Guantanamo Bay, an American held fragment of Cuba, continues to be the focus of media stories on detainees in the U.S. led war on terrorism. Cuba comes across placeless, with no landscape or people, merely a jail for terrorists in orange suits. Cuba is much more than a news story about prisoners of war. It is a way of life--verdant, lyrical, and lively--that Americans know little about. 

The following excerpts, edited for publication, come from a journal I kept during a visit to Cuba a year ago. They are snapshots that capture life on the streets and in conversation. Rather than reduce them to commentary, I let the images speak for themselves. In this way, readers can draw their own conclusions about a country hidden from view for the past 40 years. 

June 29
Off to Cuba to study Spanish at the University of Habana and to research Cuban literacy practices. The Cubana jet is very old-- a Soviet era relic that spews mist from the floor. Many passengers are Cuban; the rest are North Americans cramming up on tourist phrases. Cuba comes into view, a fertile mix of red, brown, and deep green.

Clear customs and head outside. Hundreds of families wait patiently for loved ones. When a relative is spotted, applause erupts. Four men from St. Kitts stand next to me facing the crowd. With an irresistible grin, one opens a brown paper bag, pours a drink from a glass container, and salutes the onlookers. Impressed by his friendship, they respond with laughter.

I walk to the Salvador Allende Cultural Center, staying under the trees to keep cool. Neglected mansions decay under the withering sun. Sidewalks turn to rubble with few resources to repair them. Although the city is frozen in time, grace and propriety claim this place. Women fan themselves as they ride aside the rear platform of bicycles. Mothers hold hands with daughters; so do couples in their sixties who gather on park benches to talk into the night.

July 2-3
Spending afternoons exploring the city and riding the bus. Two policemen in long sleeves and heavy pants pull me aside." Stay close to your friends and even closer to your enemies."  Assured them that I feel safer in Habana than in the Old Port of Maine.

Children play baseball passionately on dusty lots, grand plazas, and in the streets with nothing more than a sock for a ball. Hard-line socialist billboards compete with dazzling women on their way to work for my attention. People watch me from balconies as I sidestep the garbage that warms the air. I don't mind because I am home again in the Caribbean.

Thirty years ago, I was a literacy worker in a village of corrugated shacks and muddy furrows. Garbage filled gullies where luckless children broke bottles for play. Young men placed their firearms on my table when they sat to drink beer. They came to my apartment to tell stories, play dominoes, and fantasize about light skinned women with straight hair. Skin tone made for an easier life in the Caribbean.

In the time of colonial rule, orphans slept in doorways and on cardboard slats. No one of color held political office or owned a business. Occasionally a priest taught a child to read or serve mass. Most grew up powerless and poor because all money left the island.

Cubans no longer treat the poor like cattle. Yet life is still a struggle. My friend Umberto, a skilled Cuban craftsman, is not disillusioned by the failure of socialism to eradicate poverty: "Cuba is a good place for those willing to work, sacrifice and contribute to the betterment of society. We have bums who do not want to work. They find the easy way out by feeding off of others. They are trying to get their piece of the pie the easy way. So keep them out in the streets."

July 4
Mention Minnie Minoso to an acquaintance. He responds, "Claro! The Black Cuban ball player who was always hit by inside pitches." I am surprised to hear him speak of color.   A public school teacher explains, "In America the tiniest drop of African blood makes you black. In Cuba one drop of white blood makes you white."

July 6-7
Off to the country. Scores of people stand along the road waiting for a ride. A huge dump truck stops to pick them up. They climb aboard in silence, drenched by the downpour. Others run under an overpass that reads, "Glory to the People." Everywhere is the cult of  Che.

The earth is red. Men on black horses dash across open fields shirtless, holding onto tight-brimmed straw hats.  I ask one, "What is the secret of success? "  El Nino replies," I smoke 10 cigars a day, drink half bottle of rum, and sleep with my wife every night."

July 10
Sitting under the stars near the USS Maine Monument with friends who drink strong rum and smoke new cigars.  A heavy set woman approaches us. "Can you give me money for food?"  She is in her late fifties and was once beautiful. I lower my eyes as my friend gives her a dollar. She walks over to another couple, and asks them the same question.  "Open your blouse, " the man says. She obliges, eyes downcast. Another patron says, "Mas," as he tosses her a peso.

July 11
Working at a long table in the University of Havana's Social Sciences library, a magnificent room in need of repair. Two middle aged women copy notes from books. I wipe sweat from my forehead as I translate a line of graffiti on the table: Hoy los mujer no viven for amios. Viven de DINERO. (Today women do not live for love. They live for MONEY). The author remembers with nostalgia the time before the tourists came with dollars in search of beautiful women.

I stop at the Cubana Libre gift shop to buy a box of crackers and a bottle of water. Now outside to wait for the bus. The afternoon sun tires me. A girl of about 15 with an infant on her shoulder asks me for a cracker. She is very short and dark; her tangled hair smells of the street. Her infant's golden cheek is caked with mucous. I have seen beggars in other countries dirty themselves to elicit sympathy from tourists. This child and her infant are different. I want to give them a shopping bag of groceries, so I return to the store. When I come back, she has disappeared.

I have no fear about taking the bus because I know the routine: pay the fare, get a receipt, and work your way to the rear at each successive stop. I get out unaware that I am about to have an accident. As the bus pulls away, my groceries scatter on the ground. A rugged looking man helps me pick them up. "Gracias'." He nods wondering why I am in his neighborhood.

July 13
An old man sweeps the street with a homemade broom. His son polishes the car with a formality that belies missing door panels and matching fenders. His wife stirs a pot of rice in the kitchen as fresh squeezed orange juice chills in the refrigerator. Tonight the old man will eat like a rich man.

 Afterthought
 Like other tourists, I was drawn to the outside world of old cars, ancient cathedrals with broken masonry, and streets filled with heat, prostitutes, and music. By the end of my stay I turned inward to the conversations and activities that dominate people's lives. The Cubans I met were good natured, and social. They spoke freely about friends, work, sports, and family. I heard gentle and kind compliments, not quarreling. The special events they took me to were impromptu --a far cry from the staged festivities in New Orleans or the crass commercialization of the religious festivals in Boston's North End. I felt at home because my friends they were not vain,  jealous, or  privileged. 

Feudal practices ended years ago, and the misery of illiteracy and disease is over. Most Cubans, however, remain poor, and the abstract ideals of the revolution have not diminished their hunger for material comfort. For Umberto and the others I met on my trip, tourism promises a better future. For others it threatens to kill a way of life. 

The Cuba I experienced  does not exist for the media. It is as if it is nothing more than a prison in the Caribbean sea. The real Cuba is a special place, rich in traditions and  modern accomplishments. There is no reason why it should continue to be ignored.