September 10, 2014
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. At first it didn’t make sense. There, peaking through the towering sculptures of Muraleando, Cuba, were the broken remains of typewriters, telephones, tire rims and even furniture. In a place where grit, spit and Duck tape can keep a ’56 Chevy Bel Air running, it was just further evidence that in Castro’s Cuba, nothing is ever disposable.