktails in the haze of a furious Caribbean:
‘Tomi, mi vida, do you remember that hotel job Pablito was offered last time you came to visit? Well, it never materialised because they said his English was rubbish! Mother didn’t stop crying for a week. Lisy, she said, if only we had enough money for some private classes… so I gave Pablito 20 dollars, but that scoundrel came home with a pair of new trainers instead. He said the money wasn’t enough for the lessons anyway. But what can I do? The boys eat like lions and all my money I spend at the market. Buying groceries. Do you know how much a bottle of vegetable oil costs? Two dollars and twenty cents, or one fifth of my mum’s salary’. Tommaso’s heart never fails to soften and promises of imminent financial aid are made. Lisy smiles and pecks him on the neck. Then, with the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the couple holding hands at a table next to theirs.
The girl, a pretty negrita about her age, is smiling adoringly at a handsome Spanish boy while he whispers in her ear something that makes her burst into a resounding laughter. When their giggles subside and his voice becomes audible, Lisy’s heart is stabbed by pangs of envy:
‘I can’t wait to take you to Europe… we can go to concerts… we can go to… the beach with my friends… the Canaries. I’ve never been to the Canaries, can you believe it?’ and the evening with old, boring Tommaso turns into an unbearable torture. Two hours later Lisy is sitting at another plastic table with chipped edges, in another of Havana’s all-night drinking dens, talking to yet another foreigner: me. After shaking off Tommaso with an excuse she moved to the next hunting ground down the road, joining our common friend Roberto and me for drinks when it became clear that the night would bring her no fruitful romantic encounters.
It is rare for Lisy to fail an approach, and her disappointment translated into a long moaning session centred on Tommaso renewed marriage talk:
‘But he is forty-nine!’ she shouts into Roberto’s left ear, ‘In fact, I think he’s been lying to me. Have you seen his hands? I bet they have been around at least a decade longer... he dyes his hair!’
‘So what?’ says Roberto only half jokingly ‘you should be happy. You’ll get your inheritance before you are too old to enjoy life… or if you can’t wait that long just divorce him as soon as you receive your green card.’ Lisy mocks disgust. She is not that type, she insists. One thing is hanging out with someone occasionally, another committing to being the mother of his children:
‘You must not get me wrong’ she says turning to me ‘I am not like the others. I have no pimp and only do quickies when I am really strapped for cash. What I really want is to meet someone nice whom I can fall in love with, a man who’ll take me to a place where I can do something with my life,’ she turns to Roberto, ‘something that doesn’t involve changing incontinence pads to a senile husband.’
And she continues, ‘Here I have no opportunity to study or get a decent job because I have to feed my family. And food is soooo expensive! I have no money for clothes or entertainment. Do you know how much two pounds of pork cost? Three dollars, or one fourth of my mum’s monthly wages.’ For a split second I can’t suppress a slight motion of sympathy for poor, duped Tommaso, then a glance at my squalid surroundings reminds me that Cubans have excellent reasons to complain about their predicament, and all the rights to pursue an uncompromised love life.
But what can I do, after all? Lisy will have to decide for herself whether economic security and political freedom are worth sentimental captivity. My help will have to be limited at another round of drinks, worth one fourth of her mother’s salary.
© Barbara Torresi April 2006
btorresi@hotmail.com
La Jinetera by Barbara Torresi
February is the coldest month of the year in Havana, with strong gales that ruffle the ocean and hurl its foamy tentacles across the low seawall.
On the other side of the waterfront, barely shielded from the sea’s silvery sprinkle by the sparse evening traffic, a tall, bespectacled man with an empty glass of mojito clutched between bony fingers is listening intently to a young girl, concentration digging a deep canyon across his forehead.
In the face of his best efforts to learn Spanish and a two year relationship, if long distance and hiccupy, Tommaso still finds Lisy’s thick Cuban accent a hindrance for communication. He frowns, he furrows, he shakes his head in frustration, but Lisy’s hectic dating schedule, which revolves around boyfriends from all over the world, gives her no time to take French classes. Of course, she has learnt to blurt out the odd ‘merci’ to please her lover, but then she can skilfully thank people in half of the EEU languages. And Russian too, given that affluent visitors from the pearl of the former socialist block have become the most generous customers of the city’s fast growing industry of pleasure.
The Cuban word to describe women like Lisy is jinetera, generously translated by some guide books as ‘mistress’, when in fact the term encompasses the whole spectrum of commercial sex workers, from vendors of one-off specialist performances to salaried fiancées. Rarely do women hover only on one side of the continuum, and roles change according to client, contingent need, and, of course, personal inclination.
In spite of her tender age (she has just turned twenty) Lisy plays skilfully most parts in the book, even if her dream role, the only one she acts out sincerely, is the wife-to-be of a handsome, young entrepreneur speeding around Havana’s pot-holed calles in a 200 dollar a day rental Mercedes.
Alas, her current suitor doesn’t quite cut it as a dashing heartbreaker: with thinning grey hair and heavy bags under eyes framed by designer spectacles, the history teacher from Toulouse looks at most like a stylish uncle. He belongs to the category of occasional boyfriends, someone whose main attraction lies within the folds of his wallet. Sometimes Lisy even feels a bit sorry for Tommaso and his seemingly genuine, and on the whole unrequited, affection for her. On other occasions pity is replaced by contempt, and expensive shopping sprees are the only activity she deems him fit for.
While, by and large, most jineteras would never dream of throwing icy water on Tommaso’s timid suggestions of orange flowers, Lisy’s ambitious plans for the future exclude categorically a husband approaching the sixth decade of life. And as a beautiful child-woman with honey coloured skin, a mouth like a rosebud and pitch black, almond shaped eyes, she knows her bargaining chips are high. Her family needs are also soaring, and while waiting for Mr Right to rescue her from an uncertain life in the crumbling city, she rarely passes an opportunity to make a few bucks. Lisy is the eldest of four siblings and the family’s prime breadwinner. Her mother works as a nurse for 275 pesos (barely twelve dollars) a month and her stepfather is, in her words, as useful ‘as a sole-less shoe’. At age seventeen she was grassed up by a neighbour who had seen her smooching with a blond yuma (foreigner) in one of Havana’s most exclusive bars.
The blessing of the family followed suit. All considered, they thought, she may as well find a man who can help with household expenses rather than a good for nothing who sits on his doorstep drinking cheap rum all day.
The Gutierrez family’s financial worries keep cropping up in the conversation between the unlikely couple sipping cocktails in the haze of a furious Caribbean:
‘Tomi, mi vida, do you remember that hotel job Pablito was offered last time you came to visit? Well, it never materialised because they said his English was rubbish! Mother didn’t stop crying for a week. Lisy, she said, if only we had enough money for some private classes… so I gave Pablito 20 dollars, but that scoundrel came home with a pair of new trainers instead. He said the money wasn’t enough for the lessons anyway. But what can I do? The boys eat like lions and all my money I spend at the market. Buying groceries. Do you know how much a bottle of vegetable oil costs? Two dollars and twenty cents, or one fifth of my mum’s salary’. Tommaso’s heart never fails to soften and promises of imminent financial aid are made. Lisy smiles and pecks him on the neck. Then, with the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the couple holding hands at a table next to theirs.
The girl, a pretty negrita about her age, is smiling adoringly at a handsome Spanish boy while he whispers in her ear something that makes her burst into a resounding laughter. When their giggles subside and his voice becomes audible, Lisy’s heart is stabbed by pangs of envy:
‘I can’t wait to take you to Europe… we can go to concerts… we can go to… the beach with my friends… the Canaries. I’ve never been to the Canaries, can you believe it?’ and the evening with old, boring Tommaso turns into an unbearable torture. Two hours later Lisy is sitting at another plastic table with chipped edges, in another of Havana’s all-night drinking dens, talking to yet another foreigner: me. After shaking off Tommaso with an excuse she moved to the next hunting ground down the road, joining our common friend Roberto and me for drinks when it became clear that the night would bring her no fruitful romantic encounters.
It is rare for Lisy to fail an approach, and her disappointment translated into a long moaning session centred on Tommaso renewed marriage talk:
‘But he is forty-nine!’ she shouts into Roberto’s left ear, ‘In fact, I think he’s been lying to me. Have you seen his hands? I bet they have been around at least a decade longer... he dyes his hair!’
‘So what?’ says Roberto only half jokingly ‘you should be happy. You’ll get your inheritance before you are too old to enjoy life… or if you can’t wait that long just divorce him as soon as you receive your green card.’ Lisy mocks disgust. She is not that type, she insists. One thing is hanging out with someone occasionally, another committing to being the mother of his children:
‘You must not get me wrong’ she says turning to me ‘I am not like the others. I have no pimp and only do quickies when I am really strapped for cash. What I really want is to meet someone nice whom I can fall in love with, a man who’ll take me to a place where I can do something with my life,’ she turns to Roberto, ‘something that doesn’t involve changing incontinence pads to a senile husband.’
And she continues, ‘Here I have no opportunity to study or get a decent job because I have to feed my family. And food is soooo expensive! I have no money for clothes or entertainment. Do you know how much two pounds of pork cost? Three dollars, or one fourth of my mum’s monthly wages.’ For a split second I can’t suppress a slight motion of sympathy for poor, duped Tommaso, then a glance at my squalid surroundings reminds me that Cubans have excellent reasons to complain about their predicament, and all the rights to pursue an uncompromised love life.
But what can I do, after all? Lisy will have to decide for herself whether economic security and political freedom are worth sentimental captivity. My help will have to be limited at another round of drinks, worth one fourth of her mother’s salary.
© Barbara Torresi April 2006
btorresi@hotmail.com
Random-ness
Hoy esta gris el dia. Me encantan los dias grises. Nada mejor que quedarse en camita, acurrucada hasta el cuello fetching those cold spots between the sheets. Ay! si estuviera en Cuba. Hoy tengo el gorrion de la familia. De los que estan como si no estuviesen y de los que se fueron para no regresar. Las epoca de christmas siempre me pone asi, sentimental. Es que subitamente todos se quieren, todos son buenos, todo se olvida. Y yo no olvido, yo no quiero, yo no soy buena. Me porto mal en esta temporada, no coopero con los shopping sprees, I hate the mall. I dont know how to wrap a present, I dont want my daughter to believe in Santa ( which i suspect she already does) but dont have the heart para decirle o convenserla porque ya cuestiona, ( me dice es un hombre disfrazado) de lo contrario. Is a hasle. What should I buy for fulana? What should I buy for mengano. Then they look weird at me cause I ask them. Practicall me. I always ask...never have an answer...Oh..dont worry, you dont have to buy anything.! Yeah right. Of course I dont HAVE to. Is just being polite. Asshole. Anyways...I miss my mom in Cuba, Havent seen her in twelve years. I miss my friends, my home...here's just houses. Weird...I think about my dad, my grandma. I wish they could have meet my daughters. I guess that that God some people believe in thought i didnt deserve them or worst yet...they didnt. What a freaking life we live here. If hell does exist this should be it. No doubt about it.
I was talking today with this guy. Im impress how some people can live like nothing is going on in the world. Not affected by anything. They make a joke out of everything. I wish i could do so too, what the heck. I just can't. But we have chirstmas coming up, so...have to cheer up.
I was talking today with this guy. Im impress how some people can live like nothing is going on in the world. Not affected by anything. They make a joke out of everything. I wish i could do so too, what the heck. I just can't. But we have chirstmas coming up, so...have to cheer up.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
My beatiful Daughters.
11/30
My biggest daughter got her second award today at her school. The first one for Math, this one for reading. Im so proud of her. Is not easy to raise kids today. The crime wave, the drugs, the inflaction, everything affects in the way you treat them. Sometimes I think I'm way too hard with her {Brianna}. Sometimes I think Im not hard enough. But at the end ( just today) I think Im doing a good job.
My biggest daughter got her second award today at her school. The first one for Math, this one for reading. Im so proud of her. Is not easy to raise kids today. The crime wave, the drugs, the inflaction, everything affects in the way you treat them. Sometimes I think I'm way too hard with her {Brianna}. Sometimes I think Im not hard enough. But at the end ( just today) I think Im doing a good job.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
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