It was our last morning in La Habana. We rushed through an early breakfast, grabbed our supply of hydration, and speed-walked down Calle Escobar straight toward El Malecon. We attempted to hail a few cabs of a 1950s vintage before we actually stopped one. Scooting in along the ragged and blanketed bench seat we spit out the neighborhood we were headed to – “Vedado” – and the address. Our cab driver was amused by our chatter, which undoubtedly displayed our anxious energy, a mix of rush and excitement. We were heading to the long-anticipated yoga class to continue our beloved practice in Cuba. This was my year to get to Cuba; a long-standing travel goal of mine. Aside from soaking in Afro-Cuban music and trying some local rum, I hoped to practice some yoga while in La Habana. I’ve been fortunate to continue my yoga practice while traveling, seeking out the local yoga community in Argentina, Chile, Mexico and Taiwan. Each country offered up to me a rich and unique practice and yet I’ve found commonality at each studio. My travel partner and fellow yogini, Mara, was coming from the Caribbean and I from Mexico. Our plan was to find the local yoga master who resides in Vedado, revered as the “Iyengar” of Cuba. We arrived, exhilarated from our race with time, anticipating an encounter with the man who brought yoga and its communal practice to communist Cuba: Eduardo Pimentel Vazquez. It felt huge, pivotal, inspirational. We piled out of the Chevy cab in front of a colonial style home: a giant ficus tree stood in front, towering above even the third-story balcony. We advanced toward what we thought was the main entry. A black iron door gated the entryway and we could hear young voices billowing inside. We rang a bell and were greeted by an elderly woman. I inquired in hesitant Spanish and she replied in muffled and rapid Cuban Spanish, a very different dialect than what I am acquainted with. Not understanding her initial exchange, we repeated our request for the yoga class. After a few confused responses, we finally made out she was looking for a pen. A pen? Bewildered, we were directed to the back of the building and up to the second floor. As we turned the corner, two men came down a spiral iron stairwell. They greeted us, and we replied again we were on the hunt for yoga, fully knowing how late we were by this point. Without hesitation they pointed up and said “go up.” Right, we found it. We had arrived. At a door at the top of the stairwell we were greeted by another elderly woman – this one not so stunned by strange and unannounced visitors. We addressed her with pleasantries and asked for the class. She immediately gathered us inside and then called out for Eduardo. A few moments later a white-haired man of healthy stature appeared in the entry way. We were in a home. His home, as a matter of fact. He smiled at us, in his sleeveless t-shirt, floral Burmuda shorts, and a pair of house slippers. His shirt displayed Sacramento, California, the city near my hometown. Immediately this man felt like family. Beaming with pure heart and care he asked, “Are you looking for the yoga class?” Eduardo quickly filled us in on our mistake. The class was in another location, on another day. Regardless, we were not defeated. He welcomed us in, completely undisturbed by our presence, and we sat and talked with him for what felt like hours. Without hesitation he offered us his story of finding and learning yoga, the history and progression of his practice and teachings in Cuba. In the beginning he had to keep it secret. Religion is not “legal” per se in Cuba, and in the 1970s and 80s yoga was viewed as a religious practice. Eventually (and to this day), Pimentel’s classes and role were supported and endorsed by the national health system. He actually has a license and a card to legitimize his position as “Cuban Yoga Master.” He is the president of The Cuban Hatha and Raja Yoga Association. Eduardo’s yoga practice was self-taught through books. The books came by way of the influences of the Theosophical Society, and from a Canadian woman in particular who gave him Iyengar’s Light on Yoga. Before we left, Eduardo invited us to the classes he offered the following day. We were hesitant to decline, but had plans to leave La Habana later that morning. Our plans were to head to the coast: the coveted white sand peninsula, Varadero. We honestly believed we were missing a great opportunity, yet felt truly lucky to have met him. We left his home buzzing on all levels, partly in disbelief of what just went down, meeting and sharing an intimate connection with such a powerful yet humble master. What an amazing person, a strong and gentle soul, a brave lion, generous yogi and maestro! ¡Que lastima! We wouldn’t make the next morning’s classes. The rest of the afternoon was drenched in the scorching Cuban sun. We roamed around the city, starting at Hotel Parque Central to grab some time on the Internet and set up accommodations in Varadero. After many repeated attempts to book something and getting repeatedly declined – either by the internet card or time limit or the booking website rejecting U.S. credit cards/currency – we schlepped ourselves, defeated, to another hotel in search of an actual tour excursion. Most likely our best bet. After several more attempts to find arrangements to the beach, we came up empty handed, minus all of our belongings, which were already strapped to our backs. It was as if the city refused to let us leave. In a city whose greatest resource is time, we lost a lot of it trying to get out. It was clear our stretch in La Habana was not yet finished. And so, we headed back to our casa from the previous two nights and negotiated another few. Mi amiga and I settled for a day trip to the beach the following morning. The obstacles of the city served a purpose. In the moment they felt overwhelming, although in reality nothing was lost. Instead, we gained the opportunity to attend Eduardo’s early morning yoga class the following day. This was the experience we were meant to have. This was our yoga, the practice of trust and patience. Class the next morning brought us to a new building – another apartment. The front room was filled with practitioners young and old, foreign and local. Eduardo’s wife was among them. There was an energy in the place, a welcoming, enthusiastic buzz. His class began in Spanish, but switched to English to accommodate and also acknowledge the distant travelers and yoga teachers from New York. The class moved gentle and smooth, consisting of simple asana and powerful dialogue. Not the kind of power that pushes you toward “your edge,” but the power of experience and love, of patience and respect. “Thoughts are time,” he said. “The past, the present, the future. Breath is now. The breath keeps you in the present.” It was his reminder from the Yoga Sutras. “The pose is not for you, you ARE the pose.” “In Buddhism, when you visualize the deity you become the deity, the deity does not use you.” His sentiments and dialogue during class stung me strong in a gentle and loving manner. An elder bestowing wisdom and experience, inviting eager youth to be part of an old and unfaltering tradition. It was a hug that swelled in me from the inside out. I was in my practice in this class of peace and humility, surrounded by a city, a country that oozed with turmoil and hardship, faith and beauty. I felt awake. Maybe I would tear up, but mostly I wanted to sink into the warmth of this full embrace.
