Two men crossing a busy La Habana street.
Dos hombres cruzando una calle en La Habana.

He was showing us the way to El Valle Sagrado from his land.  Every beast on his land looked hungry.  The land itself could have swallowed us. 

El estaba ensenando nos el camino hacia El Valle de su tierra. Cada animal en su tierra parecia tener hambre.  La tierra su misma hubiera poder comernos. 

He seemed amused that were walking lost through his land.  He was living little better than his farm animals.  He said the next time we come to town, he'll throw a big party. 

El parecia divertido que estabamos andando perdidos por su tierra. El estaba viviendo poco mejor que sus animales del campo.  El nos dijo que la proxima vez que venimos al pueblo, el va a hacer una fiesta grande. 

The boy seemed embarrassed by my intrigue and then shock by the caged menagerie of animals used for Yoruba rituals. 

El nino perecia tener verguenza por mi curiosidad y despues asusto por la variedad de animales en las aulas usaban por las rituales de la religion Yoruba. 

"I don't want any more cheese."

"No quiero mas del queso."

A light house not far from Hemingway's fishing camp on Key Jutia. 

Una casa de luz no tan lejos del campo de pesca de Hemingway on Caye Jutia.

Students taking a break after a military practice drill. 

Estudiantes tomando un descanso despues de una practica del militar. 

There are brilliant murals painted on walls of buildings that make you wonder if you are not in a living museum.  But of course, you are. 

Hay murales brillantes pintados en las paredes de los edificios y tiene que pensar si no estas en un museo viviente.  Pero, si estas. 

Senior women doing Tai Chi in an empty space in La Habana.

Las mujeres mayores hacen Tai Chi en un espacio vacio en la ciudad.

One hot night in La Habana she got up from the audience and sang.

Una noche de calor en La Habana ella subio de la audiencia y canto. 

The chasm between the romanticized Hemingway and the reality of 98% of the Cuban population is much to contemplate now that the windows of tourism are opening. 

La division entre las realidades de Hemingway y la realidad de 98 percentaje de la poblacion Cubana es mucho para considerar ahora que las ventanas de tourismo estan abiertas.

     A small buzzing drone flies slowly back and forth above the wooden-planked bridge over Bayou St. John.  A professional film crew pans the crowd and inserts a huge microphone close to the chanting congregants.  It's Saint John's Eve and Sallie Ann Glassman, our respected vodun (also called "voodoo") queen, has gathered us together to commemorate this day. 
     I’m one of about one hundred attendees who are all wearing white loose-fitting clothes that are perfect for the summer evening.  Still, I feel the sweat roll down my back and have to brush it away from my eyes.  On the middle of the bridge, a gorgeous sculpture of Marie Laveau stands with flowers at her feet.  Participants line up to gift her with eggs, candles and more flowers.  The light is perfect.  Magic hour. 
    The drone and the film crew have thankfully disappeared as the sun sets and the Creole chants heat up.  Many in the crowd choose to wait their turn for their head washings.  Sallie Ann and a few others will gently rinse the participants' heads with blessed water.  They return to their friends in the crowd smiling and with scarves covering their wet hair.  Their friends embrace them as if they've returned from an invigorating journey.  
    This is my third vodun ceremony and while I’m fulfilling a photographic dream, I’m also denying myself an opportunity to be fully open to the spirit of Marie Laveau.  My bulky camera strictly places me on the side of the observer or so I thought.  Two years ago,  I had serious doubts about the existence of the spirit world.  Then a close neighbor and friend-- someone whom I've always considered to be hyper-rational-- shared her one-time possession experience with me and I became a believer.  She was so affected by a spirit during one of the ceremonies that she couldn't find her way back home just a few blocks away. 
     The evening light fades along with my energy.  Since camera flash isn't appropriate at ceremonies, there's nothing more for me to do.  I reluctantly begin to head home with an empty feeling in my gut.  Accompanied by chanting in the background, I walk toward the street and before I come to the bridge's end, my own spirit and energy seem to lift.  In fact, I begin to feel a bit mischievous.  I look around at the couples and small groups of friends sitting on the banks of the bayou.  There’s a tiny piece of moon in the black sky.  A young man raises his arms for balance while walking on the bridge rail.
    I begin to shoot upward toward available light in the atmosphere.  Since I'm outside the ritual, I  can now use my flash.  I begin to dance to the chants.  Step, shoot.  Step, shoot.  I'm curious and childlike.  I review the images in the camera and they're perfect illustrations of the ceremony and the night itself.   In the end, I believe I was partially present.  Next time I'll do better but it may mean leaving the camera at home.  

How The Light Can Play on Bridges