To the East, as the sun was setting last night, I could see Cuba in the distance. The day was overcast, and the seas calm, and as our cruise ship bumbled heavily southward, I and the thousands of other souls on board passed an island nation I've never visited, and may never visit.
That section of Cuba was, to my eyes and to the small binoculars I used to peruse the coastline, largely uninhabited. It presented as one long stretch of tropical green. No cities. No resorts. No visible villages or towns, at least not when we were close enough to observe in any detail. At one point, a small sailing vessel was visible. At another, a modestly sized lighthouse could be seen, a stark white slash against the thick foliage covering the mountainside.
Cubans, as a people, are strikingly poor. Resources are hard to come by, and have recently become harder to come by, as our actions in Venezuela have cut off their primary source of fuel. Without diesel from their Bolivarian comrades to fuel their power stations and generators, their already challenged existence...the average Cuban makes the equivalent of fifty dollars a month...will only get rougher.
This may or may not have been on the minds of folks sitting by the side of the shipboard pool, sipping on pina coladas, as the day grew dim and the shadows of the island slipped into darkness.
The next day we woke to find ourselves at port in Jamaica, in the little port town of Falmouth. As we ate breakfast, our fellow passengers flowed off of the ship in a near endless stream, heading for tour buses that would take them to Ocho Rios or Montego Bay. Our plan, for the day, was nothing more than to step off the ship for a little bit, for a short walk to an old Jewish cemetery.
Instead, we took a meander around the cruise port with an old friend who requires a motorized wheelchair for mobility, and then briefly wandered out into the areas of the town closest to the fenced and guarded enclosure around the dock area. The moment we did so, the solicitations began, as one would expect. Tour guides, folks hawking various and sundry arts and trinkets, offers for rides, musical instruments for sale, one after another. It was a stream of need, pitch after pitch, reminiscent of every market experience in less-resource-rich communities.
That need had, no doubt, been exacerbated by Melissa, the massive category 5 storm that hit Falmouth and much of Jamaica less than four months ago. Falmouth lost it's clinic, school, courthouse, and countless other buildings. There were churches with their roofs torn completely off, and almost every house showed damage. Even the buildings in the port showed damage. It was a hardship layered on top of a hardship.
Which may or may not have been front of mind, to those of us who just lined up for omelettes at the breakfast buffet.
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