In 1999 and 2000 I went to Havana as a freelance writer on assignment for Time Out, New York, to cover the Festival of New Latin American cinema, which presents excellent (though unsubtitled) films--not only from Cuba but Argentina and many other Latin American countries-- that rarely make it to the US. Taking place annually in early December in dozens of 50s-style cinemas all over Havana, it's heavily attended by cinephile Cubans, many speaking more English than I Spanish.
[Due to 9/11, in 2001 I returned for the third and last time --with no assignment--because the editor said: "This year we are not in a Havana state of mind." But that's another story.]
My strong, often emotional, first reactions to Havana's contradictions were vividly conveyed to friends in New York and Europe via hotmail, which unfortunately does not save your emails in perpetuity. The city, beautiful but often dilapidated; the people, acutely perceptive about strangers but, in my experience, genuinely welcoming. They would even recognize me from year to year on Calle 23.
At first I was reluctant to take photos in public--more from not wanting to be seen as a tourist than from being afraid of being asked for payment. It seemed exploitative.
Sadly, US sanctions and maybe the collapse of the Soviet Union had limited imports of building materials to repair thousands of of historic buildings all over Cuba.
The photo is of a hallway in Matanzas, Cuba, a (very) roughly 2-hour journey by rickety train from the Casablanca station at Havana harbor. (And yes, Havana has its own Casablanca district reached by ferry from Havana Vieja.)
On the outward journey, a young Cuban boy with a machete sat in my compartment. From my limited Spanish I learned that this was for cutting sugar cane.
On the return trip from Matanzas, we had to wait 4 hours at the station for the train to be repaired. Noticing the camera slung around my shoulder, an orange seller there asked me to take his photo, and that kind of changed my attitude towards photographing Cubans--or at least street scenes.
He wrote his address on a piece of brown paper. I shipped the photo, and trust that it reached him.
