The science of memory

Time seems to have stood still for some fifty years on an island kept afloat by the frothy Caribbean waves that lash the Malecón on tempestuous days. The castle glows orange in the afternoon light as the shiny American cars of the 1950’s chug by.

In a place where few things are disposable, the Plymouths and Buicks, Chevies and Pontiacs are relics preserved through the decades by the world’s most skilled mechanics.

Long Live a Free Cuba! Socialism or Death! The ubiquitous cries of the eternal revolution, peeling from the walls, provide a background hum barely audible over the urgent call of the driver, anxious to feed his children:

“Taxi lady?!”

Towering monuments to the great men of days gone by loom large, while the bars frequented by Hemingway are kept polished and new for the tourists. Nearby stand the crumbling faces and broken bones of pastel-painted homes lost to time and disrepair.

With the dazzling, strapless pink ballgown offset by her coffee-coloured skin, the teenage girl comes of age, mid-morning in the main square, surrounded by family and admired by onlookers. Nearby, the elderly woman, with lined face and timeworn clothes, begs for soap and shampoo from passers-by.

Elsewhere, houses painted in the dazzling primary colours of the tropics line cobblestoned streets, while a web of electrical wires hangs low overhead. A sturdy woman weaves straw hats in the frail doorway of her home, the serrated outline of tall mountains apparent through the pink-sky haze behind.

Alone on a remote beach at sunset, I wander through the vegetation behind the sand until I am cocooned in a near-silent embrace of greenery, the only sound a gentle, persistent whirring. Tiny hummingbirds the size of butterflies flit between the flowers, their emerald iridescence shimmering in the muted light as the distant world goes about its business.

Sometime later, I sadly farewell those who cannot leave. Then, head spinning, with foggy eyes and groggy mind, I emerge into the open after three dizzying days awake.

Back at my point of departure, everything is shiny, unbroken tile and glass, in fine working order and entirely familiar, the sky as grey as the day I left. I come to understand, in an instant, the notion of time standing still.

Breathing deeply through a clenched throat, I try to swallow my sadness and digest my memories. But a familiar cry causes me to do a mind-spinning double-take in a déjà vu delirium:

“Taxi lady?!”

How did I end up here?