Yankee War Candles and Cuban television; or, From South Korea to GTMO

I've done a great job of only buying what we need at the NEX in preparation for summer vacation next week.

But how can you resist a cute 8 y/o boy who tells you that your GTMO special, well, stinks, and you need a Yankee Candle car air freshener for it?

A friend in Germany has observed that those Yankee car air fresheners seem to be EVERYWHERE on overseas American bases and used by a large number of Americans. It's true---you can't avoid them---there is always an end cap of them on display. Son 2 picked up the following air freshener and said, "Look mom, it's a Yankee War Candle! It smells like war!! Let's get the War Candle!"

Nothing says "Patriotic!" like a candle air freshener
that smells like "Midsummer's Night." 

So that's how I ended up with a really smelly War Candle hanging from the mirror of Pearl.

Even though I'm not in Pearl but a few miles a day (it's a very, very small base), I do manage to listen to Cuban radio every chance I get. Sometimes they surprise me with American music, like Whitney Houston ("I will always lub you"). About a week ago, I took Son 2 to Glass Beach and on the 15 minute stretch from the house, we listened to part of an album by Coldplay.

I'm sort of "eh" about Coldplay, but I did like that the Cuban station was playing an album in its entirety. If you are old enough to remember 1970s radio, you remember when stations would play side one of a record album, pause to turn the record over---the DJ perhaps saying a few words during the break---then continue with the entire second half. It's how I first heard Led Zeppelin as a kid (thank you ZZQ in Jackson, Mississippi).

A few days later, my Cuban station was playing Bon Jovi's "Slippery When Wet." It was a nice slice from high school so I took the long way home (still only 15 minutes or so), and sang "Living on a Prayer" at the top of my lungs, much to the annoyance of my 8 year old in the back seat.

A few days later, I tuned in to my now-favorite Cuban station, and what album are they playing?

Something by Michael Bolton.

Michael freakin' Bolton.

Ugh. So much for Cuban radio.

H has an ancient television set in his bedroom that my husband picked up in South Korea when he was stationed there way back in 1995. It works great and is small enough to fit on a dresser, so he watches movies on it. Unlike our new television sets, his also has an antennae, so it picks up Cuban television. He comes home every day excited about what's on "my Cuban t.v.," as he calls it. Most days after school it's Garfield (en español, !Claro que sí!), but oftentimes it's the news or beísbol, the Cuban national sport.  The husband has taken it to work so he can watch the World Cup on it since they don't have cable t.v. there.

Yanks (Americans, not the Candles) watching a Cuban television station broadcast of Argentina and Switzerland playing fútbol on a South Korean produced television. . . sometimes you just have to love how things work out in this crazy world.

Mail, Shopping, and the Star Spangled Banner; or, You've Been Gitmoed!!

Today's weather at Guantánamo Bay Naval Station, Cuba: partly cloudy and 88 degrees ("feels like 95")

"This is So Gitmo."

"We've been Gitmoed."

Once you've been here a while, you hear these phrases referring to the place we all call home.

It's finding out that the cooler on the weekly food barge broke and there is a shortage of dairy and deli products. Or it's the dairy container full of yogurt and eggs that are all out of date. It's Pizza Hut not having pizza for a week because they ran out of cheese. (Last year, they ran out of dough). People swear this story is true: a few years back, McDonald's ran out of meat and buns, so they sold PB& J sandwiches. It's the Subway Sandwich Artist saying, "Sorry, but we are out of bread. And lettuce. And tomatoes. What would you like on your sandwich?" It's no candy corn for Halloween. What kind of place doesn't sell the National Candy of Halloween?!?!?

It's the movie being cancelled---because it is raining. It is work internet going out every week because of some issue---in Georgia.

It's the stampede of residents going into full-out hoarder mode and buying out the commissary when the barge dumped several containers (only to find out that food wasn't part of the catastrophe). It's paying $18 for a pair of cheater glasses, $45 for a pair of flip flops, or $130 for a pair of running shoes because you have no other shopping option here. It's the fact that, after a year, you don't even look at the prices of things you need---you just throw the items in your cart and brace yourself for a surprise at the checkout.

It's living in base housing, and thus having to take time off work to meet workers when they come to change the lightbulb in your fridge, which also belongs to the base. Seriously. You can't buy them here and you aren't supposed to change them yourself; you have to take off work to have someone CHANGE A LIGHTBULB.

Apocryphal, outrageous, and darkly humorous, stories of being Gitmoed have a life of their own around here, and with reason.

I went to a birthday party a few weeks ago and played on the theme of being Gitmoed. The decorations were from Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, leftover odds and ends from kids' parties (Scooby Doo, anyone?). The balloons included retirement balloons. It was very Gitmo. If you go to the party section of the NEX, it's about two feet wide, two shelves high. You get two choices of invitations. You get two choices of plates. You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit. If you try to get all fancy and order decorations and invitations online that, heaven forbid,  fit together in a thematic fashion, you better hope your mail doesn't get Gitmoed.

My mail has been Gitmoed again, and my Map of Lost Mail has yet another pin:

Abu Nakhlah, Qatar, has been added to places in Oman, Italy, Spain, and Egypt.

Something being So Gitmo isn't necessarily a bad thing, either.

On the day you turn exactly 15 1/2, you qualify for a Gitmo driver's permit. After passing a written test, your permit allows you to drive with an adult in the car, and once you turn 16, you can take the driving test and get a Gitmo driver's license.

Guess who spent 4 hours yesterday riding from one end of this base to another (and again) in Pearl with her 15 1/2 year old Gitmo permit holder son driving??

Nevermind that it's not recognized in the US; your Gitmo permit or license will allow you to have the Gitmoed driving experience.

Driving that is So Gitmo means 25 mph speed limits on the main road (Sherman Ave.), 35 on a small stretch to Cable Beach, and frequent stops for stubborn iguanas, stupid hutias, suicidal guineas, colorful chickens, Gitmo feral kitties or dogs, occasional deer, crazed land crabs, or the elusive and huge Cuban boa. Sometimes you see most or all in one day.

I was exhausted and cranky, making my way home in my super intense 5 minute commute last Friday, when not one but TWO families of guinea fowl, complete with little baby guineas, jumped out in the road. Luckily I saw them ahead of time and they didn't end up as road kill (or dinner). My commute that is So Gitmo has lots of pleasant surprises, and watching little guineas frenetically following their mama made me literally LOL.

It's the gang of feral neighbor kids who don't even knock anymore---they just walk in the front or back door, and use our yard as the cut-through. They open our fridge and help themselves.

They also snap at attention the second the Star Spangled Banner plays every morning (or before every movie) and when Colors are played at sundown. It doesn't matter if kids are mid soccer game, bike race, or climbing the big tree in the park behind our house---they automatically stand stone-still, chests puffed out, arms straight, and facing the nearest flag the second they hear the speakers.

The kids have been Gitmoed. It's charming and a little disconcerting, all at the same time. And so is this place that, for now, we call home.

Hotel California; or, Firsts, Lasts, and In-Betweens

The past few weeks have been frustrating, with the hurry-up-and-wait mentality of someone (DoD? Congress? DoDEA? I don't even know whom to be frustrated with) about furloughs. We get emails basically saying, brace yourself, letters are coming soon, and then we get another saying, we jumped the gun, it's going to be a few days/another week/another 2 weeks before we know something. 

You know, there is this saying about poop and a pot, and it really applies to this situation. 

And now. . . 

Some more firsts here in Gitmo: 

1) I ran my first chipped 5K! There are hills, and then there are Gitmo hills. Dear lord. We ran from the downtown Lyceum to Girl Scout Beach and back. I realize that this means absolutely nothing to 99% of you, so I'm going to pretend that I have posted a map and you are amazed at the route I have taken. As my husband has reminded me, I really don't want to be the one who gets in trouble for posting a map of this place online, so use your imagination and be impressed.

Texas Hill Country hills ain't got nothing on Cuban hills. There were some VERY steep ones there and back, and all I can say is, when I get back to flat Texas, I will be able to fly. Or at least run five or so miles without passing out. 

2. Some of you ask about my kids, and honestly, I feel that this isn't the place to talk about them. That especially goes for my teenager. If he wanted you all up in his business, he would have his own blog thing. 

But I am in constant awe of him and how he is NOT like I was at that age. This kid left his only home he really remembers of 9 years to come here---a real leap of faith, not that he had much choice. He went from a large group of life-long friends to being one of about 50 highschoolers, and one of only 10 or so students in his grade. Yes, ten. Like 1-0. He's had to take some classes online to get everything he wanted on his schedule (not that easy, especially with The World's Slowest Internet). 

Got a few days? You can download that file---

actual screenshot from our house.

He wanted to continue tennis, so he is one of four kids who play on the team. That means tennis tournament season is him, his three teammates---and lots of lots of grownups. Yes, when you are a teen here and participate in sports, it means you play either individual or group matchups, depending on the sport, with JTF, active duty, civilian, foreign national, DoD adults, and/or their spouses. It's crazy watching your kid play in a match against someone much older and experienced in the game. He made it to the second round before being eliminated, and I'm SO proud of him. There is absolutely, positively NO WAY I could have played adults in a competitive match at his age. First, they would have slaughtered me (and he definitely held his own), and second, I would have chickened out. So kudos to my kid. 

Also, he is thisclose to being SCUBA certified. I was scared to death at 22 of getting certified. I'm so happy he's a much gutsier and braver kid than I ever was. 

But that's the joy of having kids, sometimes----they aren't like you were at their age. Thank God. 

3. Pearl the Blazer has a new companion: 

We hasve looked at Jeeps several times over the years, and now we are living in the best place on earth to have one. The stars aligned and we found the right one at the right time for the right price. People call our stretch of road "Jeep Row." There are at least 10 on our street. 

We haven't named her---or him----yet. Suggestions? Anyone? 

4. I ate these:

Two sea snail shells, a snail foot, and a dime for size comparison

Sea snails, picked from the ocean, grilled in their own juices and eaten right there on the beach. 

And I KNOW some of you eat clams, escargot, or (raw) oysters, so don't even pretend to stick your nose in the air. A mollusk is a mollusk is a mollusk. 

And they weren't that bad. 

5. Today I climbed a tree for the first time since I was 12 or so with our youngest. It was one of the strangely twisted, gargantuan, and beautiful banyans in our neighborhood. You know what? It was fun. I need to get out and climb more trees. I really forgot how much I loved doing that as a kid. 

And lasts. . . or one last. . . 

I try not to take too much of the rumor mill seriously, but when I heard a few months back that our one and only commercial airline was leaving the island, right after my parents had bought tickets from said airline, I panicked a little. They called IBC and were assured that it was not going out of business. 

Well, IBC is leaving the island. Their last day here? The day before my parents were scheduled to fly in. 

"Disappointed" is a word I use when I forget to catch the latest episode of a show I like, or realize I can't cook something I want because I'm missing one ingredient. I'm really not sure what the word or phrase is I want to use. "Pissed off?" Not really that. . . I am angry, but also disenchanted that they were sold something and guaranteed they could use it when, in fact, it is void and null. And there's that possibility the airline knew it when they sold the tickets to them. It's complicated when there were other stops and hotels and cities along their path here. Cross your fingers this sorts itself out and they can get on what is now one of only SIX flights a month to this place. So it's my last time to take rumors so lightly. 

As my pal Beth says, "You are living in Hotel California. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave." 

I'm going to submit that as my entry to the (Un)Official Gitmo Tourist Slogan contest (especially since "It's On the Barge" isn't so funny anymore). 

More to love; or, Don't Feed the Iguanas

More things I love about Gitmo, in pictures:

1. I can cut my hair and it doesn't look worse than anyone else's.

It's about what works in the humidity and heat. People here aren't total slobs, but we aren't the land of high maintenance women with big Tex-ass hair, that's for sure.  I'm not even sure if you can buy hairspray at the NEX. 

2. You can't necessarily buy bread, BUT you can get lots of great international food.

Curry ketchup, Bulgogi marinade, Lumpia, and Ritter Sport, just to name a few things. 

Also, many items to cause one to either scratch one's head or giggle: 

It's cock flavored soup---and "spicy!!"

3. No more impulse buying at the checkout.

It's Feb 1, and the Christmas cookie issue is FINALLY here! And just like that, all that money I used to spend on magazines at the checkout is tucked away in my pocketbook (and more money for Jamaican jerk and Red Stripe).  

4. I have hummingbirds that live in a bougainvillea outside my office. A couple of weeks ago, I saw a juvenile being feed by a parent. They just hang out on branches, and when you are least expecting it, they buzz your head.

We also have what we thought was a large aloe plant in the backyard. The husband was grilling, got a small burn, and I decided I would come to the rescue with aloe. 

Except it wasn't aloe. I still don't know what it is, but it smells AWFUL. 

A few weeks ago, it got this tall branches shooting out of the top of it, and then strange looking flowers on it, and then---guess what? The hummingbirds in the backyard love them. So glad for the ugly not-really-an-aloe plant. 

5. Also, this:

A character in my favorite novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude, is associated with butterflies: “It was then that she realized that the yellow butterflies preceded the appearances of Mauricio Babilonia.” I feel like Mauricio myself, except I always see white butterflies (and hopefully won't come to such a tragic end---he is, after all, in a Garcí­a Márquez novel).

They are everywhere---clusters of 5, 10, 15, flying through the bougainvillea, the cacti, in the garden, on the side of the road, and unfortunately, often into my windshield. If you can't see the ones above, it's because they are, also, incredibly difficult to capture with a camera. If there such thing as butterfly season, it must be right now, because they seemingly arrived in the thousands overnight. 

6. You get so used to seeing huge Cuban rock iguanas everywhere, you almost step on them. No small feat, since they are humongous.

"Iggy" is the unofficial mascot of the elementary school, and is often seen in the parking lot, on the playgrounds, or hanging out next to the road. I think it's a female, and she's pretty chill---it just ignores you and eats grass all day long.

Then you have this guy who hangs out at the NEX. I'm sure he probably has a nickname, too (as do the ones who hang out at the bowling alley), and he is pretty much the Chuck Norris of the iguana world. He's big, he's obviously gotten in some scraps because he's lost and regrown a large part of his tail, and he is very brazen in his begging. He is one of the reasons there are "DO NOT FEED THE IGUANAS" signs posted every where.



I'd say those tiles are about 8" across, to give you some perspective. I'd also say this guy hasn't missed many meals. 

If I ever run out of things to write about, I will change this to a blog about the different iguanas of Gitmo and their personalities.

7. The other thing I can always find enough to write about are the Gitmo Specials that abound---if I took a picture of each and described all the various makes and models, including homemade paint jobs, pieced together parts, and questionable brakes on more than a few, I would have at least 2 years worth of material.

I got lucky and got a two-fer with this shot. Notice the red/purple swirled hatchback driving down the road. The combo of crazy paint job and multiple rust spots gives it the appearance, at first glance, of a car that's been set on fire---and somehow survived. And this van. . . hope they don't get a flat.

The Gitmo Special is a perfect symbol of this place---a little old and dated, a little forgotten, a little neglected, but for a few, very well loved.

Close Rodent Encounters of the Third (World) Kind; or, Forget Rats, We Own the Pearl of Guantanamo Bay

The start of the week was a sad one. My husband and I found out that one of our favorite people, Dr. Karen Austin, professor of Spanish at USM, had passed away. She was a great teacher, and we were lucky enough to become friends with her over our years in Hattiesburg. A few days prior, we were talking about how we really needed to look her up because she would get a kick out of us living here. Then I read in her obit that she was planning a family trip to Cuba. She's been on my mind all week, and when I had some nice quiet time at the beach today I thought about her. I think she would be thrilled we are here. And even though our paths wouldn't have crossed during her trip here, I know she would have loved Cuba.

My husband and I met at USM while studying abroad. (We would end up in Karen's classes together much later). Sometimes, at random moments, he will say, "You remember that time in Mexico that you almost petted a rat?"

While living and studying in Cuernavaca, Mexico, a group of us would go out to eat around 9 pm every night (standard dinner time there) and then go out for entertainment. Some nights it was dancing at a club, other nights it was listening to live bands. Most nights (okay, every night), it involved some libations. Perhaps it was the mariachi music, perhaps it was the yarda (or three) I had consumed. Or perhaps it is the fact my eyes will never be better than 20/40 with corrective lens. I saw a really fat cat, went to pet it, and realized right before I touched it that it was, in fact, a rat. A huge, disgusting, well-feed, really fat zocalo rat. I still have nightmares about that thing.

So today I had a zocolo rat flashback of sorts. We were running an errand at my work, when the kids and I heard a stirring in the landscape next to the door. Then I heard a big yelp, and then I saw it: the biggest, fattest, most disturbingly and freakishly large rodent ever. And it was headed straight for the husband who, as my children will attest, jumped right over that fat sucker. All while managing to keep on his flip-flops, mind you. That takes talent. Lousiana nutrias and Mexican zocalo rats ain't got nothing on Cuban Hutias. Affectionately known as "Banana Rats," these things are at least 20 times larger than a common rat. (They are called Banana Rats not because they eat bananas, but because their poop is huge and looks like little clusters of bananas). The thing waddled, its butt was so big.  It scurried into the water sewage drain, and hopefully it won't be waiting for me when I'm back to work on Tuesday morning. They are supposedly nocturnal, but who knows now that we've had a close rodent encounter of the third kind, and in the broad daylight.

By the way, to tell you the quality of life in the rest of Cuba, hutias are endangered species everywhere on the island but Guantanamo Bay. Same with boas and iguanas. That's because sadly, when you don't have enough food for you or your family, you will kill and eat just about anything.

Hutia pictures here: National Geographic (story on Guantanamo Bay wildlife)



On a whole different topic, we have been looking for a car since we got here. You don't have a car dealership or even a lemon lot on Gitmo---instead, you have to depend on word-of-mouth or people advertising their cars in the local paper. Ads go like this:  "92 Geo Metro, 180K miles. AC screams along with the radio. $5000 OBO." First, I'm not sure what that screaming is all about (that line was actually in an ad), and second, FIVE THOUSAND CLAMS for a hoopty ride? These are what are called "Gitmo Specials," and they are every where. Cars barely making it down the road, driven by their 5th or 6th or 20th owner, and getting by on a wing and a prayer.

So you can imagine our excitement when we found out about a government car auction taking place right here in Gitmo.There were busses, backhoes, tanker trucks, trailers, an old ambulance, and other perplexing items people seemed to want. There were several cute little electric cars (GEMs) and small Cushman micro-busses for sale. And then, there was the one and only REAL car at the entire auction---a 2002 Chevy Blazer.

Back in the day, almost 20 years ago, after Mexico (and fat rats) and Karen Austin's classes, I ended up marrying a guy with a Blazer. And five years later, we brought our first baby home from the hospital in that same car.

For sentimental and practical reasons, I was really happy when my wonderful husband won the Blazer. He was out in hot sun for several hours (and got a little sunburned), but he got the car. Not one but two people  (I'd say strangers, but seriously, there are so such things as strangers in a place like Gitmo) came up to us and said, "Wow, he got the pearl of the auction!"

And that is what we have. I wanted to name it Fidel, number one boy voted for N. Fidel, but Pearl won out.

Here's a picture of Pearl in front of our casa:

And for a nicer view, here are some pictures from yesterday's island adventures. It was Pearl's maiden voyage and this is where she took us. We really got crazy on the one stretch of road that goes up to 35 mph (fastest speed limit on Gitmo!) and she did fine. Yep, it's really that pretty here.

Pearl did great on her first mini-roadtrip.

The water is an amazing shade of blue here.

Can you see the lighthouse? Happy trails from Gitmo!