'THE MARIPOSA AND THE BOSSA NOVA'

Story ID:	277
Written by:	Bonnie Jarvis-Lowe
Organization:	Retired RN/Freelance Writer and Photographer
Story type:	Biography
Location:	Newfoundland and Cuba Canada
Year:	32767
Person:	Eva, A Cuban Friend, and her sister Katrina

‘THE MARIPOSA AND THE BOSSA NOVA’

The blazing sunshine was stinging my shoulders, my feet feeling as hot as the pavement beneath them. I had been walking the main street of the town for over an hour, exploring the markets, enjoying the Latino music that seemed to be all around, admiring the crafts on display, and it was time to take a break. In a very short time I found one of my favorite street cafes, and it was so inviting. The shade, the comfortable blue chairs, and little round tables with their red covers and white napkins, looked like an ad for cold soda pop. I entered the cafe and ordered a cold orange soda. Then I chose a table with a great view of the busy street and sipped the tangy cold liquid while taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the busy morning. Water dripped from the frosty can, and it was cool to my face. The flavor of the orange soda here reminded me of the Gaden's Orange soda I loved so much during my Newfoundland childhood. My pack back on the chair beside me held my book but I didn’t reach for it, I wanted to soak up the sights and sounds of the day instead.

I was in Cuba, a country I had been drawn to many times, loving the sea, the beautiful Mariposa blooms, which were everywhere it seemed. The Mariposa is the National Flower of Cuba, the Royal Palm is the National Tree, a tall straight tree with enormous beauty. Then last but not least was the quiet acceptance of the Cuban people who worked so hard, the fast melodic Spanish and Latin music they enjoyed so much was always playing, and their musical voices all combined to take me back to another time, to remember friends of childhood days, to wonder where they were, how they were, and if I would ever cross paths with them again.

An hour would pass quickly as I soaked up the rhythm of the day in the busy commercial area. The big smiles, unusual motorbikes, vintage cars and just plain fatigue kept me sitting longer than I had planned but I decided it was time to move on. Just as I stood to go, I saw a small truck pull up and out of the truck jumped three or four schoolgirls in their red jumpers and white blouses, with sparkling white socks and sneakers. They were in their early teens and the laughter skipped across toward me as I stood riveted, frozen by a memory of two Cuban girls of my childhood days. I focused my lens to capture the moment and as I did I heard a sweet voice call "Hola, Evita!" and two young friends ran to greet each other.

I remembered so clearly another Evita, one that graced my life so long ago when my family was living in Port Saunders, Newfoundland, in the early 1960s. A revolution had forced a Cuban family out of their country, and the father, being a physician, came to Canada and was now in Port Saunders working. He had a beautiful wife who was sad, so sad, and two young daughters, the same age as my sister and me. Evita, known as Eva, was my age, Katrina was younger, around my sisters age. Our country and climate was so foreign to them, but they worked hard to adjust, having left everything behind except their high spirits and determination. They struggled to learn our English, and because we lived next door we became good friends. Somehow we conquered the language barrier and shared each others lives. Eva was emotional and full of boundless energy, her sister Katrina was quiet and controlled, almost a mirror like image of my sister and me.

Eva would tell me how our English sounded flat, and many words she could not find in the dictionary, but we learned together. We laughed, talked, told stories, had picnics, went fishing in the ponds, and played the occasional game of pool. Their father worked, their mother kept the home going, and gradually their mother got to know my mother and life was good. Katrina was sad many times but Eva plowed through life like a threshing machine. She had no intentions of being beaten. She had lost everything but her spirit she told us, and they would not take that from her. They all came to understand they were safe in our country as opposed to what they had suffered during the revolution in Cuba, and they grew to love our activities, our carefree days and the awesome sense of security.

In later years I came to know more about Cuba, the Bay of Pigs, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Cold war, the United States Embargo, Che Gueveras’ death and so much more. But at the ages we were in Port Saunders, for four young girls, politics was not a major issue. Our music and collections of 45rpm records took up much of our time as we danced and sang, picked mussels and cooked them on the beach, did each others’ hair, Eva announcing a four letter unmentionable word that grounded us both, exploring the shoreline, teaching them to row a boat, and the time they spent teaching us a Cuban board game, led us to having very full lives and too many adventures to recount.

After we left Port Saunders I lost track of my Cuban friends, although my parents kept in contact with them for awhile. Eva eventually became a physician like her father, Katrina became a health professional but in what area or where we do not know. I learned their father had passed away and Mrs. Aude had possibly moved to the United States.

I gathered my things and left the café, and someone else immediately sat where I had been. I realized as I walked away that regardless of who sat there they would not leave carrying the special memory I was carrying, the memory of two young girls dancing. It is the surreal memory of two dark haired girls, Eva and me, in the front room of the doctors’ house in Port Saunders in 1960, the sun streaming in through the large windows and reflecting off the shiny hardwood floors, the harbor water calm, the sound of little boat motors skipping in through our open window, the two of us in bobby sox, pony tails bouncing, as we wove, skipped and twirled, our feet slipping on the smooth floor, and the record playing "Blame it on the Bossa Nova, the Dance of Love" at high volume.

What a dance of love it was, crossing all boundaries, all language barriers as the Bossa Nova carried us away to a land of happy moments, and the sweet dreamy place of childhood, and childhood dreams.

If I could talk to Eva now, I could tell her that I have been to her beautiful country, walked on the warm sand of the Bay of Pigs, seen the destruction of war, but experienced the kindness of the Cuban people and was humbled by it. Every Mariposa I saw and photographed made me think of her and her family. Then I would recall the Bossa Nova, and what a dance of love it was!