Cactus Language Blog

Cactus Opinion: Learning Spanish in Cuba

Posted by Sarah under Cactus Languages Abroad

Sarah Wilson, Cactus TEFL Advisor, tells us how she learnt Spanish in Cuba…

Havana, Cuba, September 2002. I‘m met by strangers at José Martí airport and I’m driven, in what looks like a wreck of a 1950s vehicle, to the Cuban equivalent of the Royal Academy of Music and Art, ISA, el Instituto Superior de Artes. It’s here that I will be learning Cuban Spanish over the next 3 months. I say Cuban Spanish because up to now I didn’t realise that it’s different to the Spanish spoken in Spain or in other parts of Latin America for that matter.

At this point I should say that all the Spanish I know can fit snugly into just one sentence. I am desperately relying on my ‘A’ level French which is buried somewhere in my brain for any vague similarities. I can’t identify words and I’m going on hand gestures and facial expressions, anything that will get me through the next few hours and safely to the halls of residence.

How frustrating not knowing what people are saying! I feel vulnerable, rather alone and within a few days in dawns on me: from now on it’s all about survival. If I am going to make the most of this experience, make friends, avoid getting ripped off and explore this beautiful island, I need to have some kind of strategy for learning the language.

I am now on a mission to learn as much as possible. My pocket Spanish/English dictionary has become my new best friend and my notebook of vocabulary now accompanies me like Mao’s little red book. I dutifully write up new words and sentences and spend a few hours each day learning and revising.

I go out dancing with Cuban, South American and English friends and only speak Spanish, admittedly very hard to do in a noisy and uncomfortably sweaty nightclub. I manage to hire a dubious-looking bike from a local resident who seems to know more about British society and culture than I do. He casually tells me that before the collapse of the Soviet Union he used to be a lecturer in Russian language. He’s now an English teacher at a local school. A bike in Cuba is a highly-coveted possession and I find that I am a magnet for locals who want to hitch a ride or persuade me to exchange it for black market goods. I creak my way around Havana trying to negotiate the extra weight on my bike, as well as the numerous road hazards ranging from sleeping dogs to coffin-sized potholes.

I try to have daily conversations with our tías, matronly-type figures who look after the day-to-day running of each floor of the halls of residence. To them I’m sure all the extranjeros (foreigners) who are here to learn Spanish must be slightly fascinating oddballs of the Western world. Sympathetically they listen to me and co-operate with my fumbling sentences. I take it as a small victory of sorts that I make a sour-faced tía called Virginia bellow with laughter after committing some linguistic faux-pas that I will never know.

Studying Spanish here is a pleasure. The college is a pre-revolutionary golf course that saw Fidel and Ché play a few rounds before deciding upon the next step of their socialist dream. Crumbling domed lecture halls and artist studios face the grand main building that was once the clubhouse and guest bedrooms. These now conveniently serve as practice rooms and the main concert hall. The former landscaped gardens are rebelliously overgrown and the whole place echoes with the sound of 24/7 music practice, whilst the surrounding palm trees sway in appreciation.

Slowly but surely I see results. I can now strike up a basic conversation with Cubans and the many other Latin American students who are studying here. I can confidently ask for a bocadillo (a sandwich) and a carton, yes a carton, of rum. More importantly I can find out who is last and my place in the bus queue by shouting “ultimo!” to the mass of people who wait patiently in the roaring midday heat.

I don’t know it yet but I’m acquiring a Cuban accent and vocabulary. I greet people with “que bola?”, which roughly translates to ‘what’s up?’. Whilst buying fruit in the local market I learn never to say the word ‘papaya’ in public again. My Mexican friend feels morally obliged to take me to one side and explain in hushed tones that it refers to a rather intimate part of the female body. I should say ‘frutabomba’ instead, he says to me frowning.

Three months pass in a blur of vocabulary, late nights of sharing rum, dancing, exploring Havana, road trips to the far-flung corners of the island and a trip to the infamous Isla de la Juventud in a rickety hydrofoil that was made in the USSR. Sadly my time here is up. I have survived and learnt not just a bit, I have learnt vast amounts of Spanish. My little red book is lovingly worn and nearly full.

Cactus Language runs Spanish courses in Cuba, which can be combined with salsa and/or music classes, for all levels and from 1 week upwards. Choose from Havana, Trinidad or Santiago de Cuba.

Related articles:

• Why it’s worth learning just the basics of a language
• How learning some of the lingo can make the world of difference to your gap year

Tags:Cuba, havana, Spanish