We come to
Cuba as volunteers, but not with political fervor—not to bring
in the sugarcane harvest or build roads. Our purpose is simply to
repair musical instruments for talented children with no access to
such help. In the end, we accomplish much more than that and I come
away with a renewed sense of why I practice my trade as a luthier.
The idea
originated in a group of musicians in my hometown of Olympia, Washington.
For more than 20 years, the band Obrador has made a name locally and
regionally playing "world music," concentrating on Latin, and especially
Cuban music. Three years ago, the band was invited to Havana to play
in a festival and, as a gesture to the idea of cultural exchange,
the U.S. government permitted the band to go. They were a hit and
made many friends—including the staff and students at the Escuela
Guillermo Tomás in Guanabacoa, a municipal music school for
children aged six to 14. In recent decades, Guanabacoa, a small town
east of Cuba's capitol and its harbor, has been enveloped by the growth
of greater Havana. Yet, the town retains its unique historic identity,
as well as the flavor of African culture—and poverty—derived
from its origin as a 16th century slave market.
The school
suffers, along with all of Cuba, from the privations caused by decades
of American trade sanctions, as well as the end of Russian economic
aid, the inefficiencies of the socialist economy, and the flight of
professionals and capital. Since their first visit, members of Obrador
have worked to help the school, and have sent to Guanabacoa quite
a number of instruments of various kinds, acquired by donation and
purchase.
The people
in my shop had donated their labor to repair and adjust several violins
contributed by the shop to Guanabacoa. When the Obrador Guanabacoa
Project decided to send people to repair the stock of instruments
already at the school—qualified instrument repair services are
rare at best on the island—we were invited to go along.
The group
includes Mitch Kiel, a respected piano technician from Olympia, and
Vincente Soluna, a wind instrument repairman from the Los Angeles
area and former reed player in Obrador. Traveling with us are Obrador's
keyboardist Michael Moore; my partner Judy Lehmann, a jazz pianist,
painter, and nurse; and our teenage son Sam.
Our expedition
is to be humanitarian, not political.
Although
the U.S. government generally forbids its citizens to trade with and
travel to Cuba—a policy that is one of the most odious relics
of the Cold War—we are able to travel legally under a "license"
for humanitarian and cultural exchanges. Even so, the most affordable
tickets turn out to be with a Canadian tourist charter airline flying
out of Vancouver. This means a long drive across the Canadian border
to catch a midnight flight crammed with 400-odd drunken sunseekers,
all buzzing with hotel critiques and debating where to find the cheapest
drinks and cigars.
At four in
the morning (seven o'clock Havana time), the lights and music abruptly
come on, as the airline crew assume that we all need breakfast on
Cuban time.
Warm Welcome?
The Cubans
had built the airport at Varadero to serve the tourist hotel complex
nearby, but it is still very third world. Naturally, there are many
aduanas (customs agents) and policias in evidence, but we do not see
troops with automatic rifles (as at American and Mexican airports).
The enclosed booths we enter for passport inspection do seem forbidding,
however.
Embarking
on the luggage inspection (the usual suitcases and backpacks, plus
duffel bags and suitcases full of tools and materials, plus three
violas, a bunch of bows, various wind instruments, and two large boxes
of music stands), life becomes much more difficult. All of our baggage
soon is lying open and we find that our Spanish is barely up to the
task of explaining why we have lots of sharp knives and chisels, unidentifiable
objects, and bottles of strong-smelling liquids.
Soon, everything
is taken into custody and we look for salvation to our driver, Geraldo,
whose English is a bit better than our Spanish.
Geraldo,
a bright man who would be an executive in any developed country, drives
us to Matanzas, the next large town, to enlist the help of the Cuban
Institute of Friendship with the Peoples (ICAP), the influential government
agency that coordinates foreign cultural programs. The ICAP office
turns out to be the home of the lady who represents the agency. She
is outraged at what has happened and, after becoming the first of
many hospitable Cubans to apologize, sends her assistant Mario back
to the airport with us.
At the airport,
we spend the next four hours or so meeting the head of the customs
office and watching as Mario and Geraldo explain what is in our luggage,
and why it will benefit the Cuban people. Eventually, after surrendering
our passports, Judy and I are escorted to the Dangerous Goods warehouse
in a far corner of the airport. The entire contents of the building
are a stack of confiscated boxes of cigars and our suitcases, all
guarded by a contingent of armed soldiers. Even then, we have to reopen
and explain everything to three nonuniformed women who are clearly
in charge. We are getting nowhere until one of the women mentions
that she plays the piano. Immediately, it's like being back in the
violin shop. What does she like to play? Ah, sí, the jazz classics:
El Duque (Ellington), Billie Holiday. How is her piano? Pues, it has
some problems.
The discussions
break the ice, and we are permitted to load our stuff into the van,
retrieve our passports and the rest of the group, and hit the Via
Blanca to Havana.
At some indefinable
point during the few hours of driving through the tropical afternoon,
we start to forget about the airport hassles, and succumb to the lush
beauty of the Cuban countryside. There is very little traffic on this,
the main coastal highway: a few old American cars (from the '40s and
'50s), the occasional little Russian Lada (something like an old Fiat),
a few modern tourist buses, and horse-drawn carts. After a stop at
a cafe, we arrive at Guanabacoa in the warm dusk, and fan out to three
different casas particulares (a Cuban version of a bed-and-breakfast
inn).
The following
morning, we bounce through the rough streets into the center of town.
The school operates in a former tile factory that would receive a
stack of citations from any municipal building inspector in the United
States: a three-story masonry structure, with many patches of fallen
concrete, lots of black mildew, and exposed rusty steel rebar. It
is built around a colonnaded courtyard, the center of school life,
with a huge old palm tree in the center. Most of the electrical outlets
have two live wires of varying voltages sticking out of boxes in the
wall. Lighting is sparse, air-conditioning nonexistent, and toilets
are flushed by throwing in a bucket of water. We see not a single
computer at the school—even in the office.
This lack
of physical amenities extends to instruments, of course. With the
end of Russian aid in the 1980s, the importation of musical goods
from the Soviet bloc also ended. As far as we can see, the only repair
work available is what the teachers can do, and parts and accessories
are completely unavailable. Most of the violin-family instruments
are badly in need of serious setup and adjustment, and many are completely
unplayable. Very few are of original quality that would be acceptable
in an American school. They are of widely varying origins: some German,
many Russian and Czech, many Chinese (but not the higher-quality ones),
and even some Cuban violins from a factory in Camagüey province.
Most of the bows are deplorable. Even the teachers have, for the most
part, well-worn student-level bows. The shortage of strings is so
severe that bassists have been driven to use electrical wire with
the insulation removed. Music stands and cello cases are homemade.
Viva la
Musica
Despite these
conditions, music thrives. The government is a strong supporter of
cultural events and instruction. The people of Cuba have achieved
a generally high level of education, and there is a nationwide system
of music schools like Guillermo Tomás. Concert tickets are
generally quite inexpensive.
At the school,
the teaching and playing are of a very high standard, and I am amazed
at the overall quality of technique and tone—particularly in
light of the poor equipment available. And always, the sense of ensemble
is remarkable. The curriculum, for voices and instruments, includes
both classical and popular music. The staff is highly competent as
teachers and performers. The maestra of cello at the school, for example,
is the principal cellist of the National Lyric Orchestra. Some of
the most famous names in Cuban music are graduates of the school.
The warm
and energetic directora of the facility, Cristina Arce de Nacimiento,
can often be seen at the school entrance being hugged or kissed by
a young student. The warmth, closeness, and mutual respect between
students and staff are remarkable, even when the Cuban propensity
for physical closeness is taken into account. The difficulties of
the school building are offset by the hard work of the staff. Cristina
works every angle to find building materials to remodel the school
and she even comes to work an hour early every day to do janitorial
work.
When we arrive,
everybody at the school crowds into a big upstairs assembly room for
a concert in our honor and everyone plays! At the beginning, we hear
classical performances, including some excellent Bach inventions,
played on the piano by a ten-year-old boy. Soon, we cross over into
Cuban music, with sections being added one by one until we hear professional-quality,
extraordinarily complex big-band arrangements. What really strikes
me are the enthusiasm and eagerness of nearly every student. The concert
takes on the atmosphere of a giant jam with everyone cheering the
solos. By the last number, an uptempo version of "Guantanamera," even
the office ladies and some of the profesores are up and dancing in
the aisles. Finally everyone takes a look at the instruments, supplies,
and music stands we have brought.
And it is
time to go to work.
Mitch, along
with Jorge, the local piano tuner, and with Judy as translator, head
out into the school to give first aid to the motley collection of
pianos, mostly from Estonia. Vincente and I are shown into a large
room adjacent to the entrance hall. It is filled with scores of instruments
of all kinds—none operational. A quick survey of several dozen
violins yields some idea of which ones might be most quickly put into
working condition. Vincente sets up shop at a table in the storeroom
and Sam and I move across the entrance hall to a large, high-ceilinged
room, empty but for a few tables and chairs.
We start
unpacking, and lay out tools, clamps, baby bottle warmer (as a compact,
portable gluepot), bridge blanks, bow hair, and the other detritus
that fill the typical violin shop—and then the table collapses
from a bad case of dry rot and termites. We soon find a replacement
and are off and running.
Immediately,
it becomes clear that my careful triage is pointless—a group
of musicians of all ages, and some of their parents, already are waiting
for help. These are dedicated players, and if I can't find time for
them, who can tell when any other help might arrive? All the instruments
are owned by the school and loaned to the students, so it really makes
sense to start on the ones that are in use. In between, I try to get
some of the unused ones set up to increase the supply.
A Band
of Followers
By the end
of the first afternoon, we have a teaching workshop going, with Sam
planing fingerboards, fitting pegs, and setting up strings and bridges,
while I work on nuts, bridges, and soundposts, gluing seams and making
adjustments. Our helpers and audience, numbering from five to 15,
work on electrical connections, find a pot and hotplate to heat water,
bring endless cups of muscular, sweet Cuban coffee, while keeping
up a continuous line of commentary, encouragement, translation, and
questions.
During the
entire week, I am never short of friends in this impromptu workshop.
They even bring sandwiches, or take us off into the neighborhood to
find lunch at a paladar, one of the small, privately-owned restaurants
in homes—one of the few permitted forms of private enterprise
in Cuba.
It soon becomes
apparent that I have a few loyal followers who are eager to learn—teachers
who wanted to be able to repair student instruments. Two of them are
string teachers at the school—a bright young woman named Asela
Figueroa Marino and a very agreeable and talented young man, Yosvany
(pronounced "Giovanni") Milian Gil. Yosvany already has tried his
hand at cutting bridges, and shows me some credible rehairs he has
done. Each day, I try to teach Yosvany some lutherie. He has good
eyes and good hands and is very determined. My Spanish is limited,
as is his English, so we aid communication by compiling a written
glossary. Eventually, Yosvany invites Ivan Rocha, a fellow violin
student at the conservatory, to translate for us, so that we could
transmit more complex and abstract concepts.
The days
pass quickly. I have never worked harder or with more sense of mission.
I am pursued by the thought that here are hard-working, talented musicians
who need a break and that if any work is left incomplete at the end
of the week, it might never be finished. And I find that the stress
of work is greatly increased by having an audience that watches every
move and asks for explanations in a language not my own.
In the meantime,
Judy has started a popular cultural enterprise of her own. She has
brought along watercolor paints and brushes, and sits down to paint
the giant palm, which the students call La Bomba. Within minutes she
is surrounded by curious children of all ages. She hands out paper,
paints, and brushes, and gently teaches the rudiments to anyone who
asks. Word quickly spreads throughout the neighborhood and eventually,
her impromptu art school includes students between music classes,
parents, staff, and even preschool children. The painters start with
their own views of La Bomba, then move on to pictures of their instruments,
their houses, their pets, their dream cars, their universe.
The paper
runs out, and the directora brings more—mostly the backs of old
posters, as paper is in very short supply. When that supply runs out,
the children paint the leaves of the plants around La Bomba. Many
of the paintings are addressed to the children of Olympia, so that
Judy can take these pictorial good wishes home.
Sam makes
his own contribution by starting games of Ultimate Frisbee. When Judy
worries aloud that the games might disturb classes, Cristina supports
the idea that this, too, is a part of making school enjoyable.
During the
sultry evenings, we attend dance and drum concerts in the local park,
part of Wemilere, the national festival of Afro-Cuban culture that
takes place in Guanabacoa each November. One night, we drive into
downtown Havana. The waves crash high over the seawall of the Malecón,
and music spills out of the clubs.
On the last
afternoon at the school, we all run out of time to complete our tasks.
The shock is palpable. We pack up the tools, Judy gives the brushes
and paints to one of the students, and carefully packs the art the
kids have given her. We are given a little party before we leave,
with food, speeches, dancing, and tears. The following day, we have
a lazy day at the beach, then a farewell dinner. The next morning,
we head for the airport in a tropical downpour.
A New Beginning
But this
isn't the end of the story. I had left a stock of tools and materials
with Yosvany, along with lists of setup dimensions and other printed
materials. We also exchanged addresses and made plans for our return
trip. Later, at home, I report on the trip to the members of Technology
of Bowed Instruments (TOBI), an Internet listserve. Before going to
Cuba, I had asked whether anyone on the list could help me compile
a Spanish glossary of violin terminology. Michael Darnton passes the
request on to Bernie Guterman, with whom he shares shop space in Chicago.
Guterman sends not only the needed list, but also a package of bows
and addresses and phone numbers for several friends in Havana. Other
members respond with instruments and strings.
The most
important response through TOBI, however, is from Paul Jacobs, a university
professor and violin maker in Belgium. Paul's wife, Tamara, is from
Havana, and he has a natural interest in furthering the lutherie craft
in Cuba. Last summer, Paul and Tamara went to Havana for two weeks,
staying with his parents-in-law in the Vedado neighborhood. He went
to work at the Escuela Manuel Saumell, where he produced a prodigious
body of repairs. Yosvany, my friend from Escuela Guillermo Tomás,
took time off from his studies to work with him.
Since then,
Paul has arranged an apprenticeship for Yosvany with Jan Strick at
Maison Bernard in Brussels, and he has formed a nonprofit corporation
called Luthiers sans Frontières (Luthiers without Borders)
to facilitate such efforts in the future.
Meanwhile,
I have continued to collect good instruments and bows for the school.
Major contributors have included John Welch at Consort International
(Sofia Violins) and Vito Vissicaro at Arcos Brasil, as well as individuals
in our community. We had hoped to return to Cuba in November 2001,
but after the September 11 terrorist attacks, the Bush administration
became much more restrictive in giving permission to travel there
(though former President Jimmy Carter did make a landmark visit in
May).
I recently
sent the instruments and tools that had been collected with another
member of Obrador, who was traveling legally and carrying a shipment
of medical supplies. His delivery to the school, and the school itself,
were covered on Cuban national television. And there have been some
exciting improvements at the school. Cristina has been successful
in many of her renovations, the school is now accepting high-school
students and a regular academic curriculum has been added.
During Olympia's
semiannual Artswalk festival, Judy mounted a large exhibit of the
watercolors of the students at Guillermo Tomas in my shop's concert
room. She added photographs of the school, and in many cases was able
to pair paintings with photos of the artists. The exhibit was well
publicized and well attended. To complete the circle, we sent photos
of the exhibit back to Cuba.
We hope to
return to Guanabacoa to see our friends, and to continue our work
on the instruments. I have come to understand that action is the best
measure of friendship. My Cuban friends have given me the priceless
gift of renewed enthusiasm for my work, and they are in my thoughts
every time I cut a bridge or soundpost.
Photo
of Carl Applebaum and Yosvany courtesy of Carl Applebaum.
