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Hidden Cuba: A Photojournalist’s Unauthorized Journey to Cuba to Capture Daily Life: 50 Years After Castro’s Revolution PDF

222 Pages·2011·29.14 MB·English
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Preview Hidden Cuba: A Photojournalist’s Unauthorized Journey to Cuba to Capture Daily Life: 50 Years After Castro’s Revolution

TABLE OF CONTENTS Dedication Introduction People Places Things Colorful Cuba DEDICATION Italian explorer Christopher Columbus first sighted the island that we now call Cuba in 1492. First governed by the Spanish with a brief period of British rule, the island did not gain its independence until 1902. During the first half of the 20th century, American trade and tourist traffic were the primary sources of revenue that shouldered the Cuban economy. That would soon change. Fidel Castro’s revolution in 1959 and subsequent takeover of the Cuban government dramatically changed the economic, political, and social landscape of the country. In theory, a government that provides for all of your needs (food, shelter, clothing, medical care, and education — to name a few) sounds idyllic. The realities of such a government can only be gauged by the test of time. The warm and friendly people of Cuba have lived as test subjects in this grand plan of equality for 50 years. They have long waited for a change that will better their lives in this supposedly ideal society. That change has not come. Long ago, most of their property and businesses were handed over to the government. Their motivation and entrepreneurial spirit has been removed. Presently, the rationed goods and services provided by this same government place most of the population at or below the poverty or welfare level. Jack Watson with Cuban artist Salvador Gonzalez Escalona. A photograph of Salvador’s artwork can be found in the color section. This book is dedicated to the wonderful people of Cuba who, despite their difficult struggle to survive under communist rule, manage to keep a smile on their faces and continue the patient waiting game. I sincerely hope that the long- promised gift of utopia will come sooner rather than later. However, everywhere I traveled in Cuba, I found little if any evidence of change for the better. All that remained constant was the warmth of the people and their often-pleading eyes. It is my hope that this book will provide awareness of Cuba’s plight and hopefully push the sands a little quicker through the hourglass. To my many new Cuban friends: I hope the time will come when you once again become a prosperous and industrial society. Thank you for the kindnesses extended toward me during my visit to your beautiful country. To photograph you was an honor and a privilege. Jack Watson, photographer Table of Contents INTRODUCTION The first time I can recall any discussion in my family about a place called “Cuba,” I was fifteen years old. It was October of 1962. On a cool, dark evening, I recall my father coming home late from North Island Naval Air Station in San Diego, California (where he was then based in the Navy) and he pulled my mother aside in our tiny living room. With a worried face, he started telling her something in hushed tones, using the words “Cuba,” and “Russians” all too frequently to describe something “terrible” that was happening off the Florida coastline on a tiny island called Cuba. As my parents discussed the pending crisis, I actually saw worry lines on my dad’s brow. He was the coolest guy I have ever known, and he never worried — until that day. This was a clear message to me that something in his Navy world — and now mine — was very wrong. He finally motioned for me to join the conversation with a wave of his big hand. He patiently explained that Navy reconnaissance F-8 Crusader aircraft had flown over Cuba and captured images of missile sites being constructed on this tiny island, which was about 100 miles off the Florida coast. Intelligence experts had determined the sites would be used for Russian nuclear missiles. For as long as I could remember during my scant fifteen years on earth, I had crawled under my desk during weekly air raid drills at school. I guess the desks were atomic bomb-proof. Now, there was a very real possibility that all that training would pay off. For some reason, that gave me little comfort. It gave my parents even less. Several years earlier (January 1, 1959 to be precise), an armed revolt led by freedom fighter Fidel Castro successfully overthrew the Cuban government — then led by Fulgencio Batista, who was considered a corrupt dictator by the Castro-led rebels. At the time, Cuba was the principal supplier of sugar to the world, and the thriving city of Havana was a jewel in the warm azure waters of the Caribbean. Known as a hot spot for the rich (and sometimes infamous) cliental that basked in the warm island waters by day and danced to Latin music throughout the night, Cuba was, by all outside appearances, a country that was flourishing. A little over 50 years have passed since Castro’s takeover. A country that was all but self-sufficient and prosperous has changed. While I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about the changes, keep in mind that what you see in these photos is but one photographer’s prospective of a country that has proclaimed equality for all. Cuba has always been high on my list of must-see places. Shrouded in mystery since the Cuban Missile Crisis, this tiny country has had a figurative “keep out” sign posted for Americans for over half a century. While a trade and travel embargo has existed between the United States and Cuba during much of this time, it is still a travel destination for many vacationers from Europe, Canada, Mexico, and South America. For Americans however, it is still perceived as a place we cannot go. When presented with an opportunity to see firsthand this island of mystery and provide some humanitarian aid to the less fortunate, I jumped at the chance. This was my chance to see the “real” Cuba and take a few photos along the way. What follows is a photo narrative of my two weeks traveling the western half of Cuba. Traveling on a legal humanitarian visa, I departed from Miami on a direct flight to Havana, Cuba. I couldn’t help but feel like I was either a defector or a soldier on his way to war. Quite frankly, I did not know what to expect. While some of my fellow travelers were on similar visas, the remaining men and women were Cuban. For many of them, this was their first trip home for many years. Our newly elected president had recently relaxed some of the travel restrictions for Cubans residing in the U.S. desiring travel back to Cuba. Their excitement was visible, but they probably felt as apprehensive as I did. The 50-minute flight ended as smoothly as it began. As we descended through a partly cloudy sky, I got my first glimpse of the little country that almost brought the mighty United States into a nuclear exchange with Russia. I felt like a character in a Tom Clancy novel. Green fields, some tended, some tilled and others unkempt, lay before me as we made a long approach into José Martí International Airport. I tried in vain to take in all of the landscape, hoping to get a glimpse of what was to come. As we approached the outskirts of Havana, the fields changed from green to brown and eventually gave way to the gray and white structures outlining the city. Even from a thousand feet, I could see details of despair and disrepair. Touching down on the long ribbon of concrete seemed anticlimactic. Looking beyond the wing tips at the airport’s surroundings revealed old hangers that looked military in structure; there was a broad mix of aircraft, many of which appeared Russian. Like the countryside, they too seemed neglected. I had stepped back in time 50 years — this was my first impression of Cuba. My journey, which began in Havana, consisted of traveling by bus, pedicab, coco cab, 1957 Chevy, and foot. I was here primarily to help the Cuban people, but giving away medicine, vitamins, and money felt like using aspirin to treat the plague. I covered hundreds of miles, traveling in an oval-shaped route with stops at Cienfuegos, the Bay of Pigs, Trinidad, and Varadero Beach in the province of Matanzas — and then back to Havana. As the title of this book indicates, this is an unauthorized journal of photographs

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